ON THE ROAD TO STAFFORD
Francis was so absorbed in the thoughts engendered by the conversation
that she had just heard that she forgot all about her character as page
and her duties as such. She was recalled to herself by a sharp reprimand
from her father:
"Thy duty, Francis. Attend to the serving."
Babington turned a startled glance upon her as she arose in obedience to
her father's command.
"The page?" he cried. "Did he hear our converse, my lord?"
"Yes; but fear not, Anthony. I would stake mine honor upon his silence.
Thou canst be trusted, Francis?"
With heightened color, for the blood mounted to her cheeks at the intent
gaze of the young man, the girl answered earnestly:
"Yes, my lord. Naught of what I have heard shall pass my lips. Not even
the rack should wring it from me."
"Protest not too much, boy," rebuked Babington. "Older and wiser men than
thou have succumbed to its tortures."
"You speak words of wisdom, Anthony," remarked Lord Stafford. "Let us
hope that the boy will not be tried by so grievous an instrument. Yet I
do believe that he will be discreet."
"He seems a proper lad," returned the other. "A little backward,
forsooth, but with none of the malapertness of some pages."
Francis, now completely at ease as she saw that the young man believed
her to be what she appeared, flashed an arch look at her father. Lord
Stafford smiled slightly, but his countenance soon became overcast with
gravity. The meal over, the host withdrew, and the elder man turned once
more to the younger one.
"Anthony," he said, "I must on my way, but let me plead with thee that if
thou dost entertain a thought of such rash emprises as thy words suggest,
to forego them. Naught but disaster could follow upon such projects."
"My lord, say no more an thou lovest me," replied Babington. "Mary's
sufferings cry aloud for vengeance. Sleeping or waking her wrongs are
before me. My lord, she is a prisoner; made to submit to privations that
even the basest criminals do not undergo. Couldst thou have seen her at
Tutbury or Wingfield as I have done, you would wonder no longer that
deeds of blood suggest themselves."
"Anthony, thou art mad," exclaimed Lord Stafford compassionately.
"Mad! nay; but Mary Stuart hath languished too long in her chains. I
would dare anything to release her from them."
"And so would we all who love and reverence her as the true heiress of
England's crown, Anthony. Yet I fear that thou dost meditate wrong to
Elizabeth, but surely thou wouldst not raise thy hand against a woman?"
"Ay, my lord! Against a woman, or what not for Mary's sake."
"But Mary would not approve such measure."
"No; therefore do we only contemplate her rescue. The softness of her
heart doth prevent other aims."
"Anthony," said Lord Stafford preparing to renew his journey, "I see that
thou art ripe for some foolhardy enterprise. I misdoubt thy loyalty to
Elizabeth, and fear that thou wilt soon engage in mischief. Had I not
pledged mine honor to take these letters to Mary I would have naught to
do with the matter. Thou hast raised grave doubts as to the nature of
this undertaking. I fear for thee, for myself and family, and most of all
do I fear for Mary Stuart. Thou knowest how eagerly Walsingham watches
for an excuse to compass her death. Remember that, Anthony, and by the
love you bear to her, forego the thoughts that charge thy brain."
"Fear naught, my lord. Thy doubts carry thee farther than the issue
warrants," said Babington lightly.
"I bid you farewell, Anthony, but my heart is heavy with foreboding," and
Lord Stafford embraced him. "Would that I had known all this ere mine
honor had become involved."
"Be of good cheer. You lay too much stress upon the matter," and the
young man returned his embrace. "Farewell."
"Fare you well." Lord Stafford proceeded to the courtyard followed by
Francis. When the girl would have ridden behind him, he motioned her
silently to come beside him. Wonderingly she obeyed, for not thus were
pages wont to travel with their lords.
"My child," said Lord Stafford when they had left the tavern behind and
were on the old Roman road to Bath, "I have done ill in embarking upon
this emprise, and more than ill in engaging thee in it also. There are
dark days before us, Francis."
"My father," and leaning from her horse the girl kissed him. "No matter
what befall thou hast deemed me worthy to share thy danger, and I will
not repine. But I like not to think that they wish to kill the queen."
"Think not on that, Francis," said her father hastily. "On that matter my
heart is heavy, though I trow such attempt will not be made. Anthony but
raves. Such thoughts are not for thy young heart. Dismiss them, I entreat
thee."
"Let us rather think only that we are to carry the tidings to Mary that
an effort will be made to release her. Surely it is right to seek to
relieve her suffering," said the girl sweetly.
"It is in very truth, my child. Thou and I are not concerned in aught but
in bearing good news; therefore will I cheer up, sweet chuck, though I am
greatly troubled."
And by an effort he put aside the dire forebodings that filled his soul,
and tried to enter into the enjoyment of his daughter who, with the
elasticity of youth, had turned to the more cheerful scenes around them.
Frequently he called her attention to some historic spot, or pointed out
the beauties of the sylvan landscape. And thus, sometimes in sweet
converse in which Francis learned to know her father better than she had
ever known him; at others, in long lapses of silence the more eloquent
that there was no conversation, and in stopping for rest and refreshment
at taverns did the days pass without further incident. Yet though nothing
of import transpired, the journey was not without interest to Francis.
Bath, on the right bank of the river Avon, presented a great variety of
beautiful landscape; the old city of Gloucester, city of churches and
beloved of kings; Tewkesbury, site of the battle between Lancastrians and
Yorkists which placed the crown upon the head of Edward the Fourth;
Worcester, with its glorious cathedral, filled her with delight. The
beauty of the diversified scenery, consisting of hill, vale, forest and
river, the numerous remains of Druid, British, Roman, Anglo-Saxon and
Norman to which her father called her attention; all these things
contributed to her pleasure, and served to banish everything from her
mind save the happiness of the moment.
"And now, Francis," said Lord Stafford on the evening of the fourth day,
"yonder lies Stafford, and we are near the end of our travel. Behold, on
yon mount, called 'Castle Hill,' the place where stood a noble castle
built by William the Conqueror. He conferred it upon Robert de Torri who
took the name de Stafford from whom, as thou dost well ken, our family
hath sprung. Art thou weary, girl?"
"Yes, father, but the journey hath nevertheless been full of delight,"
returned Francis brightly though her drooping body spoke of the fatigue
by which she was almost overcome. "Yet right glad am I that we are come
to Stafford. And on the morrow it may be that I shall see Queen Mary."
"Mayhap, child. But now put from thee all thought save that of rest. Let
the morrow bring what it will, this night shall be devoted to quiet and
repose."
Putting spurs to his horse the tired animal renewed his speed, and they
were soon within the gates of the city.