The prickly sweat came to his forehead. Four horsemen were issuing from the gate of the castle above. He must come to a decision. His fingers trembled as if they were a pickpocket’s near a purse of gold.
He straightened his back and stood erect.
“Yes,” he said very calmly, “this is my friend John Robb.”
He added that this man had been in Edinburgh where the Queen’s cousin was. He had had letters from him that told how they were sib and rib. Thus this fancy had doubtless come into his brain at sight of the Queen in his madness.
He breathed calmly, having got out these words, for now the doubt was ended. He would have both the Queen’s doorkeeper and the Queen’s mad lover.
He bade the bearers set Culpepper upon his horse and, supporting him, lead him to a room that he would hire of the Archbishop’s chamberlain, near his own in the dark entrails of the castle. And there John Robb should live at his expenses.
And when the men protested that, though this was very Christian of Lascelles, yet they would have recompense of the Queen for their toils, he said that he himself would give them a crown apiece, and they might get in addition what recompense from the Queen’s steward that they could. He asked them each their names and wrote them down, pretending that it was that he might send each man his crown piece.
So, when the four horsemen were ridden past, the men hoisted Culpepper into Lascelles’ horse and went all together up into the castle.
But, that night, when Culpepper lay in a stupor, Lascelles went to the Archbishop’s chamberlain and begged that four men, whose names he had written down, might be chosen to go in the Archbishop’s paritor’s guard that went next dawn to Ireland over the sea to bring back tithes from Dublin. And, next day, he had Culpepper moved to another room; and, in three days’ time, he set it about in the castle that the Queen’s cousin was come from Scotland. By that time most of the liquor had come down out of Culpepper’s brain, but he was still muddled and raved at times.
IV
On that third night the Queen was with the Lady Mary, once more in her chamber, having come down as before, from the chapel in the roof, to pray her submit to her father’s will. Mary had withstood her with a more good-humoured irony; and, whilst she was in the midst of her pleadings, a letter marked most pressing was brought to her. The Queen opened it, and raised her eyebrows; she looked down at the subscription and frowned. Then she cast it upon the table.
“Shall there never be an end of old things?” she said.
“Even what old things?” the Lady Mary asked.
The Queen shrugged her shoulders.
“It was not they I came to talk of,” she said. “I would sleep early, for the King comes tomorrow and I have much to plead with you.”
“I am weary of your pleadings,” the Lady Mary said. “You have pleaded enow. If you would be fresh for the King, be first fresh for me. Start a new hare.”
The Queen would have gainsaid her.
“I have said you have pleaded enow,” the Lady Mary said. “And you have pleaded enow. This no more amuses me. I will wager I guess from whom your letter was.”
Reluctantly the Queen held her peace; that day she had read in many ancient books, as well profane as of the Fathers of the Church, and she had many things to say, and they were near her lips and warm in her heart. She was much minded to have good news to give the King against his coming on the morrow; the great good news that should set up in that realm once more abbeys and chapters and the love of God. But she could not press these sayings upon the girl, though she pleaded still with her blue eyes.
“Your letter is from Sir Nicholas Throckmorton,” the Lady Mary said. “Even let me read it.”
“You did know that that knight was come to Court again?” the Queen said.
“Aye; and that you would not see him, but like a fool did bid him depart again.”
“You will ever be calling me a fool,” Katharine retorted, “for giving ear to my conscience and hating spies and the suborners of false evidence.”
“Why,” the Lady Mary answered, “I do call it a folly to refuse to give ear to the tale of a man who has ridden far and fast, and at the risk of a penalty to tell it you.”
“Why,” Katharine said, “if I did forbid his coming to the Court under a penalty, it was because I would not have him here.”
“Yet he much loved you, and did you some service.”
“He did me a service of lies,” the Queen said, and she was angry. “I would not have had him serve me. By his false witness Cromwell was cast down to make way for me. But I had rather have cast down Cromwell by the truth which is from God. Or I had rather he had never been cast down. And that I swear.”
“Well, you are a fool,” the Lady Mary said. “Let me look upon this knight’s letter.”
“I have not read it,” Katharine said.
“Then will I,” the Lady Mary answered. She made across the room to where the paper lay upon the table beside the great globe of the earth. She came back; she turned her round to the Queen; she made her a deep reverence, so that her black gown spread out stiffly around her, and, keeping her eyes ironically on Katharine’s face, she mounted backward up to the chair that was beneath the dais.
Katharine put her hand over her heart.
“What mean you?” she said. “You have never sat there before.”
“That is not true,” the Lady Mary said harshly. “For
