Mistress Betty left the Tower with a heavy heart; she could not believe in the success of the wizard’s plans, and she had failed to see Lord Raby. He was that day carried before the Council to be examined, by order of the king, who had not forgotten Betty’s petition. Thus, while she was thankful that the long suspense was over, she was disappointed in the hope of seeing her lover, after the months of separation. She could but wait and hope, in the mean time making every effort to establish his innocence. Her courage and determination so moved old Madam to admiration that she lacked no aid from that quarter, and fortunately, for their success, they found Sir William Carew in London. He had come up from Devon two days before and was in lodgings on the Strand, engaged in transacting business with the Council. He was little inclined, at first, to listen to their talk of Lord Raby, having still his grievance in regard to his packet, but at the mention of Simon’s servant, he remembered his wager that the man was a rogue, and was more willing to undertake any matter that would prove the infallibility of his own judgment. He was not free of a superstitious awe of the wizard, and showed himself to be quite ready to follow his instructions, even without his niece’s entreaties.
“Let be, let be,” he said, in answer to Betty’s suggestions; “I will take this matter in hand. I have two stout knaves with me, and they should be enough to catch the varlet. It shall be done secretly too, that those who employ him may not take warning and so escape us. Go to your quarters with my Lady Crabtree, and I will see that this business is executed in good time.”
Betty was reluctant to leave the scene of action; she was eager for the first gleam of hope that might dawn with Shaxter’s revelations, if he made them.
“Uncle, you will tell me what he says?” she asked. “I cannot endure this suspense so long.”
“I will send for you,” Sir William answered. “Your presence here now is more hindrance than help; but trust me, wench, I will tell you all there is to know, if indeed this rogue can reveal anything of importance.”
Old Madam had been below stairs talking with an acquaintance at the door, and she came up now with a face of importance.
“There are bad tidings from Hampton Court,” she said; “the queen hath taken cold; was ill last night, and to-day is reported dying. Saint Thomas! what luck the king hath with his wives!”
“Now may Heaven save the prince!” exclaimed Sir William, baring his head reverently; “the hope of the realm is centered in that child. We have scarce had time to express our thanksgiving for his birth, and cruel indeed would be the blow that took him from us.”
“Ay,” retorted Lady Crabtree; “the papists would have then the merry stirring that they have looked for these long years, and James of Scotland might use the nightcap that the pope sent him for Christmas. Happily, the queen’s death need not now mean the loss of the prince; but they do say that it is a sickly child, and like to be, with such a father.”
“I remember the days when the king’s grace was the very type of English manhood,” Carew remarked thoughtfully, “and as gallant a knight as ever wore harness; of goodly stature and amiable countenance, wise in council, learned in philosophy, and as gracious a prince as any man might desire.”