She was becoming entangled in the meshes.
“Lock you up whom your Lordship will!” she exclaimed. “The truth of all I have said can be proven, and thereto I do offer Master Will Maydeston mine esquire, which shall prove my truth with his body against such, as do accuse me (by duel; a resource then permitted by law). And further will I say nought.”
“But you must needs have had further aid, Lady.”
“Ay so, Sir?”
“Most surely. Who were it, I demand of you?”
“I have said my saying.”
“And you do deny, Madam, to further justice?”
“Right surely, without justice were of my side.” What was to be done with such a prisoner? Beaufort at last gave up in despair the attempt to make her criminate her accomplices any further, though he could hardly avoid guessing that Bertram and Maude had helped her more or less. The sentence pronounced was a remarkably light one, so far as Constance was concerned. In fact, the poor smith, who was the most innocent of the group, suffered the most. How he was found can but be guessed; but his life paid the forfeit of his forgery. The Princess was condemned to close imprisonment in Kenilworth Castle during the King’s pleasure. Maude was sentenced to share her mistress’s durance; and Bertram’s penalty was even easier, for he was allowed free passage within the walls, as a prisoner on parole.
It was in the beginning of March that the captive trio, in charge of Elmingo Leget, arrived at Kenilworth. Two rooms were allotted for the use of Constance and Maude. The innermost was the bedchamber, from which projected a little oratory with an oriel window; the outer, the “withdrawing chamber,” which opened only into a guardroom always occupied by soldiers. Bertram was permitted access to the Princess’s drawing-room at her pleasure, and her pleasure was to admit him very frequently. She found her prison-life insufferably wearisome, and even the scraps of extremely local news, brought in by Bertram from the courtyard, were a relief to the monotony of having nothing at all to do. She grew absolutely interested in such infinitesimal facts as the arrival of a barrel of salt sprats, the sprained ankle of Mark Milksop (a genuine surname of the time) of the garrison, the Governor’s new crimson damask gown, and the solitary cowslip which his shy little girl offered to Bertram “for the Lady.”
But having nothing to do, by no means implied having nothing to think about. On the contrary, of that there was a great deal. The last items which Constance knew concerning her friends were, that Kent had been told of her flight from Windsor (if York’s word could be trusted); that her children were left at Langley; and that her admissions on her trial had placed York in serious peril, for liberty if not life. As to the children, they were probably safe, either at Langley or Cardiff; yet there remained the possibility that they might have shared the fate of the Mortimers, and be closely confined in some stronghold. It was not in Isabel’s nature to fret much over any thing; but Richard was a gentle, playful, affectionate child, to whom the absence of all familiar faces would be a serious trouble. Then what would become of Edward, whom she had tacitly criminated? What would become of Richard, the darling brother, whom not to criminate she had sacrificed truth, and would have sacrificed life? And, last and worst of all, what had become of Kent? If he had set out to join her, the gravest suspicion would instantly fall on him. If he had not, and were ignorant what had befallen her, Constance—who did not yet know his real character—pictured him as tortured with apprehension on her account.