seduction, and burn with indignation that others—rakes and libertines with fancy French manners—might have had similar intentions. Such a girl, he told himself, smarting under the slights which she, reared in that foreign court, had been able to deliver so aptly, should never have been sent to France.
He said with dignity: “It grieves me to think of the dangers to which you have been exposed at that licentious court presided over by a monarch who...” His voice failed him, for he pictured a dark, clever face, a sly smile and lips which had referred to him as “My prisoner.”
She laughed lightly. “The King of France is truly of an amorous nature, but never would I be a king’s mistress!”
It seemed to him that this clever girl then answered a question which he had yet to ask. He felt worsted, and angry to be so.
He said severely: “There are some who would not think it an indignity to be a king’s mistress, but an honor.”
“Doubtless there are those who sell themselves cheaply.”
“Cheaply!” he all but roared. “Come! It is not kingly to be niggardly with those that please.”
“I do not mean in worldly goods. To sell one’s dignity and honor for momentary power and perhaps riches—that is to sell cheaply those things which are beyond price. Now I must go into the house.” She stood up, throwing back her hair. He stood too, feeling deflated and unkingly.
Silently he walked with her from the rose garden. Now was the time to disclose his identity, for it could not much longer be kept secret.
“You have not asked my name,” he said.
“Nor you mine.”
“You are the daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn, I have gathered.”
“Indeed, that was clever of you!” she mocked. “I am Anne Boleyn.”
“You still do not ask my name. Have you no curiosity to know it?”
“I shall doubtless learn in good time.”
“My name is Henry.”
“It is a good English name.”
“And have you noticed nothing yet?”
She turned innocent eyes upon him. “What is there that I should have noticed?”
“It is the same as the King’s.” He saw the mockery in her eyes now. He blurted out: “By God! You knew all the time!”
“Having once seen the King’s Grace, how could one of his subjects ever forget him?”
He was uncertain now whether to be amused or angry; in vain did he try to remember all she had said to him and he to her. “Methinks you are a saucy wench!” he said.
“I hope my sauciness has pleased my mighty King.”
He looked at her sternly, for though her words were respectful, her manner was not.
“Too much sauce,” he said, “is apt to spoil a dish.”
“And too little, to destroy it!” she said, casting down her eyes. “I had thought that Your Majesty, being a famous epicure, would have preferred a well-flavored one.”
He gave a snort of laughter and put out a hand which he would have laid on her shoulders, but without giving him a glance she moved daintily away, so that he could not know whether by accident or design.
He said: “We shall look to see you at court with your sister.”
He was unprepared for the effect of those words; her cheeks were scarlet as her dress, and her eyes lost all their merriment. Her father was coming across the lawn towards them; she bowed low and turning from him ran across the grass and into the castle.
“You have a beautiful daughter there, Thomas!” exclaimed the King. And Thomas, obsequious, smiling, humbly conducted Henry into Hever Castle.
The sight of the table in the great dining-hall brought a glister of pride into Sir Thomas’s eyes. On it were laid out in most lavish array great joints of beef, mutton and venison, hare and seasoned peacocks; there were vegetables and fruit, and great pies and pastries. Sir Thomas’s harrying of his cooks and scullions had been well worthwhile, and he felt that the great kitchens of Hever had done him justice. The King eyed this display with an approval which might have been more marked, had not his thoughts been inclined to dwell more upon Sir Thomas’s daughter than on his table.
They took their seats, the King in the place of honor at the right hand of his host, the small company he had brought with him ranged about the table. There was one face for which the King looked in vain; Sir Thomas, ever eager to anticipate the smallest wish of his sovereign, saw the King’s searching look and understood it; he called a serving-maid to him and whispered sharply to her to go at once to his daughter and bid her to the table without a second’s delay. The maid returned with the disconcerting message that Sir Thomas’s daughter suffered from a headache and would not come to the table that day. The King, watching this little by-play with the greatest interest, heard every word.
“Go back at once,” said Sir Thomas, “and tell the lady I command her presence here at once!”
“Stay!” interceded Henry, his voice startling Sir Thomas by its unusual softness. “Allow me to deal with the matter, good Thomas. Come hither, girl.”
The poor little serving-maid dropped a frightened curtsey and feared she would not be able to understand the King’s commands, so overawed was she by his notice.
