Great Britain -- History -- Mary I, 1553-1558 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
I sprang up the stairs into the room and looked round, my eyes seeming
to take in everything at once. It was a big bare room, with signs of
habitation only in one corner. On the side toward the town was a long,
low window, through which--a score of the diamond panes were broken
already--the flare of the besiegers' torches fell luridly on the walls
and vaulted roof. By the dull embers of a wood fire, over which hung a
huge black pot, Master Bertie was lying on the boards, breathing
loudly and painfully, his head pillowed on the Duchess's kerchief.
Beside him sat Mistress Anne, her face hidden, the child wailing in
her lap. A glance round assured me that there was no other staircase,
and that on the side toward the country, the wall was pierced with no
window bigger than a loophole or an arrow-slit; with no opening which
even a boy could enter. For the present, therefore, unless the top of
the tower should be escaladed from the adjacent houses--and I could do
nothing to provide against that--we had nothing to fear except from
the staircase and the window I have mentioned. Every moment, however,
a missile or a shot crashed through the latter, adding the shiver of
falling glass to the general din. No wonder the child wailed and the
girl sank over it in abject terror. Those savage yells might well make
a woman blench. They carried more fear and dread to my heart than did
the real danger of our position, desperate as it was.
And yet it was so desperate that, for a moment, I leant against the
wall dazed and hopeless, listening to the infernal tumult without and
within. Had Bertie been by my side to share the responsibility and
join in the risk, I could have borne it better. I might have felt then
some of the joy of battle, and the stern pleasure of the one matched
against the many. But I was alone. How was I to save these women and
that poor child from the yelling crew outside? How indeed? I did not
know the enemy's language; I could not communicate with him, could not
explain, could not even cry for quarter for the women.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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