He shook his head.
“Dear lord,” she repeated; “use me as thou wilt and I will stay beside thee and urge thee to the cause of God.”
Again he shook his head.
“The saints would pardon me it,” she whispered; “or if I even be damned to save England, it were a good burnt-offering.”
“Wench,” he said; “I was never a man to go a-whoring. I ha’ done it, but had no savour with it.” His boastfulness returned to the heavy voice. “I am a king that will give. I will give a crown, a realm, jewels, honours, monies. All I have I will give; but thou shalt wed me.” He threw out his chest and gazed down at her. “I was ever thus,” he said.
“And I ever thus,” she answered him swiftly. “Mary hath put this thing in my mind; and though ye scourge me, ye shall not have it otherwise.”
“Even how?” he said.
“My lord,” she answered; “if the Queen, so it be true, will say she be no wife of thine, I will wed thee. If the Queen, seeing that it is for the good of this suffering realm, will give to me her crown, I will wed with thee. I wot ye may get for yourself another woman with another gear of conscience to bear t’ee children. All the ills of this realm came with a divorce of a queen. I do hate the word as I hate Judas, and will have no truck with the deed.”
“Ye speak me hard,” he said; “but no man shall say I could not bear with the truth at odd moments.”
A great and hasty eagerness came into her voice.
“Ye say that it is truth?” she cried. “God hath softened thy heart.”
“God or thee,” he said, and muttered, “I do not make this avowal to the world.” Suddenly he smote his thigh. “Body o’ God!” he called out; “the day shall soon come. Cleves falls away, France and Spain are sundering. I will sue for peace with the Pope, and set up a chapel to Kat’s memory.” He breathed as if a weight had fallen from his chest, and suddenly laughed: “But ye must wed me to keep me in the right way.”
He changed his tone again.
“Why, go to Anne,” he said; “she is such a fool she will not lie to thee; and, before God, she is no wife of mine.”
“God send ye speak the truth,” she answered; “but I think few men be found that will speak truth in these matters.”
IV
But it was with Throckmorton that the real pull of the rope came. Henry was by then so full of love for her that, save when she crossed his purpose, he would have given her her way to the bitter end of things. But Throckmorton bewailed her lack of loyalty. He came to her on the morning of the next day, having heard that, if the rain held off, a cavalcade of seventeen lords, twelve ladies and their bodyguards were commanded to ride with her in one train to Windsor, where the Queen was.
“I am main sure ’tis for Madam Howard that this cavalcade is ordered,” he said; “for there is none other person in Court to whom his Highness would work this honour. And I am main sure that if Madam Howard goeth, she goeth with some mad maggot of a purpose.”
His foxy, laughing eyes surveyed her, and he stroked his great beard deliberately.
“I ha’ not been near ye this two month,” he said, “but God knows that I ha’ worked for ye.”
Save to take her to Privy Seal the day before, when Privy Seal had sent him, he had in truth not spoken with her for many weeks. He had deemed it wise to keep from her.
“Nevertheless,” he said earnestly, “I know well that thy cause is my cause, and that thou wilt spread upon me the mantle of thy favour and protection.”
They were in her old room with the green hangings, the high fireplace, and before the door the red curtain worked with gold that the King had sent her, and Cromwell had given orders that the spy outside should be removed, for he was useless. Thus Throckmorton could speak with a measure of freedom.
“Madam Howard,” he said; “ye use me not well in this. Ye are not so stable nor so safe in your place as that ye may, without counsel or guidance, risk all our necks with these mad pranks.”
“Goodman,” she said, “I asked ye not to come into my barque. If ye hang to the gunwale, is it my fault an ye be drowned in my foundering if I founder?”
“Tell me why ye go to Windsor,” he urged.
“Goodman,” she answered, “to ask the Queen if she be the King’s wife.”
“Oh, folly!” he cried out, and added softly, “Madam Howard, ye be monstrous fair. I do think ye be the fairest woman in the world. I cannot sleep for thinking on thee.”
“Poor soul!” she mocked him.
“But, bethink you,” he said; “the Queen is a woman, not a man. All your fairness shall not help you with her. Neither yet your sweet tongue nor your specious reasons. Nor yet your faith, for she is half a Protestant.”
“If she be the King’s wife,” Katharine said, “I will not be Queen. If she care enow for her queenship to lie over it, I will not be Queen either. For I will not be in any quarrel where lies are—either of my side or of another’s.”
“God help us all!” Throckmorton mocked her. “Here is my neck engaged on your quarrel—and by now a dozen others. Udal hath lied for you in the Cleves matter; so have I. If ye be not Queen to save us ere Cromwell’s teeth be drawn, our days are over and past.”
He spoke with so much earnestness that Katharine was moved to consider her speaking.
“Knight,” she said at last, “I never asked ye to lie to Cromwell over the Cleves matter. I never asked Udal.
