Lady Rochford shook her head.
“For a little while truth may help you,” she said; “but your name in the end shall be but a stink.”
“Ay,” Katharine answered her; “but ye shall gain at the end of all. For I hold it for certain that because, to the uttermost dregs of his cup, Cromwell was true to his master Wolsey, before the throne of God much shall be pardoned him.”
The old woman answered bitterly:
“The throne of God is a long way from here.”
“Please it Mary and the saints,” Katharine said, “the ten years to come shall bring Heaven a thousand leagues nearer to this land.” But her words died away because the Lady Rochford’s mouth fell open.
From the terrace a great square man led down a tiny, small man, giving the child his finger to help him down the steps. It clung to him, the little, squared replica of himself, sturdily and with a blonde, small face laughing up into his father’s that laughed down past a huge shoulder. Henry was dressed all in black, and his son too; the boy’s callow head shone in the sunshine, and they came dallying down the little path, many faces and shoulders peering over the terrace wall at them. Once the child stumbled, loosed his hold of his father’s finger and came down upon all fours. He crawled to the pathside, filled his little hands with leaves, and held them up towards his sire; and they could hear the King say:
“Who-hoop, Ned! Princes walk not like quadrumanes,” as he bent to take the leaves. The child twisted himself, gripping his little fingers into Henry’s garter, and, catching again at his finger, pulled his father towards their bower.
The Lady Rochford rose, but Katharine sat where she was to smile upon the child and brush his head with a pink tassel of her sleeve. The little prince hid his face in the voluminous velvet of his father’s vast thighs. The King, diffusing a great and embracing pride, laughed to Lady Rochford.
“Ye played cat’s-cradle,” he said. “I warrant ye brought it not beyond seven changes. Time was when I have done fourteen with a lady if her hands were white enough.”
He threw away the green leaves of the clove pinks that his son had given him, and took the blue and silver loop from the old woman’s hands. He sat himself heavily on the bench facing Katharine, and crying, “See you, silly Ned,” held his son’s hands apart and fitted the cord over the little wrists.
Suddenly he bent clumsily forward and picked up again the carnation leaves that lay in green strands upon the floor of the arbour, grunting a little with the effort.
“This is the first offering my son ever made me,” he said, and he drew a pocket purse from his breast to lay them in. “Please God he shall yet lay at my feet a province or two of our heritage of France.” He touched his cap at the Deity’s name, and called gruffly at his son: “See you, forget not ever that we be Kings of France too, you and I,” and the little boy with his cropped head uttered:
“Rex Angliae, Galliae, Franciae et Hiberniae!”
“Aye, I ha’ learned ye that,” the King said, and roared with laughter. Of a sudden he turned his head, without moving his body, towards Katharine.
“I ha’ news from Norfolk in France,” he said, and, as the Lady Rochford made to move, he uttered good-naturedly: “Aye, avoid. But ye may buss my son.”
He stretched back his head, laid an arm along the back of his seat, put out his feet and pushed at the child, who played with his shoe-tags.
“The boy grows,” he said, and motioned for Katharine to sit beside him. Then his face shewed a quick dissatisfaction. “A brave boy, but a should be braver,” and looking down, “see you not blue lines about ’s gills?” He caught at her hand with a masterful grip.
“Here we’re a picture,” he said: “a lusty husbandman, his lusty son, his lusty wife, resting all beneath his goodly vine.” His face clouded again. “I—I am not lusty; my son, he is not lusty.” He touched her cheek. “Thou art lusty enow—hast such pink cheeks.”
“Aye, we were always lusty at home when we had enow to eat,” Katharine said. She took the child upon her knee and blew lightly in his face. “I will wager you I will guess his weight within a pound,” she added, and began to play a game with the tiny fingers. “Wherefore do ye habit little children in black?”
“Why,” the King answered, “I know not if I myself appear less monstrous in black or red, and my son shall be habited as I be. ’Tis to make the trial.”
“Aye,” Katharine said, “ye think first of yourself. But dress the child in white and go in white yourself. And set up a chantry of priests to pray the child grow sturdy. It was thus my cousin Surrey’s life was saved that was erst a weakling.”
“Be Queen,” he said suddenly. “Marry me. I came here to ask it.”
Her lips parted; she left her hand in his. The expected words had come.
“I have thought on it,” she said. “I knew ye could not long hold to child and sire as ye sware ye would.”
“Kat,” he said, “ye shall do my will. I ha’ news from France. Ye gave me good rede. I ha’ news from Cleves: the Cleves woman shall no more be queen of mine. Thee I will have.”
She raised herself from the bench and turned in the entrance of the arbour to look at him.
“Give me leave to walk on the path,” she said. “I have thought on this—for I was sure I gave you good advice, and well I knew Cleves would sever from ye.” She faltered: “I ha’ thought on it. But ’tis different to think on it and to ha’ the thing in your face.”
He uttered, “Make haste,” and she walked down the
