“For,” said the King, “we thought thus—as ye wist—that the King o’ Scots would come obedient to our summoning and that there we should lie some days awaiting and entertaining him. Thus did I wish to send my Queen swift message of our faring, and I was willing that this, her cousin and mine, should be my postman and messenger. For he should—I bade him—set sail in a swift ship for these coasts and so come quicker than ever a man might by land.”
He paused to observe the effect of his words, but no lord spoke though some whispered amongst themselves.
“Now,” he said, “what stood within my letter to the Queen was this, after salutations, that she should reward this her cousin that in the aforetime had much fended for her when she was a child. For I was aware how, out of a great delicacy and fear of nepotism, such as was shown by certain of the Popes now dead, she raised up none of her relations and blood, nor none that before had aided her when she was a child and poor. But I was willing that this should be otherwise, and they be much helped that before had helped her since now she helpeth me and assuageth my many and fell labours.”
He paused and went a step back that he might stand beside the Queen, and there, before them all, Katharine was most glad that she had again set on all her jewels and was queenlike. She had composed her features, and gazed before her over their heads, her hands being folded in the lap of her gown.
“Now,” the King said, “this letter of mine was a little thing—but great maybe, since it bore my will. Yet”—and he made his voice minatory—“in these evil and tickle times well it might have been that that letter held delicate news. Then all my plots had gone to ruin. How came it that some of ye—I know not whom!—thus letted and hindered my messenger?”
He had raised his voice very high. He stayed it suddenly, and some there shivered.
He uttered balefully, “Anan!”
“As Christ is my Saviour,” the Lord d’Espahn said, “I, since I am the Queen’s Marshal, am answerable in this, as well I know. Yet never saw I this man till tonight at supper. He would have my seat then, and I gave it him. Ne let ne hindrance had he of me, but went his way where and when he would.”
“You did very well,” the King said. “Who else speaks?”
The Archbishop looked over his shoulder, and with a dry mouth uttered, “Lascelles!”
Lascelles, deft and blond and gay, shouldered his way through that unwilling crowd, and fell upon his knees.
“Of this I know something,” he said; “and if any have offended, doubtless it is I, though with good will.”
“Well, speak!” the King said.
Lascelles recounted how the Queen, riding out, had seen afar this gentleman lying amid the heather.
“And if she should not know him who was her cousin, how should we who are servants?” he said. But, having heard that the Queen would have this poor, robbed wayfarer tended and comforted, he, Lascelles, out of the love and loyalty he owed her Grace, had so tended and so comforted him that he had given up to him his own bed and board. But it was not till that day that, Culpepper being washed and apparelled—not till that day a little before supper, had he known him for Culpepper, the Queen’s cousin. So he had gone with him that night to the banquet-hall, and there had served him, and, after, had attended him with some lords and gentles. But, at the last, Culpepper had shaken them off and bidden them leave him.
“And who were we, what warrants had we, to restrain the Queen’s noble cousin?” he finished. “And, as for letters, I never saw one, though all his apparel, in rags, was in my hands. I think he must have lost this letter amongst the robbers he fell in with. But what I could do, I did for love of the Queen’s Grace, who much hath favoured me.”
The King studied his words. He looked at the Queen’s face and then at those of the lords before him.
“Why, this tale hath a better shewing,” he said. “Herein appeareth that none, save the Queen’s door-ward, came ever against this good knight and cousin of mine. And, since this knight was in liquor, and not overwise sensible—as well he might be after supping in moors and deserts—maybe that door-ward had his reasonable reasonings.”
He paused again, and looking upon the Queen’s face for a sign:
“If it be thus, it is well,” he said, “I will pardon and assoil you all, if later it shall appear that this is the true truth.”
Lascelles whispered in the Archbishop’s ear, and Cranmer uttered—
“The witnesses be here to prove it, if your Highness will.”
“Why,” the King said, “it is late enough,” and he leered at Cranmer, for whom he had an affection. He looked again upon the Queen to see how fair she was and how bravely she bore herself, upright and without emotion. “This wife of mine,” he said, “is ever of the pardoning side. If ye had so injured me I had been among ye with fines and amercements. But she, I perceive, will not have it so, and I am too glad to be smiled upon now to cross her will. So, get you gone and sleep well. But, before you go, I will have you listen to some words. …”
He cleared his throat, and in his left hand took the Queen’s.
“Know ye,” he said, “that I am as proud of this my Queen as was ever mother of her firstborn child. For lo, even as the Latin poet saith, that, upon bearing a child, many evil women are led to repentance and right paths, so have I, your
