The old knight, who was habited like Katharine, all in red, because at that season the King favoured that colour, pulled nervously at his little goat’s beard, for all conversations that savoured of politics and religion were to him very fearful. He stood back against the green hangings and fidgeted with his feet.
But Katharine, who for the love of the King had been silent, was now set to speak her mind.
“It is Seneca,” she said, “who tells us to have a check upon our tongues, but only till the moment approaches to speak.”
“Aye, goodman Seneca!” Cicely laughed round at her. Katharine smoothed her hair, but her eyes gleamed deeply.
“The moment approaches,” she said; “I do like my King, but better I like my Church.” She swallowed in her throat. “I had thought,” she said, “that Privy Seal would stay his harryings of the goodly nuns in this land.” But now she had a petition, come that day from Lincoln gaol. Cromwell’s servants were more bitter still than ever against the religious. Here was a false accusation of treason against her foster-mother’s self. “I will soon end it or mend it, or lose mine own head,” Katharine ended.
“Aye, pull down Cur Crummock,” Cicely said. “I think the King shall not long stay away from thy desires.”
The old knight burst in:
“I take it ill that ye speak of these things. I take it ill. I will not have ’ee lose thy head in these quarrels.”
“Husband,” Cicely laughed round at him, “three years ago Cur Crummock had the heads of all my menfolk, having sworn they were traitors.”
“The more reason that he have not mine and thine now,” the old knight answered grimly. “I am not for these meddlings in things that concern neither me nor thee.”
Cicely Elliott set her elbows upon her knees and her chin upon her knuckles. She gazed into the fire and grew moody, as was her wont when she had chanced to think of her menfolk that Cromwell had executed.
“He might have had my head any day this four years,” she said. “And had you lost my head and me you might have had any other maid any day that sennight.”
“Nay, I grow too old,” the knight answered. “A week ago I dropped my lance.”
Cicely continued to gaze at nothings in the fire.
“For thee,” she said scornfully to Katharine, “it were better thou hadst never been born than have meddled between kings and ministers and faiths and nuns. You are not made for this world. You talk too much. Get you across the seas to a nunnery.”
Katharine looked at her pitifully.
“Child,” she said, “it was not I that spoke of thy menfolk.”
“Get thyself mewed up,” Cicely repeated more hotly; “thou wilt set all this world by the ears. This is no place for virtues learned from learned books. This is an ill world where only evil men flourish.”
The old knight still fidgeted to be gone.
“Nay,” Katharine said seriously, “ye think I will work mine own advantage with the King. But I do swear to thee I have it not in my mind.”
“Oh, swear not,” Cicely mumbled, “all the world knoweth thee to be that make of fool.”
“I would well to get me made a nun—but first I will bring nunneries back from across the seas to this dear land.”
Cicely laughed again—for a long and strident while.
“You will come to no nunnery if you wait till then,” she said. “Nuns without their heads have no vocation.”
“When Cromwell is down, no woman again shall lose her head,” Katharine answered hotly.
Cicely only laughed.
“No woman again!” Katharine repeated.
“Blood was tasted when first a queen fell on Tower Hill.” Cicely pointed her little finger at her. “And the taste of blood, even as the taste of wine, ensureth a certain oblivion.”
“You miscall your King,” Katharine said.
Cicely laughed and answered: “I speak of my world.”
Katharine’s blood came hot to her cheeks.
“It is a new world from now on,” she answered proudly.
“Till a new queen’s blood seal it an old one,” Cicely mocked her earnestness. “Hadst best get thee to a nunnery across the seas.”
“The King did bid me bide here.” Katharine faltered in the least.
“You have spoken of it with him?” Cicely said. “Why, God help you!”
Katharine sat quietly, her fair hair gilded by the pale light of the gusty day, her lips parted a little, her eyelids drooping. It behoved her to move little, for her scarlet dress was very nice in its equipoise, and fain she was to seem fine in Privy Seal’s eyes.
“This King hath a wife to his tail,” Cicely mocked her.
The old knight had recovered his quiet; he had his hand upon his haunch, and spoke with his air of wisdom:
“I would have you to cease these talkings of dangerous things,” he said. “I am Rochford of Bosworth Hedge. I have kept my head and my lands, and my legs from chains—and how but by leaving to talk of dangerous things?”
Katharine moved suddenly in her chair. This speech, though she had heard it a hundred times before, struck her now as so craven that she forgot alike her desire to keep fine and her friendship for the old man’s new wife.
“Aye, you have been a coward all your life,” she said: for were not her dear nuns in Lincoln gaol, and this was a knight that should have redressed wrongs!
Old Rochford smiled with his air of tranquil wisdom and corpulent age.
“I have struck good blows,” he said. “There have been thirteen ballads writ of me.”
“You have kept so close a tongue,” Katharine said to him hotly, “that I know not what you love. Be you for the old faith, or for this Church of devils that Cromwell hath set up in the land? Did you love Queen Katharine or Queen Anne Boleyn? Were you glad when More died, or did you weep? Are you for the Statute of Users, or would you end it? Are you for having the Lady Mary called bastard—God
