Whilst Poins was already hastening towards the gateway, Throckmorton cried to him at a distance:
‘Ask at each cross-road guard-house and at all ferries and bridges if some have passed that way; and at the landing-stage if perchance caballeros have altered their desires and had it in their minds to take to boats.’
He sped through the wind to the riverside, set again his oars in motion and swept up the tide. It had turned and they made good progress.
VI
THE QUEEN SAT in her painted gallery at Richmond, and all around her her maids sewed and span. The gallery was long; along the panels that faced the windows were angels painted in red and blue and gold, and in the three centre squares St George, whose face was the face of the King’s Highness, in one issued from a yellow city upon a green plain; in one with a cherry-coloured lance slew a green dragon from whose mouth issued orange-coloured flames; and in one carried away, that he might wed her in a rose-coloured tower on a hillside, a princess in a black gown with hair painted of real gold.
Whilst the maids sewed in silence the Queen sat still upon a stool. Light-skinned, not very stout, with a smooth oval face, she had laid her folded hands on the gold and pearl embroidery of her lap and gazed away into the distance, thinking. She sat so still that not even the lawn tips of her wide hood with its invisible, minute sewings of white, quivered. Her gown was of cloth of gold, but since her being in England she had learned to wear a train, and in its folds on the ground slept a small Italian greyhound. About her neck she had a partelet set with green jewels and with pearls. Her maids sewed; the spinning-wheels ate away the braided flax from the spindles, and the sunlight poured down through the high windows. She was a very fair woman then, and many that had seen her there sit had marvelled of the King’s disfavour for her; but she was accounted wondrous still, sitting thus by the hour with the little hounds in the folds of her dress. Only her eyes with their half-closed lids gave to her lost gaze the appearance of a humour and irony that she never was heard to voice.
They turned to the opening door, a flush came into her face, spread slowly down her white neck and was lost in the white opening of her shoulder-pieces, and she greeted Katharine Howard, kneeling at her feet, with an inclination of the head so tiny that you could not see the motion. Her eyes remained motionlessly upon the girl’s face; only the lids moved suddenly when Katharine spoke to her in German.
‘You speak my tongue?’ the Queen asked, motionless still and speaking very low. Katharine remained upon her knees.
‘I learned to read books in German when I was a child,’ Katharine said; ‘and since you came I have spoken an hour a day with a German astronomer that I might give you pleasure if so be it chanced.’
‘So it is well,’ the Queen said. ‘Not many have so done.’
‘God has endowed me with an ease of tongues,’ Katharine answered; ‘many others would have ventured it for your Grace’s pleasure. But your tongue is a hard tongue.’
‘I have needed to learn hard sentences in yours,’ the Queen said, ‘and have had many masters many hours of the day. I will have you stand up upon your feet.’
Katharine remained upon her knees.
‘I will have you stand up upon your feet,’ the Queen repeated.
‘I have a prayer to make,’ Katharine answered.
The Queen looked for a minute straight before her, then slowly turned her head to one side. When her gaze rested upon her women they rose and, with a clatter of their feet and a rustle of garments, carrying their white sewings and their spinning-wheels stilled, went away down the gallery. The German lord of Overstein, bearded and immense in the then German fashion, came from behind the retreating women to stand before the Queen signifying that he would offer his interpretership. She dismissed him without speaking, letting her eyes rest upon him. She was the most silent woman in the world, but all people said that no queen had women and men servers that needed fewer words or so discreetly did their devoirs.
The silence and the bright light of the sun swathed these two women’s figures, so that Katharine seemed to hear the flutter against the window-glass of a brown butterfly that, having sheltered in the hall all winter, now sought to take a part in the new brightness of the world. Katharine kept her knees, her eyes upon the floor; the Queen, motionless and soft, let her eyes rest upon Katharine’s hood. From time to time they travelled to her face, to the medallion that hung from her neck, and to her dark green skirt of velvet that lay around her upon the floor. The butterfly sought another window; the Queen spoke at last.
‘You seek my queenship’; and in her still voice there was neither passion, nor pity, nor question, nor resignation.
Katharine raised her eyes: they saw the imprisoned butterfly, but she found no words.
‘You have more courage than I,’ the Queen said.
Suddenly she made a single gesture with her hands, as if she swept something from her lap: some invisible dust—and that was all. Still Katharine did not move nor speak; she had prepared speeches—speeches against the Queen’s being disdainful, enraged, or dissolved in tears. She had read in books all night from Aulus Gellius to Cicero to get wisdom. But here there were no speeches called for; no speeches could be made. The significance of the Queen’s gesture of sweeping dust from her lap slowly overwhelmed her.
‘You have more courage than I,’ the Queen repeated, as though slowly she were making a catalogue of Katharine’s qualities to set dispassionately against her own; and again her eyes moved over Katharine. With her first swift gesture she drew from the stool-top a pamphlet of writing, upon which she had sat. Her face grew slowly red.
‘It did not need this long writing against my person,’ she said. ‘I take it grievously.’
Katharine moved upon her knees as if she had been stung by an intolerable accusation.
‘Before God!—’ she began to say.
‘Well, I believe you had no part in the writing,’ the Queen interrupted her. ‘Yet the more I say you have courage: to wed a man that will write lies of another woman’s body and powers.’
Katharine sat still; the Queen’s slow anger faded slowly away.
‘I do not see why this King thinks you more fair than I be,’ she said dispassionately; ‘but what draweth the love of man to woman is not yet known.’
Again she repeated:
‘There was no need of this writing against me. The King has never played the husband’s part to me; I would have you tell him, if I go in danger from him, that, for me, he may go his ways. I have no mind to stay him, nor to be a queen in this country. Here, it is said, they slay queens.’
‘If I will be Queen, it is that God may bless this realm and King with the old faith again,’ Katharine said. Anne’s eyelids narrowed.
‘It is best known to yourself why you will be Queen,’ she said. ‘It is best known to God what faith he will have in this your realm. I know not what faith he liketh best, nor yet what side of a queen’s functions most commendeth itself unto you.’
She seemed to withdraw herself more and more from any struggle, as if she were a novice that took an invisible veil—and she uttered only requests as to the world into which she would withdraw from this one.
‘I am not minded to go back to Cleves,’ she stipulated; for she had thought much and long in her stillnesses of what she would have; ‘the Duke, my brother, is to blame for having brought me to this pass. Moreover, he is not able to defend his lands; so that if, with a proper establishing and revenue, I go back to Cleves, the Emperor Charles, who hath a tooth for gold, may too easily undo me. I would have a castle here in England; for England is an island, and well defended in all its avenues, and its King a man of honour and his word to such as never cross him, as never will I.’
She spoke slowly, as if in her mind she were ticking off little notes pencilled on her tablets; for since she could not read she had a memory that she could trust to. ‘I will have a castle built me not strong enough to withstand the King’s forces, since those I mak
e no call to withstand, but strong enough to guard me against robber bands and the insurrections that are ordinary. Upon a slope that shall take the sun in winter, with trees about beneath which I may sit in the heat of summer-time. I will have a good show of servants, because I am a princess of noble lineage; I will have most of them Germans that I may speak easily with them, but some English, understanding German, so that the King may be advised I work no treasons against him. From time to time I will have the King to visit and to talk with me courteously and fairly as well he can: this in order to counterpart and destroy the report that I smell foul and am so ill to see that it makes a man ill—’
Her eyes, resting upon Katharine, closed slightly again with a tiny malice.
‘I will have you not to fear that, upon such visits, I will use wiles to entrap the King. I do not favour him. I am not content to be queen of this country. It is as fair as my own country. In summer it is more cool, in the winter time more temperate. Meats here are good; cooks are better than with us. What a woman and a princess in this world would have is here all at the best, save only its men, and the most dangerous of all its men is the King.’
Katharine’s ready anger rose at her words, though before the Queen’s speeches had flowed above her head and left her speechless and ashamed.
‘The King is known throughout Christendom,’ she said, ‘for the royallest prince, the noblest speaker, the most princely horseman, the most munificent and the most learned in the law.’
‘That he may be,’ the Queen smiled faintly, ‘to them that have never crossed him. It has been my ill-destiny so to do.’
‘Madam,’ Katharine cried out, ‘never man was so crossed, ill-served, evilly-led, or betrayed. Ye may not mislike him if at times he be petulant. I do the more praise him for it.’
‘Why, you do love him,’ the Queen said. ‘I have no cause so to do.’
Katharine caught at one of her hands.
‘Your Grace,’ she said, ‘Queen and high potentate, this realm calleth out that some one person do lead the King aright. Before God, I think I do not seek powers or temporal crowns. Maybe it is sweet to sit in a painted gallery and be a queen, but I have very little considered it; only, here is a King that crieth for the peace of God, a people that clamoureth aloud to be led back to the ways of God, a land parched for rain, swept by gales of wind and pestilences, bewailing the lost favour of God, and the Holy Church devastated that standeth between God and the realm.’ The Queen listened to her as if, having made her stipulations, she had no more personal interest in the matter and were listening to the tale of a journey. ‘Before God!’ Katharine said, ‘if you were not a virgin for the King, or if the King have coerced you to forswearing yourself in this matter, I would not be the King’s wife, but his concubine. Only, sore is his need of me; he hath sworn it many times, and I do believe it, that I best, if anyone may, may give him rest with my converse and lead him to peace. He hath sworn that never woman save I made him so clearly to see his path to goodness; and never woman save I, at convenient seasons, have made him so forget his many cares.’
‘Why, you have still more courage than I had thought,’ the Queen said, ‘to take a man so dangerous upon so little assurance.’ She moved the hand that Katharine touched in her lap neither forward nor away; but at last she said:
‘I am neither of your country nor for it; neither of your faith nor against it. But, being here, here I do sojourn. I came not here of mine own will. Men have handled me as they would, as if I had been a doll. But, if I may have as much of the sun as shines, and as much of comfort as the realm affords its better sort, being a princess, and to be treated with some reverence, I care not if ye take King, crown, and commonalty, so ye leave me the ruling of my house and the freedom to wash my face how I will. I had as soon see England linked again with the Papists as the Schmalkaldners; I had as lief see the King married to you as another; I had as lief all men do what they will so they leave me to go my ways and feed me well.’
She looked again upon Katharine, and for the first time spoke as if she were addressing her:
‘I make out that you are a woman with an itch to meddle at the righting of the world. There have been more men than women at the task, but such an one was I never. The King was never man of mine, nor should have been had I any say in the matter.’ She half closed her eyes again. ‘Doubtless had it been otherwise the King would have constrained me by threats and tortures to forswear myself. I am as I was when I came to Dover. As the King saw me so he left me. Yet do I maintain and avow it was rather because he feared alliance with my brother’s party than for any foulness of my person.’
Katharine passed her hands over her eyes.
‘I do feel myself a thief and a cozener,’ she said.
‘Ye be none,’ the Queen said; ‘ye take no more than what I least prize of this world. Had it not been thee it might have been a worse; for assuredly I was not made to foot it with this King.’
‘Nevertheless—’ Katharine began. But the Queen was no more content to listen to her.
‘Ye are as some I have known,’ she said; ‘they scruple to take what they very much crave, though it hang ready to drop into their hands; because they much crave it, therefore they scruple.’ She had a small golden bullet beneath her clasped hands, and she cast it into a basin of silver that stood on a tripod beside her skirts. At the silvery clash and roll of the ball’s running sound on the metal, doors opened along the gallery, and servitors came in bearing Rhenish wine in glass flagons and, upon great salvers, cakes in the forms of hearts or twisted into true-love-knots of pastry.
Katharine noted these things as being worthy of imitation.
‘It is no more to me,’ the Queen said, ‘to lose the other things to you than to lose to you the wine that you shall drink or a pile of cakes.’ Nevertheless she left Katharine upon her knees till she had taken her cup, for it pleased her that her servitors should see her treated with due worship.
VII
IT WAS NOON of that day when Katharine Howard set out again from Richmond to ride back to Hampton Court; and at noon of that day Throckmorton’s barge shot dangerously beneath London Bridge, hastening to Hampton Court. At noon Thomas Culpepper passed over London Bridge, because a great crowd pressed across it from the south going to see a burning at Smithfield; at noon, too, or five minutes later, the young Poins galloped furiously past the end of the bridge and did not cross over, but sped through Southwark towards Hampton Court. And at noon or thereabouts the King, dressed in green as a husbandman, sat on a log to await a gunfire, in the forest that was near to Richmond river path opposite Isleworth. He had given to Katharine a paper that she was to deliver to the master gunner of Richmond Palace in case the Queen Anne did satisfy her that the marriage was no marriage. So that, when among the green glades where the great trees let down their branches near the sward and shewed little tips of tender green leaves, he heard three thuds come echoing, he sprang to his feet, and, smiting his great, green-clothed thigh, he cried out: ‘Ha! I be young again!’ He pulled to his lips the mouth of the English horn that was girdled across his shoulder and under his arm; he set his feet wide apart, filled his lungs with air, and blew a thin, clear call. At once there issued from brakes, thickets and glades the figures of men, dressed like the King in yeoman’s green, bearing bows over their shoulders, horns at their elbows, or having straining dogs in their leashes.
‘Ho!’ the King said to his chief verderer, a man of sixty with a grey beard, but so that all others could hear; ‘be it well understood that I will have you shew some ladies what make of thing it is to rule over jolly Englishmen.’ He directed them how he would have them drive the deer at the end of the glade; he saw to the setting up of white wands of peeled willows and, taking from his yeoman-companion, that was the Earl of Surrey, his great bow, he shot a mighty shaft along the glade, to shew how far away he would have the deer to pass like swift ghosts between the aisles of the trees.
But the palace of Hampton lay deserted and
given up to scullions, who lay in the sunlight and took their rare ease. For a great many lords that could shoot well with the bow were gone to play the yeoman with the King; and a great many that had sumptuous and gallant apparel were gone to join the ladies riding back from Richmond; and the King’s whole council, together with many lords that were awful or reverend in their appearance, were gone to sit in the scaffold to see the burning of the friar that had denied the King’s supremacy of the Church and the burnings of the six Protestants that had denied the presence of Christ’s body in the Sacrament. Only Privy Seal, who had ordered these things, was still walking in his gallery where he so often had walked of late.
He had with him Wriothesley, whose face was utterly downcast and abashed; he walked turning more swiftly than had been his wont ever before. Wriothesley hung down his great bearded, honest head and sighed three times.
‘Sir,’ he said at last, ‘I see before us nothing but that ye make to divorce the Queen Anne.’ And the words seemed to come from him as if they cost him his heart’s blood.
Cromwell paused before him, his hands behind his back, his feet apart.
‘The weighty question,’ he said, ‘is this: Who hath betrayed me: of Udal; of the alewife that he should have had the papers of; or Throckmorton?’
He had that morning received from Cleves, in the letter of his agent there, the certain proof that the Duke had written to the Emperor Charles making an utter submission to save his land from ruin, and as utterly abjuring his alliance with the King his brother-in-law and with the Schmalkaldner league and its Protestant princes. Cromwell had immediately called to him Wriothesley that was that day ordering the horses to take him back to Paris town. He had given him this news, which, if it were secret then, must in a month be made known to all the world. To Wriothesley the Protestant this blow was the falling in of the world; here was Protestantism at an end and dead. There remained nothing but to save the necks of some to carry on the faith to distant days. Therefore he had brought out his reluctant words to urge Privy Seal to the divorce of Anne of Cleves. There was no other way; there was no other issue. Privy Seal must abjure Cleves’ Queen, and the very savour of a desire for a Protestant league.
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