‘That, too, you dare not ask in the light of day, Queen,’ she said. ‘Ask on!’
‘That when the Emperor’s ambassadors shall ask for your hand you shall profess yourself glad indeed.’
‘Well, here is more shame, that I should be prayed to feign this gladness. I think the angels do laugh that hear you. Ask even more.’
Katharine said patiently—
‘That, having in reward of these favours, been set again on high, having honours shown you and a Court appointed round you, you shall gladly play the part of a princess royal to these realms, never gibing, nor sneering upon this King your father, nor calling upon the memory of the wronged Queen your mother.’
‘Queen,’ the Lady Mary said, ‘I had thought that even in the darkness you had not dared to ask me this.’
‘I will ask it you again,’ the Queen said, ‘in your room where the light of the candles shines upon my face.’
‘Why, you shall,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘Let us presently go there.’
They went down the dark and winding stair. At the foot the procession of the
coucher de la royne
awaited them, first being
two trumpeters in black and gold, then four pikemen with lanthorns, then the marshal of the Queen’s household and five or seven lords, then the Queen’s ladies, the Lady Rochford that slept with her, the Lady Cicely Rochford; the Queen’s tiring-women, leaving a space between them for the Queen and the Lady Mary to walk in, then four young pages in scarlet and with the Queen’s favours in their caps, and then the guard of the Queen’s door, and four pikemen with torches whose light, falling from behind, illumined the path for the Queen’s steps. The trumpeters blew four shrill blasts and then four with their fists in the trumpet mouths to muffle them. The brazen cries wound down the dark corridors, fathoms and fathoms down, to let men know that the Queen had done her prayers and was going to her bed. This great state was especially devised by the King to do honour to the new Queen that he loved better than any he had had. The purpose of it was to let all men know what she did that she might be the more imitated.
But the Queen bade them guide her to the Lady Mary’s door, and in the doorway she dismissed them all, save only her women and her door guard and pikemen who awaited her without, some on stools and some against the wall, ladies and men alike.
The Lady Mary looked into the Queen’s face very close and laughed at her when they were in the fair room and the light of the candles.
‘Now you shall say your litany over again,’ she sneered; ‘I will sit me down and listen.’ And in her chair at the table, with her face averted, she dug with little stabs into the covering rug the stiletto with which she was wont to mend her pens.
Standing by her, her face fully lit by the many candles that were upon the mantel, the Queen, dressed all in black and with the tail of her hood falling down behind to her feet, went patiently through the list of her prayers—that the Lady Mary should be reconciled with her father, that she should show at
first favour to the ambassadors that sued for her hand for the Duke of Orleans, and afterwards give a glad consent to her marriage with the Prince Philip, the Emperor’s son; and then, having been reinstated as a princess of the royal house of England, she should bear herself as such, and no more cry out upon the memory of Katharine of Aragon that had been put away from the King’s side.
The Queen spoke these words with a serious patience and a level voice; but when she came to the end of them she stretched out her hand and her voice grew full.
‘And oh,’ she said, her face being set and earnest in entreaty towards the girl’s back, ‘if you have any love for the green and fertile land that gave birth both to you and to me—’
‘But to me a bastard,’ the Lady Mary said.
‘If you would have the dishoused saints to return home to their loved pastures; if you would have the Mother of God and of us all to rejoice again in her dowry; if you would see a great multitude of souls, gentle and simple reconducted again towards Heaven—’
‘Well, well!’ the Lady Mary said; ‘grovel! grovel! I had thought you would have been shamed thus to crawl upon your belly before me.’
‘I would crawl in the dust,’ Katharine said. ‘I would kiss the mire from the shoon of the vilest man there is if in that way I might win for the Church of God—’
‘Well, well!’ the Lady Mary said.
‘You will not let me finish my speech about our Saviour and His mother,’ the Queen said. ‘You are afraid I should move you.’
The Lady Mary turned suddenly round upon her in her chair. Her face was pallid, the skin upon her hollowed temples trembled—
‘Queen,’ she called out, ‘ye blaspheme when ye say that a few paltry speeches of yours about God and souls will make
me fail my mother’s memory and the remembrances of the shames I have had.’
She closed her eyes; she swallowed in her throat and then, starting up, she overset her chair.
‘To save souls!’ she said. ‘To save a few craven English souls! What are they to me? Let them burn in the eternal fires! Who among them raised a hand or struck a blow for my mother or me? Let them go shivering to hell.’
‘Lady,’ the Queen said, ‘ye know well how many have gone to the stake over conspiracies for you in this realm.’
‘Then they are dead and wear the martyr’s crown,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘Let the rest that never aided me, nor struck blow for my mother, go rot in their heresies.’
‘But the Church of God!’ the Queen said. ‘The King’s Highness has promised me that upon the hour when you shall swear to do these things he will send the letter that ye wot of to our Father in Rome.’
The Lady Mary laughed aloud—
‘Here is a fine woman,’ she said. ‘This is ever the woman’s part to gloss over crimes of their men folk. What say you to the death of Lady Salisbury that died by the block a little since?’
She bent her body and poked her head forward into the Queen’s very face. Katharine stood still before her.
‘God knows,’ she said. ‘I might not stay it. There was much false witness—or some of it true—against her. I pray that the King my Lord may atone for it in the peace that shall come.’
‘The peace that shall come!’ the Lady Mary laughed. ‘Oh, God, what things we women are when a man rules us. The peace that shall come? By what means shall it have been brought on?’
‘I will tell you,’ she pursued after a moment. ‘All this is cogging and lying and feigning and chicaning. And you who are so upright will crawl before me to bring it about. Listen!’
And she closed her eyes the better to calm herself and to collect her thoughts, for she hated to appear moved.
‘I am to feign a friendship to my father. That is a lie that you ask me to do, for I hate him as he were the devil. And why must I do this? To feign a smooth face to the world that his pride may not be humbled. I am to feign to receive the ambassadors of the Duke of Orleans. That is cogging that you ask of me. For it is not intended that ever I shall wed with a prince of the French house. But I must lead them on and on till the Emperor be affrighted lest your King make alliance with the French. What a foul tale! And you lend it your countenance!’
‘I would well—’ Katharine began.
‘Oh, I know, I know,’ Mary snickered. ‘Ye would well be chaste but that it must needs be other with you. It was the thief’s wife said that.
‘Listen again,’ she pursued, ‘anon there shall come the Emperor’s men, and there shall be more cogging and chicaning, and honours shall be given me that I may be bought dear, and petitioning that I should be set in the succession to make them eager. And then, perhaps, it shall all be cried off and a Schmalkaldner prince shall send ambassadors—’
‘No, before God,’ Katharine said.
‘Oh, I know my father,’ Mary laughed at her. ‘You will keep him tied to Rome if you can. But you could not save the venerable Lady of Salisbury, nor you shall not save him from trafficking with Schmalkaldners and Lutherans if it shall serve his monstrous passions and his vanities. And if he do not this yet he will do other villainies. And you will cosset him in them—to save his hoggish dignity and buttress up his heavy pride. All this you stand there and ask.’
‘In the name of God I ask it,’ Katharine said. ‘There is no other way.’
‘Well then,’ the Lady Mary said, ‘you shall ask it many times. I will have you shamed.’
‘Day and night I will ask it,’ Katharine said.
The Lady Mary sniffed.
‘It is very well,’ she said. ‘You are a proud and virtuous piece. I will humble you. It were nothing to my father to crawl on his belly and humble himself and slaver. He would do it with joy, weeping with a feigned penitence, making huge promises, foaming at the mouth with oaths that he repented, calling me his ever loved child—’
She stayed and then added—
‘That would cost him nothing. But that you that are his pride, that you should do it who are in yourself proud—that is somewhat to pay oneself with for shamed nights and days despised. If you will have this thing you shall do some praying for it.’
‘Even as Jacob served so will I,’ Katharine said.
‘Seven years!’ the Lady Mary mocked at her. ‘God forbid that I should suffer you for so long. I will get me gone with an Orleans, a Kaiserlik, or a Schmalkaldner leaguer before that. So much comfort I will give you.’ She stopped, lifted her head and said, ‘One knocks!’
They said from the door that a gentleman was come from the Archbishop with a letter to the Queen’s Grace.
T
HERE CAME IN
the shaven Lascelles and fell upon his knees, holding up the sheets of the letter he had copied.
The Queen took them from him and laid them upon the great table, being minded later to read them to the Lady Mary, in proof that the King very truly would make his submission to Rome, supposing only that his daughter would make submission to her.
When she turned, Lascelles was still kneeling before the doorway, his eyes upon the ground.
‘Why, I thank you,’ she said. ‘Gentleman, you may get you gone back to the Archbishop.’
She was thinking of returning to her duel of patience with the Lady Mary. But looking upon his blond and agreeable features she stayed for a minute.
‘I know your face,’ she said. ‘Where have I seen you?’
He looked up at her; his eyes were blue and noticeable, because at times of emotion he was so wide-lidded that the whites showed round the pupils of them.
‘Certainly I have seen you,’ the Queen said.
‘It is a royal gift,’ he said, ‘the memory of faces. I am the Archbishop’s poor gentleman, Lascelles.’
The Queen said—
‘Lascelles? Lascelles?’ and searched her memory.
‘I have a sister, the spit and twin of me,’ he answered; ‘and her name is Mary.’
The Queen said—
‘Ah! ah!’ and then, ‘Your sister was my bed-fellow in the maid’s room at my grandmother’s.’
He answered gravely—
‘Even so!’
And she—
‘Stand up and tell me how your sister fares. I had some kindnesses of her when I was a child. I remember when I had cold feet she would heat a brick in the fire to lay to them, and such tricks. How fares she? Will you not stand up?’
‘Because she fares very ill I will not stand upon my feet,’ he answered.
‘Well, you will beg a boon of me,’ she said. ‘If it is for your sister I will do what I may with a good conscience.’
He answered, remaining kneeling, that he would fain see his sister. But she was very poor, having married an esquire called Hall of these parts, and he was dead, leaving her but one little farm where, too, his old father and mother dwelt.
‘I will pay for her visit here,’ she said; ‘and she shall have lodging.’
‘Safe-conduct she must have too,’ he answered; ‘for none cometh within seven miles of this court without your permit and approval.’
‘Well, I will send horses of my own, and men to safeguard her,’ the Queen said. ‘For, sure, I am beholden to her in many little things. I think she sewed the first round gown that ever I had.’
He remained kneeling, his eyes still upon the floor.
‘We are your very good servants, my sister and I,’ he said. ‘For she did marry one—that Esquire Hall—that was done to death upon the gallows for the old faith’s sake. And it was I that wrote the English of most of this letter to his Holiness, the Archbishop being ill and keeping his bed.’
‘Well, you have served me very well, it is true,’ the Queen answered. ‘What would you have of me?’
‘Your Highness,’ he answered, ‘I do well love my sister and she me. I would have her given a place here at the Court. I do not ask a great one; not one so high as about your person. For I am sure that you are well attended, and places few there are to spare about you.’
And then, even as he willed it, she bethought her that Margot Poins was to go to a nunnery. That afternoon she had decided that Mary Trelyon, who was her second maid, should become her first, and others be moved up in a rote.
‘Why,’ she said, ‘it may be that I shall find her an occupation. I will not have it said—nor yet do it—that I have ever recompensed them that did me favours in the old times, for there are a many that have served well in the Court that then I was outside of, and those it is fitting first to reward. Yet, since, as you say you have writ the English of this letter, that is a very great service to the Republic, and if by rewarding her I may recompense thee, I will think how I may come to do it.’
He stood up upon his feet.
‘It may be,’ he said, ‘that my sister is rustic and unsuited. I have not seen her in many years. Therefore, I will not pray too high a place for her, but only that she and I may be near, the one to the other, upon occasions, and that she be housed and fed and clothed.’
‘Why, that is very well said,’ the Queen answered him. ‘I will bid my men to make inquiries into her demeanour and behaviour in the place where she bides, and if she is well fitted and modest, she shall have a place about me. If she be too rustic she shall have another place. Get you gone, gentleman, and a good-night to ye.’
He bent himself half double, in the then newest courtly way, and still bent, pivoted through the door. The Queen stayed a little while musing.