“These, madam,” replied Wyat, firmly. “I demand the custody of the Tower,—the care of your royal person,—the dismissal of your council,—and the head of your false counsellor, Simon Renard.”
“Will nothing less content you?” inquired Mary, sarcastically.
“Nothing,” returned Wyat.
“I pray your majesty to allow me to punish the insolence of this daring traitor,” cried Renard, in extremity of fury.
“Peace, sir,” rejoined Mary, majestically. “Now hear me in turn, thou traitor Wyat. No man ever dictated terms to my father, and, by his memory! none shall do so to me. At once, and peremptorily, I reject your conditions; and had not Sir Henry Bedingfeld pledged his word for your safety, my guards should have led you from hence to the scaffold. Quit my presence, and as I would rather be merciful than severe, and spare the lives of my subjects than destroy them, if you disperse your host, and submit yourself to my mercy, I will grant you a free pardon. Otherwise, nothing shall save you.”
“When we next meet your majesty may alter your tone,” rejoined Wyat; “I take my leave of your highness.”
So saying, he bowed and retired with Sir Henry Bedingfeld.
“Your majesty will not let him escape?” cried Renard.
“In sooth but I shall sir,” replied Mary; “my word must be kept even with a traitor.”
“You are over-scrupulous, madam,” rejoined Renard; “there is no faith to be kept with such a villain. Beseech you, let me follow him. His head, displayed to his companions, will disperse them more speedily than your whole army.”