child and thinking of the child’s future when she would have children of her own, so that she might not think of this day and the days that would immediately follow it.
Later, hearing voices beneath her window, she looked out and saw her father walking below with the Duke of Norfolk who, she guessed, had come to have a word with him about the morrow. Margaret, her hand on her heart, as though she feared those below would hear its wild beating, listened to their voices which were wafted up to her.
“’Tis perilous striving with princes,” said His Grace. “I could wish you as a friend to incline to the King’s pleasure. “
Then she heard her father’s voice, and it seemed to her that it held little of sorrow. “There will be only this difference between Your Grace and me, that I shall die today and you tomorrow.”
That night, she could not sleep. Death seemed already to be hovering over the house. She recalled what she had heard of those committed to the Tower; she thought of that gloomy prison and compared it with this happy home. He would say: “All these years of happiness have I had; I should be grateful to have known them, not sorrowful that because I have loved them well, I now must grieve the more to lose them.”
She wept bitter tears, and took her child in her arms, seeking comfort from that small body. But there was no comfort for Margaret Roper. Death hung over the house, waiting to snatch its best loved member.
He left next day. She watched him go down the privy steps with Will, his head held high; already he looked a saint. He did not cast a look behind him; he would have them all believe that soon he would be returning to them.
Catherine Howard was in the orchard, looking through the trees at the river. She was plumper than she had been almost a year ago when she had first met Francis Derham at the coronation. Now she deplored the state of her clothes, longed for rich materials, for ribands and flowers to adorn her hair.
She was not yet thirteen years old and looked seventeen—a plump, ripe, seventeen; she was very pretty, very gay, fond of laughter; in love with Francis.
Life was beautiful, she thought, and promised to be more so. Francis was husband to her, she wife to him. One day—and that not far distant—they would be so in earnest.
As she stood gazing at the river, a pair of hands were placed over her eyes; she gave a little cry of pleasure, assured this was Francis. Often he came to her, and they met here in the orchards, for he was still of her uncle’s house.
“Guess who!” said the loved and familiar voice.
“Guess!” she cried shrilly. “I do not have to guess—I know!”
She pulled away his hands and swung round to face him; they kissed passionately.
He said: “Such good news I have today, Catherine! I can scarce wait to tell you.”
“Good news!”
“The best of news. I hope that you will agree that it is.”
“Tell me, tell me! You must tell me.”
He stood, surveying her, laughing, harboring his secret, longing so deeply for the moment of revelation that he must keep it back, savoring afresh the pleasure it would give him to tell her.
“Very well, I will tell you, Catherine. Her Grace is to have a new gentleman usher. What do you think his name is?”
“Francis . . . you!”
He nodded.
“Then you will be here . . . under this very roof! This is wonderful news, Francis.”
They embraced.
“It will be so much simpler to meet, Catherine.”
She was smiling. Yes, indeed, it would be much easier to meet. There would be many opportunities of which he did not as yet dream.
She was flushed with pleasure, bright-eyed, dreaming of them.
Some young ladies and gentlemen came upon them kissing there. Among them was Francis’s great friend Damport.
Francis and Catherine broke free on seeing them, and were greeted with laughter. One of the young men said in mock dismay: “You often kiss Mrs. Catherine Howard, Derham. Is it not very bold of you?”
Derham answered: “Who should hinder me from kissing my wife?”
“I trow this matter will come to pass!” said one of the ladies.
“What is that?” asked Derham.
“Marry! That Mr. Derham shall have Mrs. Catherine Howard.”
Derham laughed with pleasure. “By St. John!” he cried. “You may guess twice and guess worse!”
They were all laughing merrily, when Catherine broke up their mirth by pointing to a barge that went down the river.
“Look ye all!” she cried. “Is that not Sir Thomas More!”
They all fell silent, thinking of the man. They knew he had come near the block when the nun of Kent had burned for her heresies. What now? they wondered, and a gloom was cast over their merriment. They watched the barge pass along the river on its way to Westminster; and when it was out of sight, they sought to laugh again, but
