IN THE TOWER OF LONDON
It was a dreary journey. The motive which had sustained the girl in her former trip from the city to her home was lacking. The fatigue incident to travel, the unjust reception of her by her father, with the doubtfulness of his escape, and the uncertainty of what was to become of her mother and herself, now bore upon her with such overwhelming force as to almost crush even her brave spirit. Lady Stafford suffered a like mental anguish, and so, on account of the weakness of the two prisoners, the guard was compelled to return to the city by slow stages.
Upon their entrance within the gates they found that the whole city was in an uproar, caused by the apprehension of Anthony Babington and several others of the conspirators. Bells were ringing, bonfires burning and the most vehement satisfaction expressed by the people, who, with shouts and singing of 239 psalms, gave every demonstration of joy at the escape of the queen from their treasonable designs.
When it became known that these two were also implicated, a hooting, jeering mob followed them through the streets, hurling vile epithets upon them, and taunting them with their disgrace. Lady Stafford drooped under the attack, but the assault roused the spirit in Francis, and she sat erect, her flashing eyes and contemptuous looks bespeaking the tempest that raged in her heart.
“Bear up, my mother,” she said to Lady Stafford who could scarcely sit her horse. “Give not the rabble cause to laugh and jibe.”
“But, my child, that we of the house of Stafford, be thus dishonored!” exclaimed the lady in anguish. “Oh, I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it! Carest thou not for this disgrace?”
“I could weep my heart out, if it would avail aught,” uttered Francis in low, intense tones. “Bethink you, mother, that this mob of the streets shall see one tear from me? Nay; ’twould give them too much of pleasure.”
“And has it come to this? That thou 240 shouldst be an example to thy mother?” asked the lady sitting up. “Let them rage! Not another tear shall they behold. There will be time enough for tears later.”
And so saying she followed her daughter’s example and rode with uplifted head, apparently indifferent to the taunts of the people who followed them down to the waterside, even to the wharf where they embarked for the Tower.
Babington and his companions occupied another boat which preceded them down the river, and Francis felt relief when she saw that her father was not among them. The tide being in their favor, the boat passed swiftly down the river, shot London Bridge, and all too soon drew near the sombre mass of the Tower.
In spite of her undaunted front Francis could not forbear a shudder as their wherry drew near Saint Thomas’ tower. As a mere matter of form the boats were challenged by the sentinels. A wicket, composed of immense beams of wood, was opened and they shot beneath the gloomy arch, through the Traitors’ gate. A feeling of dread took possession of 241 the girl as her gaze fell upon the slimy walls of the dismal arch. The wherrymen ceased rowing and the water rippled sullenly against the sides of the boat which soon, impelled by the former efforts of the oarsmen, touched the steps.
The lieutenant of the Tower, followed by numerous warders, appeared and gave acknowledgment of their receipt to the guard. Slowly the prisoners ascended the damp and slippery steps, Francis and her mother being the last to go up. A few quick commands and Babington and the others were hurried away, each man between two warders. Then the lieutenant turned to Lady Stafford.
“Follow me, madam,” he said making a respectful salutation. “I will conduct you to your chamber, where, I pray your pardon, my orders are to place you under some restraint. You, young master, will remain here until my return. The time will be but short.”
“Oh,” cried the lady in supplicating tones, “are we to be separated?”
“Such are my commands, madam,” returned he in tones of commiseration. “Thou art to 242 be confined in the Brick Tower. Thy son in the Beauchamp Tower. Come!”
“Oh, my child! my child!” sobbed the mother throwing her arms about Francis. “What will be thy fate? What will they do to thee?”
“Calm thyself, my mother,” comforted Francis. “We can but hope. Mayhap the good keeper will permit us to see each other occasionally. Go now, mother. We must not vex him.”
Clasping her convulsively to her breast for a moment, Lady Stafford released her, and then followed the lieutenant, weeping bitterly.
Then Francis sat her down in the midst of the warders upon that very stone where Elizabeth had rested when she herself passed into the Tower, a prisoner to the jealousy of her sister, Mary. Soon the lieutenant returned and said courteously:
“And now, master, be pleased to follow me to your chamber.”
Francis arose and followed him without a word. Through the outer ward they passed through the lofty portal which formed the principal entrance to the inner ward over 243 which rose a dismal-looking structure, then called the Garden Tower, but later known as the Bloody Tower. Passing beneath these grim portals the lieutenant led his prisoner into the inner ward, over the Tower Green, and at last paused before an embattled structure of the time of King John, just opposite the great keep, or the White Tower. Ascending the circular stairway, he unlocked the double doors that led into the tower, and they passed into a large, low-roofed dark apartment that held a very scanty array of furniture. Then he withdrew, the bolt clasped, the chain clanged, and Francis was left alone.
A sense of desolation swept over the girl as the full realization of the situation burst upon her, and the blackness of despair filled her soul with anguish. She was alone. She had no one to lean upon. No ear to which she could impart her sorrows. Her mother a prisoner like herself. Her father—a fugitive wandering she knew not whither. As the bitterness of her lot assailed her in all its force she could no longer control herself but gave way to a passionate burst of grief. She looked at the stone walls by which she was 244 enclosed, the massive iron-girded door and the hopelessness of her situation bore with crushing weight upon her.
There was no eye to see, no longer need for control, and she gave vent to her despair unrestrainedly. At length the fountain of her tears was dry, and becoming more composed she sought to regain her fortitude.
“I have done no wrong,” she said aloud. “No wrong? Was it wrong to give those letters to Mary? But my father bade me. My father! Ah, no word of that must pass my lips. Cruel and unjust he hath been, but never shall word or act of mine bear witness against him. I must fortify my soul for I fear that I will be questioned.”
Her foreboding proved true. Early the next morning the door leading into the chamber was opened, and Sir Francis Walsingham with two others entered. Francis’ heart sank at sight of them, but she nerved herself for the ordeal.
“Good-morrow, Master Stafford,” said the secretary courteously. “We give you good-morrow.” 245
“Good-morrow, Sir Francis. And to you, gentlemen, good-morrow,” returned she.
“My lad,” said Walsingham not unkindly, seating himself before her, “thou art charged with a heinous crime, and methinks that thou art too young to be concerned in such weighty matters. Therefore, am I with these lords, come to examine thee somewhat anent it.”
“With what am I charged, sir?” asked Francis.
“With that most atrocious of all crimes,—treason,” was the reply.
“My lord, I meant not to be guilty of treason against the queen,” said the girl earnestly. “If aught that I have done seemeth so in her eyes, believe me I pray you, when I say that it was not so intended.”
“I do believe it,” answered the secretary. “I think that thou hast been made use of by others to further design of bold and unscrupulous men. Didst thou ever meet with Anthony Babington?”
“Yes, Sir Francis.”
“Where?”
“Once at Salisbury, and once in the forest as I left London.” 246
“What passed at those meetings?” Walsingham drew closer, expecting from the girl’s demeanor to find ready answers to his inquiries.
“I cannot tell you, sir, of the nature of the first,” answered Francis. “I will gladly do so of the second.”
“Relate it then.”
“He was trying to make his escape when his design upon the queen became known. He sprang upon me when I was unaware, seized the bridle of my horse, and demanded that I give the animal to him.”
“Which you refused?”
“Which I refused to do, sir.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“Yes.”
“And you him?”
“Yes, Sir Francis.”
“Did you know that he was trying to escape from arrest?”
“Yes;” answered Francis again.
“Then why did you not let him have the horse?” queried Walsingham.
“Because I wished to reach my father,” replied the girl simply. 247
“But why did you want to reach your father?” and the secretary bent forward. “How knew you that he was in danger?”
“Why, I heard you tell the queen that you were going to arrest him, and I wished to warn him.”
“Thou heardst me tell the queen?” cried the minister in surprise. “Boy, how couldst thou? We were in the queen’s own chamber. How couldst thou hear it?”
“I went there to seek a favor from Her Majesty, and awaited her coming upon the balcony outside the window. When the queen entered, the vice-chamberlain, Lord Burleigh, my Lord of Leicester, and yourself were with her. I feared then to come into the room. Thus I could but hear all that passed. When I found that my father was in danger I left the balcony and the palace as quickly, determined to warn him of his peril.”
“Then you knew that he was concerned in the plot to kill the queen?” and Walsingham eyed her keenly.
“He was not,” cried the girl eagerly.
“Then why should he flee?” asked the 248 merciless inquisitor. “No peer of the realm hath aught to fear if he be innocent of foul design.”
Francis was so disconcerted by this question that she did not attempt to reply, but looked at him hopelessly.
The wily minister saw her confusion and pressed his advantage.
“Thou needest not to answer, boy, on the condition that thou tell to me all that passed the first time that you saw Babington.”
“I cannot do that, sir.”
“’Twill be the better for thee,” warned the secretary. “We have knowledge that thou and thy father did meet with Babington at an inn in Salisbury. For thine own sake, thou wouldst best reveal what took place. Reflect! Thine own safety depends upon it.”
“I will not tell, Sir Francis,” returned Francis bravely.
“Have a care, boy. There are ways of extorting confessions from unwilling lips.”
“I do not misunderstand your meaning,” returned the girl with white lips, “but I cannot tell.”
“I WILL NOT TELL, SIR FRANCIS”
“What did your father when the proposition was made to kill the queen?” asked Walsingham so suddenly that Francis was caught unawares.
“He would have naught to do with it,” answered she promptly, glad to speak in his favor. “He rejected it with horror.”
“Ah, ha! he did know of it!” ejaculated the secretary. “Thou hast betrayed thyself. Come! Let us have the full particulars.”
“Sir,” said Francis, perceiving the snare into which she had fallen, “I am unable to meet your craft with like guile. Therefore question me no further. I will say no more.”
And despite all attempts to trip her into answering, she maintained an obstinate silence with regard to all their questions.
“Let us leave him,” said Walsingham at length. “Obdurate lad, thou wilt regret thy stubbornness ere long. There are other means of dealing with such spirits than gentleness. We will return ere long, and if thou art still of the same mind, thou shalt taste them.” And he withdrew, leaving Francis to face this new trial.