‘Well, I mind my book,’ Lascelles said. ‘But wherefore?’
‘Sir,’ the woodman answered, ‘it is thus: The Queen when she rides a-hawking has always behind her her page Toussaint, a little boy. And this little boy holdeth ever the separate lures for each hawk that the Queen setteth up. And the falcon or hawk or genette or tiercel having stooped, the Queen will call upon that eyass for the lure appropriated to each bird as it chances. And very carefully the Queen’s Highness observeth the laws of the chase, of venery and hawking. For the which I honour her.’
Lascelles said, ‘Well, well!’
‘As for the borrowing of a handkerchief,’ the woodman pursued, ‘that is a very idle tale. For, let me tell you, a lady might borrow a jewelled feather or a scarlet pouch or what not that is bright and shall take a bird’s eye—a little mirror upon a cord were a good thing. But a handkerchief! Why, Sir Bookman, that a lady can only do if she will signify to all the world: “This knight is my servant and I his mistress.” Those very words it signifieth—and that the better for it showeth that that lady is minded to let her hawk go, luring the gentleman to her with that favour of his.’
‘Well, well,’ Lascelles said, ‘I am not so ignorant that I did not know that. Therefore I asked you, for it seemed a very strange thing.’
‘It is a very foolish tale and very evil,’ the man answered. ‘For this I will swear: that the Queen’s Highness—and I and her honour for it—observeth very jealously the laws of wood and moorland and chase.’
‘So I have heard,’ Lascelles said. ‘But I see the castle. I will not take you farther, but will let you go back to the goodly deer.’
‘Pray God they be not wandered fore,’ the woodman said. ‘You could have found this way without me.’
There was but one road into the castle, and that from the south, up a steep green bank. Up the roadway Lascelles must ride his horse past four men that bore a litter made of two pikes wattled with green boughs and covered with a horse-cloth. As Lascelles passed by the very head of it, the man that lay there sprang off it to his feet, and cried out—
‘I be the Queen’s cousin and servant. I brought her to the Court.’ Lascelles’ horse sprang sideways, a great bound up the bank. He galloped ten paces ahead before the rider could stay him and turn round. The man, all rags and with a black face, had fallen into the dust of the road, and still cried out outrageously. The bearers set down the litter, wiped their brows, and then, falling all four upon Culpepper, made to carry him by his legs and arms, for they were weary of laying him upon the litter from which incessantly he sprang.
But before them upon his horse was Lascelles and impeded their way. Culpepper drew in and pushed out his legs and arms, so that they all four staggered, and—
‘For God’s sake, master,’ one of them grunted out, ‘stand aside that we may pass. We have toil enow in bearing him.’
‘Why, set the poor gentleman down upon the litter,’ Lascelles said, ‘and let us talk a little.’
The men set Culpepper on the horse-cloth, and one of them knelt down to hold him there.
‘If you will lend us your horse to lay him across, we may come more easily up,’ one said. In these days the position and trade of a spy was so little esteemed—it had been far other with the great informers of Privy Seal’s day—that these men, being of the Queen’s guard, would talk roughly to Lascelles, who was a mere poor gentleman of the Archbishop’s if his other vocation could be neglected. Lascelles sat, his hand upon his chin.
‘You use him very roughly if this be the Queen’s cousin,’ he said.
The bearer set back his beard and laughed at the sky.
‘This is a coif—a poor rag of a merchant,’ he cried put. ‘If this were the Queen’s cousin should we bear him thus on a clout?’
‘I am the Queen’s cousin, T. Culpepper,’ Culpepper shouted at the sky. ‘Who be you that stay me from her?’
‘Why, you may hear plainly,’ the bearer said. ‘He is mazed, doited, starved, thirsted, and a seer of visions.’
Lascelles pondered, his elbow upon his saddle-peak, his chin caught in his hand.
‘How came ye by him?’ he asked.
One with another they told him the tale, how, the Queen being ridden towards the north parts, at the extreme end of her ride had seen the man, at a distance, among the heather, flogging a dead horse with a moorland kern beside him. He was a robbed, parched, fevered, and amazed traveller. The Queen’s Highness, compassionating, had bidden bear him to the castle and comfort and cure him, not having looked upon his face or heard his tongue. For, for sure then, she had let him die where he was; since, no sooner were these four, his new bearers, nearly come up among the knee-deep heather, than this man had started up, his eyes upon the Queen’s cavalcade and many at a distance. And, with his sword drawn and screaming, he had cried out that, if that was the Queen, he was the Queen’s cousin. They had tripped up his heels in a bed of ling and quieted him with a clout on the poll from an axe end.
‘But now we have him here,’ the eldest said; ‘where we shall bestow him we know not.’
Lascelles had his eyes upon the sick man’s face as if it fascinated him, and, slowly, he got down from his horse. Culpepper then lay very still with his eyes closed, but his breast heaved as though against tight and strong ropes that bound him.
‘I think I do know this gentleman for one John Robb,’ he said. ‘Are you very certain the Queen’s Highness did not know his face?’
‘Why, she came not ever within a quarter mile of him,’ the bearer said.
‘Then it is a great charity of the Queen to show mercy to a man she hath never seen,’ Lascelles answered absently. He was closely casting his eyes over Culpepper. Culpepper lay very still, his begrimed face to the sky, his hands abroad above his head. But when Lascelles bent over him it was as if he shuddered, and then he wept.
Lascelles bent down, his hands upon his knees. He was afraid—he was very afraid. Thomas Culpepper, the Queen’s cousin, he had never seen in his life. But he had heard it reported that he had red hair and beard, and went always dressed in green with stockings of red. And this man’s hair was red, and his beard, beneath coal grime, was a curly red, and his coat, beneath a crust of black filth, was Lincoln green and of a good cloth. And, beneath the black, his stockings were of red silk. He reflected slowly, whilst the bearers laughed amongst themselves at this Queen’s kinsman in rags and filth.
Lascelles gave them his bottle of sack to drink empty among them, that he might have the longer time to think.
If this were indeed the Queen’s cousin, come unknown to the Queen and mazed and muddled in himself to Pontefract, what might not Lascelles make of him? For all the world knew that he loved her with a mad love—he had sold farms to buy her gowns. It was he that had brought her to Court, upon an ass, at Greenwich, when her mule—as all men knew—had stumbled upon the threshold. Once before, it was said, Culpepper had burst in with his sword drawn upon the King and Kate Howard when they sat together. And Lascelles trembled with eagerness at the thought of what use he might not make of this mad and insolent lover of the Queen’s!
But did he dare?
Culpepper had been sent into Scotland to secure him up, away at the farthest limits of the realm. Then, if he was come back? This grime was the grime of a sea-coal ship! He knew that men without passports, outlaws and the like, escaped from Scotland on the Durham ships that went to Leith with coal. And this man came on the Durham road. Then …
If it were Culpepper he had come unpermitted. He was an outlaw. Dare Lascelles have trade with—dare he harbour—an outlaw? It would be unbeknown to the Queen’s Highness! He kicked his heels with impatience to come to a resolution.
He reflected swiftly:
What hitherto he had were: some tales spread abroad about the Queen’s lewd Court—tales in London Town. He had, too, the keeper of the Queen’s door bribed and talked into his service and interest. And he had his sister …
His sister would, wi
th threatening, tell tales of the Queen before marriage. And she would find him other maids and grooms, some no doubt more willing still than Mary Hall. But the keeper of the Queen’s door! And, in addition, the Queen’s cousin mad of love for her! What might he not do with these two?
The prickly sweat came to his forehead. Four horsemen were issuing from the gate of the castle above. He must come to a decision. His fingers trembled as if they were a pickpocket’s near a purse of gold.
He straightened his back and stood erect.
‘Yes,’ he said very calmly, ‘this is my friend John Robb.’
He added that this man had been in Edinburgh where the Queen’s cousin was. He had had letters from him that told how they were sib and rib. Thus this fancy had doubtless come into his brain at sight of the Queen in his madness.
He breathed calmly, having got out these words, for now the doubt was ended. He would have both the Queen’s doorkeeper and the Queen’s mad lover.
He bade the bearers set Culpepper upon his horse and, supporting him, lead him to a room that he would hire of the Archbishop’s chamberlain, near his own in the dark entrails of the castle. And there John Robb should live at his expenses.
And when the men protested that, though this was very Christian of Lascelles, yet they would have recompense of the Queen for their toils, he said that he himself would give them a crown apiece, and they might get in addition what recompense from the Queen’s steward that they could. He asked them each their names and wrote them down, pretending that it was that he might send each man his crown piece.
So, when the four horsemen were ridden past, the men hoisted Culpepper into Lascelles’ horse and went all together up into the castle.
But, that night, when Culpepper lay in a stupor, Lascelles went to the Archbishop’s chamberlain and begged that four men, whose names he had written down, might be chosen to go in the Archbishop’s paritor’s guard that went next dawn to Ireland over the sea to bring back tithes from Dublin. And, next day, he had Culpepper moved to another room; and, in three days’ time, he set it about in the castle that the Queen’s cousin was come from Scotland. By that time most of the liquor had come down out of Culpepper’s brain, but he was still muddled and raved at times.
IV
ON THAT THIRD NIGHT the Queen was with the Lady Mary, once more in her chamber, having come down as before, from the chapel in the roof, to pray her submit to her father’s will. Mary had withstood her with a more good-humoured irony; and, whilst she was in the midst of her pleadings, a letter marked most pressing was brought to her. The Queen opened it, and raised her eyebrows; she looked down at the subscription and frowned. Then she cast it upon the table.
‘Shall there never be an end of old things?’ she said.
‘Even what old things?’ the Lady Mary asked.
The Queen shrugged her shoulders.
‘It was not they I came to talk of,’ she said. ‘I would sleep early, for the King comes to-morrow and I have much to plead with you.’
‘I am weary of your pleadings,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘You have pleaded enow. If you would be fresh for the King, be first fresh for me. Start a new hare.’
The Queen would have gainsaid her.
‘I have said you have pleaded enow,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘And you have pleaded enow. This no more amuses me. I will wager I guess from whom your letter was.’
Reluctantly the Queen held her peace; that day she had read in many ancient books, as well profane as of the Fathers of the Church, and she had many things to say, and they were near her lips and warm in her heart. She was much minded to have good news to give the King against his coming on the morrow; the great good news that should set up in that realm once more abbeys and chapters and the love of God. But she could not press these sayings upon the girl, though she pleaded still with her blue eyes.
‘Your letter is from Sir Nicholas Throckmorton,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘Even let me read it.’
‘You did know that that knight was come to Court again?’ the Queen said.
‘Aye; and that you would not see him, but like a fool did bid him depart again.’
‘You will ever be calling me a fool,’ Katharine retorted, ‘for giving ear to my conscience and hating spies and the suborners of false evidence.’
‘Why,’ the Lady Mary answered, ‘I do call it a folly to refuse to give ear to the tale of a man who has ridden far and fast, and at the risk of a penalty to tell it you.’
‘Why,’ Katharine said, ‘if I did forbid his coming to the Court under a penalty, it was because I would not have him here.’
‘Yet he much loved you, and did you some service.’
‘He did me a service of lies,’ the Queen said, and she was angry. ‘I would not have had him serve me. By his false witness Cromwell was cast down to make way for me. But I had rather have cast down Cromwell by the truth which is from God. Or I had rather he had never been cast down. And that I swear.’
‘Well, you are a fool,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘Let me look upon this knight’s letter.’
‘I have not read it,’ Katharine said.
‘Then will I,’ the Lady Mary answered. She made across the room to where the paper lay upon the table beside the great globe of the earth. She came back; she turned her round to the Queen; she made her a deep reverence, so that her black gown spread out stiffly around her, and, keeping her eyes ironically on Katharine’s face, she mounted backward up to the chair that was beneath the dais.
Katharine put her hand over her heart.
‘What mean you?’ she said. ‘You have never sat there before.’
‘That is not true,’ the Lady Mary said harshly. ‘For this last three days I have practised how, thus backward, I might climb to this chair and, thus seemly, sit in it.’
‘Even then?’ Katharine asked.
‘Even then I will be asked no more questions,’ her step-daughter answered. ‘This signifieth that I ha’ heard enow o’ thy voice, Queen.’
Katharine did not dare to speak, for she knew well this girl’s tyrannous and capricious nature. But she was nearly faint with emotion and reached sideways for the chair at the table; there she sat and gazed at the girl beneath the dais, her lips parted, her body leaning forward.
Mary spread out the great sheet of Throckmorton’s parchment letter upon her black knees. She bent forward so that the light from the mantel at the room-end might fall upon the writing.
‘It seemeth,’ she said ironically, ‘that one descrieth better at the humble end of the room than here on high’—and she read whilst the Queen panted.
At last she raised her eyes and bent them darkly upon the Queen’s face.
‘Will you do what this knight asks?’ she uttered. ‘For what he asks seemeth prudent.’
‘A’ God’s name,’ Katharine said, ‘let me not now hear of this man.’
‘Why,’ the Lady Mary answered coolly, ‘if I am to be of the Queen’s alliance I must be of the Queen’s council and my voice have a weight.’
‘But will you? Will you?’ Katharine brought out.
‘Will you listen to my voice?’ Mary said. ‘I will not listen to yours. Hear now what this goodly knight saith. For, if I am to be your well-wisher, I must call him goodly that so well wishes to you.’
Katharine wrung her hands.
‘Ye torture me,’ she said.
‘Well, I have been tortured,’ Mary answered, ‘and I have come through it and live.’
She swallowed in her throat, and thus, with her eyes upon the writing, brought out the words—
‘This knight bids you beware of one Mary Lascelles or Hall, and her brother, Edward Lascelles, that is of the Archbishop’s service.’
‘I will not hear what Throckmorton says,’ Katharine answered.
‘Ay, but you shall,’ Mary said, ‘or I come down from this chair. I am not minded to be allied to a Queen that shall be undone. That is not prudence.’
‘God help me!’ the Queen said.
; ‘God helps most willingly them that take counsel with themselves and prudence,’ her step-daughter answered; ‘and these are the words of the knight.’ She held up the parchment and read out:
‘ “Therefore I—and you know how much your well-wisher I be—upon my bended knees do pray you do one of two things: either to put out both these twain from your courts and presence, or if that you cannot or will not do, so richly to reward them as that you shall win them to your service. For a little rotten fruit will spread a great stink; a small ferment shall pollute a whole well. And these twain, I am advised, assured, convinced, and have convicted them, will spread such a rotten fog and mist about your reputation and so turn even your good and gracious actions to evil seeming that—I swear and vow, O most high Sovereign, for whom I have risked, as you wot, life, limb and the fell rack—” ’
The Lady Mary looked up at the Queen’s face.
‘Will you not listen to the pleadings of this man?’ she said.
‘I will so reward Lascelles and his sister as they have merited,’ the Queen said. ‘So much and no more. And not all the pleadings of this knight shall move me to listen to any witness that he brings against any man nor maid. So help me, God; for I do know how he served his master Cromwell.’
‘For love of thee!’ the Lady Mary said.
The Queen wrung her hands as if she would wash a stain from them.
‘God help me!’ she said. ‘I prayed the King for the life of Privy Seal that was!’
‘He would not hear thee,’ the Lady Mary said. She looked long upon the Queen’s face with unmoved and searching eyes.
‘It is a new thing to me,’ she said, ‘to hear that you prayed for Privy Seal’s life.’
‘Well, I prayed,’ Katharine said, ‘for I did not think he worked treason against the King.’
The Lady Mary straightened her back where she sat.
‘I think I will not show myself less queenly than you,’ she said. ‘For I be of a royal race. But hear this knight.’
And again she read:
The Fifth Queen Series Page 52