She was wrestling with him then. One of his hands was hot across her mouth, the other held her throat.
“Oh fool!” his voice sounded. “Bide you still.” He snorted with fury and held her to him. The embroidery on his chest scraped her knuckles as she tried to strike upwards at his face. Her crucifix had fallen. He strove to muffle her with his elbows, but with a blind rage of struggle she freed her wrists and, in the darkness, struck where she thought his mouth would be.
Then his hand over her mouth loosened and set free her great scream. It rang down the corridor and seemed to petrify his grasp upon her. His fingers loosened—and again she was running, bent forward, crying out, in a vast thirst for mere flight.
As she ran, a red patch before her eyes, distant and clear beneath the torch, took the form of the King. Her cries were still loud, but they died in her throat. …
He was standing still with his fingers in his ears.
“Dear God,” she cried, “they have laid hands upon me. They have laid hands upon me.” And she pressed her fingers hard across her throat as if to wipe away the stain of Throckmorton’s touch.
The King lifted his fingers from his ears.
“Bones of Jago,” he cried, “what new whimsy is this?”
“They have laid hands upon me,” she cried and fell upon her knees.
“Why,” he said, “here is a day nightmare. I know all your tale of a letter. Come now, pretty one. Up, pretty soul.” He bent over benevolently and stroked her hand.
“These dark passages are frightening to maids. Up now, pretty. I was thinking of thee.
“Who the devil shall harm thee?” he muttered again. “This is mine own house. Come, pray with me. Prayer is a very soothing thing. I was bound to pray. I pray ever at nightfall. Up now. Come—pray, pray, pray!”
His heavy benevolence for a moment shed a calmness upon the place. She rose, and pressing back the hair from her forehead, saw the long, still corridor, the guard beneath the torch, the doors of the chapel.
She said to herself pitifully: “What comes next?” She was too wearied to move again.
Suddenly the King said:
“Child, you did well to come to me, when you came in the stables.”
She leaned against the tapestry upon the wall to listen to him.
“It is true,” he admitted, “that you have men that hate you and your house. The Bishop of Winchester did show me a letter you wrote. I do pardon it in you. It was well written.”
“Ah,” she uttered wearily, “so you say now. But you shall change your mind ere morning.”
“Body of God, no,” he answered. “My mind is made up concerning you. Let us call a truce to these things. It is my hour for prayer. Let us go to pray.”
Knowing how this King’s mind would change from hour to hour, she had little hope in his words. Nevertheless slowly it came into her mind that if she were ever to act, now that he was in the mood was the very hour. But she knew nothing of the coil in which she now was. Yet without the King she could do nothing; she was in the hands of other men: of Throckmorton, of Privy Seal, of God knew whom.
“Sir,” she said, “at the end of this passage stood a man.”
The King looked past her into the gloom.
“He stands there still,” he said. “He is tying his arm with a kerchief. He looks like one Throckmorton.”
“Then, if he have not run,” she said. “Call him here. He has had my knife in his arm. He holds a letter of mine.”
His neck stiffened suddenly.
“You have been writing amorous epistles?” he muttered.
“God knows there was naught of love,” she answered. “Do you bid him unpouch it.” She closed her eyes; she was done with this matter.
Henry called:
“Ho, you, approach!” and as through the shadows Throckmorton’s shoes clattered on the boards he held out a thickly gloved hand. Throckmorton made no motion to put anything into it, and the King needs must speak.
“This lady’s letter,” he muttered.
Throckmorton bowed his head.
“Privy Seal holdeth it,” he answered.
“You are all of a make,” the King said gloomily. “Can no woman write a letter but what you will be of it?”
“Sir,” Throckmorton said, “this lady would have Privy Seal down.”
“Well, she shall have him down,” the King threatened him. “And thee! and all of thy train!”
“I do lose much blood,” Throckmorton answered. “Pray you let me finish the binding of my arm.”
He took between his teeth one end of his kerchief and the other in his right hand, and pulled and knotted with his head bent.
“Make haste!” the King grumbled. “Here! Lend room.” And himself he took one end of the knot and pulled it tight, breathing heavily.
“Now speak,” he said. “I am not one made for the healing of cripples.”
Throckmorton brushed the black blood from the furs on his sleeve, using his gloves.
“Sir,” he said, “I am in pain and my knees tremble, because I have lost much blood. I were more minded to take to my pallet. Nevertheless, I am a man that do bear no grudge, being rather a very proper man, and one intent to do well to my country and its Lord.”
“Sir,” the King said, “if you are minded to speak ill of this lady you had best had no mouth.”
Throckmorton fell upon one knee.
“Grant me the boon to be her advocate,” he said. “And let me speak swiftly, for Privy Seal shall come soon and the Bishop of Winchester.”
“Ass that you are,” the King said, “fetch me a stool from the chapel, that I may not stand all the day.”
Throckmorton ran swiftly to the folding doors.
“—Winchester comes,” he said hurriedly, when he returned.
The King sat himself gingerly down upon the three-legged stool, balancing himself with his legs wide apart. A dark face peered from the folding doors: a priest’s shape came out from them.
“Cousin of Winchester,”
