“These are for you, Mistress. Now you can unlock the gates and go home.”

Elizabeth bent over the child, but her guards had come forward.

“Your Grace will understand,” said one of the guards, “that I must take these keys, and that it will be necessary for me to report what has happened.”

“You may do as you please,” said Elizabeth. “This innocent child but plays a game.”

Susannah cried: “But the keys are for the lady. They are so that she may open the gates and go home.”

Elizabeth stooped to comfort the child. “It was good of you to bring me the keys, Susannah,” she said. “But you see, my dear little one, they will not let me have them.”

Susannah began to whimper: “Have I done wrong then, Mistress?”

“Nay. You thought to please me. That was not wrong.”

“But they are angry now.”

“Nay. They have taken the keys because I am their prisoner and that is how they wish to keep me.”

“But I would help you to escape.”

“I know, my little one. But that is not to be. You must be of good cheer. I am happy because you brought me the keys—not so that I might escape for I could not go until they say I may—but because it shows you love me.”

Susannah was comforted.

But now the officials of the Tower were conferring together.

“A child … to take keys to the Princess! That is very dangerous. Important keys could be smuggled into her apartments in this way.”

“The keys which the child took to her were useless keys. They had been thrown away.”

“That is so. But keys! And what is this about flowers?”

“Only that one of the warders’ boys takes her a bunch of flowers now and then. He picks them from his garden and takes them to his favorite prisoner.”

“Messages … notes … could be concealed in a bunch of flowers. We have here an important state prisoner. If she should escape it might cost us our heads.”

The result of this conference was that young Will found himself standing before a committee of impressive gentlemen, among them the awe-inspiring Lieutenant of the Tower himself.

Will was a little afraid, because he sensed the trepidation of his father, who waited outside while Will stood before a table about which sat the gentlemen.

There was one thought in the little boy’s mind: He must not betray the fact that he had carried a note in the bunch of flowers. Lord Robert had been most insistent about that. That was why they were angry, but he would not tell them. He must remember that Lord Robert did not wish it, and he did not care how angry the gentlemen were so long as he did what Lord Robert wished.

He stood there, his feet wide apart, his face firm and set, remembering that he was Lord Robert’s friend.

“Now, my boy, you took flowers to the Princess, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get these flowers?”

“From our garden.” That was true; the flowers had come from the garden.

“Now listen, my boy. Did any of the prisoners give you anything to put among the flowers?”

“No, sir.” That was true too. Lord Robert himself had put the notes among the flowers.

“Think very hard. You are sure no one gave you a letter to take to the Princess?”

“I am thinking hard,” said the boy. “Nobody gave me a letter, sir.”

The men looked at each other.

“Has he ever visited Courtenay’s apartments?” asked the Lieutenant.

“We will have his father in and ask him.”

Will’s father entered.

“Has the boy ever accompanied you to the apartments of the Duke of Devonshire?”

“No, sir. I have never been there myself.”

“Have you ever visited any of the prisoners who have recently been brought to the Tower … those concerned in the Wyatt rebellion?”

“No, sir.”

The men again looked at each other and at the small boy who presented such a picture of bewildered innocence. It was said that the Princess was fond of children and they of her; it was probable that there was nothing in this matter but pure friendship between the Princess and the child. So far no harm had been done. Elizabeth was still their prisoner.

“I will double the Princess’s guards,” said the Lieutenant. “ We will curtail her freedom. She shall walk only for a short time in the gardens and not where she willed as heretofore. And, warder, your son is to take no more flowers to prisoners. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, my boy, you understand? You must take no more flowers to the Princess.”

The boy nodded miserably.

When he next saw the Princess she was walking in her little garden, and the gates were locked so that he could not reach her. But he called to her through the railings.

She did not come near because her guards surrounded her; but she waved and smiled at him.

“I can bring you no more flowers, Mistress,” he called sadly.

The Queen fell ill and there was consternation among those who had persecuted Elizabeth. The chief of these was Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester—he who was the most formidable of the Princess’s enemies. He had a clear picture of what would happen to him if Mary died and Elizabeth became Queen.

He was the Queen’s favorite Bishop and statesman; he could take liberties; and it seemed to him that unless he took a very great one now, he could not expect to outlive Queen Mary by more than a week or two. So he decided to act with extreme boldness.

He wrote a death warrant and had a special messenger take it to Bridges in the Tower. The sentence was to be carried out on the Princess Elizabeth without delay.

When Bridges received the warrant he was bewildered.

Nothing had been proved against Elizabeth, although she was under constant suspicion. Was she to be executed without trial? That did not appeal to the fair-minded Bridges. He was proud of his office; he wanted justice to prevail in his domain. Moreover he was not insensible to the charm of the Princess. She was so young and her good spirits and bravery in captivity had made a marked impression on him; he was also not unmindful of what the future might bring.

A death warrant! Instructions to hurry on with the execution, to keep it secret and hustle the Princess from her prison to the scaffold in the early morning, to behead her while the country was ignorant of what was happening!

“I like that not!” murmured Bridges.

The Queen was not by nature a cruel woman, and the Princess had implied that she was very willing to accept the Catholic Faith. Bridges did not believe that the Queen would wish to take the life of her sister except on religious grounds, or of course, if treason were proved against her—which was not the case.

He examined the death warrant once more. That was not the Queen’s signature. He looked closely. Yes, Gardiner had signed for the Queen during her indisposition.

Bridges made up his mind. He would rather risk Gardiner’s displeasure than send a young girl to her death.

He took up his pen and wrote to Gardiner:

“I see that this warrant does not bear Her Majesty’s signature, and I should consider I was not acting within the bounds of my duty if I allowed to take place an execution of so important a state prisoner without special instructions from Her Majesty the Queen.”

Gardiner was furious when he received the letter and realized that his plan had miscarried. He pondered the matter for a few days, wondering whether to command Bridges to carry out his wishes. But in the meantime the Queen had recovered, and when she heard what had happened she was horrified.

All her sentimental feelings came to the surface. She remembered the baby Elizabeth who had won her affection. Elizabeth was misguided; she had been brought up in the wrong religion; and it was true that she must be looking with ambition toward the throne; but nothing had been proved against her—and she was Mary’s own sister.

She did not reprimand Gardiner; she had too high an opinion of him. She knew that he was a staunch Catholic and that in itself endeared him to her. It was Elizabeth, the heretic, whom he wished to persecute; and she was not sure that he was not right in that.

As for herself she saw Elizabeth as her sister—heretic though she might be. Elizabeth was young; she had not been proved a traitor; therefore it was the Queen’s duty to save her from heresy.

Mary called to her a man whom she trusted completely; this was her old friend Sir Henry Bedingfeld.

“I have a task for you,” she told him, “which I would entrust to no other.”

“I shall execute it with all the strength at my disposal, Your Majesty.”

“I know it, dear Bedingfeld. That is why I give it to you. I know you will watch over her and that you will be just, both to her and to me. I speak of my sister.”

Bedingfeld was dismayed.

“Yes, my dear friend,” went on the Queen, “I have decided to put the Princess in your charge. You will watch over her night and day. Every action of hers will be noted and, if need be, reported to me. This is a difficult task I have set you, but, my lord, I do so because I know you to be one of the few about me whom I can trust.”

“I am your Majesty’s obedient and humble servant.”

But he showed himself to be perplexed, and Mary marveled that a man as courageous as Bedingfeld should be so disturbed at the prospect of guarding a young girl.

Elizabeth heard the approach of Sir Henry Bedingfeld with a hundred men-at-arms. From a window she saw them and when she knew that they were all about her apartments she feared this could mean only one thing, and her terrors returned. She clung to her favorite attendant, Isabella Markham, and cried: “Isabella, this is the end. I did not think I should greatly mind, but I do. My sister has sent Bedingfeld to see her orders carried out. Tell me … is the Lady Jane’s scaffold still in its place?”

“Hush, dearest Princess. I beg of you be calm as you always have been. Wait and learn what this means before you believe the worst.”

“Bedingfeld is my sister’s trusted knight. She has sent him to destroy me. I feared as soon as I entered this place of gloom that I should never leave it.” She cried out hysterically: “It shall not be an axe for me! I shall have a sword from Calais!”

Her ladies, knowing that she thought of her tragic mother, bent their heads and wept.

But it was not Elizabeth’s way to mourn for long. Very soon she became the imperious Princess. She cried: “Send for Bridges. Command him to come to me at once.”

When he came she demanded haughtily: “What means this? Have you not guards enough that you must send to my sister for more?”

“Your Grace refers to Sir Henry Bedingfeld and his company?”

“I do indeed.”

“Your Grace, this is not a matter for alarm, but for rejoicing. Sir Henry will soon present himself to you and tell you of his instructions. You are to leave the Tower.”

“To be freed?”

“You will be in the charge of Sir Henry, but no longer a prisoner in the Tower.”

Elizabeth was relieved. She was to change one captivity for another, but the Tower was a place of ill omen. But after a while she was conscious of some regret, for the Tower still held Robert Dudley.

The barge carried her from Tower Wharf to the Palace of Richmond, a strong company of guards accompanying her.

Her sister sent for her when she arrived at the Palace.

Mary, so recently recovered from what many believed would be a fatal illness, looked exhausted. She was nervously awaiting the coming of her bridegroom, with feelings which alternated between eagerness for him and apprehension as to what he would think of her.

The sight of her young sister—so healthful in spite of her recent imprisonment—filled her with melancholy and envy. What would Philip think when he saw this sister? Would he wish that she were the Queen of England and his bride?

But it was absurd to envy Elizabeth, whose life was in the utmost danger; and if Mary were wise, according to Gardiner and Renard, she would not hesitate to send that young lady to the block.

“So you are recently come from the Tower?” said Mary coldly.

“Yes, Your Majesty. By your great clemency, I come hither.”

“Many have spoken against you,” said the Queen.

“They lied who spoke against me,” said Elizabeth. “But Your Majesty is wise and recognizes the lies of a liar—as she does the poor babblings of those under torture—for what they are worth.”

“I am not convinced of your loyalty.”