Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (251 page)

When the Lady Mary stood high and shadowy, in black, with her white face beneath that dais, she looked down upon the Queen.

‘Now, hear me!’ she said. ‘In this I have been humble to you; but I have been most proud. For I have in my veins a greater blood than thine or the King’s, my father’s. For, inasmuch as Tudor blood is above Howard’s, so my mother’s, that was royal of Spain, is above Tudor’s. And this it is to be royal ——

‘I have had you, a Queen, kneel before me. It is royal to receive petitions — more royal still it is to grant them. And in this, further, I am more proud. For, hearing you say that you had prayed the King for Cromwell’s life, I thought, this is a virtue-mad Queen. She shall most likely fall! — Prudence biddeth me not to be of her party. But shall I, who am royal, be prudent? Shall I, who am of the house of Aragon, be more afraid than thou, a Howard?

‘I tell you — No! If you will be undone for the sake of virtue, blindly, and like a fool, unknowing the consequences, I, Mary of Aragon and England, will make alliance with thee, knowing that the alliance is dangerous. And, since it is more valiant to go to a doom knowingly than blindfold, so I do show myself more valiant than thou. For well I know — since I saw my mother die — that virtue is a thing profitless, and impracticable in this world. But you — you think it shall set up temporal monarchies and rule peoples. Therefore, what you do you do for profit. I do it for none.’

‘Now, by the Mother of God,’ Katharine Howard said, ‘this is the gladdest day of my life.’

‘Pray you,’ Mary said, ‘get you gone from my sight and hearing, for I endure ill the appearance and sound of joy. And, Queen, again I bid you beware of calling any day fortunate till its close. For, before midnight you may be ruined utterly. I have known more Queens than thou. Thou art the fifth I have known.’

She added —

‘For the rest, what you will I will do: submission to the King and such cozening as he will ask of me. God keep you, for you stand in need of it.’

At supper that night there sat all such knights and lordlings as ate at the King’s expense in the great hall that was in the midmost of the castle, looking on to the courtyard. There were not such a many of them, maybe forty; from the keeper of the Queen’s records, the Lord d’Espahn, who sat at the table head, down to the lowest of all, the young Poins, who sat far below the salt-cellar. The greater lords of the Queen’s household, like the Lord Dacre of the North, did not eat at this common table, or only when the Queen herself there ate, which she did at midday when there was a feast.

Nevertheless, this eating was conducted with gravity, the Lord d’Espahn keeping a vigilant eye down the table, which was laid with a fair white cloth. It cost a man a fine to be drunk before the white meats were eaten — unless, indeed, a man came drunk to the board — and the salt-cellar of state stood a-midmost of the cloth. It was of silver from Holland, and represented a globe of the earth, opened at the top, and supported by knights’ bannerets.

The hall was all of stone, with creamy walls, only marked above the iron torch-holds with brandons of soot. A scutcheon of the King’s arms was above one end-door, with the Queen’s above the other. Over each window were notable deers’ antlers, and over each side-door, that let in the servers from the courtyard, was a scutcheon with the arms of a king deceased that had visited the castle. The roof was all gilded and coloured, and showed knaves’ faces leering and winking, so that when a man was in drink, and looked upwards with his head on his chair back, these appeared to have life. The hall was called the Dacre Hall, because the Lords Dacre of the North had built it to be an offering to various kings that died whilst it was a-building.

Such knights as had pages had them behind their chairs, holding napkins and ready to fill the horns with wine or beer. From kitchens or from buttery-hatches the servers ran continually across the courtyard and across the tiled floor, for the table was set back against the farther wall, all the knights being on the wall side, since there were not so many, and thus it was easier to come to them. There was a great clatter with the knives going and the feet on the tiles, but little conversing, for in that keen air eating was the principal thing, and in five minutes a boar or a sheep’s head would be stripped till the skull alone was shown.

It was in this manner that Thomas Culpepper came into the hall when they were all well set to, without having many eyes upon him. But the Lord d’Espahn was aware, suddenly, of one that stood beside him.

‘Gentleman, will you have a seat?’ he said. ‘Tell me your name and estate, that I may appoint you one.’ He was a grave lord, with a pointed nose, dented at the end, a grey, square beard, and fresh colours on his face. He wore his bonnet because he was the highest there, and because there were currents of air at the openings of the doors.

Thomas Culpepper’s face was of a chalky white. Somewhere Lascelles had found for him a suit of green and red stockings. His red beard framed his face, but his lips were pursed.

‘Your seat I will have,’ he said, ‘for I am the Queen’s cousin, T. Culpepper.’

The Lord d’Espahn looked down upon his platter.

‘You may not have my seat,’ he said. ‘But you shall have this seat at my right hand that is empty. It is a very honourable seat, but mine you may not have for it is the Queen’s own that I hold, being her vicar here.’

‘Your seat I will have,’ Culpepper said.

The Lord d’Espahn was set upon keeping order and quiet in that place more than on any other thing. He looked again down upon his platter, and then he was aware of a voice that whispered in his ear —

‘A’ God’s name, humour him, for he is very mad,’ and, turning his eyes a little, he saw that it was Lascelles above his chair head.

‘Your seat I will have,’ Culpepper said again. ‘And this fellow, that tells me he is the most potent lord there is here, shall serve behind my chair.’

The Lord d’Espahn took up his knife and fork in one hand and his manchet of bread in the other. He made as if to bow to Culpepper, who pushed him by the shoulder away. Some lordlings saw this and wondered, but in the noise none heard their words. At the foot of the table the squires said that the Lord d’Espahn must have been found out in a treason. Only the young Poins said that that was the Queen’s cousin, come from Scotland, withouten leave, for love of the Queen through whom he was sick in the wits. This news ran through the castle by means of servers, cooks, undercooks, scullions, maids, tiring-maids, and maids of honour, more swiftly than it progressed up the table where men had the meats to keep their minds upon.

Culpepper sat, flung back in his chair, his eyes, lacklustre and open, upon the cloth where his hands sprawled out. He said few words — only when the Lord d’Espahn’s server carved boar’s head for him, he took one piece in his mouth and then threw the plate full into the server’s face. This caused great offence amongst the serving-men, for this server was a portly fellow that had served the Lord d’Espahn many years, and had a face like a ram’s, so grave it was. Having drunk a little of his wine, Culpepper turned out the rest upon the cloth; his salt he brushed off his plate with his sleeve. That was remembered for long afterwards by many men and women. And it was as if he could not swallow, for he put down neither meat nor drink, but sat, deadly and pale, so that some said that he was rabid. Once he turned his head to ask the Lord d’Espahn —

‘If a quean prove forsworn, and turn to a Queen, what should her true love do?’

The Lord d’Espahn never made any answer, but wagged his beard from side to side, and Culpepper repeated his question three separate times. Finally, the platters were raised, and the Lord d’Espahn went away to the sound of trumpets. Many of the lords there came peering round Culpepper to see what sport he might yield. Lascelles went away, following the scarlet figure of the young Poins, working his hand into the boy’s arm and whispering to him. The servers and disservers went to their work of clearing the board.

But Culpepper sat there without word or motion, so that none of those lords had any sport out of him. Some of them went away to roast pippins at the Widow Amnot’s, some to speak with the alchemist that, on the roof, watched the stars. So one and the other left the room; the torches burned out, most of them, and, save for two lords of the Archbishop’s following, who said boldly that they would watch and care for this man, because he was the Queen’s cousin, and there might be advancement in it, Culpepper was left alone.

His sword he had not with him, but he had his dagger, and, just as he drew it, appearing about to stab himself in the heart, there ran across the hall the black figure of Lascelles, so that he appeared to have been watching through a window, and the two lords threw themselves upon Culpepper’s arm. And all three began to tell him that there was better work for him to do than that of stabbing himself; and Lascelles brought with him a flagon of
aqua vitæ
from Holland, and poured out a little for Culpepper to drink. And one of the lords said that his room was up in the gallery near the Queen’s, and, if Culpepper would go with him there, they might make good cheer. Only he must be silent in the going thither; afterwards it would not so much matter, for they would be past the guards. So, linking their arms in his, they wound up and across the courtyard, where the torchmen that waited on their company of diners to light them, blessed God that the sitting was over, and beat their torches out against the ground.

In the shadow of the high walls, and some in the moonlight, the serving-men held their parliament. They discoursed of these things, and some said that it was a great pity that T. Culpepper was come to Court. For he was an idle braggart, and where he was disorder grew, and that was a pity, since the Queen had made the Court orderly, and servants were little beaten. But some said that like sire was like child, and that great disorders there were in the Court, but quiet ones, and the Queen the centre. But these were mostly the cleaners of dishes and the women that swept rooms and spread new rushes. Upon the whole, the cooks blessed the Queen, along with all them that had to do with feeding and the kitchens. They thanked God for her because she had brought back the old fasts. For, as they argued, your fast brings honours to cooks, since, after a meagre day, your lord cometh to his trencher with a better appetite, and then is your cook commended. The Archbishop’s cooks were the hottest in this contention, for they had the most reason to know. The stablemen, palfreniers, and falconers’ mates were, most part of them, politicians more than the others, and these wondered to have seen, through their peep-holes and door-cracks, the Queen’s cousin go away with these lords that were of the contrary party. Some said that T. Culpepper was her emissary to win them over to her interests, and some, that always cousins, uncles, and kin were the bitterest foes a Queen had, as witness the case of Queen Anne Boleyn and the Yellow Dog of Norfolk who had worked to ruin her. And some said it was marvellous that there they could sit or stand and talk of such things — for a year or so ago all the Court was spies, so that the haymen mistrusted them that forked down the straw, and meat-servers them with the wine. But now each man could talk as he would, and it made greatly for fellowship when a man could sit against a wall, unbutton in the warm nights, and say what he listed.

The light of the great fires grew dull in the line of kitchen windows; sweethearting couples came in through the great gateway from the grass-slopes beneath the castle walls. There was a little bustle when four horsemen rode in to say that the King’s Highness was but nine miles from the castle, and torchmen must be there to light him in towards midnight. But the Queen should not be told for her greater pleasure and surprise. Then all these servingmen stood up and shook themselves, and said—’To bed.’ For, on the morrow, with the King back, there would surely be great doings and hard work. And to mews and kennels and huts, in the straw and beds of rushes, these men betook themselves. The young lords came back laughing from Widow Amnot’s at the castle foot; there was not any light to be seen save one in all that courtyard full of windows. The King’s torchmen slumbered in the guard-room where they awaited his approach. Darkness, silence, and deep shadow lay everywhere, though overhead the sky was pale with moonlight, and, from high in the air, the thin and silvery tones of the watchman’s horn on the roof filtered down at the quarter hours. A drowsy bell marked the hours, and the cries and drillings of the night birds vibrated from very high.

V

Coming very late to her bedroom the Queen found awaiting her her tiring-maid, Mary Trelyon, whom she had advanced into the post that Margot Poins had held, and the old Lady Rochford.

‘Why,’ she said to her maid, ‘when you have unlaced me you may go, or you will not love my service that keeps you so late.’

Mary Trelyon cast her eyes on the ground, and said that it was such pleasure to attend her mistress, that not willingly would she give up that discoiffing, undoing of hair, and all the rest, for long she had desired to have the handling of these precious things and costly garments.

‘No, you shall get you gone,’ the Queen said, ‘for I will not have you, sweetheart, be red-lidded in the morning with this long watching, for to-morrow the King comes, and I will have him see my women comely and fair, though in your love you will not care for yourselves.’

Standing before her mirror, where there burned in silver dishes four tall candles with perfumed wicks, Katharine offered her back to the loosening fingers of this girl.

‘I would not have you to think,’ she said, ‘that I am always thus late and a gadabout. But this day’ — the Queen’s eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were red with exaltation—’this day and this night are one that shall be marked with red stones in the calendar of England, and late have I travailed so to make them be.’

The girl was very black-avised, and her face beneath her grey hood — for the Queen’s maids were all in grey, with crowned roses, the device that the King had given her at their wedding, worked in red silk on each shoulder — her face beneath her grey hood was the clear shape of the thin end of an egg. She worked at the unlacing of the Queen’s gown, so that she at last must kneel down to it.

Having finished, she remained upon her knees, but she twisted her fingers in her skirt as if she were bashful, yet her face was perturbed with red flushes on the dark cheeks.

The Queen, feeling that she knelt there upon her loosened gown and did not get her gone, said —

‘Anan?’

‘Please you let me stay,’ the girl said; but Katharine answered —

‘I would commune with my own thoughts.’

‘Please you hear me,’ the girl said, and she was very earnest; but the Queen answered —

‘Why, no! If you have any boon to ask of me, you know very well that to-morrow at eleven is the hour for asking. Now, I will sit still with the silence. Bring me my chair to the table. The Lady Rochford shall put out my lights when I be abed.’

The girl stood up and rolled, with a trick of appeal, her eyes to the old Lady Rochford. This lady, all in grey too, but with a great white hood because she was a widow, sat back upon the foot of the great bed. Her face was perturbed, but it had been always perturbed since her cousin, the Queen Anne Boleyn, had fallen by the axe. She put a gouty and swollen finger to her lips, and the girl shrugged her shoulders with a passion of despair, for she was very hot-tempered, and it was as if mutinously that she fetched the Queen her chair and set it behind her where she stood before the mirror taking off her breast jewel from its chain. And again the girl shrugged her shoulders. Then she went to the little wall-door that corkscrewed down into the courtyard through the thick of the wall. Immediately after she was gone they heard the lockguard that awaited her without set on the great padlock without the door. Then his feet clanked down the stairway, he being heavily loaded with weighty keys. It was the doors along the corridor that the young Poins guarded, and these were never opened once the Queen was in her room, save by the King. The Lady Rochford slept in the anteroom upon a truckle-bed, and the great withdrawing-room was empty.

It was very still in the Queen’s room and most shadowy, except before the mirror where the candle flames streamed upwards. The pillars of the great bed were twisted out of dark wood; the hangings of bed and walls were all of a dark blue arras, and the bedspread was of a dark red velvet worked in gold with pomegranates and pomegranate leaves. Only the pillows and the turnover of the sheets were of white linen-lawn, and the bed curtains nearly hid them with shadows. Where the Queen sat there was light like that of an altar in a dim chapel, for the room was so huge.

She sat before her glass, silently taking off her golden things. She took the jewel off the chain round her neck and laid it in a casket of gold and ivory. She took the rings off her fingers and hung them on the lance of a little knight in silver. She took off her waist where it hung to a brooch of feridets, her pomander of enamel and gold; she opened it and marked the time by the watch studded with sable diamonds that it held.

‘Past eleven,’ she said, ‘if my watch goes right.’

‘Indeed it is past eleven,’ the Lady Rochford sighed behind her.

The Queen sat forward in her chair, looking deep into the shadows of her mirror. A great relaxation was in all her limbs, for she was very tired, so that though she was minded to let down her hair she did not begin to undo her coif, and though she desired to think, she had no thoughts. From far away there came a muffled sound as if a door had been roughly closed, and the Lady Rochford shot out a little sound between a scream and a sigh.

‘Why, you are very affrighted,’ the Queen said. ‘One would think you feared robbers; but my guards are too good.’

She began to unloosen from her hood her jewel, which was a rose fashioned out of pink shell work set with huge dewdrops of diamonds and crowned with a little crown of gold.

‘God knows,’ she said, ‘I ha’ trinkets enow for robbers. It takes me too long to undo them. I would the King did not so load me.’

‘Your Highness is too humble for a Queen,’ the old Lady Rochford grumbled. ‘Let me aid you, since the maid is gone. I would not have you speak your maids so humbly. My Cousin Anne that was the Queen — —’

She came stiffly and heavily forward from the bed with her hands out to discoif her lady; but the Queen turned her head, caught at her fat hand, put it against her cheek and fondled it.

‘I would have your Highness feared by all,’ the old lady said.

‘I would have myself by all beloved,’ Katharine answered. ‘What, am I to play the Queen and Highness to such serving-maids as I was once the fellow and companion to?’

‘Your Highness should not have sent the wench away,’ the old woman said.

‘Well, you have taken on a very sour voice,’ the Queen said. ‘I will study to pleasure you more. Get you now back and rest you, for I know you stand uneasily, and you shall not uncoif me.’

She began to unpin her coif, laying the golden pins in the silver candle-dishes. When her hair was thus set free of a covering, though it was smoothly braided and parted over her forehead, yet it was lightly rebellious, so that little mists of it caught the light, golden and rejoiceful. Her face was serious, her nose a little peaked, her lips rested lightly together, and her blue eyes steadily challenged their counterparts in the mirror with an assured and gentle glance.

‘Why,’ she said, ‘I believe you have the right of it — but for a queen I must be the same make of queen that I am as a woman. A queen gracious rather than a queen regnant; a queen to grant petitions rather than one to brush aside the petitioners.’

She stopped and mused.

‘Yet,’ she said, ‘you will do me the justice to say that in the open and in the light of day, when men are by or the King’s presence demands it, I do ape as well as I may the painted queens of galleries and the stately ladies that are to be seen in pictured books.’

‘I would not have had you send away the maid,’ the old Lady Rochford said.

‘God help me,’ the Queen answered. ‘I stayed her petition till the morrow. Is that not queening it enough?’

The Lady Rochford suddenly wrung her hands.

‘I had rather,’ she said, ‘you had heard her and let her stay. Here there are not people enough to guard you. You should have many scores of people. This is a dreary place.’

‘Heaven help me,’ the Queen said. ‘If I were such a queen as to be affrighted, you would affright me. Tell me of your cousin that was a sinful queen.’

The Lady Rochford raised her hands lamentably and bleated out —

‘Ah God, not to-night!’

‘You have been ready enough on other nights,’ the Queen said. And, indeed, it was so much the practice of this lady to talk always of her cousin, whose death had affrighted her, that often the Queen had begged her to cease. But to-night she was willing to hear, for she felt afraid of no omens, and, being joyful, was full of pity for the dead unfortunate. She began with slow, long motions to withdraw the great pins from her hair. The deep silence settled down again, and she hummed the melancholy and stately tune that goes with the words —

And —

‘Aye,’ she said; ‘to these ancient and familiar lands of the dear saints, please God, when the winter snows are upon them, once again shall come the feet of God’s messenger, for this is the joyfullest day this land hath known since my namesake was cast down and died.’

Suddenly there were muffled cries from beyond the thick door in the corridor, and on the door itself resounding blows. The Lady Rochford gave out great shrieks, more than her feeble body could have been deemed to hold.

‘Body of God!’ the Queen said, ‘what is this?’

‘Your cousin!’ the Lady Rochford cried out. She came running to the Queen, who, in standing up, had overset her heavy chair, and, falling to her knees, she babbled out—’Your cousin! Oh, let it not all come again. Call your guard. Let it not all come again’; and she clawed into the Queen’s skirt, uttering incomprehensible clamours.

‘What? What? What?’ Katharine said.

‘He was with the Archbishop. Your cousin with the Archbishop. I heard it. I sent to stay him if it were so’; and the old woman’s teeth crackled within her jaws. ‘O God, it is come again!’ she cried.

The door flung open heavily, but slowly, because it was so heavy. And, in the archway, whilst a great scream from the old woman wailed out down the corridors, Katharine was aware of a man in scarlet, locked in a struggle with a raging swirl of green manhood. The man in scarlet fell back, and then, crying out, ran away. The man in green, his bonnet off, his red hair sticking all up, his face pallid, and his eyes staring like those of a sleep-walker, entered the room. In his right hand he had a dagger. He walked very slowly.

The Queen thought fast: the old Lady Rochford had her mouth open; her eyes were upon the dagger in Culpepper’s hand.

‘I seek the Queen,’ he said, but his eyes were lacklustre; they fell upon Katharine’s face as if they had no recognition, or could not see. She turned her body round to the old Lady Rochford, bending from the hips so as not to move her feet. She set her fingers upon her lips.

‘I seek — I seek — —’ he said, and always he came closer to her. His eyes were upon her face, and the lids moved.

‘I seek the Queen,’ he said, and beneath his husky voice there were bass notes of quivering anger, as if, just as he had been by chance calmed by throwing down the guard, so by chance his anger might arise again.

The Queen never moved, but stood up full and fair; one strand of her hair, loosened, fell low over her left ear. When he was so close to her that his protruded hips touched her skirt, she stole her hand slowly round him till it closed upon his wrist above the dagger. His mouth opened, his eyes distended.

‘I seek — —’ he said, and then—’Kat!’ as if the touch of her cool and firm fingers rather than the sight of her had told to his bruised senses who she was.

‘Get you gone!’ she said. ‘Give me your dagger.’ She uttered each word roundly and fully as if she were pondering the next move over a chequer-board.