THE TRAITOR’S GATE
POOR Lady Betty, half distracted, fled from the house into Leicester
Fields, trying to find the party that had preceded her with her husband
as a prisoner. The darkness and the peril of the London streets at that
late hour did not enter her thoughts. Bareheaded and without a cloak to
shield her from the cold night air, she ran around the square.
She saw lights in the adjacent houses, she heard voices in the
distance, but she only looked for one—her husband. She took no thought
of the madness of her project; she sped on and on, and might have come
into some great peril had she not fallen almost into the arms of a
man who was running toward Lord Sunderland’s mansion. They came upon
each other in the darkness; in her grief and nervousness she uttered a
little cry, and he knew her voice.
“Lady Clancarty!” he exclaimed, stopping short.
It was young Mackie.
At first she did not recognize him, but when she did, she caught his
arm with a frantic appeal. The light from a dim lantern overhead shone
on her white face.
“My husband!” she cried, “my Lord Clancarty. They have dragged him away
to prison. My—nay, I will not call him my brother—that man yonder,
Charles Spencer, betrayed him—betrayed my husband, and they came into
my very rooms to arrest him—to tear us apart, and he has gone,” she
added wildly, “gone to the Tower.”
“I know,” he replied, deeply moved, “I know. I was at Vernon’s house
and heard it after your—after Lord Spencer got the warrant. I came to
warn you but, alas, I am too late.”
“Yes, too late!” cried Betty, a little wildly, “too late; but I am
going to the Tower—I am going to my husband!”
They had walked on a little way as they talked, and were so near
Aylesbury House that the lights from within fell on her. He saw her
uncovered head and dazzling gown.
“Lady Clancarty,” he said persuasively, “let us go back for your cloak
and mask. You can’t go down the river to the Tower thus—in the cold!”
“I care not for it,” she replied; “go back?” she shuddered, “I could
not—I cannot breathe the same air with Spencer, it poisons me!”
Without another word young Mackie took off his own cloak and wrapped it
around her, and she, in her excitement, took no thought of his exposure
to the cold in his thin suit of velvet and satin.
“I must go!” she reiterated, “the very shortest way—I must go to my
husband!” and her voice broke pitifully.
“You shall go, dear Lady Clancarty,” he said gently, setting himself to
face the task, though a sharp pain rankled in his own bosom, and when
he drew her hand through his arm he set his teeth.
He loved her, too, and she took no more thought of him than of a
stone—such is the way of women.
The night wind cut their faces as they walked toward the river. She was
so used to service from men, to their devotion, that she took his for
granted; she did not even try to talk to him, but he heard her weeping
softly and the pitiful little sound made him shiver. He longed to
comfort her, but he set his teeth harder—he knew she wept for Lord
Clancarty.
When they reached the water stairs she was resolute again and alert.
She walked unassisted down the steps and urged him to take any boat
for the Tower, impatient of the wrangling of the boatmen. She stamped
her foot at them, in fact, and took so high a tone that, at last, the
blackguards subsided and took them meekly enough, though the order,
“the Traitor’s Gate,” caused some murmurs.
Once on the water she sat erect and silent, straining eyes and ears for
the king’s boat, which had, of course, preceded hers, with her husband
aboard. She hoped to be close enough behind to gain admission with him;
she had no other hope, no other prayer but to share his fate, however
wretched, to follow him to prison and to death. Her impulsive nature
stirred at last to its depths swept her on. She could be as heroic now
and as resolute as she had been careless and happy in the summer time
of her life. She was imperial woman to her finger tips; she loved and
hated with the full, fierce tide of her rich nature. She gave all and
kept nothing back.
Young Mackie looking at the dark outline of her figure against the gray
river, felt all this keenly and admired her the more. She was a woman
to die for, he thought, and turned his boyish face away, for he dared
not look at her—it tried him too far.
Something in her mood seemed to cast a spell upon the boatmen; the
wherry swept on in silence, save for the sound of the oars and the
ripple of water under its bow. The lights of the city, feeble lanterns
swung across the narrow, reeking streets, gleamed dimly; the river was
as still as death.
At last the frowning bastions of the Tower—that inexorable fortress,
dark with secrets, grim as Fate,—cast their black shadow over them.
And then,—Betty’s heart stood still—the boat turned and began to
creep under the vaulted arch at the Traitor’s Gate. The faint gleaming
of night upon the waters narrowed behind them and was swallowed up in
darkness, while before, the red lights at the gate began to shine. The
boat jarred on the steps. She looked up and saw the closed wicket and
the guard of yeomen looking down, and suddenly despair seized upon her
and she trembled so that Mackie had almost to lift her from the boat.
Then arose the question of admittance. She wished to see the warden;
but Sir Edward knew this was no easy matter and resorted to a
stratagem.
“We come from Mr. Secretary Vernon,” he said boldly, with an air of
authority.
The sergeant at the gate hesitated, and asked for a permit.
“The matter is pressing,” Mackie said firmly; “we must be admitted.”
The sergeant shook his head, looking gravely out upon them. A yeoman
lifted his torch and the light streamed on Lady Betty’s beautiful face.
“I cannot admit you at this hour,” the old soldier replied firmly but
not unkindly; “my orders are explicit.”
Betty’s face changed and seemed to shrink into childish proportions;
she held out her hands pitifully.
“I beg you,” she said, her voice quivering, “I am Lady Clancarty, the
wife of the earl who has just been arrested. Is he here? I pray you
tell me?”
The two men at the wicket exchanged significant glances, and the elder
looked down at her again in open pity.
“He was committed about twenty minutes ago, madam,” he replied kindly.
“Twenty minutes? O Sir Edward, twenty minutes ago, and I might have
seen him!” and she wept bitterly.
She drew a ring from her finger, a costly jewel, and pressed it upon
the soldier.
“I pray you let me enter too!” she cried, “I would only share his
prison. See, I have no weapons—nothing! I cannot set him free—I only
want to share his fate!”
The sergeant waved aside her jewel.
“Nay,” he said firmly, “bribes I may not take. Truly, madam, if I could
let you see your husband I would do it, but I dare not.”
Mackie urged him then, using the name of the Duke of Devonshire, though
he had felt from the first that without a permit she could never be
admitted. Lady Clancarty would not give way so readily; she struggled
with her grief and commanded her voice again, going closer to the
wicket and laying her hands upon it—that famous wicket which had
closed behind so many prisoners; on Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey,
on Sir Thomas More and Cranmer and on the Duke of Norfolk; the wicket
stained with a long history of terror and despair—was clasped now by
Lady Betty’s slender fingers, and she prayed for admittance—a new
prayer, indeed, at the Traitor’s Gate.
“You will let me in,” she said; “I must speak with the captain of
the guard! I am the daughter of the Earl of Sunderland. I demand this
much—to see the captain of the guard.”
At this the man gave way a little; he sent a yeoman for the captain of
the watch, but he kept the wicket closed and stood grim and silent,
looking out upon them. The torchlight flared up and down, the water
rippled below them on the stone steps—it seemed like the tongue of a
hungry wolf lapping blood—and there was silence.
At last came the echo of heavy feet upon the stone floor, the rattle of
arms, and the tall, gray-headed captain came to the wicket and looked
out, inexorable as fate, though his eyes changed a little at the sight
of Lady Clancarty, common as a woman’s grief was there. He listened to
Mackie’s explanation, gravely respectful but unrelenting.
“I ask only to see him—to share his fate,” Betty said, as Sir Edward
concluded, “’tis so little!”
But the officer shook his head.
“Nay, madam,” he replied kindly, “not without the king’s orders.”
“At least permit her to see her husband, to speak with him,” urged Sir
Edward.
“’Tis a small thing to grant me,” cried Betty, “I pray you, sir,
think of your own wife in a like case, and show compassion on the
unfortunate!”
“Nay, madam, I need no urging,” said the captain, “if it were in my
power—but it is not; since the last assassination plot we have been
strictly enjoined to guard our prisoners of state and hedge them
in with every precaution. Your case is in higher hands than mine.
Surely, Lady Clancarty, you can obtain influence enough to grant your
wish,—your father, Secretary Vernon.”
“My father,” Lady Clancarty repeated bitterly, as she stood thinking,
her white face downcast.
The two men exchanged significant glances; neither of them had hope.
Clancarty was scarcely an object for the king’s clemency; he was a
notorious Jacobite, a man of daring, whose personal prominence as an
Irish earl, no less than his political affiliations, marked him out for
probable example.
Happily, she did not see their looks, she stood leaning against the
wicket, her head bent. She looked up and began to plead again to see
her husband.
“You may put me behind bolts and bars,” she said passionately, “I care
not; indeed, I pray to be a prisoner too, since he is one. Ah, it is
so little that I ask. What could I do? I could not break his chains—I
could not set him free! I only pray—pray you,” she stretched out her
hands in fervent supplication, “to let me share his prison! I cannot be
free while he is here—I will not be free!”
The old soldier shook his head, he was deeply touched.
“I cannot, madam,” he replied; “but let me beg you to carry this
petition to one who can and will surely hear you.”
“You mean the king?” said Mackie.
The officer inclined his head. “I know of no one in these three
kingdoms so merciful,” he replied quietly.
“’Tis a wise thought,” said Sir Edward gently, as if he spoke to a
child; “come, Lady Clancarty, let us carry our petition to his majesty.”
For the moment she had completely broken down. She wept and her sobs
shook her from head to foot.
“I cannot leave him here,” she cried; “how dare you ask me?”
Young Mackie bowed his head; he, too, was shaken by her emotion.
“I only beg of you to appeal to one who has the power to grant your
petition,” he said, very low.
It was a little while yet before she conquered herself and looked up
through her tears at them both.
“I believe you mean kindly to me,” she said, with a humility strangely
touching in one of her high spirit; “I will go to my father, Sir
Edward, he may hear me—but I have little hope—so little hope!” and
she fell to weeping again.