Ralegh took counsel on the matter with Captain King, a bluff, tawny-bearded seaman, who was devoted to him body and soul.
“Sir Lewis proposes it, eh?” quoth the hardy seaman. “And Sir Lewis is Vice-Admiral of Devon? He is not by chance bidden to escort you to London?”
The Captain, clearly, had escaped the spell of Stukeley’s affability. Sir Walter was indignant. He had never held his kinsman in great esteem, and had never been on the best of terms with him in the past. Nevertheless, he was very far from suspecting him of what King implied. To convince him that he did Sir Lewis an injustice, Ralegh put the blunt question to his kinsman in King’s presence.
“Nay,” said Sir Lewis, “I am not yet bidden to escort you. But as Vice-Admiral of Devon I may at any moment be so bidden. It were wiser, I hold, not to await such an order. Though even if it come,” he made haste to add, “you may still count upon my friendship. I am your kinsman first, and Vice-Admiral after.”
With a smile that irradiated his handsome, virile countenance, Sir Walter held out his hand to clasp his cousin’s in token of appreciation. Captain King expressed no opinion save what might be conveyed in a grunt and a shrug.
Guided now unreservedly by his cousin’s counsel, Sir Walter set out with him upon that journey to London. Captain King went with them, as well as Sir Walter’s body-servant, Cotterell, and a Frenchman named Manourie, who had made his first appearance in the Plymouth household on the previous day. Stukeley explained the fellow as a gifted man of medicine, whom he had sent for to cure him of a trivial but inconvenient ailment by which he was afflicted.
Journeying by slow stages, as Sir Lewis had directed, they came at last to Brentford. Sir Walter, had he followed his own bent, would have journeyed more slowly still, for in a measure, as he neared London, apprehensions of what might await him there grew ever darker. He spoke of them to King, and the blunt Captain said nothing to dispel them.
“You are being led like a sheep to the shambles,” he declared, “and you go like a sheep. You should have landed in France, where you have friends. Even now it is not too late. A ship could be procured...”
“And my honour could be sunk at sea,” Sir Walter harshly concluded, in reproof of such counsel.
But at the inn at Brentford he was sought out by a visitor, who brought him the like advice in rather different terms. This was De Chesne, the secretary of the French envoy, Le Clerc. Cordially welcomed by Ralegh, the Frenchman expressed his deep concern to see Sir Walter under arrest.