Great Britain -- History -- House of York, 1461-1485 -- Fiction
In the hall I met Michael on his way to my quarters. When he saw me he
made a movement as though he thought to attack the soldiers which
surrounded me.
"Farewell, Michael," I said, as a great lump arose in my throat, and I
gripped his mighty hand. "Go to Sir Frederick, in my room, and in
future serve him as faithfully as in the past thou hast served me."
He dropped to one knee and, though I tried to prevent him, he kissed my
hand as though I were a King. Then he arose and walked slowly toward
the door where Harleston stood.
As I marched on I wiped two drops of moisture from the back of my hand.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE TOWER
I was conducted into the Tower through the "Traitor's Gate," the which,
when I passed through, added nothing unto my lightness of spirit. As I
gazed at the enormous arches, the memory of past events when, as a boy,
I had heard of those which had entered this waterway with the charge of
treason clinging to their names, never again to be heard of by the
outside world, came to my mind with a renewed freshness and a force
never to be by me forgotten, so long as mine old grey head retains its
wonted reason.
But then, this was as nothing compared with the great feeling of
loneliness, and crushing weight of the conviction of hopelessness which
settled on my heart when the door of my prison had been closed and
locked, and I was left alone, but for my tormenting thoughts, within my
cruel room in that Tower which rumour told had been the place of murder
of our little King.
When the keepers had departed, and the sound of their clanking steps
had died out, I still stood in the centre of the room, benumbed and
dazed, as the full reality of my situation was gradually absorbed by my
whirling mind. Then I moved, and mine armour rattled with a noise that
sounded, to mine ears, as though a shield had fallen from a great
height and alighted on a floor of stone. I started, gasped, and my
hand flew to the place where should have hung my sword. I felt my
brow. It was cold and moist. I laughed at my foolishness; but the
sound of mine own voice was so awful that I was as much startled as I
had been by the sound of mine armour. Then I stood still and held my
breath and listened, for what I know not. The stillness was so intense
that it did seem to have a substance, and press into mine ears with
such a force as did cause me to think that they were like to burst.
How long I stood thus I know not; it did seem to be an age.
Presently I heard a distant footstep. Ashamed of my childish feeling
of fear, I, that would stand alone and face a score of warriors and
never quaver, as the sound of the feet approached, started to pace
hurriedly the floor of my prison. As the causer of the sounds in the
corridor reached my door he stopped, and I heard the key rattle, as he
did insert it in the lock. I sat myself down upon my couch and tried,
as best I could, to appear to be at mine ease when the jailer should
enter.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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