"Yea, madam, they are gone! They stole away at once, and are far on the way to Fotheringhay, with these same conditions." So spoke Davison, under-secretary, Walsingham being still indisposed.
"And therefore will I see whether the Queen of Scots will ratify them, ere I go farther in the matter," returned Elizabeth.
"She will ratify them without question," said the Secretary, ironically, "seeing that to escape into the hands of one of your Majesty's enemies is just what she desires."
"She leaves her daughter as a pledge."
"Yea, a piece of tinsel to delude your Majesty."
Elizabeth swore an oath that there was truth in every word and gesture of the maiden.
"The poor wench may believe all she said herself," said Davison. "Nay, she is as much deluded as the rest, and so is that honest, dull-pated sailor, Talbot. If your Majesty will permit me to call in a fellow I have here, I can make all plain."
"Who is he? You know I cannot abide those foul carrion rascals you make use of," said Elizabeth, with an air of disgust.
"This man is gentleman born. Villain he may be, but there is naught to offend your Majesty in him. He is one Langston, a kinsman of this Talbot's; and having once been a Papist, but now having seen the error of his ways, he did good service in the unwinding of the late horrible plot."
"Well, if no other way will serve you but I must hear the fellow, have him in."
A neatly-dressed, small, elderly man, entirely arrayed in black, was called in, and knelt most humbly before the Queen. Being bidden to tell what he knew respecting the lady who had appeared before the Queen the day before, calling herself Bride Hepburn, he returned for answer that he believed it to be verily her name, but that she was the daughter of a man who had fled to France, and become an archer of the Scottish guard.
He told how he had been at Hull when the infant had been saved from the wreck, and brought home to Mistress Susan Talbot, who left the place the next day, and had, he understood, bred up the child as her own. He himself, being then, as he confessed, led astray by the delusions of Popery, had much commerce with the Queen's party, and had learnt from some of the garrison of Dunfermline that the child on board the lost ship was the offspring of this same Hepburn, and of one of Queen Mary's many namesake kindred, who had died in childbirth at Lochleven. And now Langston professed bitterly to regret what he had done when, in his disguise at Buxton, he had made known to some of Mary's suite that the supposed Cicely Talbot was of their country and kindred. She had been immediately made a great favourite by the Queen of Scots, and the attendants all knew who she really was, though she still went by the name of Talbot. He imagined that the Queen of Scots, whose charms were not so imperishable as those which dazzled his eyes at this moment, wanted a fresh bait for her victims, since she herself was growing old, and thus had actually succeeded in binding Babington to her service, though even then the girl was puffed up with notions of her own importance and had flouted him. And now, all other hope having vanished, Queen Mary's last and ablest resource had been to possess the poor maiden with an idea of being actually her own child, and then to work on her filial obedience to offer herself as a hostage, whom Mary herself could without scruple leave to her fate, so soon as she was ready to head an army of invaders.
Davison further added that the Secretary Nau could corroborate that Bride Hepburn was known to the suite as a kinswoman of the Queen, and that Mr. Cavendish, clerk to Sir Francis Walsingham, knew that Babington had been suitor to the young lady, and had crossed swords with young Talbot on her account.
Elizabeth listened, and made no comment at the time, save that she sharply questioned Langston; but his tale was perfectly coherent, and as it threw the onus of the deception entirely on Mary, it did not conflict either with the sincerity evident in both Cicely and her foster-father, or with the credentials supplied by the Queen of Scots. Of the ciphered letter, and of the monograms, Elizabeth had never heard, though, if she had asked for further proof, they would have been brought forward.
She heard all, dismissed Langston, and with some petulance bade Davison likewise begone, being aware that her ministers meant her to draw the moral that she had involved herself in difficulties by holding a private audience of the French Ambassadors without their knowledge or presence. It may be that the very sense of having been touched exasperated her the more. She paced up and down the room restlessly, and her ladies heard her muttering—"That she should cheat me thus! I have pitied her often; I will pity her no more! To breed up that poor child to be palmed on me! I will make an end of it; I can endure this no longer! These tossings to and fro are more than I can bear, and all for one who is false, false, false, false! My brain will bear no more. Hap what hap, an end must be made of it. She or I, she or I must die; and which is best for England and the faith? That girl had well-nigh made me pity her, and it was all a vile cheat!"
Thus it was that Elizabeth sent for Davison, and bade him bring the warrant with him.
And thus it was that in the midst of dinner in the hall, on the Sunday, the 5th of February, the meine of the Castle were startled by the arrival of Mr. Beale, the Clerk of the Council, always a bird of sinister omen, and accompanied by a still more alarming figure a strong burly man clad in black velvet from head to foot. Every one knew who he was, and a thrill of dismay, that what had been so long expected had come at last, went through all who saw him pass through the hall. Sir Amias was summoned from table, and remained in conference with the two arrivals all through evening chapel time—an event in itself extraordinary enough to excite general anxiety. It was Humfrey's turn to be on guard, and he had not long taken his station before he was called into the Queen's apartments, where she sat at the foot of her bed, in a large chair with a small table before her. No one was with her but her two mediciners, Bourgoin and Gorion.
"Here," she said, "is the list our good Doctor has writ of the herbs he requires for my threatened attack of rheumatism."
"I will endeavour, with Sir Amias's permission, to seek them in the park," said Humfrey.
"But tell me," said Mary, fixing her clear eyes upon him, "tell me truly. Is there not a surer and more lasting cure for all my ills in preparation? Who was it who arrived to-night?"
"Madame," said Humfrey, bowing his head low as he knelt on one knee, "it was Mr. Beale."
"Ay, and who besides?"
"Madam, I heard no name, but"—as she waited for him to speak further, he uttered in a choked voice—"it was one clad in black."
"I perceive," said Mary, looking up with a smile. "A more effectual Doctor than you, my good Bourgoin. I thank my God and my cousin Elizabeth for giving me the martyr's hope at the close of the most mournful life that ever woman lived. Nay, leave me not as yet, good Humfrey. I have somewhat to say unto thee. I have a charge for thee." Something in her tone led him to look up earnestly in her face. "Thou lovest my child, I think," she added.
The young man's voice was scarcely heard, and he only said, "Yea, madam;" but there was an intensity in the tone and eyes which went to her heart.
"Thou dost not speak, but thou canst do. Wilt thou take her, Humfrey, and with her, all the inheritance of peril and sorrow that dogs our unhappy race?"
"Oh"—and there was a mighty sob that almost cut off his voice—"My life is already hers, and would be spent in her service wherever, whatever she was."
"I guessed it," said the Queen, letting her hand rest on his shoulder. "And for her thou wilt endure, if needful, suspicion, danger, exile?"
"They will be welcome, so I may shield her."
"I trust thee," she said, and she took his firm strong hand into her own white wasted one. "But will thy father consent? Thou art his eldest son and heir."
"He loves her like his own daughter. My brother may have the lands."
"'Tis strange," said Mary, "that in wedding a princess, 'tis no crown, no kingdom, that is set before thee, only the loss of thine own inheritance. For now that the poor child has made herself known to Elizabeth, there will be no safety for her between these seas. I have considered it well. I had thought of sending her abroad with my French servants, and making her known to my kindred there. That would have been well if she could have accepted the true faith, or if—if her heart had not been thine; but to have sent her as she is would only expose her to persecution, and she hath not the mounting spirit that would cast aside love for the sake of rising. She lived too long with thy mother to be aught save a homely Cis. I would have made a princess of her, but it passes my powers. Nay, the question is, whether it may yet be possible to prevent the Queen from laying hands on her."
"My father is still here," said Humfrey, "and I deem not that any orders have come respecting her. Might not he crave permission to take her home, that is, if she will leave your Grace?"
"I will lay my commands on her! It is well thought of," said the Queen. "How soon canst thou have speech with him?"
"He is very like to come to my post," said Humfrey, "and then we can walk the gallery and talk unheard."
"It is well. Let him make his demand, and I will have her ready to depart as early as may be to-morrow morn. Bourgoin, I would ask thee to call the maiden hither."
Cicely appeared from the apartment where she had been sitting with the other ladies.
"Child," said the Queen, as she came in, "is thy mind set on wedding an archduke?"
"Marriage is not for me, madam," said Cicely, perplexed and shaken by this strange address and by Humfrey's presence.
"Nay, didst not once tell me of a betrothal now many years ago? What wouldst say if thine own mother were to ratify it?"
"Ah! madam," said Cicely, blushing crimson however, "but I pledged myself never to wed save with Queen Elizabeth's consent."
"On one condition," said the Queen. "But if that condition were not observed by the other party—"
"How—what, mother!" exclaimed Cicely, with a scream. "There is no fear—Humfrey, have you heard aught?"
"Nothing is certain," said Mary, calmly. "I ask thee not to break thy word. I ask thee, if thou wert free to marry, if thou wouldst be an Austrian or Lorraine duchess, or content thee with an honest English youth whose plighted word is more precious to him than gold."
"O mother, how can you ask?" said Cicely, dropping down, and hiding her face in the Queen's lap.
"Then, Humfrey Talbot, I give her to thee, my child, my Bride of Scotland. Thou wilt guard her, and shield her, and for thine own sake as well as hers, save her from the wrath and jealousy of Elizabeth. Hark, hark! Rise, my child. They are presenting arms. We shall have Paulett in anon to convey my rere-supper."
They had only just time to compose themselves before Paulett came in, looking, as they all thought, grimmer and more starched than ever, and not well pleased to find Humfrey there, but the Queen was equal to the occasion.
"Here is Dr. Bourgoin's list of the herbs that he needs to ease my aches," she said. "Master Talbot is so good as to say that, being properly instructed, he will go in search of them."
"They will not be needed," said Paulett, but he spoke no farther to the Queen. Outside, however, he said to Humfrey, "Young man, you do not well to waste the Sabbath evening in converse with that blinded woman;" and meeting Mr. Talbot himself on the stair, he said, "You are going in quest of your son, sir. You would do wisely to admonish him that he will bring himself into suspicion, if not worse, by loitering amid the snares and wiles of the woman whom wrath is even now overtaking."
Richard found his son pacing the gallery, almost choked with agitation, and with the endeavour to conceal it from the two stolid, heavy yeomen who dozed behind the screen. Not till he had reached the extreme end did Humfrey master his voice enough to utter in his father's ear, "She has given her to me!"
Richard could not answer for a moment, then he said, "I fear me it will be thy ruin, Humfrey."
"Not ruin in love or faithfulness," said the youth. "Father, you know I should everywhere have followed her and watched over her, even to the death, even if she could never have been mine."
"I trow thou wouldst," said Richard.
"Nor would you have it otherwise—your child, your only daughter, to be left unguarded."
"Nay, I know not that I would," said Richard. "I cannot but care for the poor maid like mine own, and I would not have thee less true-hearted, Humfrey, even though it cost thee thine home, and us our eldest son."
"You have Diccon and Ned," said Humfrey. And then he told what had passed, and his father observed that Beale had evidently no knowledge of Cicely's conference with the Queen, and apparently no orders to seize her. It had oozed out that a commission had been sent to five noblemen to come and superintend the execution, since Sir Amias Paulett had again refused to let it take place without witnesses, and Richard undertook to apply at once to Sir Amias for permission to remove his daughter, on the ground of saving her tender youth from the shock.
"Then," said he, "I will leave a token at Nottingham where I have taken her; whether home or at once to Hull. If I leave Brown Roundle at the inn for thee, then come home; but if it be White Blossom, then come to Hull. It will be best that thou dost not know while here, and I cannot go direct to Hull, because the fens at this season may not be fit for riding. Heatherthwayte will need no proofs to convince him that she is not thy sister, and can wed you at once, and you will also be able to embark in case there be any endeavour to arrest her."
"Taking service in Holland," said Humfrey, "until there may be safety in returning to England."
Richard sighed. The risk and sacrifice were great, and it was to him like the loss of two children, but the die was cast; Humfrey never could be other than Cicely's devoted champion and guardian, and it was better that it should be as her husband. So he repaired to Sir Amias, and told him that he desired not to expose his daughter's tender years and feeble spirits to the sight of the Queen's death, and claimed permission to take her away with him the next day, saying that the permission of the Queen had already been granted through his son, whom he would gladly also take with him.
Paulett hemmed and hawed. He thought it a great error in Mr. Talbot to avoid letting his daughter be edified by a spectacle that might go far to moderate the contagion of intercourse with so obstinate a Papist and deceiver. Being of pitiless mould himself, he was incapable of appreciating Richard's observation that compassion would only increase her devotion to the unfortunate lady. He would not, or could not, part with Humfrey. He said that there would be such a turmoil and concourse that the services of the captain of his yeomen would be indispensable, but that he himself, and all the rest, would be free on the Thursday at latest.
Mr. Talbot's desire to be away was a surprise to him, for he was in difficulties how, even in that enormous hall, to dispose of all who claimed by right or by favour to witness what he called the tardy fulfilment of judgment. Yet though he thought it a weakness, he did not refuse, and ere night Mr. Talbot was able to send formal word that the horses would be ready for Mistress Cicely at break of day the next morning.
The message was transmitted through the ladies as the Queen sat writing at her table, and she at once gave orders to Elizabeth Curll to prepare the cloak bag with necessaries for the journey.
Cicely cried out, "O madam my mother, do not send me from you!"
"There is no help for it, little one. It is the only hope of safety or happiness for thee."
"But I pledged myself to await Queen Elizabeth's reply here!"
"She has replied," said Mary.
"How?" cried Cicely. "Methought your letter confirming mine offers had not yet been sent."
"It hath not, but she hath made known to me that she rejects thy terms, my poor maid."
"Is there then no hope?" said the girl, under her breath, which came short with dismay.
"Hope! yea," said Mary, with a ray of brightness on her face, "but not earthly hope. That is over, and I am more at rest and peace than I can remember to have been since I was a babe at my mother's knee. But, little one, I must preserve thee for thine Humfrey and for happiness, and so thou must be gone ere the hounds be on thy track."
"Never, mother, I cannot leave you. You bid no one else to go!" said Cis, clinging to her with a face bathed in tears.
"No one else is imperilled by remaining as thy bold venture has imperilled thee, my sweet maid. Think, child, how fears for thee would disturb my spirit, when I would fain commune only with Heaven. Seest thou not that to lose thy dear presence for the few days left to me will be far better for me than to be rent with anxiety for thee, and it may be to see thee snatched from me by these stern, harsh men?"
"To quit you now! It is unnatural! I cannot."
"You will go, child. As Queen and as mother alike, I lay my commands on you. Let not the last, almost the only commands I ever gave thee be transgressed, and waste not these last hours in a vain strife."
She spoke with an authority against which Cis had no appeal, save by holding her hand tight and covering it with kisses and tears. Mary presently released her hand and went on writing, giving her a little time to restrain her agony of bitter weeping. The first words spoken were, "I shall not name thee in my will, nor recommend thee to thy brother. It would only bring on thee suspicion and danger. Here, however, is a letter giving full evidence of thy birth, and mentioning the various witnesses who can attest it. I shall leave the like with Melville, but it will be for thy happiness and safety if it never see the light. Should thy brother die without heirs, then it might be thy duty to come forward and stretch out thy hand for these two crowns, which have more thorns than jewels in them. Alas! would that I could dare to hope they might be exchanged for a crown of stars! But lie down on the bed, my bairnie. I have much still to do, and thou hast a long journey before thee."
Cicely would fain have resisted, but was forced to obey, though protesting that she should not sleep; and she lay awake for a long time watching the Queen writing, until unawares slumber overpowered her eyes. When she awoke, the Queen was standing over her saying, "It is time thou wert astir, little one!"
"Oh! and have I lost all these hours of you?" cried Cicely, as her senses awoke to the remembrance of the situation of affairs. "Mother, why did you not let me watch with you?"
Mary only smiled and kissed her brow. The time went by in the preparations, in all of which the Queen took an active part. Her money and jewels had been restored to her by Elizabeth's orders during her daughter's absence, and she had put twenty gold pieces in the silken and pearl purse which she always used. "More I may not give thee," she said. "I know not whether I shall be able to give my poor faithful servants enough to carry them to their homes. This thou must have to provide thee. And for my jewels, they should be all thine by right, but the more valuable ones, which bear tokens, might only bring thee under suspicion, poor child."
She wished Cicely to choose among them, but the poor girl had no heart for choice, and the Queen herself put in her hand a small case containing a few which were unobtrusive, yet well known to her, and among them a ring with the Hepburn arms, given by Bothwell. She also showed her a gold chain which she meant to give to Humfrey. In this manner time passed, till a message came in that Master Richard Talbot was ready.
"Who brought it?" asked the Queen, and when she heard that it was Humfrey himself who was at the door, she bade him be called in.
"Children," she said, "we were interrupted last night. Let me see you give your betrothal kiss, and bless you."
"One word, my mother," said Cicely. "Humfrey will not bear me ill-will if I say that while there can still be any hope that Queen Elizabeth will accept me for her prisoner in your stead, I neither can nor ought to wed him."
"Thou mayst safely accept the condition, my son," said Mary.
"Then if these messengers should come to conduct my mother abroad, and to take me as her hostage, Humfrey will know where to find me."
"Yea, thou art a good child to the last, my little one," said Mary.
"You promise, Humfrey?" said Cicely.
"I do," he said, knowing as well as the Queen how little chance there was that he would be called on to fulfil it, but feeling that the agony of the parting was thus in some degree softened to Cicely.
Mary gave the betrothal ring to Humfrey, and she laid her hands on their clasped ones. "My daughter and my son," she said, "I leave you my blessing. If filial love and unshaken truth can bring down blessings from above, they will be yours. Think of your mother in times to come as one who hath erred, but suffered and repented. If your Church permits you, pray often for her. Remember, when you hear her blamed, that in the glare of courts, she had none to breed her up in godly fear and simple truth like your good mother at Bridgefield, but that she learnt to think what you view in the light of deadly sin as the mere lawful instruments of government, above all for the weaker. Condemn her not utterly, but pray, pray with all your hearts that her God and Saviour will accept her penitence, and unite her sufferings with those of her Lord, since He has done her the grace of letting her die in part for His Church. Now," she added, kissing each brow, and then holding her daughter in her embrace, "take her away, Humfrey, and let me turn my soul from all earthly loves and cares!"
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