“Ay,” assented Carew, heartily, “’tis the wish of all true Englishmen.”
“Sir,” said Cromwell, solemnly, “God only knows what it would mean to this realm. Parliament hath happily placed the crown at the disposal of the king’s grace, but to have the succession established would mean England’s salvation; and all these conspiracies which bring us such misery would be harmless as a still-born babe.”
He paused; his face deeply overcast. Then recollecting himself, as he encountered Betty’s inquiring gaze, he summoned an attendant.
“This man will go with you,” he said to Sir William, “and will secure you immediate admittance at the Tower.”
Carew thanked him heartily, although he half suspected the attendant of being a spy, but he had no choice but to accept him. After a few more words, Cromwell dismissed them and they set out without delay for the Tower.
Sir William was not altogether pleased at being pushed forward upon the errand, but he was too kind-hearted to blame his niece, who was so deeply distressed already. So he made the best of an unpleasant business and walked briskly to the wharf, where Cromwell’s servant obtained a wherry with a readiness that increased Sir William’s uneasiness. However, it seemed but an ordinary river craft, manned by four stout oarsmen, who haggled, as usual, over the fare. But Carew was so liberally inclined that in a few moments the bargain was completed and the three set out on their voyage. Betty’s face was muffled, and she sat quietly by her uncle as the boat travelled swiftly over the waters. They crossed that part of the river which was most thickly crowded with shipping, but the young girl had no eyes save for the low dark walls of the Tower, which presently came in sight. She shuddered when the boatmen, obeying the directions of Cromwell’s servant, turned under the dusky bastion to the Traitor’s Gate. The tide was rising and bore the wherry under the low arch to the stone steps, where the water lapped gently as it rose. Above them the arch was closed by a wicket of heavy wooden cross-bars, and behind this rose the causeway leading to the prison. On the other side of the wicket could be seen the sentries on guard. This was the view before them; behind, looking back through the arch, was the sunshine on the river, the gay life of the world. Here, but a short while before, had entered More and Fisher, the Charterhouse monks, and the unhappy Queen of England—a strange company!
Sir William and Mistress Betty alighted on the stone steps, and the wicket was promptly opened at the warrant of the privy seal, which also ensured the visitors a respectful welcome. Without more delay than naturally accompanied the formalities of a military prison, they were shown into the presence of Sir William Kingston, who received Carew with every mark of kindness, as an old acquaintance.
“I am well pleased to see you,” he said, “and better pleased that you come not as a permanent guest.”
“God forbid!” said Sir William Carew, bluntly; “but I come to see one of your guests, Kingston; my friend, Simon Raby.”
The officer’s face became grave at once.