CHAPTER XXI

Queen Mary's Boon

'Oh, help me!' I implored. 'Help me to get into the Tower!'

The Court physician to whom I appealed shook his head gravely.

'It is a difficult matter for an outsider to get in there,' he said, 'and, if I mistake not, you are one who would be liable to be suspected, by reason of your having been there before with the unfortunate Lady Jane Grey.'

'Then you remember me? I thought you would. I am Margaret Brown,' I faltered.

'Mistress Margaret Brown,' said he, very gently, 'I will give you one word of advice, and that is, go home to your friends.'

'Alas!' I said, wringing my hands, 'I have no friend--save one--so dear as she who is imprisoned in the Tower. Help me to get to her, Dr. Massingbird, I implore you. She said that it would be a comfort to her to have me there, and she is in sore need of comfort!'

'Poor lady! Poor young lady! So sinned against, and yet so innocent; and made a tool of by that wicked man who has met with his just fate. I mean Northumberland.'

'Yes,' said I. 'It was he and his ambition that ruined my dear lady.'

We were standing talking together in Thames Street, not far from the Bulwark Gate of the great Tower of London. For a week I had been making many endeavours to get into the Tower, but, owing to the great precautions which were being taken against treachery--especially during Queen Mary's residence there--every attempt of mine to effect an entrance was in vain. I had found Betsy all right on London Bridge, where she stayed twelve hours waiting for me, in spite of every effort made to dislodge her from her position, and she and I were lodging, with the Woods, in apartments in the Strand.

Sir William Wood and Lady Caroline had no power to assist me to get into the Tower; they were obliged to keep as quiet as possible, only going out at night, owing to Sir William's partisanship of Lady Jane, whilst, for the same reason, Sir Hubert Blair, too, was compelled to remain hidden until certain plans were matured. He could not help me, and indeed I had not seen him since we parted on Kingston Bridge. As for the Duke of Suffolk, he was quite unable to assist me to go to his daughter, for, having been liberated after two or three days' imprisonment, owing to the intercession of his wife who prostrated herself before Mary, pleading that he was delicate and that his health would suffer if he were not set free, upon which Her Majesty graciously forgave him, he was most ungratefully busying himself with secret schemes for ousting her from the throne and reinstating Queen Jane. Always careless of the latter's feelings, whether she had her favourite gentlewoman with her in her imprisonment, or not, was a matter of indifference to him. Others who had made my acquaintance during the queen's short reign cut me dead, or treated me with scanty civility upon my reappearing on the scene. There was not one of those fine Court ladies who had formerly professed to admire and love Queen Jane who would lift a hand to help her now that she was in affliction and imprisonment. I was thinking sadly about this, as I returned from my last fruitless effort to gain ingress into the Tower, when I met one of the physicians who had attended Queen Jane during her illness in the royal palace. He was a truly benevolent man, and although he was evidently going somewhere in a hurry, he got out of his coach when I called to him, to inquire what I wanted.

'I am very hurried just now,' he said, temporizing, 'The fact is Queen Mary cannot sleep; evil, unpleasant thoughts trouble her, from the moment in which she lies down in bed until it is well nigh time to rise again, and potions and drugs do not cure the malady. But I bethought me of King Saul, to whom David played when he was distracted in that manner, until the evil spirits no longer troubled him, so I told Her Majesty that I would slip out of the Tower and go and fetch a young female singer, who would sing to her so beautifully that she would fall into a natural sleep. I heard a girl singing very sweetly in a friend's house in the Strand once, but whether I shall be able to find her or not I know not. It is growing late. The curfew bell has rung; the streets will not be very safe to be out in soon, and yet I must try to find the girl, if Queen Mary is to sleep.'

A bold thought came to me as he was speaking. The good physician was in search of a girl who could sing well, who in fact could sing Queen Mary to sleep, and I, who could sing well, wanted above all things to get into the Tower; it therefore seemed conclusive that I must be the girl to sing for the queen. But Queen Mary? I would rather that it had been Queen Jane.

'Doctor,' I said entreatingly, 'I am your girl. Your sweet singer, you know,' I hurriedly explained, seeing that he did not understand. 'I can sing very sweetly, though I say it myself. Take me to Queen Mary.'

'You!' The good man looked amazed. 'I am afraid it would not do,' he said. 'Supposing now that Her Majesty found out that you had been in the Tower with Queen Jane?'

'I don't think that that would make so much difference,' I said. 'A singer may sing to any one.'

After a little more demur, to my intense satisfaction, Dr. Massingbird consented to take me, only stipulating that I should conceal my real name and position from the queen, and appear before her as a professional singer only. He also made me promise that I would do Queen Mary no harm in any way when admitted into her presence--for these were days in which treachery was common.

Under his care, escorted by him, in scarcely an hour from the time in which we met in Thames Street, I was entering the royal apartments of the ancient palace[1] in the mighty Tower of London.

[1] This palace of the old kings of England has long since disappeared. It was at the south-east of the Tower.--ED.

I must confess candidly that, whilst outwardly appearing dignified and calm, I was inwardly in a state of great trepidation and timidity. Always overawed by the vastness and gloom of the mighty fortress, even when there with Queen Jane, while she was in power and every effort was made to display its riches and magnificence, it can easily be understood, that I was many times more so now when, late at night under an assumed character, yet at heart an adherent of the imprisoned ex-queen, I ventured alone, except for the presence of the physician, himself a servant, into the palace of the reigning monarch. Curious glances were cast at me by guards and sentinels, squires and dames, lords and ladies, as we ascended the great oaken staircase and passed through a long gallery into a spacious hall, with narrow Gothic windows of stained glass, hung with tarnished cloth of gold curtains. Here the furniture was large and splendid, the windows were in deep recesses, whilst there was a gallery round the upper part of the room.

'Wait a little here, until I return,' said my guide, signing to me to sit down on an old oak chair.

The physician went away, leaving me, as I at first thought, alone, but, in a little while, my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, and I saw that in some of the embrasures by the windows, men and women sat, or stood engaged in earnest conversation. A few of them appeared to be foreigners; from their dress I imagined they were Spaniards, and two or three of these were monks, the sight of whom there recalled to my mind Sir Hubert Blair's prediction in Woodleigh Castleyard, that if Mary reigned, the country would be plunged into Roman Catholicism and brought into alliance with Spain, upon which a door would be thrown open for the Inquisition, with all its horrors.

At that moment I heard a girl, standing in a recess near, saying to a tall man, who from his dress and bearing seemed to be of noble birth--

'The queen means well. She is cautious about beginning, but in time she will do all that she is bidden by the Holy Church. At present she is racked with indecision and gloomy forebodings----'

'But she has the iron will of her father, King Hal--you see him there in that portrait, painted by Holbein, over the chimneypiece. What a man that was!' exclaimed the other.

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

'Mary has a very different creed from his, fortunately,' she said, 'and she hankers after Spain--all may yet be well for our Church!'

I heard no more, for at that moment Dr. Massingbird, returning, accompanied by a lady of the bedchamber, desired me to go with her to Queen Mary, who had already retired for the night.

'I have done all I could for you,' added the physician, aside, in a low tone. 'I have brought you here. But you will have to get out again as you best can, for I cannot dance attendance upon you any longer.'

I tried to thank him, and to say that I should be all right, but, not listening to me, he said--

'I have announced you as a poor singer named Meg Brown! having clipped off a bit of your name. God grant you may come to no harm, my child!'

Then he hurried away.

I followed the lady to Queen Mary's bedchamber, walking silently after her into the splendidly furnished bedroom, where I had been before with Queen Jane. How it reminded me of her! But this was a very different woman lying upon the great bed, with its silk and gold counterpane.

Mary was about forty years old--a little woman, slender and delicate in appearance. She did not in the least resemble her father, King Henry VIII. Her features were not bad, and her eyes were bright--so bright indeed that they frightened me when, all at once, I discovered them fixed upon my face.

'Who are you?' demanded the queen, in a voice which was thick and loud like a man's.

I was still more alarmed, and felt at that moment as if those bright, piercing eyes were looking into the very depths of my heart.

I knelt for one moment, but quickly rose from the ground, with a prayer in my heart that I might be forgiven bowing in the house of Rimmon and before the wrong queen.

'I am Meg Brown, madam. At your service,' I said, adding, as she remained quiet, 'a poor young singing-girl.'

'You don't seem to have much boldness in speech, Meg. How, then, can you have the courage to sing?'

I clasped my hands tightly together, with an inward prayer for help, and, in a moment, from the extremity of fear passed to a state of blessed confidence.

'Only hear me,' I said. 'I can sing, madam.'

'Can you?' The piercing eyes sought to read my innermost soul.

'Yes, madam. Once, when I was a child, Master Montgomery, our curate, took me to see a poor woman who had lost her baby and was almost dead with grief. She could not weep, nor sleep, nor eat; the trouble was killing her. But I sang to her, and she cried like a child, and prayed to God and recovered. And another time,' I spoke more clearly now, 'when some serving-men and women had a great quarrel, and were fighting in a truly terrible manner, I stood up and sang, and sang until they fell upon their knees and burst out into tears and prayers. After that, Master Montgomery always fetched me to sing to people when he could do nothing with them.'

'Wonderful!' said Queen Mary, in a rather satirical manner. 'But those were only poor folk; it remains to be seen whether you can sing to a queen.'

'God,' said I, half to myself and half to her, 'Who helped me to sing to His poor, can help me to sing to'--I was going to say His queen, but substituted 'a queen.'

'And is not the poor queen His, too?' asked the woman, who was reading my heart.

'He knows,' I said, trembling a little, lest she should take umbrage at my daring. 'He knows them that are His.'

Mary did not say anything to this. She turned her head away from me with a peevish movement.

I was afraid to speak, and therefore waited in silence until she spoke again.

'Sing to me,' she said.

'What shall I sing?'

'I am greatly troubled,' she replied at length. 'Sing what you sang to that poor mother who had lost her child.'

It was one of Martin Luther's cradle songs, translated for me, when a child, by Master Montgomery, who fitted it to a tender little tune of his own composing. I loved it well, but it seemed a strange song to sing to the mightiest woman in the land, the Queen of England. Perhaps, however, as she said she was greatly troubled, she might be in need of comforting. I thought of that, and standing there, with my hands tightly clasped before me, sang as I had never sung before--

Sleep well, my dear, sleep safe and free; The holy angels are with thee, Who always see thy Father's face, And never slumber nights nor days.

There was a quick movement on the bed, and Mary opened wide eyes of amazement, but she did not interrupt, and I went on singing, until, gaining confidence, my voice rang out clearly and triumphantly in the last verse--

Sleep now, my dear, and take thy rest; And if with riper years thou'rt blest Increase in wisdom, day and night, Till thou attain'st th' eternal light!

For a little time there was silence in the room, when I ended, and then, with a heaving sigh, the deep voice came from the bed--

'I'm only a frail woman, though I am queen, and I need wisdom. But go on singing, child. Go on singing.'

I began a favourite hymn of Master Montgomery's, and it brought to my mind so many memories that sobs trembled in my voice, as I sang--

When my dying hour must be, Be not absent then from me; In that dreadful hour I pray, Jesus, come without delay, See and set me free! When thou biddest me depart Whom I cleave to with my heart, Lover of my soul, be near, With Thy saving Cross appear, Show Thyself to me.

Mary lay so still when I ended that I thought she was asleep; but no, she was awake, and as I looked closely at her, I perceived that tears were slowly stealing down her face.

I fell on my knees by the bedside, but I was not kneeling to her, as she seemed to think, when opening her eyes and looking at me, she said, in a softer tone than before--

'Child, do you want something?'

Did I want something? Yes, I wanted something so much, that now when the time had come for asking for it, I could not say a word,

'Your singing is marvellously sweet,' continued Queen Mary. 'Yet it has not sent me to sleep. I should like to hear you every night. Will you stay here in the palace and sing to me every night? You shall have a fair wage.'

'I do not want a wage,' I answered, thanking her. 'But I crave a boon at your hands, madam.'

'And that is----'

'That I may be allowed to go to Lady Jane Grey----'

'Lady Jane! My cousin? Methinks that you are a bold girl to ask that,' exclaimed the queen, starting up in bed and speaking very angrily.

I rose slowly, and, with clasped hands, stood before her, pleading my love for her sweet cousin and beseeching that I might be allowed to attend Lady Jane in her prison. I described her youth, her innocence, and the great unwillingness with which she had permitted herself to be dragged into the dangerous position of queen, and also mentioned the quickness and satisfaction with which she abandoned the undesired sovereignty.

'You plead well, Meg,' said the Queen, when I stopped, partly because my breath failed, 'and you have a wonderful voice for singing, aye, and for speaking. If I let you go to Lady Jane, and allow you to attend her in her prison, will you come and sing to me when I require you?'

'I will. I will,' I exclaimed delightedly. 'I will sing you to sleep whenever you like, madam.'

'Nay, not to sleep, Meg, not to sleep,' said Queen Mary. 'As a promoter of sleep you are a failure, for your singing awakens me out of the sleep of years, making me feel as if I should never want to sleep again.'

She then rang a hand-bell, and on the entrance of a gentlewoman, commanded that I should be taken to the Brick Tower, to attend upon the Lady Jane Grey.