The beast, inspired with a blind hatred of Culpepper, was jibbing across the terrace, close at hand. Henry became abstractedly interested in the struggle. The woman swayed forward over her knees.
“Your lady faints,” he called to Culpepper.
In his muddled fury the man began once again trying to hold her on the animal. It was backing slowly towards a stone seat in the balustrade, and man and woman swayed and tottered together.
The King said:
“Let her descend and rest upon the seat.”
His mind was swinging back already to his own heavy sorrows. On the stone seat the woman’s head lay back upon the balustrade, her eyes were closed and her face livid to the sky. Culpepper, using his teeth to the finger ends, tore the gloves from his hands.
Henry drew Cromwell towards the gatehouse. He had it dimly in his mind to send one of his gentlemen to the assistance of that man and woman.
“Aye, teach me to sleep at night,” he said. “It is you who make me work.”
“It is for your Highness’ dear sake.”
“Aye, for my sake,” the King said angrily. He burst into a sudden invective: “Thou hast murdered a many men … for my sake. Thou hast found out plots that were no plots: old men hate me, old mothers, wives, maidens, harlots. … Why, if I be damned at the end thou shalt escape, for what thou didst thou didst for my sake? Shall it be that?” He breathed heavily. “My sins are thy glory.”
They reached the long wall of the gatehouse and turned mechanically. A barge at the river steps was disgorging musicians with lutes like half melons set on staves, horns that opened bell mouths to the sky, and cymbals that clanged in the rushing of the river. With his eyes upon them Henry said: “A common man may commonly choose his bedfellow.” They had reminded him of the Queen for whose welcome they had been commanded.
Cromwell swept his hand composedly round the half horizon that held the palace, the grey river and the inlands.
“Your Highness may choose among ten thousand,” he answered.
The sound of a horn blown faintly to test it within the gatehouse, the tinkle of a lutestring, brought to the King’s lips: “Aye. Bring me music that shall charm my thoughts. You cannot do it.”
“A Queen is in the nature of a defence, a pledge, a cement, the keystone of a bulwark,” Cromwell said. “We know now our friends and our foes. You may rest from this onwards.”
He spoke earnestly: This was the end of a long struggle. The King should have his rest.
They moved back along the terrace. The woman’s head still lay back, her chin showed pointed and her neck, long, thin and supple. Culpepper was bending over her, sprinkling water out of his cap upon her upturned face.
The King said to Cromwell: “Who is that wench?” and, in the same tone: “Aye, you are a great comforter. We shall see how the cat jumps,” and then, answering his own question, “Norfolk’s niece?”
His body automatically grew upright, the limp disappeared from his gait and he moved sturdily and gently towards them.
Culpepper faced round like a wild cat from a piece of meat, but seeing the great hulk, the intent and friendly eyes, the gold collar over the chest, the heavy hands, and the great feet that appeared to hold down the very stones of the terrace, he stood rigid in a pose of disturbance.
“Why do ye travel?” the King asked. “This shall be Katharine Howard?”
Culpepper’s hushed but harsh voice answered that they came out of Lincolnshire on the Norfolk border. This was the Lord Edmund’s daughter.
“I have never seen her,” the King said.
“Sh’ath never been in this town.”
The King laughed: “Why, poor wench!”
“Sh’ath been well schooled,” Culpepper answered proudly, “hath had mastern, hath sung, hath danced, hath your Latin and your Greek. … Hath ten daughters, her father.”
The King laughed again: “Why, poor man!”
“Poorer than ever now,” Culpepper muttered. Katharine Howard stirred uneasily and his face shot round to her. “Rioters have brent his only house and wasted all his sheep.”
The King frowned heavily: “Anan? Who rioted?”
“These knaves that love not our giving our ploughlands to sheep,” Culpepper said. “They say they starved through it. Yet ’tis the only way to wealth. I had all my wealth by it. By now ’tis well gone, but I go to the wars to get me more.”
“Rioters?” the King said again, heavily.
“ ’Twas a small tulzie—a score of starved yeomen here and there. I killed seven. The others were they that were hanged at Norwich. … But the barns were brent, the sheep gone, and the house down and the servants fled. I am her cousin of the mother’s side. Of as good a strain as Howards be.”
Henry, with his eyes still upon them, beckoned behind his back for Cromwell to come. A score or so of poor yeomen, hinds and women, cast out of their tenancies that wool might be grown for the Netherlands weavers, starving, desperate, and seeing no trace of might and order in their hidden lands, had banded, broken a few hedges and burnt a few barns before the posse of the country could come together and take them.
The King had not heard of it or had forgotten it, because such risings were so frequent. His brows came down into portentous and bulging knots, his eyes were veiled and threatening towards the woman’s face. He had conceived that a great rebellion had been hidden from his knowledge.
She raised her head and shrieked at the sight of him, half started to her feet, and once more sank down on the bench, clasping at her cousin’s hand. He said:
“Peace, Kate, it is the King.”
She answered: “No, no,” and covered her face with her hands.
Henry bent a little towards her, indulgent, amused, and gentle as if to a child.
“I am Harry,” he said.
She muttered:
“There was a great crowd, a great cry. One smote me on the arm. And then this quiet here.”
She uncovered her face and sat
