The Fifth Queen

by Ford Madox Ford

  ‘These things are well liked in high places,’ he said. ‘His Highness’ self speaks five tongues, loveth a nimble answer, and is a noble huntsman.’ He surveyed her as if she were a horse he were pricing. ‘But I doubt not you have appraised yourself passing well,’ he uttered.

  ‘I have had some to make me pleasant speeches,’ she answered, ‘but too many cannot be had.’

  ‘See you,’ he said slowly, ‘these tuckets that they blow from the gate signify that the new Queen cometh with a great state.’ He bit his under lip and looked at her meaningly. ‘But a great state ensueth a great heaviness to the head of the State. Principis hymen, principium gravitatis.… ’Tis a small matter to me; you may make it a great one to your ladyship’s light fortunes.’

  She knew that he awaited her saying:

  ‘I do not take your lordship,’ and she pulled the hood further over her face because it was cold, and uttered the words with her eyes on the ground.

  ‘Why,’ he said readily, ‘you are a lady having gifts that are much in favour in these days. Be careful to use those gifts and no others. Meddle in nothing that does not concern you. So you may make a great marriage with some lord in favour. But meddle in naught else!’

  She would find many to set her an evil example. The other ladies amongst whom she was going were a mutinous knot. Let her be careful! If by her good behaviour she earned it, he would put the King in mind to advance her. If by good speeches and good example—since she had great store of learning—she could turn the hearts of these wicked ladies; if she could report to him evil designs or plots, he would speak to the King in such wise that His Highness should give her a great dower and any lord would marry her. Or he would advance her cousin so that he should become marriageable.

  She said submissively:

  ‘Your lordship would have me become a spy upon the ladies who shall be my fellows?’

  He waved his hand with a large and calming gesture.

  ‘I would have you work for the good of the State as you find it,’ he said gravely. ‘That, too, is a doctrine of the Ancients.’ He cited the case of Seneca, who supported the government of Nero, and she noted that he twisted to suit his purpose Tacitus’ account of the soldiers of that same Prince.

  Nevertheless, she made no comment. For she knew that it is the nature of men calmly to ask hateful sacrifices of women. But her throat ached with rage. And when she followed him along the corridors of the palace she seemed to feel that each man, each woman that they passed hated that lord with a hatred born of fear.

  He walked in front of her arrogantly, as if she were a straw to be drawn along in the wind of his progress. Doors flew open at a flick of his finger.

  Suddenly they were in a tall room, long, and dim because it faced the north. It seemed an empty cavern, but there were in it many books upon a long table and at the far end, so that they looked quite small, two figures stood before a reading-pulpit. The voice of the serving man who had thrown open the door made the words ‘The Lord Privy Seal of England’ echo mournfully along the gilded and dim rafters of the ceiling.

  Cromwell hastened over the smooth, cold floor. The woman’s figure in black, the long tail of her hood falling almost to her feet like a widow’s veil, turned from the pulpit; a man remained bent down at his reading.

  ‘Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum,’ Cromwell’s voice uttered. The lady stood, rigid and straight, her hands clasped before her. Her face, pale so that not even a touch of red showed above the cheekbones and hardly any in the tightly-pursed lips, was as if framed in her black hood that fastened beneath the chin. The high, narrow forehead had the hair tightly drawn back so that none was visible, and the coif that showed beneath the hood was white, like a nun’s; the temples were hollowed so that she looked careworn inexpressibly, and her lips had hard lines around them. Above her head all sounds in that dim room seemed to whisper for a long time among the rafters as if here dwelt something mysterious, sepulchral, a great grief or a great passion.

  ‘I announce to you a master-joy,’ Cromwell was saying. ‘I bring your La’ship a damsel of great erudition and knowledge of good letters.’

  His voice was playful and full; his back was bent supply. His face lit up with a debonnaire and pleasant smile. The lady’s eyes turned upon the girl, forbidding and suspicious; she remained motionless, even her lips did not move. Cromwell said that this was a Katharine of the Howards, and one fit to aid her Ladyship and Magister Udal with their erudite commentary of Plautus his works.

  The man at the reading desk looked round and then back at his book. His pen scratched upon the margin of a great volume. Katharine Howard was upon her knees grasping at the lady’s hand to kiss it. But it was snatched roughly away.

  ‘This is a folly,’ the voice came harshly from the pursed lips. ‘Get up, wench.’ Katharine remained kneeling. For this was the Lady Mary of England—a martyr for whom she had prayed nightly since she could pray.

  ‘Get up, fool,’ the voice said above her head. ‘It is proclaimed treason to kneel to me. This is to risk your neck to act thus before Privy Seal.’

  The hard words were aimed straight at the face of Cromwell.

  ‘Your ladyship knows well I would fain have it otherwise,’ he answered softly.

  ‘I do not ask it,’ she answered.

  He maintained a gentle smile of deprecation, beckoning a little with his head and with his eyes, begging her for private conversation. She lifted Katharine roughly to her feet and followed him to a distant window. She seemed as if she were an automaton without will or independent motions of her own, so small were her steps and her feet so hidden beneath her stiff black skirts. He began talking to her in a voice of which only the persuasive higher notes came into the room.

  At that time she was still proclaimed bastard, and her name was erased from the list of those it was lawful to pray for in the churches. At times she endured great hardships, even to going short of food, for she suffered from a wasting complaint that made her a great eater. But starvation could not make her submit to the King, her father, or to the Lord Cromwell who was ruler in the land. Sometimes they gave her a great train, strove to make her dress herself richly, and dragged her to such festivals as this of the marriage with Anne of Cleves. This was done when the Lord Privy Seal dangled her before the eyes of the Emperor of France as a match; then it was necessary to increase the appearance of her worth in England. But sometimes the King, out of a warm and generous feeling of satisfaction with his young son, was moved to behave bountifully to his daughter, and, seeking to dazzle her with his munificence, gave her golden crosses and learned books annotated with his own hand, richly jewelled and with embroidered covers. Or when the Emperor, her cousin, interceded that she should be treated more kindly, she was threatened with the block. Of late Cromwell had set himself to gain her heart with his intrigue that he could make so smooth and with his air that could be so gentle—that the King found so lovable. But nothing moved her to set her hand to a deed countenancing her dead mother’s disgrace; to smile upon her father and his minister, who had devised the means for casting down her mother; or to consent to relinquish her right to the throne. So that at times, when the cloud of the Church abroad, and of the rebellions all over the extremities of the kingdoms, threatened very greatly, the King was driven to agonies of fear and rage lest his enemies or his subjects should displace him who was excommunicated and set her, whom all Catholics regarded as undergoing a martyrdom, on his throne. He feared her sometimes so much that it was only Cromwell that saved her from death. Cromwell would spend hours of his busy days in the long window of her work room, urging her to submission, dilating upon the powers that might be hers, studying her tastes to devise bribes for her. It was with that aim, because her whole days in her solitude were given to the learned writers, that he had sought out for her Magister Udal as a companion and preceptor who might both please her with his erudition and induce her to look kindly upon the New Learning and a more lax habit of mind. But she never tha
nked Cromwell. Whilst he talked she remained frozen and silent. At times, under the spur of a cold rage, she said harsh things of himself and her father, calling upon the memory of her mother and the wrongs her Church had suffered—and, on his departing, before he had even left the room she would return, frigidly and without change of face, to the book upon her desk.

  So the Privy Seal talked to her by the window for the fiftieth time. Katharine Howard saw, before the high reading pulpit, the back of a man in the long robes of a Master of Arts. He held a pen in his hand and turned over his shoulder at her a face thin, brown, humorous and deprecatory, as if he were used to bearing chiding with philosophy.

  ‘Magister Udal!’ she uttered.

  He motioned with his mouth for her to be silent, but pointed with the feather of his quill to a line of a little book that lay upon the pulpit near his elbow. She came closer to read:

  ‘Circumspectatrix cum oculis emisitiis!’ and written above it in a minute hand: ‘A spie with eyes that peer about and stick out.’

  He pointed over his shoulder at the Lord Privy Seal.

  ‘How poor this room is, for a King’s daughter!’ she said, without much dropping her voice.

  He hissed: ‘Hush! hush!’ with an appearance of terror, and whispered, forming the words with his lips rather than uttering them: ‘How fared you and your house in the nonce?’

  ‘I have read in many texts,’ she answered, ‘to pass the heavy hours.’

  He spoke then, aloud and with an admonitory air:

  ‘Never say the heavy hours—for what hours are heavy that can be spent with the ancient writers for companions?’

  She avoided his reproachful eyes with:

  ‘My father’s house was burnt last month; my cousin Culpepper is in the courts below. Dear Nick Ardham, with his lute, is dead an outlaw beyond sea, and Sir Ferris was hanged at Doncaster—both after last year’s rising, pray all good men that God assail them!’

  Udal muttered:

  ‘Hush, for God’s dear sake. That is treason here. There is a listener behind the hangings.’

  He began to scrawl hastily with a dry pen that he had not time to dip in the well of ink. The shadow of the Lord Cromwell’s silent return was cast upon them both, and Katharine shivered.

  He said harshly to the magister:

  ‘I will that you write me an interlude in the vulgar tongue in three days’ time. Such a piece as being spoken by skilful players may make a sad man laugh.’

  Udal said: ‘Well-a-day!’

  ‘It shall get you advancement. I am minded the piece shall be given at my house before his Highness and the new Queen in a week.’

  Udal remained silent, dejected, his head resting upon his breast.

  ‘For,’ Cromwell spoke with a raised voice, ‘it is well that the King be distracted of his griefs.’ He went on as if he were uttering an admonition that he meant should be heeded and repeated. The times were very evil with risings, mutinies in close fortresses, schism, and the bad hearts of men. Here, therefore, he would that the King should find distraction. Such of them as had gifts should display those talents for his beguiling; such of them as had beauty should make valuable that beauty; others whose wealth could provide them with rich garments and pleasant displays should work, each man and each woman, after his sort or hers. ‘And I will that you report my words where either of you have resort. Who loves me shall hear it; who fears me shall take warning.’

  He surveyed both Katharine and the master with a heavy and encouraging glance, having the air of offering great things if they aided him and avoided dealing with his enemies.

  The Lady Mary was gliding towards them like a cold shadow casting itself upon his warm words; she would have ignored him altogether, knowing that contempt is harder to bear than bitter speeches. But the fascination of hatred made it hard to keep aloof from her father’s instrument. He looked negligently over his shoulder and was gone before she could speak. He did not care to hear more bitter words that could make the breach between them only wider, since words once spoken are so hard to wash away, and the bringing of this bitter woman back to obedience to her father was so great a part of his religion of kingcraft. In that, when it came, there should be nothing but concord and oblivion of bitter speeches, silent loyalty, and a throne upheld, revered, and unassailable.

  Udal groaned lamentably when the door closed upon him:

  ‘I shall write to make men laugh! In the vulgar tongue! I! To gain advancement!’

  The Lady Mary’s face hardly relaxed:

  ‘Others of us take harder usage from my lord,’ she said. She addressed Katharine: ‘You are named after my mother. I wish you a better fate than your namesake had.’ Her harsh voice dismayed Katharine, who had been prepared to worship her. She had eaten nothing since dawn, she had travelled very far and with this discouragement the pain in her arm came back. She could find no words to say, and the Lady Mary continued bitterly: ‘But if you love that dear name and would sojourn near me I would have you hide it. For—though I care little—I would yet have women about me that believe my mother to have been foully murdered.’

  ‘I cannot easily dissemble.’ Katharine found her tongue. ‘Where I hate I speak things disparaging.’

  ‘That I attest to of old,’ Udal commented. ‘But I shall be shamed before all learned doctors, if I write in the vulgar tongue.’

  ‘Silence is ever best for me!’ the Lady Mary answered her deadly. ‘I live in the shadows that I love.’

  ‘That, full surely, shall be reversed,’ Katharine said loyally. ‘I do not ask it,’ Mary said.

  ‘Wherefore must I write in the vulgar tongue?’ Udal asked again, ‘Oh, Mistress of my actions and my heart, what whim is this? The King is an excellent good Latinist!’

  ‘Too good!’ the Lady Mary said bitterly. ‘With his learning he hath overset the Church of Christ.’

  She spoke harshly to Katharine: ‘What reversal should give my mother her life again? Wench! Wench!…’ Then she turned upon Udal indifferently:

  ‘God knows why this man would have you write in the vulgar tongue. But so he wills it.’

  Udal groaned.

  ‘My dinner hour is here,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘I am very hungry. Get you to your writing and take this lady to my women.’

  VII

  THE LADY MARY’S ROOMS were seventeen in number; they ran the one into the other, but they could each be reached by the public corridor alongside. It was Magister Udal’s privilege, his condition being above that of serving man, to make his way through the rooms if he knew that the Lady Mary was not in one of them. These chambers were tall and gloomy; the light fell into them bluish and dismal; in one a pane was lacking in a window; in another a stool was upset before a fire that had gone out.

  To traverse this cold wilderness Udal had set on his cap. He stood in front of Katharine Howard in the third room and asked:

  ‘You are ever of the same mind towards your magister?’

  ‘I was never of any mind towards you,’ she answered. Her eyes went round the room to see how Princes were housed. The arras pictured the story of the nymph Galatea; the windows bore intertwined in red glass the cyphers H and K that stood for Katharine of Aragon. ‘Your broken fortunes are mended?’ she asked indifferently.

  He pulled a small book out of his pocket, ferreted among the leaves and then setting his eye near the page pointed out his beloved line:

  ‘Pauper sum, pateor, fateor, quod Di dant fero.’ Which had been translated: ‘I am poor, I confess; I bear it, and what the gods vouchsafe that I take’—and on the broad margin of the book had written: ‘Cicero sayeth: That one cannot sufficiently praise them that be patient having little: And Seneca: The first measure of riches is to have things necessary—and, as ensueth therefrom, to be therewith content!’

  ‘I will give you a text from Juvenal,’ she said, ‘to add to these: Who writes that no man is poor unless he be worthy of ridicule.’

  He winced a little.

  ‘N
ay, you are hard! The text should be read: Nothing else maketh poverty so hard to bear as that it forceth men to ridiculous shifts.… Quam quod ridiculos esse …’

  ‘Aye, magister, you are more learned even yet than I,’ she said indifferently. She made a step towards the next door but he stood in front of her holding up his thin hands.

  ‘You were my best pupil,’ he said, with a hungry humility as if he mocked himself. ‘Poor I am, but mated to me you should live as do the Hyperboreans, in a calm and voluptuous air.’

  ‘Aye, to hang myself of weariness, as they do,’ she answered.

  He corrected her with the version of Pliny, but she answered only: ‘I have a great thirst upon me.’

  His eyes were humorous, despairing and excited.

  ‘Why should a lady not love her master?’ he asked. ‘There are examples. Know you not the old rhyme:

  ‘ “It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three,

  Why lovéd of her master.…” ’

  ‘Ah, unspeakable!’ she said. ‘You bring me examples in the vulgar tongue!’

  ‘I babble for joy at seeing you and for grief at your harsh words,’ he answered.

  She stood waiting with a sort of haughty submissiveness.

  ‘I would you would delay your wooing. I have been on the road since dawn with neither bit nor sup.’

  He protested that he had starved more hideously than Tantalus since he had seen her last.

  She gave him indifferently her cheek to kiss.

  ‘For pity’s sake take me where I may rest,’ she said, ‘I have a maimed arm.’

  He uttered her panegyric, after a model of Tibullus, to the Lady Rochford and the seven maids of honour under that lady’s charge. He was set upon Katharine’s enjoyment, and he invented a lie that the King had commanded a dress to be found for her to attend at the revels that night. The maids were already dressing themselves. Two of them were fair-headed, and four neither fair nor dark; but one was dark as night, and dressed all in black with a white coif, so that she resembled a magpie. Some were curling each other’s hair and others tightening stay-laces with little wheels set in their companions’ backs. Their bare shoulders were blue with the cold of the great room, and their dresses lay in heaps upon sheets that were spread about the clean floor—brocades sewn with pearls, velvets that were inlaid with filagree work, indoor furs and coifs of fine lawn that were delicately edged with black thread.