"Art thou here, my child?" asked Lord Stafford coming in at this moment.
"This is a favorable time, I ween, for me to unfold my wishes to thee.
Madam, will you bring the page"s dress?"
Lady Stafford arose and drew from a chest of drawers the doublet, hose and short cloak of a page.
"Withdraw, Francis, to the tiring room, and don these habiliments,"
commanded her father.
"But why," began the girl, but Lord Stafford waved his hand impatiently.
"Do as I tell thee, girl. When thou art habited, return and hear the reason for thy strange attire."
Presently with a merry laugh Francis bounded into the room, and, doffing the jaunty bonnet that perched upon her tresses, swept him a deep bow.
"Am I not a fair boy, my lord?" she cried gaily. "Do I not grace the garb?"
"By my halidom, thou dost in very truth," exclaimed her father laughing.
"But thy tresses? Should they not be clipped?"
"Nay, good my lord," spoke Lady Stafford entreatingly. "Command not that, I pray thee. Thou shalt see how cunningly my hand can knot them up with silken strings. It will not be amiss in a lad."
"Leave them then, if thou wilt be the better contented," said the father.
"And now, child, if thou wilt but bring thy nimble wit into the part, thou shalt please me well. How say thee? Wilt thou bear me company upon a grave mission? Will thy courage fail, or canst thou, as if thou wert in very truth my son, aid me to compa.s.s that to which I am pledged? How now, girl? Hast courage for such an undertaking?"
"My father, what mean you?" asked Francis in bewilderment.
"Take heed to my words. There is on foot a movement to release from her vile durance Mary, Queen of Scots. Too long hath she lain imprisoned. I am to carry to her letters of import that inform her of the design. But Mary is so immured, that heretofore it hath been impossible to gain access to her. A lad would serve the purpose, but there be none known to me of like courage and wit as thyself. Girl, canst thou wear that garb and bear thyself as a man?"
"Ay, my lord; and to do more if needful," spoke Francis boldly.
"There spoke myself in you," said her father approvingly. "Then hearken!
at the first sign of the dawn we set forth, thou and I, for Chartley. How now, sweet chuck?" as a sob escaped the mother. "Fear naught. Thy birdling will return to thee the better for having stretched her wings beyond the nest."
"I fear, my lord, for you both," said the lady brokenly. "You know how all these attempts have ended, and Elizabeth hath no mercy for the perpetrators of them."
"Now, now, be of good cheer. There is naught of harm meant to the queen.
"Tis only to give Mary freedom. Think only of thy daughter. Not many mothers in England can boast of such a girl."
"Would that I had given thee a daughter of gentler spirit," sobbed the lady. "Oh, my lord, pardon my utterance. I fear, I fear----"
"There! we will return safely and thou wilt forget thy misgivings in the success of our enterprise. But now to bed, to bed. The first gray of the morning must find us on our way. To bed, my child."
CHAPTER IV
ANTHONY BABINGTON
It was that darkest hour of the night, the one just before the dawn, that Francis was summoned to attend her father. None of the household was stirring save Brooks, an old servitor, who stood at the foot of the steps with the horses. The statues of terrace and court gleamed ghostly white in the darkness, and the grim old keep frowned darkly upon them. The deserted aspect of the courtyard filled the girl with dismay. High purposes and n.o.ble resolves flourish in the bright light of day and grow into mightiness in the first hours of the night, but the early dawn chills enthusiasm and makes the inspirations of the night before seem poor and weak and hardly worth an effort.
Something of this feeling oppressed Francis Stafford. She missed the shouting of the gallants, the screaming of the hawks, the yelping of the dogs and the blowing of horns that was the accompaniment of a hunting-party. Instead of such a triumphal departure there was only the low sobbing of Lady Stafford as she bade them farewell.
"My lord, you will have great care for you both, will you not?" she murmured, trying to control her emotion. "Oh, I like not the journey! I like it not!"
"Be not dismayed," comforted her husband. "We will return soon, and there is no danger. We will be with thee again ere thou hast had time to miss us."
The lady said no more but embraced them mournfully. Both father and child were silent as they swept out of the courtyard into the park beyond.
Presently the sky began to soften in the east, and the gray uncertain light gave place to the blushing dawn. Soon the dark shadows that lurked under the trees fled before the golden beams of the sun. Suddenly the note of a lark rang out silvery and joyous. Bird after bird took up the note until from every tree and shrub there swelled a grand chorus as larks and throstles poured forth their matin song of praise.
"How beautiful!" cried Francis, her eyes sparkling, her spirits rising.
"My father, right glad am I to be here with thee."
"Thine is a wild spirit, Francis," said her father rousing himself. "You mind me of these birds, so wild and free yet sweet withal. Child, mayhap I have done ill in taking thee thus from thy mother. And yet, we are not in the queen"s favor! Should misfortune overtake one it would involve all."
"Father, if by act of mine I can further thy purpose, make use of me, I pray. Glad am I that thou dost deem me worthy of thy confidence. And do we not go to the aid of Mary, our rightful queen? What excuse need we for so doing? Oh, if I can once behold her, can but once kiss her hand, then would I be willing to lose even my life if "twere needful."
Lord Stafford smiled at her enthusiasm.
"Has the infection seized upon thee too, child? In like manner so do I feel, and so do hundreds of others. Strange what an influence Mary Stuart wields over human hearts! G.o.d forfend that thy life should be required, Francis, though many have been lost in her cause. But I would not that thine should be numbered among them. Marry, it saddens me to think on"t.
No more of this!"
"What name shall you call me by, my father, since I am your page?" asked Francis presently.
"Thine own. "Tis a name that thou dost wear because it was my father"s, and will serve. But bear thyself in accordance with it and none will deem thee other than thou seemest. And I--I must teach my tongue to say boy instead of child. We have a long ride before us, and I fear that thy strength will fail ere we reach its end."
"Fear not, good my father. Thou knowest how used to fatigue I am in hunting and hawking."
"I know thy strength, else I should have feared to risk thee for so long a jaunt. And thou hast never been so far from home before."
"No; I went with thee once to Lymington where I saw The Solent, and in the distance the Isle of Wight. But never have I been even across Southampton water."
"True; I had forgot. Then thou wilt be entertained greatly, for we go through Wilts, Gloucester and Worcester before we reach Stafford."
And so conversing on through the woods they pa.s.sed until at length they came to Bramshaw, a little village standing partly in Hampshire and partly in Wiltshire and forming the forest boundary. Before them swelled the rounded forms of the Wiltshire downs, and from their midst towered the spire of Salisbury with the mound of old Sarum looming darkly behind.
"I prithee tell me, father," said Francis, "what is that which I see in yon distance? Methinks it looks like the tower of a church."
"Its looks belie it not, Francis. It is the spire of the cathedral of Saint Mary, than which there is none higher in England. In the valley lies Salisbury where we will stop for rest and refreshment. Yon conical mound is Old Sarum which hath been a fortress from the earliest times.
The fosse and rampart belong to the Roman period. In the vast plain which lies beneath it the Conqueror reviewed his victorious armies, and there also did the English landholders swear fealty to him."
Francis looked with the delight of one who goes abroad for the first time. At the beautiful cathedral, then at the old fort, and lastly at the town itself which lay in the valley at the confluence of four rivers: the upper Avon, the Wiley, the Bourne and the Nadder. In the centre of the city was a large handsome square for the market-place from which the streets branched off at right angles. The streams flowed uncovered through the streets which added greatly to the picturesqueness of the place.
Lord Stafford turned into one of the side streets, and drew rein before a small inn, The Mermaid by name. As he rode into the courtyard the host hurried forward to greet him.
"Good my lord," he said obsequiously, "light, and grace my poor house, I pray you. There be one here who hath waited since yester e"en to see you."