“What use?” he said bitterly; and then again, “What use?”
Lascelles wrote on sedulously. He used his sandarach to the end of the page, blew off the sand, eyed the sheet sideways, laid it down, and set another on his writing-board.
“Why,” he brought out quietly, “it may be brought to the King’s Highness’ ears.”
“What way?” the Archbishop said heavily, as if the thing were impossible. His gentleman answered—
“This way and that!” The King’s Highness had a trick of wandering about among his faithful lieges unbeknown; foreign ambassadors wrote abroad such rumours which might be re-reported from the foreign by the King’s servants.
“Such a report,” Lascelles said, “hath gone up already to London town by a swift carrier.”
The Archbishop brought out wearily and distastefully—
“How know you? Was it you that wrote it?”
“Please it, your Grace,” his gentleman answered him, “it was in this wise. As I was passing by the Queen’s chamber wall I heard a great outcry—”
He laid down his pen beside his writing-board the more leisurely to speak.
He had seen Udal, beaten and shaking, stagger out from the Queen’s door to where his guards waited to set him back in prison. From Udal he had learned of this new draft of the letter; of Udal’s trouble he knew before. Udal gone, he had waited a little, hearing the Queen’s voice and what she said very plainly, for the castle was very great and quiet. Then out had come the young Poins, breathing like a volcano through his nostrils, and like to be stricken with palsy, boy though he was. Him Lascelles had followed at a convenient distance, where he staggered and snorted. And, coming upon the boy in an empty guardroom near the great gate, he had found him aflame with passion against the Queen’s Highness.
“I,” the boy had cried out, “I that by my carrying of letters set this Howard where she sits! I!—and this is my advancement. My sister cast down, and I cast out, and another maid to take my sister’s place.”
And Lascelles, in the guard-chamber, had shown him sympathy and reminded him that there was gospel for saying that princes had short memories.
“But I did not calm him!” Lascelles said.
On the contrary, upon Lascelles’ suggestion that the boy had but to hold his tongue and pocket his wrongs, the young Poins had burst out that he would shout it all abroad at every street corner. And suddenly it had come into his head to write such a letter to his Uncle Badge the printer as, printed in a broadside, would make the Queen’s name to stink, until the last generation was of men, in men’s nostrils.
Lascelles rubbed his hands gently and sinuously together. He cast one sly glance at the Archbishop.
“Well, the letter was written,” he said. “Be sure the broadside shall be printed.”
Cranmer’s head was sunk over his book.
“This lad,” Lascelles said softly, “who in seven days’ time again shall keep the Queen’s door (for it is not true that the Queen’s Highness is an ingrate, well sure am I), this lad shall be a very useful confidant; a very serviceable guide to help us to a knowledge of who goes in to the Queen and who cometh out.”
The Archbishop did not appear to be listening to his gentleman’s soft voice and, resuming his pen, Lascelles finished his tale with—
“For I have made this lad my friend. It shall cost me some money, but I do not doubt that your Grace shall repay.”
The Archbishop raised his head.
“No, before God in heaven on His throne!” he said. His voice was shrill and high; he agitated his hands in their fine, tied sleeves. “I will have no part in these Cromwell tricks. All is lost; let it be lost. I must say my prayers.”
“Has it been by saying of your Grace’s prayers that your Grace has lived through these months?” Lascelles asked softly.
“Aye,” the Archbishop wrung his hands; “you girded me and moved me when Cromwell lay at death, to write a letter to the King’s Highness. To write such a letter as should appear brave and faithful and true to Privy Seal’s cause.”
“Such a letter your Grace wrote,” Lascelles said; “and it was the best writing that ever your Grace made.”
The Archbishop gazed at the table.
“How do I know that?” he said in a whisper. “You say so, who bade me write it.”
“For that your Grace lives yet,” Lascelles said softly; “though in those days a warrant was written for your capture. For, sure it is, and your Grace has heard it from the King’s lips, that your letter sounded so faithful and piteous and true to him your late leader, that the King could not but believe that you, so loyal in such a time to a man disgraced and cast down beyond hope, could not but be faithful and loyal in the future to him, the King, with so many bounties to bestow.”
“Aye,” the Archbishop said, “but how do I know what of a truth was in the King’s mind who casteth down today one, tomorrow another, till none are left?”
And again Cranmer dropped his anguished eyes to the table.
In those days still—and he slept still worse since the King had bidden him write this letter to Rome—the Archbishop could not sleep on any night without startings and sweats and cryings out in his sleep. And he gave orders that, when he so cried out, the page at his bedside should wake him.
For then he was seeing the dreadful face of his great master, Privy Seal, when the day of his ruin had come. Cromwell had been standing in a window of the council chamber at Westminster looking out upon a courtyard. In behind him had come the other lords of the council, Norfolk with his yellow face, the High Admiral, and many others; and each, seating himself at the table, had kept his bonnet on his
