The kneeling figure started slightly, hearing the whisper in its ear, and half turned its face.
“Domine salvum fac Regem nostrum Ricardum, my son.”
The Benedictine had stolen list-footed from among the shadows of the great pillars, and stood, a blacker shadow, bending over the solitary worshipper in the darkening chapel of St. John. It was a breathless August evening of the year 1483, and not a sound penetrated to this remote fastness of the Keep.
“God save the King, Father!” answered the suppliant. It was Brackenbury himself, Lieutenant of the Tower, and a sore matter of conscience had brought him to this place. He rose instantly to his feet.
“I say it with all my heart,” quoth he. “God save the King—from numbering himself among his worst enemies.”
“Sh—sh!” whispered the chaplain. “Sh—sh! good Sir John.” He put a finger to his lips, and, motioning the other forth, held him on the outer threshold.
“To ensure the pure succession,” he said low. “This bastard boy, Sir John—a canker that would eat into the State. No safety but in his excision.”
“For the second time,” replied the knight sternly, “take my answer. Question, if you will, the blood that courses in his veins; question not mine. That stoops to no midnight butchery.”
He waved his hand, as if in appeal or protest, towards the chapel, and turned to go. But the priest detained him.
“A moment, good Sir John. The King wills it.”