There were but few more words exchanged, the little company closed up about the prisoner, and the walk through the streets was a rapid one. Many stared, and some insulting jests were made. It was no uncommon sight; disloyalty was rife enough to make the arrest of a nobleman a matter of usual occurrence. They passed some of the gay young gentlemen of the court, who looked aside on seeing their acquaintance in such company. He was taken to Cromwell’s house, and waited but a little while at the door before he was brought before him.
Cromwell was in his private room sitting at a table by the window, and a large mass of papers lay before him. It was his custom to apply himself closely to business, and much of it was transacted by his own hand. Here was a man who held the threads of many conspiracies, whose falcon eye was peering into every secret lurking-place from Land’s End to the Tweed, whose relentless grip closed on the traitor like a vise. His back was to the light where he sat, so that his strong face was in the shadow, but his penetrating eyes were bent on Raby at his entrance with a not unkindly look.
“Master Raby, I had it in my mind to send you some advertisement of my regret at your father’s death,” he said gravely, “when this charge was lodged against you, to my infinite surprise.”
“Sir, I am ignorant of the cause of my arrest,” Raby replied, “nor can I imagine what accusation has been made against me.”
“You are charged with high treason,” Cromwell said, turning over some papers before him, “having conspired with certain persons against the safety of the realm, and the life of the king’s grace.”
The expression of amazement deepened on the prisoner’s face.
“My lord,” he said, “I am dumbfounded; I have been absent more than two months in Sussex, busy with the settlement of my father’s estate, which, as I think you know, was much in need of my administration. As for consorting with conspirators—you, who have known me from my boyhood, should know the folly of the charge. I thought my loyalty to the king’s highness was established by faithful service. This accusation is but the baseless falsehood of mine enemies.”
“My Lord Raby, my heart inclines to believe you; I have ever held a good opinion of your family,” Cromwell rejoined, “but the nature of this charge doth not allow it to be overlooked. But ye shall have an ample hearing. Sir, there is a strange house here upon the Thames, I think you know it,—I see you do,—the house of the wizard, Zachary Sanders. You were there one night this winter, and upon what business?”
Raby’s face had changed at the mention of the wizard’s house; the shrieks of Anne Boleyn had a strange trick of haunting him.
“I was there indeed,” he said frankly, knowing no harm could come now of the truth, “with Queen Anne and her ladies. It was an unhappy whim of the queen’s, and the wizard caused her to see so evil a vision that I was near seizing him as a traitor; would, indeed, have delivered him to the guard but for her grace, who would not have the matter known, fearing the king’s displeasure at her folly.”