“I have it, child. Mary is in truth on the alert. She knows that we have messages for her. Listen! she says: ‘I find no security in writing by carrier; the best recipe for secret writing is alum dissolved in a little clear water twenty-four hours before it is required to write with. In order to read it the paper must be wetted in a basin of water and then held to the fire; the secret writing then appears white and may easily be read until the paper gets dry. You may write in this manner on white taffeta or white linen, especially lawn; and as a token when anything is written on a piece of taffeta or linen a little snip can be cut 69 off from one of the corners. Friend, if so be that you have letters, transcribe their message in the above manner. As to the manner of their delivery I know not. I will this way as often as the disposition of my jailer will permit. Adieu, my friend—though I know not thy name, yet thy features are engraved upon the heart of your queen,
‘MARIE, ROYNE.’”
“There!” Lord Stafford smoothed the piece of cloth complacently. “The thing that troubles is how to give her the papers and letters. ’Tis my belief that they would be as easy to deliver as to transcribe their contents upon cloth to give her. She must be made aware of the plan for her rescue.”
“What is the plan, father?”
“To overwhelm her escort while she is taking the air, child. Babington is to come with one hundred men and carry Mary off. Her escort seldom consists of more than eighteen or twenty men, and we think she might be easily taken from them.”
“But would not other of Sir Amyas’s men follow after and retake her?”
“We hope to place her in a secure spot ere 70 they could do so, Francis. Once across the border Elizabeth would have no power over her, and her son, unfilial though he hath shown himself, could not for very shame refuse her safe asylum. Then she might, if she would so choose, retire to France where she could dwell in peace.”
“She must have those letters, my father.”
“Yes, Francis; but how? My mind plays me false when I would discover a way. It is not active. We must think, think, Francis.”
Francis arose and walked to the window where she stood abstractedly looking through the lattice which overhung a large yard, surrounded by the stables of the hostelry. Some yeomen were dressing their own or their masters’ horses, whistling, singing and laughing. Suddenly she bent forward eagerly.