“I do not ask it,” the Lady Mary said.
“But I ask that you give us peace here, so that the King may make amends to many that he hath sorely wronged. Do you not see that the King inclineth to the Church of God? Do you not see. …”
“I see very plainly that I needs must thank you for better housing,” Mary answered. “It is certain that my father had never brought me from that well at Isleworth, had it not been that he desireth converse with thee at his ease.”
Katharine’s lips parted with a hot anger, but before she could speak the bitter girl said calmly:
“Oh, I have not said thou art his leman. I know my father. His blood is not hot—but his ears crave tickling. Tickle them whilst thou mayest. Have I stayed thee? Have I sent thee from my room when he did come?”
Katharine cast back the purple hood from over her forehead, she brushed her hand across her brow, and made herself calm.
“This is a trifling folly,” she said. “In two words: will your Highness write me this letter?”
“Then, in four words,” Mary answered, “my Highness cares not.”
The mobile brows above Katharine’s blue eyes made a hard straight line.
“An you will not,” she brought out, “I will leave your Highness’ service. I will get me away to Calais, where my father is.”
“Why, you will never do that,” the Lady Mary said; “you have tasted blood here.”
Katharine hung her head and meditated for a space.
“No, before God,” she said earnestly, “I think you judge me wrong. I think I am not as you think me. I think that I do seek no ends of my own.”
The Lady Mary raised her eyebrows and snickered ironically.
“But of this I am very certain,” Katharine said. She spoke more earnestly, seeming to plead: “If I thought that I were grown a self-seeker, by Mars who changed Alectryon to a cock, and by Pallas Athene who changed Arachne to a spider—if I were so changed, I would get me gone from this place. But here is a thing that I may do. If you will aid me to do it I will stay. If you will not I will get me gone.”
“Good wench,” Mary answered, “let us say for the sake of peace that thou art honest. … Yet I have sworn by other gods than thine that never will I do aught that shall be of aid, comfort or succour to my father’s cause.”
“Take back your oaths!” Katharine cried.
“For thee!” Mary said. “Wench, thou hast brought me food: thou hast served me in the matter of letters. I might only with great trouble get another so to serve me. But, by Mars and Pallas and all the constellation of the deities, thou mightest get thee to Hell’s flames or ever I would take back an oath.”
“Oh, madness,” Katharine cried out. “Oh, mad frenzy of one whom the gods would destroy.” Three times before she had reined in her anger: now she stretched out her hands with her habitual gesture of pitiful despair. Her eyes looked straight before her, and, as she inclined her knees, the folds of her grey dress bent round her on the floor.
“Here I have pleaded with you, and you have gibed me with the love of the King. Here I have been earnest with you, and you have mocked. God help me!” she sobbed, with a catch in her throat. “Here is rest, peace and the blessing of God offered to this land. Here is a province that is offered back to the Mother of God and the dear hosts of heaven. Here might we bring an erring King back to the right way, a sinful man back unto his God. But you, for a parcel of wrongs of your own. …”
“Now hold thy peace,” Mary said, between anger and irony. “Here is a matter of a farthing or two. Be the letter written, and kiss upon it.”
Katharine stayed herself in the tremor of her emotions, and the Lady Mary said drily:
“Be the letter written. But thou shalt write it. I have sworn that I will do nothing to give this King ease.”
“But my writing. …” Katharine began.
“Thou shalt write,” Mary interrupted her harshly. “If thou wilt have this King at peace for a space that Cromwell may fall, why I am at one with thee. For this King is such a palterer that without this knave at his back I might have had him down ten years ago. Therefore, thou shalt write, and I will countersign the words.”
“That were to write thyself,” Katharine said.
“Good wench,” the Lady Mary said. “I am thy slave: but take what thou canst get.”
Towards six of the next day young Poins clambered in at Katharine Howard’s window and stood, pale, dripping with rain and his teeth chattering, between Cicely Elliott and her old knight.
“The letter,” he said. “They have taken thy letter. My advancement is at an end!” And he fell upon the floor.
Going jauntily along the Hampton Street, he had been filled, that afternoon, with visions of advancement. Drifts of rain hid the osiers across the river and made the mud ooze in over the laces of his shoes. The tall white and black house, where the Emperor’s ambassador had his lodgings, leaned in all its newness over the path, and the water from its gutters fell right into the river, making a bridge above a passer’s head. The little cookshop, with its feet, as it were, in the water, made a small hut nestling down beneath the shadow of the great house. It was much used by Chapuys’ grooms, trencher boys and javelin men, because the cook was a Fleming, and had a comfortable hand in stewing eels.
Ned Poins must pass the ambassador’s house in his walk, but in under the dark archway there stood four men sheltering, in grey cloaks that reached to their feet. Stepping gingerly on the brick causeway that led down to the barge-steps, they came
