And in his fear of Cromwell’s ghost that came to him in his dreams, the Archbishop sighed—
“Why stay, but speak not. Y’are over bold.”
He turned again to the wall; his beads clicked; he sighed and remained still for a long time, a black shadow, huddled together in a black gown, sighing before the white and lamenting image that hung above him.
“God help me,” he said at last. “Tell me why you say this is dies felix?”
Lascelles, who smiled forever and without mirth, said—
“For two things: firstly, because this letter and its sending are put off. And secondly, because the Queen is—patently and to all people—proved lewd.”
The Archbishop swung his head round upon his shoulders.
“You dare not say it!” he said.
“Why, the late Queen Katharine from Aragon was accounted a model of piety, yet all men know she was over fond with her confessor,” Lascelles smiled.
“It is an approved lie and slander,” the Archbishop said.
“It served mightily well in pulling down that Katharine,” his confidant answered.
“One day”—the Archbishop shivered within his robes—“the account and retribution for these lies shall be to be paid. For well we know, you, I, and all of us, that these be falsities and cozenings.”
“Marry,” Lascelles said, “of this Queen it is now sufficiently proved true.”
The Archbishop made as if he washed his hands.
“Why,” Lascelles said, “what man shall believe it was by chance and accident that she met her cousin on these moors? She is not a compass that pointeth, of miraculous power, true North.”
“No good man shall believe what you do say,” the Archbishop cried out.
“But a multitude of indifferent will,” Lascelles answered.
“God help me,” the Archbishop said, “what a devil you are that thus hold out and hold out forever hopes.”
“Why,” Lascelles said, “I think you were well helped that day that I came into your service. It was the Great Privy Seal that bade me serve you and commended me.”
The Archbishop shivered at that name.
“What an end had Thomas Cromwell!” he said.
“Why, such an end shall not be yours whilst this King lives, so well he loves you,” Lascelles answered.
The Archbishop stood upon his feet; he raised his hands above his head.
“Begone! Begone!” he cried. “I will not be of your evil schemes.”
“Your Grace shall not,” Lascelles said very softly, “if they miscarry. But when it is proven to the hilt that this Queen is a very lewd woman—and proven it shall be—your Grace may carry an accusation to the King—”
Cranmer said—
“Never! never! Shall I come between the lion and his food?”
“It were better if your Grace would carry the accusation,” Lascelles uttered nonchalantly, “for the King will better hearken to you than to any other. But another man will do it too.”
“I will not be of this plotting,” the Archbishop cried out. “It is a very wicked thing!” He looked round at the white Christ that, upon the dark cross, bent anguished brows upon him. “Give me strength,” he said.
“Why, your Grace shall not be of it,” Lascelles answered, “until it is proven in the eyes of your Grace—ay, and in the eyes of some of the Papist Lords—as, for instance, her very uncle—that this Queen was evil in her life before the King took her, and that she hath acted very suspicious in the aftertime.”
“You shall not prove it to the Papist Lords,” Cranmer said. “It is a folly.”
He added vehemently—
“It is a wicked plot. It is a folly too. I will not be of it.”
“This is a very fortunate day,” Lascelles said. “I think it is proven to all discerning men that that letter to him of Rome shall never be sent.”
“Why, it is as plain as the truths of the Six Articles,” Cranmer remonstrated, “that it shall be sent tomorrow or the next day. Get you gone! This King hath but the will of the Queen to guide him, and all her will turns upon that letter. Get you gone!”
“Please it your Grace,” the spy said, “it is very manifest that with the Queen so it is. But with the King it is otherwise. He will pleasure the Queen if he may. But—mark me well—for this is a subtle matter—”
“I will not mark you,” the Archbishop said. “Get you gone and find another master. I will not hear you. This is the very end.”
Lascelles moved his arm from the Bible. He bent his form to a bow—he moved till his hand was on the latch of the door.
“Why, continue,” the Archbishop said. “If you have awakened my fears, you shall slake them if you can—for this night I shall not sleep.”
And so, very lengthily, Lascelles unfolded his view of the King’s nature. For, said he, if this alliance with the Pope should come, it must be an alliance with the Pope and the Emperor Charles. For the King of France was an atheist, as all men knew. And an alliance with the Pope and the Emperor must be an alliance against France. But the King o’ Scots was the closest ally that Francis had, and never should the King dare to wage war upon Francis till the King o’ Scots was placated or wooed by treachery to be a prisoner, as the King would have made him if James had come into England to the meeting. Well would the King, to save his soul, placate and cosset his wife. But that he never dare do whilst James was potent at his back.
And again, Lascelles said, well knew the Archbishop that the Duke of Norfolk and his following were the ancient friends of France. If the Queen should force the King to this Imperial League, it must turn Norfolk and the Bishop of Winchester forever to her bitter foes in that land. And along with them all the Protestant nobles and all the Papists too that had lands of the Church.
The Archbishop had been marking his words very eagerly. But suddenly he cried out—
“But
