ON THE ROAD TO STAFFORD
Francis was so absorbed in the thoughts engendered by the conversation that she had just heard that she forgot all about her character as page and her duties as such. She was recalled to herself by a sharp reprimand from her father:
“Thy duty, Francis. Attend to the serving.”
Babington turned a startled glance upon her as she arose in obedience to her father’s command.
“The page?” he cried. “Did he hear our converse, my lord?”
“Yes; but fear not, Anthony. I would stake mine honor upon his silence. Thou canst be trusted, Francis?”
With heightened color, for the blood mounted to her cheeks at the intent gaze of the young man, the girl answered earnestly:
“Yes, my lord. Naught of what I have 49 heard shall pass my lips. Not even the rack should wring it from me.”
“Protest not too much, boy,” rebuked Babington. “Older and wiser men than thou have succumbed to its tortures.”
“You speak words of wisdom, Anthony,” remarked Lord Stafford. “Let us hope that the boy will not be tried by so grievous an instrument. Yet I do believe that he will be discreet.”
“He seems a proper lad,” returned the other. “A little backward, forsooth, but with none of the malapertness of some pages.”
Francis, now completely at ease as she saw that the young man believed her to be what she appeared, flashed an arch look at her father. Lord Stafford smiled slightly, but his countenance soon became overcast with gravity. The meal over, the host withdrew, and the elder man turned once more to the younger one.
“Anthony,” he said, “I must on my way, but let me plead with thee that if thou dost entertain a thought of such rash emprises as thy words suggest, to forego them. Naught but disaster could follow upon such projects.” 50
“My lord, say no more an thou lovest me,” replied Babington. “Mary’s sufferings cry aloud for vengeance. Sleeping or waking her wrongs are before me. My lord, she is a prisoner; made to submit to privations that even the basest criminals do not undergo. Couldst thou have seen her at Tutbury or Wingfield as I have done, you would wonder no longer that deeds of blood suggest themselves.”
“Anthony, thou art mad,” exclaimed Lord Stafford compassionately.
“Mad! nay; but Mary Stuart hath languished too long in her chains. I would dare anything to release her from them.”
“And so would we all who love and reverence her as the true heiress of England’s crown, Anthony. Yet I fear that thou dost meditate wrong to Elizabeth, but surely thou wouldst not raise thy hand against a woman?”
“Ay, my lord! Against a woman, or what not for Mary’s sake.”
“But Mary would not approve such measure.”
“No; therefore do we only contemplate her 51 rescue. The softness of her heart doth prevent other aims.”
“Anthony,” said Lord Stafford preparing to renew his journey, “I see that thou art ripe for some foolhardy enterprise. I misdoubt thy loyalty to Elizabeth, and fear that thou wilt soon engage in mischief. Had I not pledged mine honor to take these letters to Mary I would have naught to do with the matter. Thou hast raised grave doubts as to the nature of this undertaking. I fear for thee, for myself and family, and most of all do I fear for Mary Stuart. Thou knowest how eagerly Walsingham watches for an excuse to compass her death. Remember that, Anthony, and by the love you bear to her, forego the thoughts that charge thy brain.”
“Fear naught, my lord. Thy doubts carry thee farther than the issue warrants,” said Babington lightly.
“I bid you farewell, Anthony, but my heart is heavy with foreboding,” and Lord Stafford embraced him. “Would that I had known all this ere mine honor had become involved.”
“Be of good cheer. You lay too much 52 stress upon the matter,” and the young man returned his embrace. “Farewell.”
“Fare you well.” Lord Stafford proceeded to the courtyard followed by Francis. When the girl would have ridden behind him, he motioned her silently to come beside him. Wonderingly she obeyed, for not thus were pages wont to travel with their lords.
“My child,” said Lord Stafford when they had left the tavern behind and were on the old Roman road to Bath, “I have done ill in embarking upon this emprise, and more than ill in engaging thee in it also. There are dark days before us, Francis.”
“My father,” and leaning from her horse the girl kissed him. “No matter what befall thou hast deemed me worthy to share thy danger, and I will not repine. But I like not to think that they wish to kill the queen.”
“Think not on that, Francis,” said her father hastily. “On that matter my heart is heavy, though I trow such attempt will not be made. Anthony but raves. Such thoughts are not for thy young heart. Dismiss them, I entreat thee.”
“Let us rather think only that we are to 53 carry the tidings to Mary that an effort will be made to release her. Surely it is right to seek to relieve her suffering,” said the girl sweetly.
“It is in very truth, my child. Thou and I are not concerned in aught but in bearing good news; therefore will I cheer up, sweet chuck, though I am greatly troubled.”
And by an effort he put aside the dire forebodings that filled his soul, and tried to enter into the enjoyment of his daughter who, with the elasticity of youth, had turned to the more cheerful scenes around them.
Frequently he called her attention to some historic spot, or pointed out the beauties of the sylvan landscape. And thus, sometimes in sweet converse in which Francis learned to know her father better than she had ever known him; at others, in long lapses of silence the more eloquent that there was no conversation, and in stopping for rest and refreshment at taverns did the days pass without further incident. Yet though nothing of import transpired, the journey was not without interest to Francis.
Bath, on the right bank of the river Avon, 54 presented a great variety of beautiful landscape; the old city of Gloucester, city of churches and beloved of kings; Tewkesbury, site of the battle between Lancastrians and Yorkists which placed the crown upon the head of Edward the Fourth; Worcester, with its glorious cathedral, filled her with delight. The beauty of the diversified scenery, consisting of hill, vale, forest and river, the numerous remains of Druid, British, Roman, Anglo-Saxon and Norman to which her father called her attention; all these things contributed to her pleasure, and served to banish everything from her mind save the happiness of the moment.
“And now, Francis,” said Lord Stafford on the evening of the fourth day, “yonder lies Stafford, and we are near the end of our travel. Behold, on yon mount, called ‘Castle Hill,’ the place where stood a noble castle built by William the Conqueror. He conferred it upon Robert de Torri who took the name de Stafford from whom, as thou dost well ken, our family hath sprung. Art thou weary, girl?”
“Yes, father, but the journey hath nevertheless 55 been full of delight,” returned Francis brightly though her drooping body spoke of the fatigue by which she was almost overcome. “Yet right glad am I that we are come to Stafford. And on the morrow it may be that I shall see Queen Mary.”
“Mayhap, child. But now put from thee all thought save that of rest. Let the morrow bring what it will, this night shall be devoted to quiet and repose.”
Putting spurs to his horse the tired animal renewed his speed, and they were soon within the gates of the city.