The Tower Of London by W. Harrison Ainsworth

“Know her!” rejoined Magog, “ay, marry, do I. Who that dwells within this fortress knows not fair Mistress Cicely, the Rose of the Tower, as she is called? She is daughter to Dame Potentia Trusbut, wife of Peter the pantler”—

“A cook’s daughter!” exclaimed Cholmondeley, all his dreams of high-born beauty vanishing at once.

“Nay, I ought rather to say,” returned the giant, noticing the young man’s look of blank disappointment, and guessing the cause, “that she passes for his daughter.”

“I breathe again,” murmured Cholmondeley.

“Her real birth is a mystery,” continued Magog; “or, if the secret is known at all, it is only to the worthy pair who have adopted her. She is said to be the offspring of some illustrious and ill-fated lady, who was imprisoned within the Tower, and died in one of its dungeons, after giving birth to a female child, during the reign of our famous king, Harry the Eighth,” and he reverently doffed his bonnet as he pronounced his sire’s name; “but I know nothing of the truth or falsity of the story, and merely repeat it because you seem curious about her.”

“Your intelligence delights me,” replied Cholmondeley, placing a noble in his hand. “Can you bring me where I can obtain further sight of her?”

“Ay, and speech too, worshipful sir, if you desire it,” replied the giant, a smile illuminating his ample features. “When the evening banquet is over, and my attendance at the palace is no longer required, I shall repair to the Stone Kitchen at Master Trusbut’s dwelling, where a supper is provided for certain of the warders and other officers of the Tower, to which I and my brethren are invited, and if it please you to accompany us, you are almost certain to behold her.”

Cholmondeley eagerly embraced the offer, and it was next arranged that the dwarf should summon him at the proper time.

“If your worship requires a faithful emissary to convey a letter or token to the fair damsel,” interposed Xit, “I will undertake the office.”

“Fail not to acquaint me when your master is ready,” replied Cholmondeley, “and I will reward you. There is one question,” he continued, addressing Magog, “which I have omitted to ask. Who is the tall dark man who seems to exercise such strange control over her? Can it be her adoptive father, the pantler?”

“Of a surety no,” replied the giant, grinning, “Peter Trusbut is neither a tall man nor a dark; but is short, plump, and rosy, as beseems his office. The person to whom your worship alludes must be Master Lawrence Nightgall, the chief jailer, who lately paid his suit to her. He is of a jealous and revengeful temper, and is not unlikely to take it in dudgeon that a handsome gallant should set eyes upon the object of his affections.”

“Your description answers exactly to the man I mean,” returned Cholmondeley, gravely.

“Shall I bear a cartel to him from your worship?” said Xit. ” Or, if you require a guard, I will attend upon your person,” he added, tapping the pummel of his sword.

“I do not require your services in either capacity, as yet, valiant sir,” replied the esquire, smiling. “After the banquet I shall expect you.”

Resuming his place near Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley shortly afterwards proceeded with the royal cortège to the council-chamber, where, being deeply interested by Northumberland’s address to the conspiring lords, he for an instant forgot the object nearest his heart. But the next, it returned with greater force than ever; and he was picturing to himself the surprise, and, as he fondly hoped, the delight, he should occasion her by presenting himself at her dwelling, when Simon Renard’s dark proposal to the Earl of Pembroke reached his ear. Anxious to convey the important information he had thus obtained to his master, as soon as possible, he endeavoured to approach him, but at this moment the council broke up, and the whole train returned to the palace. During the banquet that followed, no opportunity for an instant’s private conference occurred—the signal for the separation of the guests being the departure of the queen and her consort. While he was considering within himself what course he had best pursue, he felt his mantle slightly plucked behind, and, turning at the touch, beheld the dwarf.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *