Throckmorton had shocked her, not because he was a villain who had laid hands upon her, but because he had fooled her so that unless she made haste those other men would prove too many for her. They would hang her.
Therefore she must speak to the King. Lying still, looking at the darkness, listening to the breathing of Margot Poins, who slept across the foot of her bed, she had felt no fear whatsoever of Henry. It was true she had trembled before him at the masque, but she swept that out of her mind. She could hardly believe that she had trembled and forgotten the Italian words that she should have spoken. Yet she had stood there transfixed, without a syllable in her mind. And she had managed to bring out any words at all only by desperately piecing together the idea of Ovid’s poem and Aulus Gellius’ Eulogy of Marcus Crassus, which was very familiar in her ears because she had always imagined for a hero such a man: munificent, eloquent, noble and learned in the laws. The hall had seemed to blaze before her—it was only because she was so petrified with fright that she had not turned tail or fallen on her knees.
Therefore she must speak to him when he came to see his horses. She must bring him to her side before the tall spy with the eyes and the mouth that grinned as if at the thought of virtue could give Cromwell the signal to undo her.
She spoke vehemently to the King; she was indignant, because it seemed to her she was defiled by these foul men who had grasped at her.
“They have brought me down with a plot,” she said. She stretched out her hand and cried earnestly: “Sir, believe that what I would have I ask for without any plotting.”
He leant back upon his rail. His round and boding eyes avoided her face.
“You have spoilt my morning betwixt you,” he muttered. First it was old Rochford who failed. Could a man not see his horses gallop without being put in mind of decay and death? Had he need of that? “Why, I asked you for pleasant converse,” he finished.
She pleaded: “Sir, I knew not that Pole was a traitor. Before God, I would now that he were caught up. But assuredly a way could be found with the Bishop of Rome. …”
“This is a parcel of nonsense,” he shouted suddenly, dismissing her whole story. Would she have him believe it thinkable that a spy should swear away a woman’s life? She had far better spend her time composing of fine speeches.
“Sir,” she cried, “before the Most High God. …”
He lifted his hand.
“I am tired of perpetual tears,” he muttered, and looked up the perspective of stable walls and white rails as if he would hurry away.
She said desperately: “You will meet with tears perpetual so long as this man. …”
He lifted his hand, clenched right over his head.
“By God,” he bayed, “may I never rest from cat and dog quarrels? I will not hear you. It is to drive a man mad when most he needs solace.”
He jerked himself down from the rail and shot over his shoulder:
“You will break your head if you run against a wall; I will have you in gaol ere night fall.” And he seemed to push her backward with his great hand stretched out.
IX
“Why, sometimes,” Throckmorton said, “a very perfect folly is like a very perfect wisdom.” He sat upon her table. “So it is in this case, he did send for me. No happening could have been more fortunate.”
He had sent away the man from her door and had entered without any leave, laughing ironically in his immense fan-shaped beard.
“Your ladyship thought to have stolen a march upon me,” he said. “You could have done me no better service.”
She was utterly overcome with weariness. She sat motionless in her chair and listened to him.
He folded his arms and crossed his legs.
“So he did send for me,” he said. “You would have had him belabour me with great words. But his Highness is a politician like some others. He beat about the bush. And be sure I left him openings to come in to my tidings.”
Katharine hung her head and thought bitterly that she had had the boldness; this other man reaped the spoils. He leaned forward and sighed. Then he laughed.
“You might wonder that I love you,” he said. “But it is in the nature of profound politicians to love women that be simple, as it is the nature of sinners to love them that be virtuous. Do not believe that an evil man loveth evil. He contemns it. Do not believe that a politician loveth guile. He makes use of it to carry him into such a security that he may declare his true nature. Moreover, there is no evil man, since no man believeth himself to be evil. I love you.”
Katharine closed her eyes and let her head fall back in her chair. The dusk was falling slowly, and she shivered.
“You have no warrant to take me away?” she asked, expressionlessly.
He laughed again.
“Thus,” he said, “devious men love women that be simple. And, for a profound, devious and guileful politician you shall find none to match his Highness.”
He looked at Katharine with scrutinising and malicious eyes. She never moved.
“I would have you listen,” he said.
She had had no one to talk to all that day. There was no single creature with whom she could discuss. She might have asked counsel of old Rochford. But apart from the
