Through this tumultuous and feeble force, Nicholas Alwyn was conducted by a single faithful servitor of the queen’s (by whom he was expected); and one glance of his quick eye, as he passed along, convinced him of the justice of his counsels. He arrived at last, by a long and winding stair, at one of the loftiest chambers, in one of the loftiest towers, usually appropriated to the subordinate officers of the household.
And there, standing by the open casement, commanding some extended view of the noisy and crowded scene beyond, both on stream and land, he saw the queen of the fugitive monarch. By her side was the Lady Scrope, her most familiar friend and confidant, her three infant children, Elizabeth, Mary, and Cicely, grouped round her knees, playing with each other, and unconscious of the terrors of the times; and apart from the rest stood the Duchess of Bedford, conferring eagerly with Friar Bungey, whom she had summoned in haste, to know if his art could not yet prevail over enemies merely mortal.
The servitor announced Alwyn, and retired; the queen turned—“What news, Master Alwyn? Quick! What tidings from the lord mayor?”
“Gracious my queen and lady,” said Alwyn, falling on his knees, “you have but one course to pursue. Below yon casement lies your barge, to the right see the round gray tower of Westminster Sanctuary; you have time yet, and but time!”
The old Duchess of Bedford turned her sharp, bright, gray eyes from the pale and trembling friar to the goldsmith, but was silent. The queen stood aghast. “Mean you,” she faltered, at last, “that the city of London forsakes the king? Shame on the cravens!”
“Not cravens, my lady and queen,” said Alwyn, rising. “He must have iron nails that scratches a bear,—and the white bear above all. The king has fled, the barons have fled, the soldiers have fled, the captains have fled,—the citizens of London alone fly not; but there is nothing save life and property left to guard.”
“Is this thy boasted influence with the commons and youths of the city?”
“My humble influence, may it please your Grace (I say it now openly, and I will say it a year hence, when King Edward will hold his court in these halls once again), my influence, such as it is, has been used to save lives which resistance would waste in vain. Alack, alack! ‘No gaping against an oven,’ gracious lady! Your barge is below. Again I say there is yet time,—when the bell tolls the next hour that time will be past!”
“Then Jesu defend these children!” said Elizabeth, bending over her infants, and weeping bitterly; “I will go!”
“Hold!” said the Duchess of Bedford, “men desert us, but do the spirits also forsake us?—Speak, friar! canst thou yet do aught for us?—and if not, thinkest thou it is the right hour to yield and fly?”