you.”
“So little,” she sighed.
“And I hear that the Duchess’s ladies are unprincipled in some ways, that they are over-bold with men. I like it not that you should be among them.”
“I am safe,” she said, “loving thee.”
They kissed again, Catherine drew him closer, feeling that excessive excitement which physical contact with one who attracted her must always give her.
Derham kissed her fervently, enchanted by her as Manox had been; but he was genuinely in love with her, and his feelings were governed by affection as well as the need to gratify his senses. She was very young, but she was ready for passion. He was a reckless young man, courageous and virile; and Catherine’s obvious longing to complete their intimacy was so alluring that he—while tenderly thinking of her age—must seek to arrange it.
He insisted they would marry. He could think of nothing more delightful. They were really married, he told her, because according to the law of the Church it was only necessary for two free people to agree to a contract and it was made. It soothed his fears that she was too young, when he called her wife; when she called him husband, he was transported with joy.
He meant to be tactful and kind. He knew nothing of her experience with Manox. Catherine did not tell him, not because she wished to hide it, but because Manox no longer interested her. She had asked her grandmother if she might have a new music teacher, and the old lady, too full of court matters to care what her granddaughter did, had nodded, and when Catherine had named an ascetic, middle-aged man, her grandmother had nodded again. In any case the Duchess no longer sat as chaperon during the music lessons. Manox had almost passed from Catherine’s thoughts, except on those unpleasant occasions when he would try to see her—for he was furious that she had ended the affair so abruptly, blaming Mary Lassells for this and making no secret of his hatred and contempt for the girl. Catherine wished of course that she had never known Manox, but she was too blissful to think of much else but the completion of her love with Francis Derham.
“I have a plan,” said Derham.
“Tell me of it.”
“What if I were to ask Her Grace to take me into her house?”
“Dost think she would?” Catherine was trembling at the thought.
“I think she might.” He smiled complacently, remembering how on one occasion Her Grace had singled him out—as a most personable young man—for her special attention. “I can but try. Then we shall be under the same roof; then I may speak for you. Oh, Catherine, Catherine, how I long for that day!”
Catherine longed for it with equal intensity.
He almost whispered to her that they need not wait; why should they, when they were husband and wife? Catherine was waiting for him to say that; but he did not . . . yet. They lay on the grass, looking up at the ripening fruit.
“I shall never forget the day you first called me husband,” he said. “I shall remember it when I die!”
Catherine laughed, for death seemed far away and a most absurd topic for two young people in love.
“I shall never forget it either,” she told him, and turned her face to his. They kissed; they trembled; they yearned for each other.
“Soon,” he said, “I shall be in the Duchess’s house. Then I shall see you often . . . often.”
Catherine nodded.
On the gorgeous bed, which had been part of a French Prince’s ransom. Anne lay racked with the agony of childbirth. The King paced up and down in an adjoining room. He could hear her groans. How he loved her! For her groaning set his heart beating with fear that she would die. He was that same lover to whom news of her illness had been brought during the pestilence. “I would willingly endure half of what you suffer to cure you.” Memories of her came and went in his mind; her laughter, her gaiety; Anne, the center of attraction at the jousts and masques; sitting beside him watching the jousts in the tiltyard, so beautiful, so apart from all others that he found it difficult to turn his attention from her to the jousting; he thought of her in his arms, his love and his Queen.
He was filled with remorse for that lapse, for the quarrel which had upset her, and—this made him break out into a clammy sweat—might have had some effect on the birth of his son.
He paced up and down, suffering with her. How long? How long? The veins stood out on his forehead. “By God! If anything happens to her, blood will flow—that I swear!”
The girl with whom he had dallied recently looked in at the door, smiling; she had been sent to soothe him. He looked at her without recognizing her.
Up and down he went, straining his ears and then putting his hands over them to shut out the sound of Anne’s pain, His fear was suddenly swept away, for distinctly he heard the cry of a child, and in a second he was at the bedside, trembling with eagerness. In the chamber there was a hushed silence. The attendants were afraid to look at him. Anne lay white and exhausted, aware neither of him, nor her room, nor perhaps herself.
“What is it?” he shouted.
They hesitated, one looking at another, hoping that some other would take on the delicate task of breaking unpleasant news.
His face was purple; his eyes blazing. He roared in his anguish.
“A daughter!” His voice was almost a sob; he was defeated; he was humiliated.
He stood, his hands clenched, words pouring from his mouth, abuse and rage; and his eyes were on Anne, lying still on the bed. This to happen to him! What had he done to deserve it? What had he ever done to deserve it? Had he not always sought to do right? Had he not spent hours of labor, studying theology; had he not written
