He remembered that behind the swinging pane he kept matches and a candle, and he groped his way to the wall. He felt for the particular spot, the center of a star in the carving of the panel. He pressed it. The wall, which no one knew was a door except himself and Wells, swung creaking away from him. He went through it and closed it again carefully. Then he felt along the wall and found the alcove and the matchbox. The first three matches would not strike for dampness but he fumbled for the bottom match and then the flame held. He lit the candle and, blind with pain, he walked down the passage to the winding stair at its end and still with a strange purposefulness, as though he were deep in sleep, he climbed to the top, two flights up to the east tower. There the passage narrowed until it barely admitted his lean figure. At the end a door filled its width, an arched door, very low. He opened it and entered an octagonal room.
The light of the candle fell upon the thin figure of Wells, his hair in disarray and dusty with cobwebs.
He dropped on one knee. “Good evening, Your Majesty. I’d about given you up.”
Sir Richard put out his hand. Wells kissed it.
“Rise, Lord Dunsten,” Sir Richard said.
Wells rose, bowed deeply, and then as though it were a ritual long established, he took the candle from Sir Richard and set it on the table.
“Pray be seated, Your Majesty,” he said.
With these words, he pulled back from the table a massive oak chair. It was covered with a tattered robe of purple velvet, and this he wrapped about Sir Richard, who seated himself and waited in solemn silence while Wells went to a long narrow chest, also of oak, that stood against the wall. This chest he opened, lifting the heavy lid with effort and leaning it against the wall. From the chest he took out a large leather-bound book, fastened by silver hasps. He carried it to the table in both hands and set it before Sir Richard, who sat unmoving, his gaze downcast. Then, returning to the chest, Wells lifted from it a large scepter of heavy gold encrusted with jewels. This he carried, again in both hands, to Sir Richard, who took it in his right hand. Once more Wells went to the chest and now he took from it a crown of gold tinsel, cut into five high points, each point with a star of silver paste. This crown he took and set on Sir Richard’s head.
Then he bowed again deeply. “Is there anything else, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“Nothing, Lord Dunsten,” Sir Richard replied. “You may retire.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Wells said.
He had backed only a few steps toward the door, however, when Sir Richard lifted his left hand to stop him.
“One question, Lord Dunsten.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“As my faithful prime minister, have you put down the plot to rob me of my crown?”
“You have nothing to fear, Your Majesty,” Wells said. He waited for what Sir Richard might say next, a look of anxious concern upon his long lean face, the shadows dark in his sunken cheeks.
Sir Richard sighed a deep and heartbreaking sigh. “Ah, my enemies seek my end! They will put an end to all kings — you’ll see — you’ll see! They will kill Richard the Fourth as they killed other kings.”
“No one knows you are here, Your Majesty.”
“No one but you,” Sir Richard said.
Wells bowed. “We are well hidden and I will never betray you, Sire.”
Sir Richard turned his nobly shaped head, gave Wells a royal look, and held out his right hand. On the forefinger was the gold ring set with the large ruby. Wells came forward and bowing over it, he kissed it.
Sir Richard spoke with touching dignity.
“You deserve to be Lord Protector — I’ll make you that, one day. I know how to reward your loyalty — what you did for me once, long ago—”
“Please, Your Majesty,” Wells broke in. He wrung his long thin hands. “We agreed that it was never to be brought up. The boy is dead.”
Sir Richard corrected him. “The Prince is dead — and I never — never — forget.”
His chin sank upon his breast for an instant and his eyes closed. The pain, the pain! He struggled against losing himself. He was sinking into darkness, into death, alive only to pain. He made great effort and felt himself rising up again. Suddenly he gave a start, lifted his head, drew the candlestick near, opened the book and began to read. Wells watched him for a moment, then backed silently to the door. There he stood for yet another moment. The candlelight fell upon the figure in the purple robe, upon the handsome aging profile, upon the crown and sceptre, and upon the high back of the chair.
It was a throne.
… Deep in the dungeon beneath the castle a sound reverberated with an echoing roar. Kate looked up, alarmed, her hand shielding the candle.
“What’s that, my lady?”
Lady Mary continued her careful search of the crannied wall. “A door banging,” she said absently.
“It sounded like the lid of a coffin,” Kate said.
“Nonsense,” Lady Mary retorted. She found a stone loose, a small stone in a crack between two large blocks and she worked it free and peered inside. “There’s something here,” she exclaimed. She felt inside the aperture and brought out a crooked spoon of silver, green with age.
“Nothing else,” she said. “Some poor prisoner, I suppose, hiding his spoon so that he needn’t eat with his fingers.”
Far above their heads they heard now a sudden clatter of metal. Kate cried out, “My lady, don’t tell me that sounds like nothing!”
Lady Mary listened. “It sounds like gold pieces,” she exclaimed. Her face lighted with excitement, and lifting her head she called.
“Whoever you are, wherever you are — where do I go?”
They listened, waiting, motionless, Kate believing, almost, that Lady Mary would be given an answer. But there was none. The silence deepened and suddenly the air in the dungeon that was thick with mildew and dust seemed too heavy to breathe. Kate, borne up by excitement until now, was suddenly depressed and frightened. She looked at Lady Mary. Her face was ashen and her blue eyes had faded in the candlelight to a pale gray.
“My lady,” Kate cried, “we must go back! The air is deathly here — poisonous, my lady! We’ll be suffocated — Ah now, don’t faint! What did I tell you?”
Lady Mary did indeed seem on the edge of fainting away. She leaned on Kate’s shoulder, gasping for breath
“Let me open that door yonder,” Kate cried and with one arm supporting Lady Mary and the other holding the candle, she led the way to a door opposite the stairway and, setting the candle on a jutting ledge of rough rock, she tried to force the door open. It would not open, however she pushed against it. The latch was old and rusted and did not yield.”
“There’s nothing for it,” she declared swiftly. “We’ll have to go up the stair again. Cling to me, my lady, we’ll make it somehow. … This way, dear. The stones are smoother here, where some poor prisoner paced back and forth perhaps until he died. … I blame myself that I let you come here at all. I should have known better.”
Painfully they climbed the stone steps until they were at the top. A stone ledge stood under a window so high and narrow that it was no more than a gash in the wall.
“Sit down for a bit, my lady,” Kate said. “I’ll run for my grandfather to help us. … Dare I leave you?”
“I shall be quite all right,” Lady Mary said faintly but with resolution.
“And I’ll be back immediately,” Kate said, “and then you must get in bed again and have a cup of nice hot tea.”