CHAPTER III
I
It was a soft winter's morning as the party came down the little slopetowards the entrance-gate of the Tower next day. The rain last night hadcleared the air, and the sun shone as through thin veils of haze, kindlyand sweet. The river on the right was at high tide, and up from thewater's edge came the cries of the boatmen, pleasant and invigorating.
The sense of unreality was deeper than ever on Marjorie's mind. Oneincredible thing after another, known to her only in the past by rumourand description, and imagined in a frame of glory, was taking shapebefore her eyes.... She was in London; she had slept in Cheapside; shehad talked with Father Campion; he was with her now; this was the Towerof London that lay before her, a monstrous huddle of grey towers andbattlemented walls along which passed the scarlet of a livery and thegleam of arms.
All the way that they had walked, her eyes had been about hereverywhere--the eyes of a startled child, through which looked the soulof a woman. She had seen the folks go past like actors in adrama--London merchants, apprentices, a party of soldiers, a group onhorseback: she had seen a congregation pour out of the doors of somechurch whose name she had asked and had forgotten again; the cobbledpatches of street had been a marvel to her; the endless roofs, the whiteand black walls, the leaning windows, the galleries where heads moved;the vast wharfs; the crowding masts, resembling a stripped forest; therolling-gaited sailors; and, above all, the steady murmur of voices andfootsteps, never ceasing, beyond which the crowing of cocks and thebarking of dogs sounded far off and apart--these things combined to makea kind of miracle that all at once delighted, oppressed and bewilderedher.
Here and there some personage had been pointed out to her by the trim,merry gentleman who walked by her side with his sword swinging. (Anthonywent with his sister just behind, as they threaded their way through thecrowded streets, and the two men-servants followed.) She saw a couple ofCity dignitaries in their furs, with stavesmen to clear their road; alittle troop of the Queen's horse, blazing with colour, under thecommand of a young officer who might have come straight from Romance.But she was more absorbed--or, rather, she returned every instant to theman who walked beside her with such an air and talked so loudly andcheerfully. Certainly, it seemed to her, his disguise was perfect, andhimself the best part of it. She compared him in her mind with a coupleof ministers, splendid and awful in their gowns and ruffs, whom they hadmet turning into one of the churches just now, and smiled at thecomparison; and yet perhaps these were preachers too, and eloquent intheir own fashion.
And now, here was the Tower--the end of all things, so far as London wasconcerned. Beyond it she saw the wide rolling hills, the bright reachesof the river, and the sparkle of Placentia, far away.
"Her Grace is at Westminster these days," exclaimed the priest; "she ismoving to Hampton Court in a day or two; so I doubt not we shall be ableto go in and see a little. We shall see, at least, the outside of theParadise where so many holy ones have lived and died. There are three orfour of them here now; but the most of them are in the Fleet or theMarshalsea."
Marjorie glanced at him. She did not understand.
"I mean Catholic prisoners, mistress. There are several of them in wardhere, but we had better speak no names."
He wheeled suddenly as they came out into the open and moved to theleft.
"There is Tower Hill, mistress; where my lord Cardinal Fisher died, andThomas More."
Marjorie stopped short. But there was nothing great to see--only arising ground, empty and bare, with a few trimmed trees; the ground waswithout grass; a few cobbled paths crossed this way and that.
"And here is the gateway," he said, "whence they come out to glory....And there on the right" (he swept his arm towards the river) "you maysee, if you are fortunate, other criminals called pirates, hung theretill they be covered by three tides."
* * * * *
Still standing there, with Mr. Babington and his sister come up frombehind, he began to relate the names of this tower and of that, in thegreat tumbled mass of buildings surmounted by the high keep. ButMarjorie paid no great attention except with an effort: she was broodingrather on the amazing significance of all that she saw. It was underthis gateway that the martyrs came; it was from those windows in thattower which the priest had named just now, that they had looked.... Andthis was Father Campion. She turned and watched him as he talked. He wasdressed as he had been dressed last night, but with a small cloak thrownover his shoulders; he gesticulated freely and easily, pointing out thisand that; now and again his eyes met hers, and there was nothing but agrave merriment in them.... Only once or twice his voice softened, as hespoke of those great ones that had shown Catholics how both to die andlive.
"And now," he said, "with your permission I will go and speak to theguard, and see if we may have entrance."
* * * * *
It was almost with terror that she saw him go--a solitary man, with aprice on his head, straight up to those whose business it was to catchhim--armed men, as she could see--she could even see the quilted jacksthey wore--who, it may be, had talked of him in the guard-room only lastnight. But his air was so assured and so magnificent that even she beganto understand how complete such a disguise might be; and she watched himspeaking with the officer with a touch even of his own humour in herheart. Indeed, there was some truth in the charge of Jesuitry, afterall!
Then the figure turned and beckoned, and they went forward.
II
A certain horror, in spite of herself and her company, fell on her asshe passed beneath the solid stone vaulting, passed along beneath thetowering wall, turned up from the water-gate, and came out into the widecourt round which the Lieutenant's lodgings, the little church, and theenormous White Tower itself are grouped. There was a space, not enclosedin any way, but situated within a web of paths, not far from the church,that caught her attention. She stood looking at it.
"Yes, mistress," said the priest behind her. "That is the place ofexecution for those who die within the Tower--those usually of royalblood. My Lady Salisbury died there, and my Lady Jane Grey, and others."
He laid his hand gently on her arm.
"You must not look so grave," he said, "you must gape more. You are acountry-cousin, madam."
And she smiled in spite of herself, as she met his eyes.
"Tell me everything," she said.
They went together nearer to the church, and faced about.
"We can see better from here," he said. Then he began.
First there was the Lieutenant's lodging on the right. They must lookwell at that. Interviews had taken place there that had made history.(He mentioned a few names.) Then, further down on the right, beyond thatcorner round which they had come just now, was the famous water-gate,called "Traitors' Gate," through which passed those convicted of treasonat Westminster, or, at least, those who were under grave suspicion. Suchas these came, of course, by water, as prisoners on whose behalf ademonstration might perhaps be made if they came by land. So, at least,he understood was the reason of the custom.
"Her Grace herself once came that way," he said with a twinkle. "Now shesends other folks in her stead."
Then he pointed out more clearly the White Tower. It was there that theCouncil sat on affairs of importance.
"And it is there--" began Anthony harshly.
The priest turned to him, suddenly grave, as if in reproof.
"Yes," he said softly. "It is there that the passion of the martyrsbegins."
Marjorie turned sharply.
"You mean--"
"Well," he said, "it is there that the Council sits to examine prisonersboth before and after the Question. They are taken downstairs to theQuestion, and brought back again after it. It was there that--"
He broke off.
"Who is this?" he said.
The court had been empty while they talked except that on the far side,beneath the towering cliff of the keep, a sent
ry went to and fro. Butnow another man had come into view, walking up from the way theythemselves had come; and it would appear from the direction he took thathe would pass within twenty or thirty yards of them. He was a tall man,dressed in sad-coloured clothes, with a felt hat on his head and theusual sword by his side. He was plainly something of a personage, for hewalked easily and confidently. He was still some distance off; but itwas possible to make out that he was sallowish in complexion, wore atrimmed beard, and had something of a long throat.
Father Campion stared at him a moment, and, as he stared, Marjorie heardMr. Babington utter a sudden exclamation. Then the priest, with onequick glance at him, murmured something which Marjorie could not hear,and walked briskly off to meet the stranger.
"Come," said Anthony in a sharp, low voice, "we must see the church."
"Who is it?" whispered Mistress Alice, with even her serene face alittle troubled.
For the first moment, as they walked towards the entrance of the church,Anthony said nothing. Then as they reached it, he said, in a tone quitelow and yet full of suppressed passion of some kind, a name thatMarjorie could not catch.
She turned before they went in, and looked again.
The priest was talking to the stranger, and was making gestures, as ifasking for direction.
"Who is it, Mr. Babington?" she asked again as they went in. "I didnot--"
"Topcliffe," said Anthony.
III
The horror was still on the girl, as they went, an hour later, up theebbing tide towards Westminster, in a boat rowed by a waterman and oneof their own servants. About them was a scene, of which the verythought, a month ago, would have absorbed and fascinated her. They hadscarcely passed through London Bridge finding themselves just in timebefore the fall of the water would have hindered their passage, leavingout of sight the grey sunlit heap of buildings from which they had come.All about them the river was gay with shipping. Wherries, like clumsywater-beetles, lurched along out of the current, or slipped out suddenlyto make their way across from one stairs to another; a great barge,coming down-stream, grew larger every instant, its prow bright withgilding, and the throb of the twelve oars in the row-locks coming tothem like the grunting of a beast. On either side of the broad streamrose the houses and the churches, those on this side visible down totheir shining window-panes in the sunlight, and the very texture oftheir tiled roofs; those on the other a mere huddle of countless wallsand gables, in the shadow; and between them showed the leafless trees,stretches of green meadow, across which moved tiny figures, and thebrown flats of the marshes beyond, broken here and there by outlyingvillages a mile or two away. Behind them now towered the great buildingson London Bridge--the chapel, the houses, the old gateway on the southend, above which the impaled heads of traitors stood out against thebright sky. It was a tolerable crop just now, the priest had said,bitterly smiling. But, above all else, as the boat moved up, Marjoriekept her eyes fixed on far-off Westminster, on the grey towers and thewhite walls where Elizabeth reigned and Saint Edward slept; while withinher mind, clear as a picture, she saw still the empty court, as she hadseen it when the priest fetched them out again from the church--empty atlast of the hateful presence which he had faced so confidently.
* * * * *
"It appeared to me best to speak with him openly," said the priestquietly, as they had waited ten minutes later on the wharf outside theTower, while the men ran to make ready their boat. "I do not know why,but I suppose I am one of those who better like their danger in frontthan behind. I knew him at once; I have had him pointed out to me two orthree times before. So I looked him in the eyes, and asked him whethersome ladies from the country might be permitted to see the White Tower,and to whom we had best apply. He told me that was not his affair, andlooked me up and down as he said it. And then he went his way to ... theWhite Tower, where I doubt not he had business."
"He said no more?" asked Anthony.
"No, he said no more. But I shall know him again better next time, andhe me."
* * * * *
It seemed of evil omen to the girl that she should have had such anencounter on the day that Robin came back. Like all persons who dwellmuch in the country, a world that was neither that of the flesh nor yetof the spirit was that in which she largely moved--a world of strangelaws, and auspices, and this answering to this and that to that. It is astate inconceivable to those who live in the noise and movement oftown--who find town-life, that is, the life in which they are most atease. For where men have made the earth that is trodden underfoot, andhave largely veiled the heavens themselves, it is but natural that theyshould think that they have made everything, and that it is they whorule it.
As they drew nearer Westminster then, it was with Marjorie as it hadbeen when they came to the Tower. The priest was busy pointing out thisor that building--the Palace towers, the Hall, the Abbey behind, and St.Margaret's Church, as well as the smaller buildings of the Court, andthe little town that lay round about. But she listened as she listenedto the noise that came from the streets clear across the water,attending to it, yet scarcely distinguishing one thing from another, andforgetting each as soon as she heard it. She was thinking all the whileof Robin, and of the man whose face she had seen, of his beard and hislong throat. Well, at least, Robin was not yet a priest....
* * * * *
The boat was already nearing the King's Stairs at Westminster, when anew event happened that for a while distracted her.
The first they saw of it was the sight of a number of men and womenrunning in a disorderly mob, calling out as they ran, along theriver-bank in the direction from Charing Old Cross towards Palace Yard.They appeared excited, but not by fear; and it was plain that somethingwas taking place of which they wished to have a sight. As the prieststood up in the boat in order to have a clearer sight of what lay abovethe bank, three or four trumpet-calls of a peculiar melody, rang outclear and distinct, echoed back by the walls round about, plainlyaudible above the rising noise of a crowd that, it seemed, must begathering out of sight. The priest sat down again and his face wasmerry.
"You have come on a fortunate day, mistress," he said to Marjorie."First Topcliffe, and now her Grace; if we make haste we may see herpass by."
"Her Grace?"
"She will be going to dinner in Whitehall, after having taken the airby the river. They will be passing the Abbey now. But she will not be inher supreme state; I am sorry for that."
* * * * *
As they rowed in quickly over the last hundred yards that lay betweenthem and the stairs, Marjorie listened to the priest as he describedsomething of what the "supreme state" signified. He spoke of the longlines of carriages, filled with the ladies and the infirm, preceded bythe pikemen, and the gentlemen pensioners carrying wands, and theknights followed by the heralds. Behind these, he said, came theofficers of State immediately before the Queen's carriage, and after herthe guards of her person.
"But this will be but a tame affair," he said. "I wish you could haveseen a Progress, with the arches and the speeches and the declamations,and the heathen gods and goddesses that reign round our Eliza, when shewill go to Ashridge or Havering. I have heard it said--"
And then the prow of the boat, turned deftly at the last instant, gratedalong the lowest stair, and the waterman was out to steady his craft.
IV
It was the very crown and summit of new sensation that Marjorie attainedas she stood in an open gallery that looked on to the road fromWestminster to Whitehall. Father Campion, speaking of a "good friend" ofhis that had his lodgings there, led them by a short turning or two,that avoided the crowd, straight to the door of what appeared toMarjorie a mere warren of rooms, stairs and passages. A grave littleman, with a pen behind his ear, ran out upon their knocking at one ofthese doors, and led them straight through, smiling and talking, outinto this very gallery where they now stood; and then vani
shed again.
The gallery was such as those which Marjorie had noted on the way to theTower; a high-hung, airy place, running the length of the house,contrived on the level of the second floor, with the first floor roofbeneath and overhanging attics above. It was supported on massive oakbeams, and protected from the street by a low balustrade of a height tolean the elbows upon it. It was on this balustrade that Marjorie leaned,looking down into the street.
To the left the narrow roadway curved off out of sight in the directionof Palace Yard; on the right she could make out, a hundred yards away,some kind of a gateway, that strode across the street, and gave access,she supposed, to the Palace. Opposite, the windows were filled withfaces, and an enthusiastic loyalist was leaning, red-faced andvociferous, calling to a friend in the crowd beneath, from a gallerycorresponding to that from which the girl was looking.
Of the procession nothing was at present to be seen. They had caught aglimpse of colour somewhere to the east of the Abbey as they turned offopposite Westminster Hall; and already the cry of the trumpets and theincreasing noise of a crowd out of sight, told the listeners that theywould not have long to wait.
Beneath, the crowd was arranging itself with admirable discipline,dispersing in long lines two or three deep against the walls, so as toleave a good space, and laughing good-humouredly at a couple ofofficious persons in livery who had suddenly made their appearance. Andthen, as the country girl herself smiled down, an exclamation from Alicemade her turn.
At first it was difficult to discern anything clearly in the streamwhose head began to discharge itself round the curve from the left. Arow of brightly-coloured uniforms, moving four abreast, came first,visible above the tossing heads of horses. Then followed a group ofguards, whose steel caps passed suddenly into the sunlight that caughtthem from between the houses, and went again into shadow.
And then at last, she caught a glimpse of the carriage, followed byladies on grey horses; and forgot all the rest.
This way and that she craned her head, gripping the oak post by whichshe leaned, unconscious of all except that she was to see her in whomEngland itself seemed to have been incarnated--the woman who, as perhapsno other earthly sovereign in the world at that time, or before her, hadher people in a grasp that was not one of merely regal power. Even faraway in Derbyshire--even in the little country manor from which the girlcame, the aroma of that tremendous presence penetrated--of the womanwhom men loved to hail as the Virgin Queen, even though they mightquestion her virginity; the woman--"our Eliza," as the priest had namedher just now--who had made so shrewd an act of faith in her people thatthey had responded with an unreserved act of love. It was this woman,then, whom she was about to see; the sister of Mary and Edward, thedaughter of Henry and Anne Boleyn, who had received her kingdomCatholic, and by her own mere might had chosen to make it Protestant;the woman whose anointed hands were already red in the blood of God'sservants, yet hands which men fainted as they kissed....
Then on a sudden, as Elizabeth lifted her head this side and that, thegirl saw her.
She was sitting in a low carriage, raised on cushions, alone. Four tallhorses drew her at a slow trot: the wheels of the carriage were deep inmud, since she had driven for an hour over the deep December roads; butthis added rather to the splendour within. But of this Marjorieremembered no more than an uncertain glimpse. The air was thick withcries; from window after window waved hands; and, more than all, theloyalty was real, and filled the air like brave music.
There, then, she sat, smiling.
She was dressed in some splendid stuff; jewels sparkled beneath herthroat. Once a hand in an embroidered glove rose to wave an answer tothe roar of salute; and, as the carriage came beneath, she raised herface.
It was a thin face, sharply pear-shaped, ending in a pointed chin; atight mouth smiled at the corners; above her narrow eyes and high browsrose a high forehead, surmounted by strands of auburn hair drawn backtightly beneath the little head-dress. It was a strangely peaked face,very clear-skinned, and resembled in some manner a mask. But the look ofit was as sharp as steel; like a slender rapier, fragile and thin, yetkeen enough to run a man through. The power of it, in a word, was out ofall measure with the slightness of the face.... Then the face dropped;and Marjorie watched the back of the head bending this way and that,till the nodding heads that followed hid it from sight.
Marjorie drew a deep breath and turned. The faces of her friends were aspale and intent as her own. Only the priest was as easy as ever.
"So that is our Eliza," he said.
Then he did a strange thing.
He lifted his cap once more with grave seriousness. "God save herGrace!" he said.