“For God’s sake, master,” one of them grunted out, “stand aside that we may pass. We have toil enow in bearing him.”
“Why, set the poor gentleman down upon the litter,” Lascelles said, “and let us talk a little.”
The men set Culpepper on the horse-cloth, and one of them knelt down to hold him there.
“If you will lend us your horse to lay him across, we may come more easily up,” one said. In these days the position and trade of a spy was so little esteemed—it had been far other with the great informers of Privy Seal’s day—that these men, being of the Queen’s guard, would talk roughly to Lascelles, who was a mere poor gentleman of the Archbishop’s if his other vocation could be neglected. Lascelles sat, his hand upon his chin.
“You use him very roughly if this be the Queen’s cousin,” he said.
The bearer set back his beard and laughed at the sky.
“This is a coif—a poor rag of a merchant,” he cried out. “If this were the Queen’s cousin should we bear him thus on a clout?”
“I am the Queen’s cousin, T. Culpepper,” Culpepper shouted at the sky. “Who be you that stay me from her?”
“Why, you may hear plainly,” the bearer said. “He is mazed, doited, starved, thirsted, and a seer of visions.”
Lascelles pondered, his elbow upon his saddle-peak, his chin caught in his hand.
“How came ye by him?” he asked.
One with another they told him the tale, how, the Queen being ridden towards the north parts, at the extreme end of her ride had seen the man, at a distance, among the heather, flogging a dead horse with a moorland kern beside him. He was a robbed, parched, fevered, and amazed traveller. The Queen’s Highness, compassionating, had bidden bear him to the castle and comfort and cure him, not having looked upon his face or heard his tongue. For, for sure then, she had let him die where he was; since, no sooner were these four, his new bearers, nearly come up among the knee-deep heather, than this man had started up, his eyes upon the Queen’s cavalcade and many at a distance. And, with his sword drawn and screaming, he had cried out that, if that was the Queen, he was the Queen’s cousin. They had tripped up his heels in a bed of ling and quieted him with a clout on the poll from an axe end.
“But now we have him here,” the eldest said; “where we shall bestow him we know not.”
Lascelles had his eyes upon the sick man’s face as if it fascinated him, and, slowly, he got down from his horse. Culpepper then lay very still with his eyes closed, but his breast heaved as though against tight and strong ropes that bound him.
“I think I do know this gentleman for one John Robb,” he said. “Are you very certain the Queen’s Highness did not know his face?”
“Why, she came not ever within a quarter mile of him,” the bearer said.
“Then it is a great charity of the Queen to show mercy to a man she hath never seen,” Lascelles answered absently. He was closely casting his eyes over Culpepper. Culpepper lay very still, his begrimed face to the sky, his hands abroad above his head. But when Lascelles bent over him it was as if he shuddered, and then he wept.
Lascelles bent down, his hands upon his knees. He was afraid—he was very afraid. Thomas Culpepper, the Queen’s cousin, he had never seen in his life. But he had heard it reported that he had red hair and beard, and went always dressed in green with stockings of red. And this man’s hair was red, and his beard, beneath coal grime, was a curly red, and his coat, beneath a crust of black filth, was Lincoln green and of a good cloth. And, beneath the black, his stockings were of red silk. He reflected slowly, whilst the bearers laughed amongst themselves at this Queen’s kinsman in rags and filth.
Lascelles gave them his bottle of sack to drink empty among them, that he might have the longer time to think.
If this were indeed the Queen’s cousin, come unknown to the Queen and mazed and muddled in himself to Pontefract, what might not Lascelles make of him? For all the world knew that he loved her with a mad love—he had sold farms to buy her gowns. It was he that had brought her to Court, upon an ass, at Greenwich, when her mule—as all men knew—had stumbled upon the threshold. Once before, it was said, Culpepper had burst in with his sword drawn upon the King and Kate Howard when they sat together. And Lascelles trembled with eagerness at the thought of what use he might not make of this mad and insolent lover of the Queen’s!
But did he dare?
Culpepper had been sent into Scotland to secure him up, away at the farthest limits of the realm. Then, if he was come back? This grime was the grime of a sea-coal ship! He knew that men without passports, outlaws and the like, escaped from Scotland on the Durham ships that went to Leith with coal. And this man came on the Durham road. Then. …
If it were Culpepper he had come unpermitted. He was an outlaw. Dare Lascelles have trade with—dare he harbour—an outlaw? It would be unbeknown to the Queen’s Highness! He kicked his heels with impatience to come to a resolution.
He reflected swiftly:
What hitherto he had were: some tales spread abroad about the Queen’s lewd Court—tales in London Town. He had, too, the keeper of the Queen’s door bribed and talked into his service and interest. And he had his sister. …
His sister would, with threatening, tell tales of the Queen before marriage. And she would find him other maids and grooms, some no doubt more willing still than Mary Hall. But the keeper of the Queen’s door! And,
