A GREAT SORROW BEFALLS FRANCIS
And now began a weary time for Francis Stafford. Some hope had crept into
her heart after she had seen Lord Shrope, but as the days went by and she
heard nothing from him she felt once more friendless and hopeless.
At first her jailer would have nothing to say to her and brought her food
and drink, maintaining the strictest silence. As the girl became pale and
worn from her confinement he softened visibly. So much so that Francis
began anew her pleadings with him to give her some tidings of her
mother.
"It is forbid to talk much with prisoners," said the man gruffly, yet not
unkindly, "but I see no harm in telling thee that thy mother hath been
moved nearer to thee."
"Nearer?" cried Francis joyfully. "Oh, good warder, pray you, where?"
"She hath been taken to the Bell Tower which lieth directly south of this
tower," answered the keeper.
"So near?" murmured Francis. "That is welcome tidings, good jailer.
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 compassionately 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 circumstances.
"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
finishing."
"You speak truly," assented 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 fortitude," 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 passed 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 passed 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 passionately. "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!"
"Hush, oh hush!" wailed the mother, a look of fear crossing her face as
the lieutenant and the physician started forward at the girl's words.
"Good masters, heed her not. She is distraught with grief.
I--Francis----"
She threw out her arms and strove to clasp her daughter, but they fell to
her side. A swift pallor spread over her face, a gasping, choking sound
rattled noisily, and she was dead. For a moment the girl seemed dazed by
what had happened, and then she threw herself upon her mother with a wild
shriek.
"Mother, mother, speak to me!"
"Thy mother is dead," said the physician trying to draw her away.
"Touch me not," she cried in frenzied accents turning upon him so
fiercely that involuntarily he recoiled. "Minion! leave me. Leave me with
my mother."
"That may not be, my child," said the physician gently noting the wild
light of her eyes. "That may not be. The queen----"
"The queen?" cried the girl shrilly. "Yes; the queen! England's great
queen! Oh, she is truly great! 'Tis a crime to be fairer than the queen!
Ha, ha! a great queen! Truly a great queen!"
"Girl or boy, whiche'er you be, cease such words," commanded the
lieutenant sternly. "Thou utterest treason."
"Treason? Ay, sir, treason! Treason for thee, but not for me. I claim no
queen but Mary of Scotland. I----"
"Mary of Scotland hath been condemned to death. She will be executed as
soon as Elizabeth signs the death warrant."
"To die?" shrieked the girl. "Mary to die! If Mary must die, then shall
Elizabeth also. Nay; stay me not! I go to kill the queen!"
She drew her poniard and made a dash for the door; but the lieutenant
caught her ere she reached it.
"Unhand me, varlet," she panted. "Ye shall not stay me from my purpose."
"Girl, do you utter such words in the presence of the dead? Look on thy
mother and say if still thou dost hold to thy design?"
He turned her forcibly toward her mother's form on the couch. Francis
pressed a hand to her brow as though bewildered, and then as if drawn by
that still calm face drew closer, and gazed steadfastly upon it. The
sweet sereneness of the dead calmed her. Presently a sob convulsed her
frame, and flinging herself upon the body she burst into a passion of
weeping.
"Let her weep," observed the physician. "'Tis all that hath kept her from
becoming completely distraught."
"I will send a woman to her," said the lieutenant. "The girl, if so she
be, and no boy would rave so, hath been too long alone. We are but rude
nurses for such sorrow. Truly it grieves me that one so young should meet
with so much of misery."
And he left the apartment.