The Fifth Queen Crowned

King, been led towards righteousness by wedding of this lady. For I tell you that, but for certain small hindrances⁠—and mostly this treacherous disloyalty of the King o’ Scots that thus with his craven marrow hath featorously dallied to look upon my face⁠—but for that and other small things there had gone forth this night through the dark to the Bishop of Rome certain tidings that, please God, had made you and me and all this land the gladdest that be in Christendom. And this I tell you, too, that though by this misadventure and fear of the King o’ Scots, these tidings have been delayed, yet is it only for a little space and, full surely, that day cometh. And for this you shall give thanks first to God and then to this royal lady here. For she, before all things, having the love of God in her heart, hath brought about this desired consummation. And this I say, to her greater praise, here in the midmost of you all, that it be noised unto the utmost corners of the world how good a Queen the King hath taken to wife.”

The Queen had stood very motionless in the bright illuminations and dancings of the torches. But at the news of delay, through the King of Scots, a spasm of pain and concern came into her face. So that, if her features did not again move they had in them a savour of anguish, her eyebrows drooping, and the corners of her mouth.

“And now, good night!” the King pursued with raised tones. “If ever ye slept well since these troublous times began, now ye may sleep well in the drowsy night. For now, in this my reign, are come the shortening years like autumn days. Now I will have such peace in land as cometh to the husbandman. He hath ingarnered his grain; he hath barned his fodder and straw; his sheep are in the byres and in the stalls his oxen. So, sitteth he by his fireside with wife and child, and hath no fear of winter. Such a man am I, your King, who in the years to come shall rest in peace.”

The lords and gentlemen made their reverences, bows and knees; they swept round in their coloured assembly, and the Queen stood very tall and straight, watching their departure with saddened eyes.

The King was very gay and caught her by the waist.

“God help me, it is very late,” he said. “Hearken!”

From above the corridor there came the drowsy sound of the clock.

“Thy daughter hath made her submission,” the Queen said. “I had thought this was the gladdest day in my life.”

“Why, so it is,” he said, “as now day passeth to day.” The clock ceased. “Every day shall be glad,” he said, “and gladder than the rest.”

At her chamber door he made a bustle. He would have the Queen’s women come to untire her, a leech to see to Culpepper’s recovery. He was willing to drink mulled wine before he slept. He was afraid to talk with his wife of delaying his letter to Rome. That was why he had told the news before her to his lords.

He fell upon the Lady Rochford that stood, not daring to go, within the Queen’s room. He bade her sit all night by the bedside of T. Culpepper; he reviled her for a craven coward that had discountenanced the Queen. She should pay for it by watching all night, and woe betide her if any had speech with T. Culpepper before the King rose.

III

Down in the lower castle, the Archbishop was accustomed, when he undressed, to have with him neither priest nor page, but only, when he desired to converse of public matters⁠—as now he did⁠—his gentleman, Lascelles. He knelt above his kneeling-stool of black wood; he was telling his beads before a great crucifix with an ivory Son of God upon it. His chamber had bare white walls, his bed no curtains, and all the other furnishing of the room was a great black lectern whereto there was chained a huge Book of the Holy Writ that had his Preface. The tears were in his eyes as he muttered his prayers; he glanced upwards at the face of his Saviour, who looked down with a pallid, uncoloured face of ivory, the features shewing a great agony so that the mouth was opened. It was said that this image, that came from Italy, had had a face serene, before the Queen Katharine of Aragon had been put away. Then it had cried out once, and so remained ever lachrymose and in agony.

“God help me, I cannot well pray,” the Archbishop said. “The peril that we have been in stays with me still.”

“Why, thank God that we are come out of it very well,” Lascelles said. “You may pray and then sleep more calm than ever you have done this sennight.”

He leant back against the reading-pulpit, and had his arm across the Bible as if it had been the shoulder of a friend.

“Why,” the Archbishop said, “this is the worst day ever I have been through since Cromwell fell.”

“Please it your Grace,” his confidant said, “it shall yet turn out the best.”

The Archbishop faced round upon his knees; he had taken off the jewel from before his breast, and, with his chain of Chaplain of the George, it dangled across the corner of the fald-stool. His coat was unbuttoned at the neck, his robe open, and it was manifest that his sleeves of lawn were but sleeves, for in the opening was visible, harsh and grey, the shirt of hair that night and day he wore.

“I am weary of this talk of the world,” he said. “Pray you begone and leave me to my prayers.”

“Please it your Grace to let me stay and hearten you,” Lascelles said, and he was aware that the Archbishop was afraid to be alone with the white Christ. “All your other gentry