It gratified her to see how acute her prescience had been when Dr. Barnes made his furious reply to the bishop. For Dr. Barnes was one of Privy Seal’s most noted men: an insolent fool whom he had taken out of the gutter to send ambassador to the Schmalkaldners. And it was on the day when Gardiner made his complaint to the King about Dr. Barnes, that her uncle Norfolk sent to her to come to him at Hampton.
He awaited her, grim and jaundiced, in the centre of a great, empty room, where, shivering with cold, he did not let his voice exceed a croaking whisper though there was panelling and no arras on the dim walls. But, to his queries, she answered clearly:
“Nay, I serve the Lady Mary with her Latin. I hear no tales and I bear none to any man.” And again:
“Three times I have spoken with the King’s Highness, the Lady Mary being by. And once it was of the Islands of the Blest, and once of the Latin books I read, and once of indifferent matters—such as of how apple trees may be planted against a wall in Lincolnshire.”
Her uncle gazed at her: his dark eyes were motionless and malignant by habit; he opened his lips to speak; closed them again without a word spoken. He looked at a rose, carved in a far corner of the ceiling, looked at her again, and muttered:
“The French are making great works at Ardres.”
“Oh, aye,” she answered, “my cousin Tom wrote me as much. He is commanded to stay at Calais.”
“Tell me,” he said, “will they go against Calais town in good earnest?”
“If I knew that,” she answered, “I should have had it in private words from my lady whom I serve. And, if I had it in private words I would tell it neither to you nor to any man.”
He scowled patiently and muttered:
“Then tell in private words back again this: That if the French King or the Emperor do war upon us now Privy Seal will sit upon the King’s back forever.”
“Ah, I know who hath talked with you,” she answered. “Uncle, give me your hand to kiss, for I must back to my mistress.”
He put his thin hand grimly behind his back.
“Ye spy, then, for others,” he said. “Go kiss their feet.”
She laughed in a nettled voice:
“If the others get no more from me than your Grace of Norfolk. …”
He frowned ominously, pivoted stiffly round on his heels, and said over his shoulder:
“Then I will have thy cousin clapped up the first time he is found in a drunken brawl at Calais.”
She was after him beseechingly, with her hands held out:
“Oh no, uncle,” and “Oh, dear uncle. Let poor fool Tom be drunken when drunken brawls work no manner of ill.”
“Then get you sent to the King of France, through the channel that you wot of, the message I have given you to convey.” He kept his back to her and spoke as if to the distant door.
“Why must I mull in these matters?” she asked him piteously, “or why must poor Tom? God help him, he found me bread when you had left me to starve.” It came to her as pitiful that her cousin, swaggering and unconscious, at a great distance, should be undone because these men quarrelled near her. He moved stiffly round again—he was so bolstered over with clothes against the cold.
“It is not you that must meddle here,” he said. “It is your mistress. Only she will be believed by those you wot of.”
“Speak you yourself,” she said.
He scowled hatefully.
“Who of the French would believe me,” he snarled. He had been so made a tool of by Privy Seal in times past that he had lost all hope of credence.
“If I may come to it, I will do it,” she said suddenly.
After all, it seemed to her, this action might bring about the downfall of Privy Seal—and she desired his downfall. It would be a folly to refuse her aid merely because her uncle was a craven man or Throckmorton a knave. It was a true thing that she was to ask the Lady Mary to say—that if France and Spain should molest England together the Cleves alliance must stand for good—and with it Privy Seal.
“But, a’ God’s name, let poor Tom be,” she added.
He stood perfectly motionless for a moment, shrugged his shoulders straight up and down, stood motionless for another moment, and then held out his hand. She touched it with her lips.
There was a certain cate, or small cake, made of a paste sweetened with honey and flavoured with cinnamon, that Katharine Howard very much loved. She had never tasted them till one day the King had come to visit his daughter, bearing with his own hands a great box of them. He had had the receipt from Thomas Cromwell, who had had it of a Jew in Italy. Mary so much disaffected her father that, taking them from his hands with one knee nearly upon the ground, she had said that her birth ill-fitted her to eat these princely viands, and she had placed them on a ledge of her writing-pulpit. Heaving a heavy sigh, he glanced at her book and said that he would not have her spoil her eyes with too much of study; let her bid Lady Katharine to read and write for her.
“She will have greater need of her eyes than ever I of mine,” Mary answered with her passionless voice.
“I will not have you spoil your eyes,” he said heavily, and she gave him back the reply:
“My eyes are your Highness’.”
He made with his shoulders a slow movement of exasperation, and, turning to Katharine Howard, he
