‘Why,’ she said, ‘sometimes his advice shall fit a woman’s mood; sometimes he goes astray, as in the case of these gloves. Cheverel is a skin that will stretch so that after one wearing you may not tell the thumbs from stocking-feet. Nevertheless, I would be rid of your cousin.’
‘Not in this quarrel,’ Katharine answered. ‘Find him an honourable errand, and he shall go to Kathay.’
Cicely threw the stretched cheverel glove into the fire.
‘My knight shall give me a dozen pairs of silk, stitched with gold to stiffen them,’ she said. ‘You shall have six; but send your cousin in quest of the Islands of the Blest. They lie well out in the Western Ocean. If you can make him mislay his compass he will never come back to you.’
Katharine laughed.
‘I think he would come without compass or chart. Nevertheless, I will send me my letter by means of your knight to Bishop Gardiner.’
Cicely Elliott hung her head on her chest.
‘I do not ask its contents, but you may give it me.’
Katharine brought it out from the bosom of her dress, and the dark girl passed it up her sleeve.
‘This shall no doubt ruin you,’ she said. ‘But get you to our mistress. I will carry your letter.’
Katharine started back.
‘You!’ she said. ‘It was Sir Nicholas should have it conveyed.’
‘That poor, silly old man shall not be hanged in this matter,’ Cicely answered. ‘It is all one to me. If Crummock would have had my head he could have shortened me by that much a year ago.’
Katharine’s eyes dilated proudly.
‘Give me my letter,’ she said; ‘I will have no woman in trouble for me.’
The dark girl laughed at her.
‘Your letter is in my sleeve. No hands shall touch it before mine deliver it to him it is written to. Get you to our mistress. I thank you for an errand I may laugh over; laughter here is not over mirthful.’
She stood side face to Katharine, her mouth puckered up into her smile, her eyes roguish, her hands clasped behind her back.
‘Why, you see Cicely Elliott,’ she said, ‘whose folk all died after the Marquis of Exeter’s rising, who has neither kith nor kin, nor house nor home. I had a man loved me passing well. He is dead with the rest; so I pass my time in pranks because the hours are heavy. To-day the prank is on thy side; take it as a gift the gods send, for to-morrow I may play thee one, since thou art soft, and fair, and tender. That is why they call me here the Magpie. My old knight will tell you I have tweaked his nose now and again, but I will not have him shortened by the head for thy sake.’
‘Why, you are very bitter,’ Katharine said.
The girl answered, ‘If your head ached as mine does now and again when I remember my men who are dead; if your head ached as mine does …’ She stopped and gave a peal of laughter. ‘Why, child, your face is like a startled moon. You have not stayed days enough here to have met many like me; but if you tarry here for long you will laugh much as I laugh, or you will have grown blind long since with weeping.’
Katharine said, ‘Poor child, poor child!’
But the girl cried out, ‘Get you gone, I say! In the Lady Mary’s room you shall find my old knight babbling with the maidens. Send him to me, for my head aches scurvily, and he shall dip his handkerchief in vinegar and set it upon my forehead.’
‘Let me comb thy hair,’ Katharine said; ‘my hand is sovereign against a headache.’
‘No, get you gone,’ the girl said harshly; ‘I will have men of war to do these errands for me.’
Katharine answered, ‘Sit thee down. Thou wilt take my letter; I must ease thy pains.’
‘As like as not I shall scratch thy pink face,’ Cicely said. ‘At these times I cannot bear the touch of a woman. It was a woman made my father run with the Marquis of Exeter.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Katharine said softly, ‘I could hold both thy wrists with my two fingers. I am stronger than most men.’
‘Why, no!’ the girl cried; ‘I may not sit still. Get you gone. I will run upon your errand. If you had knelt to as many men as I have you could not sit still either. And not one of my men was pardoned.’
She ran from the room with a sidelong step like a magpie’s, and her laugh rang out discordantly from the corridor.
The Lady Mary sat reading her Plautus in her large painted gallery, with all her maids about her sewing, some at a dress for her, some winding silk for their own uses. The old knight stood holding his sturdy hands apart between a rope of wool that his namesake Lady Rochford was making into balls. Other gentlemen were beside some of the maids, toying with their silks or whispering in their ears. No one much marked Katharine Howard.
She glided to her lady and kissed the dry hand that lay in the lap motionless. Mary raised her eyes from her book, looked for a leisurely time at the girl’s face, and then began again to read. Old Rochford winked pleasantly at her, and, after she had saluted his cousin, he begged her to hold the wool in his stead, for his hands, which were used to sword and shield, were very cold, and his legs, inured to the saddle, brooked standing very ill.
‘Cicely Elliott hath a headache,’ Katharine said; ‘she bade me send you to her.’
He waited before her, helping her to adjust the wool on to her white hands, and she uttered, in a low voice:
‘She hath taken my letter for me.’
He said, ‘Why, what a’ the plague’s name.…’ and stood fingering his peaked little beard in a gentle perplexity.
Lady Rochford pulled at her wool and gave a hissing sigh of pain, for the joint of her wrist was swollen.
‘It has always been easterly winds in January since the Holy Blood of Hailes was lost,’ she sighed. ‘In its day I could get me some ease in the wrist by touching the phial that held it.’ She shivered with discomfort, and smiled distractedly upon Katharine. Her large and buxom face was mild, and she seemed upon the point of shedding tears.
‘Why, if you will put your wool round a stool, I will wind it for you,’ Katharine said, because the gentle helplessness of the large woman filled her with compassion, as if this were her old, mild mother.
Lady Rochford shook her head disconsolately.
‘Then I must do something else, and my bones would ache more. But I would you would make my cousin Rochford ask the Archbishop where they have hidden the Sacred Blood of Hailes, that I may touch it and be cured.’
The old knight frowned very slightly.
‘I have told thee to wrap thy fist in lamb’s-wool,’ he said. ‘A hundred times I have told thee. It is very dangerous to meddle with these old saints and phials that are done away with.’
Lady Rochford sighed gently and hung her head.
‘My cousin Anne, that was a sinful Queen, God rest her soul.…’ she began.
Sir Nicholas listened to her no more.
‘See you,’ he whispered to Katharine. ‘Peradventure it is best that Cicely have gone. Being a madcap, her comings and goings are heeded by no man, and it is true that she resorteth daily to the Bishop of Winchester, to plague his priests.’
‘I would not speak so, being a man,’ Katharine said.
He smiled at her and patted her shoulder.
‘Why, I have struck good blows in my time,’ he said.
‘And have learned worldly wisdom,’ Katharine retorted.
‘I would not risk my neck on grounds where I am but ill acquainted,’ he answered soberly. He was all will to please her. The King, he said, was coming on the Wednesday, after the Bishop of Winchester’s, to see three new stallions walk in their manage-steps. ‘I pray that you will come with Cicely Elliott to watch from the little window in the stables. These great creatures are a noble sight. I bred them myself to it.’ His mild brown eyes were bright with enthusiasm and cordiality.
Suddenly there was a great silence in the room, and the Lady Mary raised her head. The burly figure of Throckmorton, the spy, was in the doorway. Katharine shuddered at the sight of him, for, in he
r Lincolnshire house, where he was accounted more hateful than Judas who betrayed the Lord, she had seen him beat the nuns when the convents had been turned out of doors, and he had brought to death his own brother, who had had a small estate near her father’s house. The smile upon his face made her feel sick. He stroked his long, golden-brown beard, glanced swiftly round the room, and advanced to the mistress’s chair, swinging his great shoulders. He made a leg and pulled off his cap, and at that there was a rustle of astonishment, for it had been held treasonable to cap the Lady Mary. Her eyes regarded him fixedly, with a granite cold and hardness, and he seemed to have at once a grin of power and a shrinking motion of currying favour. He said that Privy Seal begged her leave that her maid Katharine Howard might go to him soon after one o’clock. The Lady Mary neither spoke nor moved, but the old knight shrank away from Katharine, and affected to be talking in the ear of Lady Rochford, who went on winding her wool. Throckmorton turned on his heels and swung away, his eyes on the floor, but with a grin on his evil face.
He left a sudden whisper behind him, and then the silence fell once more. Katharine stood, a tall figure, holding out the hands on which the wool was as if she were praying to some invisible deity or welcoming some invisible lover. Some heads were raised to look at her, but they fell again; the old knight shuffled nearer her to whisper hoarsely from his moustachioed lips:
‘Your serving man hath reported. Pray God we come safe out of this!’ Then he went out of the room. Lady Rochford sighed deeply, for no apparent reason.
After a time the Lady Mary raised her head and made a minute, cold beckoning to Katharine. Her dry finger pointed to a word in her book of Plautus.
‘Tell me what you know of this,’ she commanded.
The play was the Menechmi, and the phrase ran, ‘Nimis autem bene ora commetavi.…’ It was difficult for Katharine to bring her mind down to this text, for she had been wondering if indeed her time were at an end before it had begun. She said:
‘I have never loved this play very well,’ to excuse herself.
‘Then you are out of the fashion,’ Mary said coldly, ‘for this Menechmi is prized here above all the rest, and shall be played at Winchester’s before his Highness.’
Katharine bowed her head submissively, and read the words again.
‘I remember me,’ she said, ‘I had this play in a manuscript where your commetavi read commentavi.’
Mary kept her eyes upon the girl’s face, and said:
‘Signifying?’
‘Why, it signifies,’ Katharine said, ‘that Messenio did well mark a face. If you read commetavi it should mean that he scratched it with his nails so that it resembled a harrowed field; if commentavi, that he bethumped it with his fist so that bruises came out like the stops on a fair writing.’
‘It is true that you are a good Latinist,’ Mary said expressionlessly. ‘Bring me my inkhorn to that window. I will write down your commentavi.’
Katharine lifted the inkhorn from its hole in the arm of the chair and gracefully followed the stiff and rigid figure into the embrasure of a distant window.
Mary bent her head over the book that she held in her hand, and writing in the margin, she uttered:
‘Pity that such an excellent Latinist should meddle in matters that nothing concern her.’
Katharine held the inkhorn carefully, as if it had been a precious vase.
‘If you will bid me do naught but serve you, I will do naught else,’ she said.
‘I will neither bid thee nor aid thee,’ Mary answered. ‘The Bishop of Winchester claims thy service. Serve him as thou wilt.’
‘I would serve my mistress in serving him,’ Katharine said. ‘He is a man I love little.’
Mary pulled suddenly from her bodice a piece of crumpled parchment that had been torn across. She thrust it into Katharine’s free hand.
‘Such letters I have had written me by my father’s men,’ she said. ‘If this bishop should come to be my father’s man I would take no service from him.’
Katharine read on the crumpled parchment such words as:
‘Be you dutiful …
I will not protect …
You shall be ruined utterly …
You had better creep underground …
Therefore humble you …’
‘It was Thomas Cromwell wrote that,’ the Lady Mary cried. ‘My father’s man!’
‘But if this brewer’s son be brought down?’ Katharine pleaded.
‘Why, I tore his letter across for it is filthy,’ Mary said, ‘and I keep the halves of his letter that I may remember. If he be brought down, who shall bring his master down that let him write so?’
Katharine said:
‘If this tempter of the Devil’s brood were brought down there should ensue so great an atonement from his sorrowful master whom he deludes.…’
Mary uttered a ‘Tush!’ of scorn and impatience. ‘This is the babbling of a child. My father is no holy innocent as you and your like feign to believe.’
‘Nevertheless I love you most well,’ Katharine pleaded.
Mary snapped her book to. Her cold tone came back over her heat as the grey clouds of a bitter day shut down again upon a dangerous flicker of lightning.
‘Do as you will,’ she said, ‘only if your head fall I will stir no finger to aid you. Or, if by these plottings my father could be got to send me his men upon their knees and bearing crowns, I would turn my back upon them and say no word.’
‘Well, my plottings are like to end full soon,’ Katharine said. ‘Privy Seal hath sent for me upon no pleasant errand.’
Mary said: ‘God help you!’ with a frigid unconcern, and walked back to her chair.
VI
CROMWELL KEPT AS A RULE his private courts either in his house at Austin Friars, or in a larger one that he had near the Rolls. But, when the King was as far away from London as Greenwich, or when such ill-wishers as the Duke of Norfolk were in the King’s neighbourhood, Cromwell never slept far out of earshot from the King’s rooms. It was said indeed that never once since he had become the King’s man had he passed a day without seeing his Highness once at least, or writing him a great letter. But he contrived continually to send the nobles that were against him upon errands at a distance—as when Bishop Gardiner was made Ambassador to Paris, or Norfolk sent to put down the North after the Pilgrimage of Grace. Such errands served a double purpose: Gardiner, acting under the pressure of the King, was in Paris forced to make enemies of many of his foreign friends; and the Duke, in his panic-stricken desire to curry favour with Henry, had done more harrying, hanging and burning among the Papists than ever Henry or his minister would have dared to command, for in those northern parts the King’s writ did not run freely. Thus, in spite of himself the Duke at York had been forced to hold the country whilst creatures of Privy Seal, men of the lowest birth and of the highest arrogance, had been made Wardens of the Marches and filled the Councils of the Borders. Such men, with others, like the judges and proctors of the Court of Augmentations, which Cromwell had invented to administer the estates of the monasteries and escheated lords’ lands, with a burgess or two from the shires in Parliament, many lawyers and some suppliants of rank, filled the anterooms of Privy Seal. There was a matter of two hundred of them, mostly coming not upon any particular business so much as that any enemies they had who should hear of their having been there might tremble the more.
Cromwell himself was in the room that had the King’s and Queen’s heads on the ceiling and the tapestry of Diana hunting. He was speaking with a great violence to Sir Leonard Ughtred, whose sister-in-law, the widow of Sir Anthony Ughtred, and sister of the Queen Jane, his son Gregory had married two years before. It was a good match, for it made Cromwell’s son the uncle of the Prince of Wales, but there had been a trouble about their estates ever since.
‘Sir,’ Cromwell threatened the knight, ‘Gregory my son was ever a fool. If he be content that you have Hyde Farm that am not I. His wife may twist him to
consent, but I will not suffer it.’
Ughtred hung his head, which was closely shaved, and fingered his jewelled belt.
‘It is plain justice,’ he muttered. ‘The farm was ceded to my brother after Hyde Monastery was torn down. It was to my brother, not to my brother’s wife, who is now your son’s.’
Cromwell turned upon the Chancellor of the Augmentations who stood in the shadow of the tall mantelpiece. He was twisting his fingers in his thin grey beard that wagged tremulously when he spoke.
‘Truly,’ he bleated piteously, ‘it stands in the register of the Augmentations as the worshipful knight says.’
Cromwell cried out, in a studied rage: ‘I made thee and I made thy office: I will unmake the one and the other if it and thou know no better law.’
‘God help me,’ the Chancellor gasped. He shrank again into the shadow of the chimney, and his blinking eyes fell upon Cromwell’s back with a look of dread and the hatred of a beast that is threatened at the end of its hole.
‘Sir,’ Cromwell frowned darkly upon Ughtred, ‘the law stands thus if the Augmentation people know it not. This farm and others were given to your late brother upon his marriage, that the sister of the Queen might have a proper state. The Statute of Uses hath here no say. Understand me: It was the King’s to give; it is the King’s still.’ He opened his mouth so wide that he appeared to bellow. ‘That farm falleth to the survivor of those two, who is now my son’s wife. What judge shall gainsay that?’ He swayed his body round on his motionless and sturdily planted legs, veering upon the Chancellor and the knight in turn, as if he challenged them to gainsay him who had been an attorney for ten years after he had been a wool merchant.
Ughtred shrugged his shoulders heavily, and the Chancellor hastened to bleat:
‘No judge shall gainsay your lordship. Your lordship hath an excellent knowledge of the law.’
‘Why hast thou not as good a one?’ Cromwell rated him. ‘I made thee since I thought thou hadst.’ The Chancellor choked in his throat and waved his hands.
‘Thus the law is,’ Cromwell said to Ughtred. ‘And if it were not so Parliament should pass an Act so to make it. For it is a scandal that a Queen’s sister, an aunt of the Prince that shall be King, should lose her lands upon the death of her husband. It savours of treason that you should ask it. I have known men go to the Tower upon less occasion.’
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