“Why,” said be, “the poor lady is sickening for a fever; let her alone: how can a woman light-headed answer questions upon doctrine and heresy?”
The council, governed by Arundel, still seemed unwilling to grant the prayer; when, to the surprise of every one present, Abbot Bilson, the principal witness for the Crown, rose and supported the petition. The puzzled council accordingly granted it. Arundel was very much under Bilson’s influence, and Bilson had a private reason for his conduct, which will presently appear.
So the examination was adjourned until February, and Margery, released for the moment from the struggle with her enemies, was left to combat the fever which had seized her. Lord Marnell and Master Simon begged for an order of the council to remove poor Margery home, the latter asserting that she would never recover in the Tower. The council refused this application. They then requested that one of her waiting-women should be allowed to attend her, and that bedding and linen, with such other necessaries as Master Simon might deem fit, might be supplied to the prisoner from her own house. The council, after a private consultation among its members, thought fit to grant this reasonable prayer.
Alice Jordan was made very happy by an order from Lord Marnell to attend her sick mistress. Everything that Marnell Place could furnish, which Master Simon did not absolutely forbid,—and Master Simon was easy of persuasion—was lavished on the whitewashed cell in the Tower. Alice, however, was carefully searched every time she passed in and out of the Tower, to see that she supplied no books nor writing-materials to the prisoner, nor took any letters from her. Poor Margery! the care was needless, for she was just then as incapable of writing as if she had never been taught.
Margery’s illness lasted even longer than Master Simon had anticipated. On a dark, cold winter night, when snow was falling thickly outside the prison, and a low rushlight burned on the table, dimly lighting up the narrow cell, Margery unexpectedly whispered, “Who is there?”
“I, dear mistress—Alice Jordan.”
“Alice Jordan! Where then am I? Or was it all a terrible dream? Is this Lovell Tower?” Alice’s voice trembled as she said, “No.”
“What then? Oh! I know now. It is the Tower of London, and the end cometh nigh.”
“Nay, dearest mistress, you fare marvellous better now.”
“I mean not the fever-death, good friend, but the end—the end of my weary pilgrimage, the gate of the Happy City. Welcome be the end of the way, for the way hath been a rough one and a sore! However sharp be the end, I can bear it now. My soul hath been loosed from earth. I see nothing now, I want nothing but Christ, and to be with Him in the glory. Alice, how fareth the child? I dared not to ask afore, since I came into this place, but I can now.”