And now my own beloved father might be destined to join the band of martyrs.
It was growing dark as we rowed upriver. Simon had said this was the best time to go. In the Lantern Turret lights burned. They were lighted at dusk and kept burning through the night to act as river signals. The river smelled dank and evil. We were now close to the stone walls.
At last we came to rest, the barge was tied to a stake and Simon helped me out.
His warder friend came out of the shadows.
“I’ll wait here,” said Simon.
The warder said: “Watch your step, boy.” And I wondered whether he was pretending to think me a boy or knew who I was. My heart was beating wildly but not with fear. I could think of only one thing: I was going to see my father.
The warder thrust a lantern into my hand.
“Carry that,” he said, “and say nothing.”
The stone was damp and slippery. I had to watch my steps carefully. I followed him through a passage and we came to a door. He had a bunch of keys and using one of these he opened it. It was iron studded, and consequently heavy. It creaked as it opened. He carefully locked the door behind us.
“Keep close,” he said.
I obeyed, and we went up a stone spiral staircase. We were in a stone-floored corridor. It was very cold. Here and there a lantern burned on the wall.
Before a heavy door the warder paused. He selected a key from his bunch and opened the door. For the moment I could scarcely see anything and then I gave a cry of joy for there he was. I put down the lantern and clung to him.
He said: “Damask. Oh, God, I am dreaming.”
“No, Father. Did you think I would not come?” I seized his hand and kissed it fiercely.
The warder stepped outside the door and stood there; my father and I were alone in the cell.
In a broken voice he said: “Oh, Damask, you should not have come.”
I knew that his joy in seeing me was as great as mine in seeing him, but that his fear for me was even greater.
I laid my cheek against his hand. “Do you think I would not have come? Do you think I would not do anything…anything….”
“My beloved child,” he said. Then: “Let me look at you.” He took my face in his hands and said: “Your hair.”
“I cut it off,” I said. “I had to come here as a boy.”
He held me against him. “Dearest child,” he said, “there is much to say and little time to say it in. My thoughts are all for you and your mother. You will have to take care of her.”
“You are coming back to us,” I said fiercely.
“If I do not….”
“No, don’t say it. You are coming. I will consider nothing else. We will find some way….How could you have done anything wrong? You who have been so good all your life….”
“What is right for some of us is wrong in the eyes of others. That is the trouble in the world, Damask.”
“This man…he had no right to come to you….He had no right to ask you to hide him.”
“He did not ask. I offered. Would you have me turn away a friend? But let us not talk of what is past. It is the future I think of. Constantly I think of you, my dearest child. It gives me great comfort. Do you remember our talks…our walks….”
“Oh, Father, I cannot bear it.”
“We must needs bear what God has decided we must.”
“God! What has God to do with this? Why should wicked murderers prosper while saints are done to death? Why should they dance in their castles…a new wife every….”
“Hush! What talk is this! Damask, I beg of you have a care. Do you want to please me? Do you want to bring me happiness?”
“Father, you know.”
“Then listen to me. Go back home. Comfort your mother. Watch over her. When the time comes marry and have children. It can be the greatest joy. When you have little ones you will cease to mourn for your father. You will know it is the rule of life—the old pass on and make way for the young.”
“We are going to take you back home, Father.”
He stroked my hair.
“We shall find a way. We must. Do you think I can endure to be there without you! You have always been there. All my life I have looked to you. I never thought till now that there would come a time when you…would not…be there.”
“My love,” he said, “you distress yourself…and me.”
“Let us be practical then. We shall try to get you out of here. Why should you not change clothes with me now….You could go and I could stay here.”
He laughed tenderly. “My dearest, do you think I would look like a boy? Do you think you could be mistaken for an old man? And do you think I would leave here one who is more dear to me than my own life? You talk wildly, child, but your talk pleases me. We have loved each other truly, we two.”
The warder was at the door.
“You’ll have to come away now. It’s dangerous to stay longer.”
“No,” I cried, and clung to my father.
He put me from him gently. “Go now, Damask,” he said. “I shall remember as long as I live that you came to me, that you cut off your beautiful hair for the sake of a few brief moments.”
“What is my hair compared with my love for you?”
“My child, I shall remember.” Then he caught me to him and held me tightly. “Damask, take care. Watch your tongue. You must know we are in danger. Someone betrayed me. Someone could betray you. That is something I could not endure. If I know that you are safe and your mother is safe…I can be content. To be careful, to care for each other, to live in peace…that could be the greatest thing you could do for me.”
“Come now,” growled the warder.
One last embrace and there I was standing in the dank passage, that heavy door between him and me.
I was unaware of the journey to the barge. I only vaguely saw the rat that scuttled across our path. There was Tom Skillen waiting to help me into the barge.
And as we rode along the dark river, guided by the lights from the Lantern Turret, one thing my father had said kept recurring in my mind. “Someone betrayed me.”
I did not see him again. They took him out on Tower Hill and that noble head was severed by the ax.
On the day it happened my mother, on Simon Caseman’s advice and without my knowledge until afterward, gave me a draft which she had made with poppy juice. It sent me into a deep sleep from which I did not awaken until I was fatherless.
I rose from my bed, heavy eyed but heavier hearted; I went downstairs and found my mother seated in her room, her hands in her lap, staring blankly before her.
I knew then that she was a widow and I had lost the dearest and best of fathers forever.
For the next few days I went about in a kind of daze. When people spoke to me I did not hear. Rupert tried to comfort me; so did Simon Caseman.
“I’ll take care of you for evermore,” Rupert told me, and I did not realize until later that he was asking me to marry him.
Simon Caseman was more definite. I did not forget that he had arranged the meeting with my father. He had seen his execution and that of Amos Carmen, and he told of it.