CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN THE TOWER.
"Here is a letter from Mr. Secretary to the Lieutenant of the Tower,Master Richard, bidding him admit you to speech of Babington," saidWill Cavendish. "He was loath to give it, and nothing but my LordShrewsbury's interest would have done it, on my oath that you are aprudent and discreet man, who hath been conversant in these matters formany years."
"Yea, and that long before you were, Master Will," said Richard, alwaysa little entertained by the young gentleman's airs of patronage."However, I am beholden to you."
"That you may be, for you are the only person who hath obtainedadmission to the prisoners."
"Not even their wives?"
"Mrs. Tichborne is in the country--so best for her--and Mrs. Babingtonhath never demanded it. I trow there is not love enough between themto make them seek such a meeting. It was one of my mother's matches.Mistress Cicely would have cleaved to him more closely, though I amglad you saw through the fellow too well to give her to him. She wouldbe a landless widow, whereas this Ratcliffe wife has a fair portion forher child."
"Then Dethick will be forfeited?"
"Ay. They say the Queen hath promised it to Raleigh."
"And there is no hope of mercy?"
"Not a tittle for any man of them! Nay, so far from it, her Majestyasked if there were no worse nor more extraordinary mode of death forthem."
"I should not have thought it of her."
"Her Majesty hath been affrighted, Master Richard, sorely affrighted,though she put so bold a face upon it, and there is nothing a woman,who prides herself on her courage, can so little pardon."
So Richard, sad at heart, took boat and ascended the Thames for hismelancholy visit. The gateway was guarded by a stalwart yeoman,halbert in hand, who detained him while the officer of the guard wascalled. On showing the letter from Sir Francis Walsingham, Mr. Talbotwas conducted by this personage across the first paved court to thelodgings of the Lieutenant under so close a guard that he felt as if hewere about to be incarcerated himself, and was there kept waiting in asort of guard-room while the letter was delivered.
Presently the Lieutenant, Sir Owen Hopton, a well-bred courteousknight, appeared and saluted him with apologies for his detention andall these precautions, saying that the orders were to keep a closeguard and to hinder all communication from without, so that nothingshort of this letter would have obtained entrance for the bearer, whomhe further required to set down his name and designation in full.Then, after asking how long the visitor wished to remain with theprisoners--for Tichborne and Babington were quartered together--hecalled a warder and committed Mr. Talbot to his guidance, to remain fortwo hours locked up in the cell.
"Sir," added Sir Owen, "it is superfluous to tell you that on comingout, you must either give me your word of honour that you conveynothing from the prisoners, or else submit to be searched."
Richard smiled, and observed that men were wont to trust his word ofhonour, to which the knight heartily replied that he was sure of it,and he then followed the warder up stone stairs and along vaultedpassages, where the clang of their footsteps made his heart sink. Theprisoners were in the White Tower, the central body of the grimbuilding, and the warder, after unlocking the door, announced, with nounnecessary rudeness, but rather as if he were glad of any comfort tohis charges, "Here, sirs, is a gentleman to visit you."
They had both risen at the sound of the key turning in the lock, andAntony Babington's face lighted up as he exclaimed, "Mr. Talbot! Iknew you would come if it were possible."
"I come by my Lord's desire," replied Richard, the close wringing ofhis hand expressing feeling to which he durst not give way in words.
He took in at the moment that the room, though stern and strong, wasnot squalid. It was lighted fully by a window, iron-barred, but notsmall, and according to custom, the prisoners had been permitted tofurnish, at their own expense, sufficient garniture for comfort, and asboth were wealthy men, they were fairly provided, and they were notfettered. Both looked paler than when Richard had seen them inWestminster Hall two days previously. Antony was as usual neatlyarrayed, with well-trimmed hair and beard, but Tichborne's hungneglected, and there was a hollow, haggard look about his eyes, as ifof dismay at his approaching fate. Neither was, however, forgetful ofcourtesy, and as Babington presented Mr. Talbot to his friend, thegreeting and welcome would have befitted the halls of Dethick orTichborne.
"Sirs," said the young man, with a sad smile irradiating for a momentthe restless despair of his countenance, "it is not by choice that I aman intruder on your privacy; I will abstract myself so far as ispossible."
"I have no secrets from my Chidiock," cried Babington.
"But Mr. Talbot may," replied his friend, "therefore I will only firstinquire whether he can tell us aught of the royal lady for whose sakewe suffer. They have asked us many questions, but answered none."
Richard was able to reply that after the seclusion at Tixall she hadbeen brought back to Chartley, and there was no difference in themanner of her custody, moreover, that she had recovered from her attackof illness, tidings he had just received in a letter from Humfrey. Hedid not feel it needful to inflict a pang on the men who were to die intwo days' time by letting them know that she was to be immediatelybrought to trial on the evidence extracted from them. On hearing thather captivity was not straitened, both looked relieved, and Tichborne,thanking him, lay down on his own bed, turned his face to the wall, anddrew the covering over his head.
"Ah!" sighed Babington, "is there no hope for him--he who has donenaught but guard too faithfully my unhappy secret? Is he to die forhis faith and honour?"
"Alas, Antony! I am forbidden to give thee hope for any. Of that wemust not speak. The time is short enough for what needs to be spoken."
"I knew that there was none for myself," said Antony, "but for thosewhom--" There was a gesture from Tichborne as if he could not bearthis, and he went on, "Yea, there is a matter on which I must needsspeak to you, sir. The young lady--where is she?"--he spoke earnestly,and lowering his voice as he bent his head.
"She is still at Chartley."
"That is well. But, sir, she must be guarded. I fear me there is onewho is aware of her parentage."
"The Scottish archer?"
"No, the truth."
"You knew it?"
"Not when I made my suit to her, or I should never have dared to liftmy eyes so far."
"I suppose your knowledge came from Langston," said Richard, moreperturbed than amazed at the disclosure.
"Even so. Yet I am not certain whether he knows or only guesses; butat any rate be on your guard for her sake. He has proved himself sounspeakable a villain that none can guess what he will do next. He--heit is above all--yea, above even Gifford and Ballard, who has broughtus to this pass."
He was becoming fiercely agitated, but putting a force upon himselfsaid, "Have patience, good Mr. Talbot, of your kindness, and I willtell you all, that you may understand the coilings of the serpent wholed me hither, and if possible save her from them."
Antony then explained that so soon as he had become his own master hehad followed the inclinations which led him to the church of his motherand of Queen Mary, the two beings he had always regarded with the mostfervent affection and love. His mother's kindred had brought him incontact with the Roman Catholic priests who circulated in England, atthe utmost peril of their lives, to keep up the faith of the gentry,and in many cases to intrigue for Queen Mary. Among these plotters hefell in with Cuthbert Langston, a Jesuit of the third order, though nota priest, and one of the most active agents in corresponding with QueenMary. His small stature, colourless complexion, and insignificantfeatures, rendered him almost a blank block, capable of assuming anyvariety of disguise. He also knew several languages, could imitatedifferent dialects, and counterfeit male and female voices so that veryfew could detect him. He had soon made himself known to Babington asthe huckster Tibbott of days gone by, and had then d
isclosed to himthat Cicely was certainly not the daughter of her supposed parents,telling of her rescue from the wreck, and hinting that her rank wasexalted, and that he knew secrets respecting her which he was about tomake known to the Queen of Scots. With this purpose among others,Langston had adopted the disguise of the woman selling spars with thepassword "Beads and Bracelets," and being well known as an agent ofcorrespondence to the suite of the captive Queen, he had been able todirect Gorion's attention to the maiden, and to let him know that shewas the same with the infant who had been put on board the Bride ofDunbar at Dunbar.
How much more did Langston guess? He had told Babington the storycurrent among the outer circle of Mary's followers of the maiden beingthe daughter of the Scotch archer, and had taught him her true name,encouraging too, his aspirations towards her during the time of hiscourtship. Babington believed Langston to have been at that time stilla sincere partizan of Queen Mary, but all along to have entertained asuspicion that there was a closer relationship between Bride Hepburnand the Queen than was avowed, though to Babington himself he had onlygiven mysterious hints.
But towards the end of the captivity at Tutbury, he had made somefurther discovery, which confirmed his suspicions, and had led toanother attempt to accost Cicely, and to make the Queen aware of hisknowledge, perhaps in order to verify it, or it might be to gain powerover her, a reward for the introduction, or to extort bribes tosecrecy. For looking back, Antony could now perceive that by this timea certain greed of lucre had set in upon the man, who had obtainedlarge sums of secret service money from himself; and avarice, togetherwith the rebuff he had received from the Queen, had doubtless renderedhim accessible to the temptations of the arch-plotters Gifford andMorgan. Richard could believe this, for the knowledge had been forcedon him that there were an incredible number of intriguers at that time,spies and conspirators, often in the pay of both parties, impartiallybetraying the one to the other, and sometimes, through miscalculation,meeting the fate they richly deserved. Many a man who had begunenthusiastically to work in underground ways for what he thought therighteous cause, became so enamoured of the undermining process, andthe gold there to be picked up, that from a wrong-headed partizan hebecame a traitor--often a double-faced one--and would work secretly inthe interest of whichever cause would pay him best.
Poor Babington had been far too youthfully simple to guess what he nowperceived, that he had been made the mere tool and instrument of thesetraitors. He had been instructed in Gifford's arrangement with theBurton brewer for conveying letters to Mary at Chartley, and had beenmade the means of informing her of it by means of his interview withCicely, when he had brought the letter in the watch. The letter hadbeen conveyed to him by Langston, the watch had been his own device.It was after this meeting, of which Richard now heard for the firsttime, that Langston had fully told his belief respecting the true birthof Bride Hepburn, and assured Babington that there was no hope of hiswedding her, though the Queen might allow him to delude himself withthe idea of her favour in order to bind him to her service.
It was then that Babington consented to Lady Shrewsbury's new matchwith the well-endowed Eleanor Ratcliffe. If he could not have Cicely,he cared not whom he had. He had been leading a wild and extravagantlife about town, when (as poor Tichborne afterwards said on thescaffold) the flourishing estate of Babington and Tichborne was thetalk of Fleet Street and the Strand, and he had also many calls forsecret service money, so that all his thought was to have more to spendin the service of Queen Mary and her daughter.
"Oh, sir! I have been as one distraught all this past year," he said."How often since I have been shut up here, and I have seen how I havebeen duped and gulled, have your words come back to me, that to enteron crooked ways was the way to destruction for myself and others, andthat I might only be serving worse men than myself! And yet they werepriests who misled me!"
"Even in your own religion there are many priests who would withholdyou from such crimes," said Richard.
"There are! I know it! I have spoken with them. They say no priestcan put aside the eternal laws of God's justice. So these others,Chidiock here, Donne and Salisbury, always cried out against theslaying of the Queen, though--wretch that I was--and gulled by Ballardand Savage, I deemed the exploit so noble and praiseworthy that I evenjoined Tichborne with me in that accursed portraiture! Yea, you maywell deem me mad, but it was Gifford who encouraged me in having itmade, no doubt to assure our ruin. Oh, Mr. Talbot! was ever man socruelly deceived as me?"
"It is only too true, Antony. My heart is full of rage and indignationwhen I think thereof. And yet, my poor lad, what concerns thee most isto lay aside all such thoughts as may not tend to repentance beforeGod."
"I know it, I know it, sir. All the more that we shall die without thelast sacraments. Commend us to the prayers of our Queen, sir, and ofher. But to proceed with what imports you to know for her sake, whileI have space to speak."
He proceeded to tell how, between dissipation and intrigue, he hadlived in a perpetual state of excitement, going backwards and forwardsbetween London and Lichfield to attend to the correspondence with QueenMary and the Spanish ambassador in France, and to arrange the detailsof the plot; always being worked up to the highest pitch by Gifford andBallard, while Langston continued to be the great assistant in all thecorrespondence. All the time Sir Francis Walsingham, who was reallyaware of all, if not the prime mover in the intrigue, appearedperfectly unsuspicious; often received Babington at his house, anddiscussed a plan of sending him on a commission to France, while inpoint of fact every letter that travelled in the Burton barrels wasdeciphered by Phillipps, and laid before the Secretary before beingread by the proper owners. In none of these, however, as Babingtoncould assure Mr. Talbot, had Cicely been mentioned,--the only danger toher was through Langston.
Things had come to a climax in July, when Babington had been urged toobtain from Mary such definite approbation of his plans as mightsatisfy his confederates, and had in consequence written the letter andobtained the answer, copies of which had been read to him at hisprivate examination, and which certainly contained fatal matter to bothhim and the Queen.
They had no doubt been called forth with that intent, and a doubt hadbegun to arise in the victim's mind whether the last reply had beenreally the Queen's own. It had been delivered to him in the street,not by the usual channel, but by a blue-coated serving-man. Two orthree days later Humfrey had told him of Langston's interview withWalsingham, which he had at the time laughed to scorn, thinking himselfable to penetrate any disguise of that Proteus, and likewise believingthat he was blinding Walsingham.
He first took alarm a few days after Humfrey's departure, and wrote toQueen Mary to warn her, convinced that the traitor must be Langston.Ballard became himself suspected, and after lurking about in variousdisguises was arrested in Babington's own lodgings. To disarmsuspicion, Antony went to Walsingham to talk about the French Mission,and tried to resume his usual habits, but in a tavern, he became awarethat Langston, under some fresh shape, was watching him, and hastilythrowing down the reckoning, he fled without his cloak or sword toGage's house at Westminster, where he took horse, hid himself in St.John's Wood, and finally was taken, half starved, in an outhouse atHarrow, belonging to a farmer, whose mercy involved him in the likedoom.
This was the substance of the story told by the unfortunate young manto Richard Talbot, whom he owned as the best and wisest friend he hadever had--going back to the warnings twice given, that no cause isserved by departing from the right; no kingdom safely won byworshipping the devil: "And sure I did worship him when I let myself beled by Gifford," he said.
His chief anxiety was not for his wife and her child, who he said wouldbe well taken care of by the Ratcliffe family, and who, alas! had neverwon his heart. In fact he was relieved that he was not permitted tosee the young thing, even had she wished it; it could do no good toeither of them, though he had written a letter, which she was todeliver, for the Queen, comme
nding her to her Majesty's mercy.
His love had been for Cicely, and even that had never been, as Richardsaw, such purifying, restraining, self-sacrificing affection as wasHumfrey's. It was half romance, half a sort of offshoot from his onegreat and absorbing passion of devotion to the Queen of Scots, whichwas still as strong as ever. He entrusted Richard with his humblestcommendations to her, and strove to rest in the belief that as many aconspirator before--such as Norfolk, Throckmorton, Parry--had perishedon her behalf while she remained untouched, that so it might again be,since surely, if she were to be tried, he would have been kept alive asa witness. The peculiar custom of the time in State prosecutions ofhanging the witnesses before the trial had not occurred to him.
But how would it be with Cicely? "Is what this fellow guessed the verytruth?" he asked.
Richard made a sign of affirmation, saying, "Is it only a guess on hispart?"
Babington believed the man stopped short of absolute certainty, thoughhe had declared himself to have reason to believe that a child musthave been born to the captive queen at Lochleven; and if so, where elsecould she be? Was he waiting for clear proof to make the secret knownto the Council? Did he intend to make profit of it and obtain in thepoor girl a subject for further intrigue? Was he withheld byconsideration for Richard Talbot, for whom Babington declared that ifsuch a villain could be believed in any respect, he had much familyregard and deep gratitude, since Richard had stood his friend when allhis family had cast him off in much resentment at his change of purposeand opinion.
At any rate he had in his power Cicely's welfare and liberty, if notthe lives of her adopted parents, since in the present juncture ofaffairs, and of universal suspicion, the concealment of the existenceof one who stood so near the throne might easily be represented as hightreason. Where was he?
No one knew. For appearance sake, Gifford had fled beyond seas,happily only to fall into a prison of the Duke of Guise: and they musthope that Langston might have followed the same course. Meantime,Richard could but go on as before, Cicely being now in her own mother'shands. The avowal of her identity must remain for the present as mightbe determined by her who had the right to decide.
"I would I could feel hope for any I leave behind me," said poorAntony. "I trow you will not bear the maiden my message, for you willdeem it a sin that I have loved her, and only her, to the last, thoughI have been false to that love as to all else beside. Tell Humfrey howI long that I had been like him, though he too must love on withouthope."
He sent warm greetings to good Mistress Susan Talbot and craved herprayers. He had one other care, namely to commend to Mr. Talbot an oldbody servant, Harry Gillingham by name, who had attended on him in hisboyhood at Sheffield, and had been with him all his life, beingadmitted even now, under supervision from the warders, to wait on himwhen dressing and at his meals. The poor man was broken-hearted, andso near desperation that his master wished much to get him out ofLondon before the execution. So, as Mr. Talbot meant to sail for Hullby the next day's tide in the Mastiff, he promised to take the poorfellow with him back to Bridgefield.
All this had taken much time. Antony did not seem disposed to gofarther into his own feelings in the brief space that remained, but hetook up a paper from the table, and indicating Tichborne, who stillaffected sleep, he asked whether it was fit that a man, who could writethus, should die for a plot against which he had always protested.Richard read these touching lines:--
My prime of youth is but a frost of care, My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my goods is but vain hope of gain. The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done.
My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is past, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done.
I sought for death, and found it in the wombe; I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade; I trode the ground, and knew it was my tombe, And now I dye, and now I am but made. The glass is full, and yet my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done.
Little used to poetry, these lines made the good man's eyes fill withtears as he looked at the two goodly young men about to be cut off soearly--one indeed guilty, but the victim of an iniquitous act ofdeliberate treachery.
He asked if Mr. Tichborne wished to entrust to him aught that could bedone by word of mouth, and a few commissions were given to him. ThenAntony bethought him of thanks to Lord and Lady Shrewsbury for all theyhad done for him, and above all for sending Mr. Talbot; and a messageto ask pardon for having so belied the loyal education they had givenhim. The divided religion of the country had been his bane: hismother's charge secretly to follow her faith had been the beginning,and then had followed the charms of stratagem on behalf of Queen Mary.
Perhaps, after all, his death, as a repentant man still single minded,saved him from lapsing into the double vileness of the veteranintriguers whose prey he had been.
"I commend me to the Mercy Master Who sees my heart," he said.
Herewith the warder returned, and at his request summoned Gillingham, asturdy grizzled fellow, looking grim with grief. Babington told him ofthe arrangement made, and that he was to leave London early in themorning with Mr. Talbot, but the man immediately dropped on his kneesand swore a solemn oath that nothing should induce him to leave theplace while his master breathed.
"Thou foolish knave," said Antony, "thou canst do me no good, and wiltbut make thyself a more piteous wretch than thou art already. Why, 'tisfor love of thee that I would have thee spared the sight."
"Am I a babe to be spared?" growled the man. And all that he could beinduced to promise was that he would repair to Bridgefield as soon asall was over--"Unless," said he, "I meet one of those accursed rogues,and then a halter would be sweet, if I had first had my will of them."
"Hush, Harry, or Master Warder will be locking thee up next," saidAntony.
And then came the farewell. It was at last a long, speechless,sorrowful embrace; and then Antony, slipping from it to his knees,said--"Bless me! Oh bless me: thou who hast been mine only truefriend. Bless me as a father!"
"May God in Heaven bless thee!" said Richard, solemnly laying his handon his head. "May He, Who knoweth how thou hast been led astray,pardon thee! May He, Who hath felt the agonies and shame of the Cross,redeem thee, and suffer thee not for any pains of death to fall fromHim!"
He was glad to hear afterwards, when broken-hearted Gillingham joinedhim, that the last words heard from Antony Babington's lipswere--"Parce mihi, Domine JESU!"
Unknown to History: A Story of the Captivity of Mary of Scotland Page 33
