‘Why,’ he said to her, ‘what’s the whimsy now? Shalt be the queen. ’Tis the sole way. ’Tis the way to the light.’ He leant forward. ‘Cleves has gone to the bastard called Charles to sue for mercy. Ye led me so well to set Francis against Charles that I may snap my fingers against both. None but thee could ha’ forged that bolt. Child, I will make a league with the Pope against Charles or Francis, with Francis or Charles. Anne may go hang herself.’ He rose to his feet and stretched out both his hands, his eyes glowing beneath his deep brows. ‘Body o’ God! thou art a very fair woman; and now I will be such a king as never was, and take France for mine own and set up Holy Church again, and say good prayers and sleep in a warm bed. Body o’ God! Body o’ God!’
‘God and the saints save the issue!’ she said. ‘I am thy servant and slave.’
But her tone made him recoil.
‘What whimsy’s here?’ he muttered heavily, and his eyes became suffused with red. ‘Speak, wench!’ He pulled at the stuff round his throat. ‘I will have peace,’ he said. ‘I will at last have peace.’
‘God send you have it,’ she said, and trembled a little, half in fear, half in sheer pity at the thought of thwarting him.
‘Speak thy fool whimsy,’ he muttered huskily. ‘Speak!’
‘My lord,’ she said, ‘where is the Queen that is?’
He flared suddenly at her as if she had reproved him.
‘At Windsor. ’Tis a better palace than this of mine here.’ He shook his finger heavily and uttered with a boastful defiance: ‘Shalt not say I shower no gifts on her. Shalt not say she has no state. I ha’ sent her seven jennets this day. I shall go bring her golden apples on the morrow. Scents she has had o’ me; French gowns, Southern fruits. No man nor wench shall say I be not princely—’ His boasting bluster died away before her silence. To please a mute desire in her, he had showered more gifts on Anne of Cleves than on any other woman he had ever seen; and thinking that she used him ill not to praise him for this, he could not hold his tongue: ‘What is’t to thee what she hath? What she hath thou losest. ’Tis a folly.’
‘My lord,’ she said, ‘I will myself to see the Queen that is.’
‘And whysomever?’ he voiced his astonishment.
‘My lord,’ she said, ‘I have a tickly conscience in divorces. I will ask her mine own self.’
He roared out suddenly indistinguishable words, stamped his feet, waved his hands at the skies, and lost his voice altogether.
‘Aye,’ she said, catching at some of his speech, ‘I ha’ read your Highness’ depositions. I ha’ read depositions of the Archbishop’s. But I will be satisfied of her own mouth that she be not your wife.’
And when he swore that Anne would lie:
‘Nay,’ she answered; ‘if she will lie to keep her queenship, keep it she shall. I am upon the point of honour.’
‘Before God!’—and his voice had a sneering haughtiness—‘ye will not be long of this world if ye steer by the point of honour.’
‘Sir,’ she cried out and stretched forth her hands; ‘for the love of Mary who guides the starry counsels and of the saints who sit in conclave, speak not in that wise.’
He shrugged his shoulders and said, with a touch of angry shame:
‘God send the world were another world; I would it were other. But I am a prince in this one.’
‘My lord,’ she said; ‘if the world so is, kings and princes are here to be above the world. In your greatness ye shall change it; with your justice ye shall purify it; with your clemencies ye should it chasten and amerce. Ye ask me to be a queen. Shall I be a queen and not such a queen? No, I tell you; if a woman may swear a great oath, I swear by Leonidas that saved Sparta and by Christ Jesus that saved this world, so will I come by my queenship and so act in it that, if God give me strength the whole world never shall find speck upon mine honour—or upon thine if I may sway thee.’
‘Why,’ he said, ‘thy voice is like little flutes.’
He considered, patting his square, soft-shod feet upon the bricks of the arbour floor.
‘By Guy! I will have thee,’ he said; ‘though ye twist my senses as never woman twisted them—and it is not good for a man to be swayed by his women.’
‘My lord,’ she said, ‘in naught would I sway a man save in where my conscience pricks and impels me.’ She rubbed her hand across her eyes. ‘It is difficult to see the right in these matters. The only way is to be firm for God and for the cause of the saints.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I will be ceaseless in my entreaties to you for them,’ she uttered. Suddenly again she stretched forth both her hands that had sunk to her sides:
‘Dear lord,’ and her voice was full of pity for herself and for entreaty; ‘let me go to a convent to pray unceasing for thee.’
He shook his head.
‘Dear lord,’ she repeated; ‘use me as thou wilt and I will stay beside thee and urge thee to the cause of God.’ Again he shook his head.
‘The saints would pardon me it,’ she whispered; ‘or if I even be damned to save England, it were a good burnt-offering.’
‘Wench,’ he said; ‘I was never a man to go a-whoring. I ha’ done it, but had no savour with it.’ His boastfulness returned to the heavy voice. ‘I am a king that will give. I will give a crown, a realm, jewels, honours, monies. All I have I will give; but thou shalt wed me.’ He threw out his chest and gazed down at her. ‘I was ever thus,’ he said.
‘And I ever thus,’ she answered him swiftly. ‘Mary hath put this thing in my mind; and though ye scourge me, ye shall not have it otherwise.’
‘Even how?’ he said.
‘My lord,’ she answered; ‘if the Queen, so it be true, will say she be no wife of thine, I will wed thee. If the Queen, seeing that it is for the good of this suffering realm, will give to me her crown, I will wed with thee. I wot ye may get for yourself another woman with another gear of conscience to bear t’ee children. All the ills of this realm came with a divorce of a queen. I do hate the word as I hate Judas, and will have no truck with the deed.’
‘Ye speak me hard,’ he said; ‘but no man shall say I could not bear with the truth at odd moments.’
A great and hasty eagerness came into her voice.
‘Ye say that it is truth?’ she cried. ‘God hath softened thy heart.’
‘God or thee,’ he said, and muttered, ‘I do not make this avowal to the world.’ Suddenly he smote his thigh. ‘Body o’ God!’ he called out; ‘the day shall soon come. Cleves falls away, France and Spain are sundering. I will sue for peace with the Pope, and set up a chapel to Kat’s memory.’ He breathed as if a weight had fallen from his chest, and suddenly laughed: ‘But ye must wed me to keep me in the right way.’
He changed his tone again.
‘Why, go to Anne,’ he said; ‘she is such a fool she will not lie to thee; and, before God, she is no wife of mine.’
‘God send ye speak the truth,’ she answered; ‘but I think few men be found that will speak truth in these matters.’
IV
BUT IT WAS WITH THROCKMORTON that the real pull of the rope came. Henry was by then so full of love for her that, save when she crossed his purpose, he would have given her her way to the bitter end of things. But Throckmorton bewailed her lack of loyalty. He came to her on the morning of the next day, having heard that, if the rain held off, a cavalcade of seventeen lords, twelve ladies and their bodyguards were commanded to ride with her in one train to Windsor, where the Queen was.
‘I am main sure ’tis for Madam Howard that this cavalcade is ordered,’ he said; ‘for there is none other person in Court to whom his Highness would work this honour. And I am main sure that if Madam Howard goeth, she goeth with some mad maggot of a purpose.’
His foxy, laughing eyes surveyed her, and he stroked his great beard deliberately.
‘I ha’ not been near ye this two month,’ he said, ‘but God knows that I ha’ worked for ye.’
Save to take her to Privy Seal the day before
, when Privy Seal had sent him, he had in truth not spoken with her for many weeks. He had deemed it wise to keep from her.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said earnestly, ‘I know well that thy cause is my cause, and that thou wilt spread upon me the mantle of thy favour and protection.’
They were in her old room with the green hangings, the high fireplace, and before the door the red curtain worked with gold that the King had sent her, and Cromwell had given orders that the spy outside should be removed, for he was useless. Thus Throckmorton could speak with a measure of freedom.
‘Madam Howard,’ he said; ‘ye use me not well in this. Ye are not so stable nor so safe in your place as that ye may, without counsel or guidance, risk all our necks with these mad pranks.’
‘Goodman,’ she said, ‘I asked ye not to come into my barque. If ye hang to the gunwale, is it my fault an ye be drowned in my foundering if I founder?’
‘Tell me why ye go to Windsor,’ he urged.
‘Goodman,’ she answered, ‘to ask the Queen if she be the King’s wife.’
‘Oh, folly!’ he cried out, and added softly, ‘Madam Howard, ye be monstrous fair. I do think ye be the fairest woman in the world. I cannot sleep for thinking on thee.’
‘Poor soul!’ she mocked him.
‘But, bethink you,’ he said; ‘the Queen is a woman, not a man. All your fairness shall not help you with her. Neither yet your sweet tongue nor your specious reasons. Nor yet your faith, for she is half a Protestant.’
‘If she be the King’s wife,’ Katharine said, ‘I will not be Queen. If she care enow for her queenship to lie over it, I will not be Queen either. For I will not be in any quarrel where lies are—either of my side or of another’s.’
‘God help us all!’ Throckmorton mocked her. ‘Here is my neck engaged on your quarrel—and by now a dozen others. Udal hath lied for you in the Cleves matter; so have I. If ye be not Queen to save us ere Cromwell’s teeth be drawn, our days are over and past.’
He spoke with so much earnestness that Katharine was moved to consider her speaking.
‘Knight,’ she said at last, ‘I never asked ye to lie to Cromwell over the Cleves matter. I never asked Udal. God knows, I had the rather be dead than ye had done it. I flush and grow hot each time I think this was done for me. I never asked ye to be of my quarrel—nay, I take shame that I have not ere this sent to Privy Seal to say that ye have lied, and Cleves is false to him.’ She pointed an accusing finger at him: ‘I take shame; ye have shamed me.’
He laughed a little, but he bent a leg to her.
‘Some man must save thee from thy folly’s fruits,’ he said. ‘For some men love thee. And I love thee so my head aches.’
She smiled upon him faintly.
‘For that, I believe, I have saved thy neck,’ she said. ‘My conscience cried: “Tell Privy Seal the truth”; my heart uttered: “Hast few men that love thee and do not pursue thee.” ’
Suddenly he knelt at her feet and clutched at her hand.
‘Leave all this,’ he said. ‘Ye know not how dangerous a place this is.’ He began to whisper softly and passionately. ‘Come away from here. Well ye know that I love ’ee better than any man in land. Well ye know. Well ye know. And well ye know no man could so well fend for ye or jump nimbly to thy thoughts. The men here be boars and bulls. Leave all these dangers; here is a straight issue. Ye shall not sway the wild boar king for ever. Come with me.’
As she did not at once find words to stop his speech, he whispered on:
‘I have gold enow to buy me a baron’s fee in Almain. I have been there: in castles in the thick woods, silken bowers may be built—’
But suddenly again he rose to his feet and laughed:
‘Why,’ he said, ‘I hunger for thee: at times ’tis a madness. But ’tis past.’
His eyes twinkled again and he waved a hand.
‘Mayhap ’tis well that ye go to the Queen,’ he said drily. ‘If the Queen say, “Yea,” ye ha’ gained all; if “Nay” ye ha’ lost naught, for ye may alway change your mind. And a true and steadfast cause, a large and godly innocence is a thing that gaineth men’s hearts and voices.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Ye ha’ need o’ man’s good words,’ he said drily; then he laughed again. ‘Aye: Nolo episcopari was always a good cry,’ he said.
Katharine looked at him tenderly.
‘Ye know my aims are other,’ she said, ‘or else you would not love me. I think ye love me better than any man ever did—though I ha’ had a store of lovers.’
‘Aye,’ he nodded at her gravely, ‘it is pleasant to be loved.’
She was sitting by her table and leant her hand upon her cheek; she had been sewing a white band with pearls and silken roses in red and leaves in green, and it fell now to her feet from her lap. Suddenly he said:
‘Answer me one question of three?’
She did not move, for a feeling of languor that often overcame her in Throckmorton’s presence made her feel lazy and apt to listen. She itched to be Queen—on the morrow or next day; she desired to have the King for her own, to wear fair gowns and a crown; to be beloved of the poor people and beloved of the saints. But her fate lay upon the knees of the gods then: on the morrow the Queen would speak—betwixt then and now there was naught for it but to rest. And to hearken to Throckmorton was to be surprised as if she listened at a comedy.
‘One question of three may be answered,’ she said.
‘On the forfeit of a kiss,’ he added. ‘I pray God ye answer none.’
He pondered for a moment, and leaning back against the chimney-piece crossed one silk-stockinged, thin, red leg. He spoke very swiftly, so that his words were like lightning.
‘And the first is: An ye had never come here but elsewhere seen me, had ye it in you to ha’ loved me? And the second: How ye love the King’s person? And the third: Were ye your cousin’s leman?’
Leaning against the table she seemed slowly to grow stiff in her pose; her eyes dilated; the colour left her cheeks. She spoke no word.
‘Privy Seal hath sent a man to hasten thy cousin back to here,’ he said at last, after his eyes had steadily surveyed her face. She sat back in her chair, and the strip of sewing fell to wreathe, white and red and green, round her skirts on the floor.
‘I have sent a botcher to stay his coming,’ he said slowly. ‘Thy maid Margot’s brother.’
‘I had forgotten Tom,’ she said with long pauses between her words. She had forgotten her cousin and playmate. She had given no single thought to him since a day that she no longer remembered.
Reading the expression of her face and interpreting her slow words, Throckmorton was satisfied in his mind that she had been her cousin’s.
‘He hath passed from Calais to Dover, but I swear to you that he shall never come to you,’ he said. ‘I have others here.’ He had none, but he was set to comfort her.
‘Poor Tom!’ she uttered again almost in a whisper.
‘Thus,’ he uttered slowly, ‘you have a great danger.’
She was silent, thinking of her Lincolnshire past, and he began again:
‘Therefore ye have need of help from me as I from thee.’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘you shall advise with me. For at least, if I may not have the pleasure of thy body, I will have the enjoyment of thy converse.’ His voice became husky for a moment. ‘Mayhap it is a madness in me to cling to thee; I do set in jeopardy my earthly riches and my hope of profit. But it is Macchiavelli who says: “If ye hoard gold and at the end have not pleasure in what gold may pay, ye had better have loitered in pleasing meadows and hearkened to the madrigals of sweet singing fowls.” ’ He waved his hand: ‘Ye see I be still somewhat of a philosopher, though at times madness takes me.’
She was still silent—shaken into thinking of the past she had had with her cousin when she had been very poor in Lincolnshire; she had had leisure to read good letters there, and the time to think of them. Now she had not held a book for four days on end.
‘You a
re in a very great danger of your cousin,’ Throckmorton was repeating. ‘Yet I will stay his coming.’
‘Knight,’ she said, ‘this is a folly. If guards be needed to keep me from his knife, the King shall give me guards.’
‘His knife!’ Throckmorton raised his hands in mock surprise. ‘His knife is a very little thing.’
‘Ye would not say it an ye had come anear him when he was crossed,’ she said. ‘I, who am passing brave, fear his knife more than aught else in this world.’
‘Oh, incorrigible woman,’ he cried, ‘thinking ever of straight things and clear doings. It is not the knife of your cousin, but the devious policy of Privy Seal that calleth for fear.’
‘Why, or ever Privy Seal bind Tom to his policy he shall bind iron bars to make a coil.’
He looked at her with lifted eyebrows, and then scratched with his finger nail a tiny speck of mud from his shoe-point, balancing himself back against the chimney piece and crossing his red legs above the knees.
‘Madam Howard,’ he said, ‘Privy Seal is minded to use thy cousin for a battering-ram.’ She was hardly minded to listen to him, and he uttered stealthily, as if he were sure of moving her: ‘Thy cousin shall breach a way to the ears of the King—for thy ill fame to enter in.’
She leaned forward a little.
‘Tell me of my ill fame,’ she said; and at that moment Margot Poins, her handmaid, placid still, large, fair and florid, came in to bring her mistress an embroidery frame of oak wood painted with red stripes. At Throckmorton’s glance askance at the cow-like girl, Katharine said: ‘Ye may speak afore Margot Poins. I ha’ heard tales of her bringing.’
Margot kneeled at Katharine’s feet to stretch a white linen cloth over the frame on the floor.
‘Privy Seal planneth thus,’ Throckmorton answered Katharine’s challenge. He spoke low and level, hoping to see her twinge at every new phrase. ‘The King hath put from him every tale of thee; it is not easy to bring him tales of those he loves, but very dangerous. But Cromwell planneth to bring hither thy cousin and to keep him privily till one day cometh the King to be alone with thee in thy bower or his. Then, having removed all lets, shall Cromwell gird this cousin to spring in upon thee and the King, screaming out and with his sword drawn.’ Still Katharine did not move, but leaned along her table of yellow wood. ‘It is not the sword ye shall fear,’ he said slowly, ‘but what cometh after. For, for sure, Privy Seal holdeth, then shall be the time to bring witnesses against thee to the hearing of the King. And Privy Seal hath witnesses.’
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