CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE TOWER
I was conducted into the Tower through the "Traitor's Gate," the which, when I passed through, added nothing unto my lightness of spirit. As I gazed at the enormous arches, the memory of past events when, as a boy, I had heard of those which had entered this waterway with the charge of treason clinging to their names, never again to be heard of by the outside world, came to my mind with a renewed freshness and a force never to be by me forgotten, so long as mine old grey head retains its wonted reason.
But then, this was as nothing compared with the great feeling of loneliness, and crushing weight of the conviction of hopelessness which settled on my heart when the door of my prison had been closed and locked, and I was left alone, but for my tormenting thoughts, within my cruel room in that Tower which rumour told had been the place of murder of our little King.
When the keepers had departed, and the sound of their clanking steps had died out, I still stood in the centre of the room, benumbed and dazed, as the full reality of my situation was gradually absorbed by my whirling mind. Then I moved, and mine armour rattled with a noise that sounded, to mine ears, as though a shield had fallen from a great height and alighted on a floor of stone. I started, gasped, and my hand flew to the place where should have hung my sword. I felt my brow. It was cold and moist. I laughed at my foolishness; but the sound of mine own voice was so awful that I was as much startled as I had been by the sound of mine armour. Then I stood still and held my breath and listened, for what I know not. The stillness was so intense that it did seem to have a substance, and press into mine ears with such a force as did cause me to think that they were like to burst.
How long I stood thus I know not; it did seem to be an age.
Presently I heard a distant footstep. Ashamed of my childish feeling of fear, I, that would stand alone and face a score of warriors and never quaver, as the sound of the feet approached, started to pace hurriedly the floor of my prison. As the causer of the sounds in the corridor reached my door he stopped, and I heard the key rattle, as he did insert it in the lock. I sat myself down upon my couch and tried, as best I could, to appear to be at mine ease when the jailer should enter.
He brought with him a lamp and a small table, for both of which I was glad.
He was a not-bad-natured, though coarse-looking fellow of about some forty years; of rather more than middle height, and a girth and breadth of shoulder which bespoke not lack of bodily strength. A shock of yellow hair, mixed liberally with grey, stood out from beneath his cap of steel, like a wisp of straw.
After placing the articles that he had brought, upon the floor, he cast but one glance at me, and then turned on his heel and left me. Presently he returned with my supper, which he placed upon the table much in the same manner as one would arrange the meal of swine.
"There, sir," said he, "thou hast nothing to complain of. That supper is fit for a King. And it's better than one King had whilst he lived in this very room."
"What! did the young King Edward occupy this room?"
"As for whether he occupied it or not, now that I know not; but he was kept in this same room until he went out feet first."
"Horrible!" I gasped.
"Horrible? Lord, sir! methinks that thou shouldst feel honoured by the thought of being let sleep in the same room where a royal King did sleep. I know that I would," he added, with a grim smile.
"And dost thou know who killed him?" I asked.
"Nay, nay, I said not nothing of his being killed," he replied, with a grin and a wise twist of his head, accompanied by the uplifting of the one of his shoulders until it touched his ear.
"Well then, of what distemper did he die?"
"Ha, ha!" he laughed, as though I had amused him vastly. "What distemper? Ha, ha, ha! Well upon my soul! ha, ha, ha!" he burst forth again.
His voice, when he laughed, was ample evidence that he had in his day consumed no small quantity of spirits of different sorts; for it sounded as though a goodly quantity of the liquids had remained in his throat, where it did some prodigious bubbling.
"The distempers that one gets when a prisoner here are most always of one kind. Ha, ha, ha! What distemper? Well upon my soul!" And still laughing at that which he no doubt imagined was wit, he went out and locked the door and I was again alone with my thoughts, which were no more cheerful than they had been previous to his visit.
That night my sleep, if such it may be called, was an almost endless succession of tormenting and extravagant dreams of terror, divided from each other by an awakening start of horror.
And so the weary days and nights of mine imprisonment dragged slowly on. Slowly, for the weight of sorrow and tormenting agony of uncertainty for the fate of the one I loved did impede their progress, as doth the heavy weight upon the poor snail's back cause it to drag its weary body so slowly along its slimy course.
My sole occupation, with which I tried to prevent my mind from brooding, was the reading of the different sad histories of those which writ down their thoughts, and fates to be, upon their—and now my—prison's walls. One of these, whose sadness and beautiful resignation—even though it hath no great poetic merit—most affected me, I now set down. The lines and words are imprinted on the pages of my memory with such a force as never can fade, so long as the old, worn book doth hold together. Here they are, my children; and much profit may be gathered from their calmness and resignation:—
"Somewhat musing, and more mourning,
In remembering the unsteadfastness,
This world being of such wheeling,
Me contrarying, what can I guess?
"I fear, doubtless, remediless,
Is now to seize my woful chance;
For unkindness, withouten less, (lessening)
And no redress, doth me avance.
"With displeasance, to my grievance,
And no surance of remedy;
Lo, in this trance, now in substance,
Such is my dance, willing to die.
"Methinks, truly, bounden am I,
And that greatly, to be content;
Seeing plainly Fortune doth wry
All contrary from mine intent
"My life was lent me to one intent;
It is nigh spent. Welcome Fortune!
But I ne went (thought) thus to be shent,
But she it meant, such is her won (wont)"[[1]]
Evidently the woeful writer of these lines had been condemned to death. His bones had now lost their fleshly mantle, and forgotten he lay, far from those he loved. "How long ere I shall be in the same condition?" thought I, as I stood before my secure-barred window and gazed at the rain, as it fell in one unceasing torrent.
"Verily the heavens do weep for the sufferings of poor England," I said aloud; for now I spoke unto myself as though I were another.
For I know not how many days, for in my sorrow I lost all track of time, the rain fell with unabated fury.
How I longed to hear how fared my gentle Hazel.
"Hell and furies!" would I cry, and grip at the same time the iron bars that stood like the gate of Hell betwixt me and my liberty. How relieving did it feel to my pent up hate to twist at an iron bar and imagine that it was Catesby's throat I held.
"Ha! thou accursed villain!" would I cry aloud, "thou now shalt know the fury of my vengeance!" Then would I strike the cruel metal with my bare and clenched fist, with such a force as did drive the tender skin back from the bone and leave a bleeding tear.
The days lengthened into weeks; and still no word from the outside world. No trial; no condemnation; no execution; and that which I then most distasted, no definite knowledge of what should be my fate.
But let me now imagine myself as a free man, outside the Tower's walls—the which I then saw no chance of my ever being—and let me now describe the strange and important events that there were happening.
The next day after my arrest the Duke of Buckingham left the court, as though in haste. He and Lord Stanley had been together in the apartments of the Duke until a late hour on the night of my arrest. Whisperings there were to the effect that Buckingham had parted from the King in a spirit of animosity. Whether this were or were not the case I know not. However, the next news of Buckingham was of such a kind that it left no room for a doubt as to their then relations, no matter what they had been previous to the Duke's departure.
"Buckingham hath rebelled against King Richard: he is now raising an army in Wales. The Earl of Richmond is coming to his aid. More war and bloodshed for poor England." Such was the intelligence that now flew on from mouth to ear throughout the land. Had mine imprisoned ears but heard it then, how welcome had it been.
Catesby, who had on several occasions attempted to gain admittance to the Sanctuary, and had as many times met with refusal, was now obliged to attend to the affairs of state. Thus my fair Hazel was saved from his further molestation. Those days of tortuous anxiety to me could have been scarce less agonizing to her.
The Usurper, with that energy ever his chiefest characteristic, now raised an army to face the rebellious Duke.
Then did commence to fall those fearful rains, that never once did cease for days and nights I know not how many; but as I think, some ten days or two weeks.
The army of the Duke, thinking this unceasing rain was a message from Heaven forbidding them to thus rebel, deserted their leader, and each particular man did betake himself unto his separate home.
Then, as every congregation of people must have its Judas, the Duke was betrayed into the hands of the usurping tyrant, and there at Salisbury, where Richard had taken his post—for he thought that Richmond did intend joining Buckingham near this place—the Duke's head fell upon the block, and Richard was rid of one more great enemy.
Still did not Richmond land; so Richard and his army returned to London.
When Catesby, who had been with Richard in this expedition, came again to the Palace it did cause Harleston great anxiety; for he feared for the safety of the Lady Hazel. However, Catesby, to my friend's surprise, went not near the Sanctuary.
This was but the deceiving prologue to another history of suffering and reverses to us, that ever seemed bent on rending us asunder, whose hearts were bound together with such mighty bonds of love.
One evening as Frederick returned from a visit to the Sanctuary—where he had learned that Richmond had at last landed in Wales, and was even now on his way to London—on entering his room Michael handed him a sealed packet which proved to be an order for him to be prepared to march, at sunrise, in the ranks of Richard's army. This, however, was no surprise, as he had been expecting it for more than a week. He walked over to the table and laid the letter upon it.
"What is this, Michael?" he called, as his eyes fell upon another well sealed packet.
Michael, however, knew not from whence it came or how it got there.
"Michael," said Frederick, "thou knowest that I desire no one to be permitted to enter this room during mine absence. How is it, therefore, that this letter found its way here without thy knowledge?"
"Sure, yer honour, it must have bin thare afore ye lift, sor; fer Oi was out o' the room but fer a few minutes, and thin Oi made fast the door behind me, and took the kay along with me, sor. Divil a soul could inter, sor, barrin' that they came through the kay-houle."
"Strange," said Harleston, as he commenced to read the lengthy letter. But stranger still he thought it ere he had finished its contents. It was writ in a labored hand, as though to avoid recognition, and read as follows:—
"To SIR FREDERICK HARLESTON, Greeting.
"The writer of these words, though—for reasons that he is not at liberty to state—he signs not his name, is well known to thee, and to thine unfortunate friend, Sir Walter Bradley; both of which he loveth well.
"To-morrow Sir Walter is to go through a form of trial—the result of which must be his conviction—and he shall immediately be taken unto Tower Hill, where his head shall be stricken from the trunk. Unless, ere to-morrow's dawn, he, by the aid of his friends, doth contrive to escape from the Tower, and make his way from London to a place of safety, he must surely die.
"Sir Walter is now confined within the square tower next after passing through the Tower of St. Thomas, which, thou no doubt knowest, is that one into which the "Traitor's Gate" doth lead.
"If thou wilt but turn to the enclosure in this letter thine eyes shall behold an order, signed by his Majesty, King Richard, that shall obtain for the bearer admittance to and exit from any part of the Tower. However, this cannot give unto thee power to take forth a prisoner with thee. That must be done at thine own risk, and in the manner following:—
"There is but one keeper in attendance on Sir Walter. Him thou must master, and in a quiet manner. Take then from his belt the keys that do depend therefrom. Leave the keeper in such a condition as shall secure thee of his quietness. The aforesaid keys will give unto you an exit into the space before the square tower. When ye have reached this, turn to your left, and again will the keys open the gate in this wall with which ye shall soon be confronted. Then, looking to your right, ye shall behold the wall that doth separate the yard from the watery moat. Approach this with the exercise of great caution and ye shall then observe an opening where the wall is now being repaired by workmen, in the day time, and at night it is guarded by a single soldier, armed with a pole-axe. Ye must quiet this man by whatever means best serving. But over and above all else, the neglect of which advice must be the ruin of ye both, permit him to make not any noise; for the utterance of but one word by him shall be the signal for his fellows to come to his assistance; in which case escape is impossible.
"When the sentry shall have been removed the moat must be crossed as best ye can. The water therein is now both fresh and high, and therefore it will not be difficult for ye to descend into it and swim across. This ye must do in a most careful manner, that the guard be not disturbed by the noise of splashing water.
"At a point directly opposite to the place where the wall is now being repaired ye shall find a ladder made of ropes and cross pieces, placed there for your especial use and privilege.
"By these same means ye may assist your friend to freedom, and that, without great risk; providing that the aforesaid instructions be followed with exactness and care."
Then followed a note. It read thus:—
"If thy friend, Sir Walter, doth desire to save the Lady Hazel Woodville from one which now resides within the walls of this place, and who is as bitter an enemy of Sir Walter as he is ardent lover of the aforesaid lady, he had best tarry in his flight for a sufficient time to allow him to take the lady with him along. However, let him not abide there; but hasten along upon his journey until he cometh unto the second road turning unto his right after leaving Westminster. Let him follow this for the distance of about three miles, and he shall then come unto a house, from the window of which a flag shall hang. The aforesaid house is not occupied, and may be used by the refugees for their hiding-place. Let them there remain all day to-morrow; for the aforesaid enemy of Sir Walter doth intend to take the aforesaid lady from the Sanctuary, by force if necessary, to-morrow, ere he doth leave to join the King's army at Leicester.
"Praying with my heart's full strength that this warning may not be too late to save the gallant knight from the disgraceful death of a traitor to his country, I am, dear and respected sir,
(Signed) "A FRIEND."
"A friend? Now what friend can he be who hath access to my room when the door is locked?" mused Harleston.
"Besides, he must be one in favour to have such an order as is this," and he picked up the enclosed paper and read as follows:—
"Unto the bearer of this order grant admittance to the Tower of London, or to any part thereof. And further, likewise permit the aforesaid bearer to have conference with any prisoner or prisoners within the Tower. And further, permit the aforesaid bearer to have entrance or exit at whatever hour of day or night best conveniencing him.
(Signed) "RICARDUS REX."
My friend stood bent in thought for some time after reading this strange order. Then he raised his head quickly, as though a sudden solution of the problem had occurred to him.
"Can it be possible that this is a plot, laid with great cunning by Catesby, that I may be lured into the Tower, that there I may be kept? But then, this order doth command that the bearer shall also have exit. But it may be that the keepers know to whom it doth belong; and were I to present it they may have orders to arrest me for its theft. That should be a clever plan for removing me from his way. Then he might use force to gain admittance to the Sanctuary." These were the thoughts that now kept running through his mind, causing him great anxiety.
He then read the letter and order to Michael, and then told him of his doubts, and asked him for his opinion.
"Sure, sor," said Michael, "methinks the chances are that it were dangerous for thee, sor, to go thoysilf into that houle o' Hill. But, yer honour, it moight have come from Lord Stanley, and it may be the truth he sez. How'd it be, sor, if Oi moysilf wint in yer honour's place? Sure, Sor Walter must be saved, if Oi lose a scoure o' loives in the doin' o' it. Sure, sor, 'twould matter little if they did chop off moy head; but if thou wert wance shut up in that damned Tower what moight not happen to that swate lady in the Sanctuary?" And Michael's lips closed into a straight line that bespoke no good unto those which attempted to keep him in the Tower.
"'Tis good, Michael, that I follow thine advice; for whilst thou art aiding Sir Walter in his escape, myself will unto the Sanctuary, and there acquaint the Lady Hazel with our plans, and have her in readiness for the flight. Besides," he continued, "thy presence with Sir Walter will give me assurance that the keeper and the soldier guarding the breach shall make no noise.
"But come, we must make haste; for the night is already far spent, and Sir Walter and his dear lady must have left the Sanctuary by the dawn of day.
"Thou must go well armed, and take with thee a horse for Sir Walter."
"Oi will, sor."
"Do thou make ready the horses, that the grooms may know not who took them from the stable."
"Hadn't Oi bist take with me anither sword for Sor Walter? Thim spalpeens took his own from him, bad luck to thim fer it."
"Yes, Michael; 'twas thoughtful of thee to remember this necessity.
"And now, Michael, for thy directions:—
"Tether your horses in some quiet, and not too light, spot. Then proceed unto the western entrance, and to the officer in charge thereof present this order, being sure, however, to have him return it unto thee. In the same manner, providing that this order be not a trap, shalt thou pass the other gates. Inform these officers that thou dost desire to be taken unto the prison of Sir Walter Bradley, in the square tower. When thou dost see Sir Walter do not appear friendly with him if there be more than the one keeper present, lest it doth cause them to watch ye too closely. Thou knowest best how to silence the keeper.
"When this is accomplished give the letter unto Sir Walter. He will then know how to follow its directions.
"When ye are once out (if Heaven doth so far favour ye) come with all haste unto the Sanctuary, where the Lady Hazel shall be in readiness."
Whilst Harleston had been thus giving Michael his instructions they both had been arming each other in haste. They were now fully ready; so Michael went to prepare the horses. Frederick then followed Michael to the stables, and in a short time they were ready to set out.
"Do thou go first, Michael, and have a great care that thou dost follow closely the instructions that I gave thee. Pray God that thou dost succeed," and he gripped Michael's giant hand with a force that assured him, had he not already been aware of it, of his sincerity.
"Oi'll remimber, sor, and do as thou hast said. And be sure of this, yer honour; if the order be but a trap, moure than wan man now aloive and will shall see Gawd, or the divil, afore they take Moichael a prisoner." With this he was off, and Harleston stood for some moments gazing after the gigantic monument of honesty as he gradually faded from view and was swallowed up in the darkness. Then he himself mounted and started on his mission.
He had not, however, left the courtyard when he met a horseman, which called out to him as they passed each other:—"'Tis late for thee to be riding forth upon a journey, Sir Frederick. And besides, the road is dark to travel thus, alone." It was Catesby.
"Thanks for thy kindly warning," returned Frederick; "but I have but a short distance to travel, and the way, methinks, is safe." He then rode on; but for a few rods only; for here his horse stopped of its own accord.
As the noise of the horse's hoofs ceased suddenly, Frederick distinctly heard a low laugh come from out of the darkness, and in the direction where last he had seen Catesby.
"I fear Michael shall not return," thought Frederick, as he again proceeded on his way.
[[1]] Rous, the historian, states that these lines were written by Lord Rivers, during that unfortunate nobleman's imprisonment at Pomfret. K.M.