“I have lost my advancement,” he moaned.
She sprang from her feet to the fireplace and caught the iron tongs with which they were wont to place pieces of wood upon the fire. She struck him a hard blow upon the arm between the shoulder and elbow.
“Sot!” she cried. “Tell me! Tell me!”
He rose to his seat and held his arms to protect his head and eyes. When he stuttered:
“Nick Throckmorton had it!” her hand fell powerless to her side; but when he added: “He gave it to Privy Seal!” she cast the tongs into the brands to save herself from cleaving open his head.
“God!” she said drily, “you have lost your advancement. And I mine! … And I mine.”
She wavered to her chair by the hearth-place, and covered her face with her white hands.
The boy got to his knees, then to his feet; he staggered backwards into the arras beside the door.
“God’s curse on you!” he said. “Where is Margot? That I may beat her! That I may beat her as you have beaten me.” He waved his hand with a tipsy ferocity and staggered through the door.
“Was it for this I did play the ⸻ for thee?” he menaced her. “By Cock! I will swinge that harlot!”
The old knight got to his feet. He laid his hand heavily upon Cicely Elliott’s shoulder.
“Best begone from here,” he said, “this is no quarrel of mine or thine.”
“Why, get thee gone, old boy,” she laughed over her shoulder. “Seven of my men have been done to death in suchlike marlocks. I would not have thee die as they did.”
“Come with me,” he said in her ear. “I have dropped my lance. Never shall I ride to horse again. I would not lose thee; art all I have.”
“Why, get thee gone for a brave old boy,” she said. “I will come ere the last pynot has chattered its last chatter.”
“It is no light matter,” he answered. “I am Rochford of Bosworth Hedge. But I have lost lance and horse and manhood. I will not lose my dandery thing too.”
Katharine Howard sat, a dark figure in the twilight, with the fire shining upon her hands that covered her face. Cicely Elliott looked at her and stirred.
“Why,” she said, “I have lost father and mother and men-folk and sister. But my itch to know I will not lose, if I pay my head for the price. I would give a silken gown to know this tale.”
Katharine Howard uncovered her face; it shewed white even in the rays of the fire. One finger raised itself to a level with her temple.
“Listen!” she uttered. They heard through the closed door a dull thud, metallic and hard—and another after four great beats of their hearts.
“Pikestaves!” the old knight groaned. His mouth fell open. Katharine Howard shrieked; she sprang to the clothes press, to the window—and then to the shadows beside the fireplace where she cowered and sobbed. The door swung back: a great man stood in the half light and cried out:
“The Lady Katharine Howard.”
The old knight raised his hands above his head—but Cicely Elliott turned her back to the fire.
“What would you with me?” she asked. Her face was all in shadows.
“I have a warrant to take the Lady Katharine.”
Cicely Elliott screamed out:
“Me! Me! Ah God! ah God!”
She shrank back; she waved her hands, then suddenly she caught at the coif above her head and pulled forward the tail of her hood till, like a veil, it covered her face.
“Let me not be seen!” she uttered hoarsely.
The old knight’s impatient desires burst through his terror.
“Nick Throckmorton,” he bleated, “yon mad wench of mine. …”
But the large man cut in on his words with a harsh and peremptory vehemence.
“It is very dark. You cannot see who I be. Thank your God I cannot see whether you be a man who fought by a hedge or no. There shall be reports written of this. Hold your peace.”
Nevertheless the old man made a spluttering noise of one about to speak.
“Hold your peace,” Throckmorton said roughly, again, “I cannot see your face. Can you walk, madam, and very fast?”
He caught her roughly by the wrist and they passed out, twin blots of darkness, at the doorway. The clank of the pikestaves sounded on the boards without, and old Rochford was tearing at his white hairs in the little light from the fire.
Katharine Howard ran swiftly from the shadow of the fireplace.
“Give me time, till they have passed the stairhead,” she whispered. “For pity! for pity.”
“For pity,” he muttered. “This is to stake one’s last years upon woman.” He turned upon her, and his white face and pale blue eyes glinted at her hatefully.
“What pity had Cicely Elliott upon me then?”
“Till they are out of the gate,” she pleaded, “that I may get me gone.”
At her back she was cut off from the night and the rain by a black range of corridors. She had never been through them because they led to rooms of men that she did not know. But, down the passage and down the stairway was the only exit to the rest of the palace and the air. She threw open her press so that the hinges cracked. She caught her cloak and she caught her hood. She had nowhither to run—but there she was at the end of a large trap. Their footsteps as they receded echoed and whispered up the stairway from below.
“For pity!” she pleaded. “For pity! I will go miles away before it is morning.”
He had been wavering on his feet, torn backwards and forwards literally and visibly, between desire and fear, but at the sound of her voice he shook with rage.
“Curses on you that ever you came here,” he said. “If you go free I shall lose my dandling thing.”
He made as if to catch her by the wrist; but changing his purpose, ran from the room, shouting:
“Ho la! … Throck … morton … That … is not. …” His voice was lost
