In Doublet and Hose Part 28

Prithee tell me but one thing more. How bears she the confinement?"

"Nay, master; that I cannot answer. I am not her keeper, and therefore know naught of her condition." This he said compa.s.sionately for it was known to the warder and other officials of the Tower that Lady Stafford was failing fast under her imprisonment which was the reason of her removal to other quarters.

Not being aware of this fact Francis felt happier at the near proximity of her mother, and applied herself earnestly to the books which the jailer had brought at her solicitation.

"How Hugh Greville would rejoice could he but know what pleasure these give me," she murmured one day looking up from the volume she held in her hand. "And truly I never knew before the delights to be found in learning. If I continue I may become as learned as Lady Jane----Marry!

was she not confined in this very room?"

Rising hastily she went to the wall that lay between the two recesses upon the left-hand side of the chamber and looked at the name carved there: IANE.

"Whom could it mean but that unhappy lady," she mused. "Perchance it is her spirit that haunts this gloomy abode and inspires me to studious thoughts. It must be that she too was immured in this room. If my grim keeper prove amiable I will ask him."

But the keeper soon deprived her of this comfort, small though it was.

"Nay;" he said in answer to her inquiry. "The Lady Jane was not kept here. That was written by either her husband or one of his brothers who were imprisoned in this place. Know you not that only male prisoners are incarcerated in the Beauchamp Tower? Look about at those inscriptions, and thou wilt see that none of them belong to women--save and except that one."

"True;" said Francis meditatively. "I had not observed that."

She relapsed into thought and the keeper withdrew. Francis cared no more for the signature. It had been something of a solace to think that she was occupying the same room as that used by the hapless Jane; so small a thing does it take to comfort one in such circ.u.mstances.

"I'll carve my own name," she resolved suddenly. "And then there will be one woman amongst them."

Taking her dagger from her belt, for that had been left to her, she began to cut her name as best she could upon the stone. It was an interesting occupation, and she was amazed to find how quickly the time sped while she was so engaged. The keeper smiled when he found her so intent upon her self-imposed task that she did not heed his entrance.

"They all do it," he remarked grimly. "Albeit thou hast waited longer than some. But eat, my master. There will be time and to spare for finis.h.i.+ng."

"You speak truly," a.s.sented the girl almost cheerfully for the mere distraction of her thoughts served to raise her spirits. "Truly; and for that cause I will teach my hand to move more slowly so that it will take a long, long time. And I trow it will for the stone is very hard."

But despite her best efforts the name grew all too quickly, and, as many another had done before her, she grieved when her toil was ended.

FRANCIS STAFFORD, 1586

was the inscription which she had carved below that of IANE. A feeling of deep depression now took possession of her that even her books failed to dispel.

"If I could but see my mother," she said pleadingly to the jailor. "Do you not think, good sir, that I might? Let me speak to the lieutenant.

Surely he will not refuse me!"

"Thou mayst see her soon," said the jailor with such a note of kindness in his voice that she looked up startled. "Meseems there is some talk of permitting it."

"Is there aught amiss?" asked she tremblingly.

"Nay; why should there be?" queried the keeper evasively. "This day perished more of the conspirators against the queen. Making fourteen in all."

"Was my father among them?" Francis gasped rather than asked the question.

"No, boy; he hath not been apprehended, and it is thought that he hath escaped into France."

"Oh, if it be in truth so. I care not then for aught else," murmured Francis.

"Then rest in peace; for of a certainty he hath not been taken, and thou wilt have dire need for all thy fort.i.tude," and with these mysterious words he hastily quitted the room.

"What meant he?" asked Francis apprehensively. "What could he mean? What could befall me now? Perchance he meant that life would be demanded next.

But no; the veriest wretch hath time given for preparation. Then why not I?"

She paced the floor restlessly unable to rid herself of the misgivings that were creeping over her. It was customary for the warder to lock her within one of the small cells that adjoined the larger chamber for greater security at night, but as the usual time pa.s.sed and he did not come her uneasiness increased.

At last the key grated in the lock, and the door swung open to admit the lieutenant of the Tower and a warder.

"Be not alarmed, master," said the lieutenant courteously. "We are come to take thee to thy mother."

"What hath happened? Why come you at night to take me to her?" demanded Francis.

"Be brave, and I will tell thee. Thy mother hath not been well for some time and is failing fast. We fear that she will not live much longer. For that cause, and because it is her desire, are we taking thee to her. Nay; there is no time for lamentation now, boy. Bear thyself like a man."

For a moment Francis leaned on him heavily almost stunned by the information.

"Courage, lad. Far better death than the slow lingering of years in these grim walls. Many have entered here younger and fairer than she, and endured worse than death in a lifetime imprisonment. Grieve not, but the rather rejoice that she will be freed from sorrow."

"Peace!" cried Francis, her soul full of bitterness. "Peace! and lead me to my mother."

The lieutenant, without further speech, led the way across the Tower Green to the southwestern angle of the inner ballium where his own lodgings adjoined the Bell Tower. Kept a close prisoner for more than two months, at another time Francis would have been overpowered with joy at finding herself once more in the open air. But now the breeze fanned her cheeks unnoticed. She followed after the warder, who lighted the way with a torch, seeing and heeding nothing.

The short distance was soon traversed. Entering the lieutenant's lodgings they pa.s.sed into a long gallery leading in a westerly direction and were soon in the upper chamber of the Bell Tower. This was the room occupied by Elizabeth at the time of her incarceration during her sister Mary's reign. That it had been the abode of royalty was the last thought that occurred to Francis Stafford. It held but one thing for her, which was the emaciated form of her mother who lay upon the bed.

With an exclamation of joy Lady Stafford tried to hold out her hands to her daughter, but dropped them weakly on her breast. Too moved to speak Francis could only clasp her close as if she could never let her go.

"My daughter! My daughter!" murmured the mother feebly. "At last I have thee, hold thee again!"

"My mother!" uttered the girl brokenly. "My mother!"

"Does she wander?" whispered the lieutenant to the physician. "Didst thou hear her say 'daughter'?"

"Yea; but her mind is clear. She is weak but not distraught." And the physician looked at the dying woman earnestly.

"Will she last long?" queried Sir Michael, the lieutenant, and the physician answered slowly:

"Nay; her life may go out at any moment."

As in a dream Francis heard both questions and answers, but did not comprehend their import. Presently her mother spoke:

"Francis, I am dying."

"Nay;" broke from the girl pa.s.sionately. "Not now, mother. Not when we have just found each other again. You must not, shall not die."

"Hush, child! We must not spend the time in woe. I want you to promise me that never again will you be connected with plot against the queen.

Promise me."

"She hath killed thee," burst from Francis wildly. "Killed thee, my mother, and driven my father forth a fugitive. Oh, I hate her! I hate her!"