“I trust,” said the Queen, “that Your Grace’s mind is not overtroubled.”
“A King, wife, must of necessity have much upon his mind.”
Wriothesley, who never lost an opportunity of flattering his royal master, murmured: “It is fortunate for this realm that Your Majesty sits on the throne.”
Henry lifted his heavy lids to glare at his Chancellor. Too ready, was this Wriothesley, with his honeyed words; true though they were, the rogue was too ready. Yet, as ever, flattery was sweeter in the King’s ears than the sweetest music.
“Good Chancellor,” he replied, wincing as he moved painfully in his chair, “it is the kingly lot to bear the troubles of our subjects. For many years we have sat on the throne of England, but we cannot hope to rule this realm for ever.”
His eyes flickered angrily on the Queen who had failed to provide him with sons; then they went to the charming figure of his daughter-in-law.
Watching them, Surrey speculated: So my words have borne fruit. Mary has already given him the glance, the promise. The seed has been sown. Oh, poor Katharine Parr, my heart bleeds for you. But you are as safe as the rest of us, so why should it bleed for you and not for poor Surrey? My head may not remain on my shoulders any longer than yours. I am a poet, and so is the King. I am the greater poet, and in that I offend. I am more royal than His Majesty, and I have written verses. Two of the greatest literary men of our age have already laid their heads on the block—More and Rochford. Tom Wyatt was a fine poet but he was born lucky. The ax did not catch him though he had his miraculous escapes. And the next who dares wield his pen with more dexterity than the King, shall he die? And is his name Surrey?
Katharine had grown a shade paler, and the King went on with a trace of malice: “We’ll not talk of such matters. They disturb our Queen. Do they not, wife?”
“There are topics which please me more, Your Grace,” said Katharine quietly.
“We like not to brood on the days that lie ahead,” mused the King, “days when we shall no longer be here to lead this country. There is overmuch conflict in this land, and we like it not.” He glared at those about him and shouted: “We like it not. We would have peace in our time, and though that be denied us beyond the realm of England, we demand it at home.” Gardiner had moved closer to the King. The Queen looked at the Bishop and their eyes met. Something has happened, thought Katharine. There is some fresh plot against me.
She had noticed the King’s frequent glances at the Duchess of Richmond. Could it be that Gardiner was offering the King the Duchess as his seventh wife? Had it already been suggested that the sixth wife should go the way of the second and the fifth?
“We pray, as Your Majesty does, for peace,” said Gardiner. “And it is in the cause of peace that we will keep our vigilance night and day over those who dare to question your command. Though there are many in this land, my liege, who would see your enemies at large, working for the destruction of all that you, in your great wisdom and understanding, have laid down as our way of life….”
Henry waved his hand, interrupting the Bishop. He was accustomed to Gardiner’s harangues. The Bishop was one of those unfortunate men who could not win his affection. He did not dislike Gardiner as he had disliked Cromwell, but the Bishop did not charm him as Wyatt had and as Seymour did. Gardiner, like Cromwell, seemed to him plebeian. He must tolerate them for their wisdom, for his need of them; but he never liked them, and with Gardiner, as with Cromwell, at the first sign of failure he would show no forbearance.
“The state of kingship is an uneasy one, my lord Bishop,” he said. “None knows the truth of that better than ourselves.”
Wriothesley murmured: “And about Your Grace’s throne there are many enemies.”
His glance rested as if by chance first on the Queen, then on Seymour.
Katharine shivered. Was there some plot to implicate herself and Thomas? Not Thomas! she prayed. Anything but that harm should come to him.
Then insolently and ironically Surrey spoke: “Enemies of each other, my lord Chancellor, or enemies of the King, mean you? Enemies, say…of the Lord High Admiral, or of my lord Bishop?”
Wriothesley’s eyes flashed hatred and his smile was venomous as he said softly: “What enemies could there be, of true and loyal subjects, but enemies of the King?”
“We might well ask,” continued the irrepressible Surrey. “It would seem to me that there are men in this realm who seek first their own advancement, and secondly that of England—and the latter only if both are on the same road to the goal.”
The King glared at the poet. “You make an accusation, my lord Earl. You tell us that there are those about us who would seek their way even though it did not run side by side with that of England’s.”
“Alack, Your Grace, I make the suggestion because I fear it to be true.”
Henry’s eyes had narrowed in that fashion familiar to them all. There was no one present—with the exception of Surrey—whose heart had not begun to beat faster, who wondered whither this mischief of Surrey’s would lead.
“If any man among you,” continued the King, “knows aught against another, it is the sure and bounden duty of that man to lay his knowledge before the members of our council.”
The King tried to rise, but with a sudden angry roar fell back into his chair. Katharine hastened to kneel at his feet.
“Your Grace, the bandage is too tight.”
“By God, it is!” cried the King, the sweat on his brow, his face almost black with pain. “Mercy on us, Kate. There’s none can dress my wounds as thou, for I declare that when others do it, the rags must either be overloose or overtight.”
Katharine was glad to find occupation with the bandages. “Have I Your Grace’s permission to loosen them now?”
“Indeed you have… and quickly… quickly, Kate.”
