Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (258 page)

‘The Duke would have me say that she was more than a young child.’

The Lady Mary said, ‘Ah! ah! there is the yellow dog!’ She thought for a moment.

‘And you said?’ she asked at last.

‘The Duke threated me and threated me. And say I, “Your Grace must know how young she was.” And says he, “I would swear that at that date she was no child, but that I do not know how many of these nauseous Howard brats there be. Nor yet the order in which they came. But this I will swear that I think there has been some change of the Queen with a whelp that died in the litter, that she might seem more young. And of a surety she was always learned beyond her assumed years, so that it was not to be believed.”’

Mary Lascelles closed her eyes and appeared about to faint.

‘Speak on, dog,’ Mary said.

The woman roused herself to say with a solemn piteousness —

‘This I swear that before this trial, when my brother pressed me and threated me thus to perjure myself, I abhorred it and spat in his face. There was none more firm — nor one half so firm as I — against him. But oh, the Duke and the terror — and to be in a ring of so many villainous men....’

‘So that you swore that the Queen’s Highness, to your knowledge, was older than a child,’ the Lady Mary pressed her.

‘Ay; they would have me say that it was she that commanded to have these revels....’

She leaned forward with both her hands on the floor, in the attitude of a beast that goes four-footed. She cried out —

‘Ask me no more! ask me no more!’

‘Tell! tell! Beast!’ the Lady Mary said.

‘They threated me with torture,’ the woman panted. ‘I could do no less. I heard Margot Poins scream.’

‘They have tortured her?’ the Lady Mary said.

‘Ay, and she was in her pains elsewise,’ the woman said.

‘Did she say aught?’ the Lady Mary said.

‘No! no!’ the woman panted. Her hair had fallen loose in her coif, it depended on to her shoulder.

‘Tell on! tell on!’ the Lady Mary said.

‘They tortured her, and she did not say one word more, but ever in her agony cried out, “Virtuous! virtuous!” till her senses went.’

Mary Hall again raised herself to her knees.

‘Let me go, let me go,’ she moaned. ‘I will not speak before the Queen. I had been as loyal as Margot Poins.... But I will not speak before the Queen. I love her as well as Margot Poins. But ... I will not — —’

She cried out as the Lady Mary struck her, and her face was lamentable with its opened mouth. She scrambled to one knee; she got on both, and ran to the door. But there she cried out —

‘My brother!’ and fell against the wall. Her eyes were fixed upon the Lady Mary with a baleful despair, she gasped and panted for breath.

‘It is upon you if I speak,’ she said. ‘Merciful God, do not bid me speak before the Queen!’

She held out her hands as if she had been praying.

‘Have I not proved that I loved this Queen?’ she said. ‘Have I not fled here to warn her? Is it not my life that I risk? Merciful God! Merciful God! Bid me not to speak.’

‘Speak!’ the Lady Mary said.

The woman appealed to the Queen with her eyes streaming, but Katharine stood silent and like a statue with sightless eyes. Her lips smiled, for she thought of her Redeemer; for this woman she had neither ears nor eyes.

‘Speak!’ the Lady Mary said.

‘God help you, be it on your head,’ the woman cried out, ‘that I speak before the Queen. It was the King that bade me say she was so old. I would not say it before the Queen, but you have made me!’

The Lady Mary’s hands fell powerless to her sides, the book from her opened fingers jarred on the hard floor.

‘Merciful God!’ she said. ‘Have I such a father?’

‘It was the King!’ the woman said. ‘His Highness came to life when he heard these words of the Duke’s, that the Queen was older than she reported. He would have me say that the Queen’s Highness was of a marriageable age and contracted to her cousin Dearham.’

‘Merciful God!’ the Lady Mary said again. ‘Dear God, show me some way to tear from myself the sin of my begetting. I had rather my mother’s confessor had been my father than the King! Merciful God!’

‘Never was woman pressed as I was to say this thing. And well ye wot — better than I did before — what this King is. I tell you — and I swear it — —’

She stopped and trembled, her eyes, from which the colour had gone, wide open and lustreless, her face pallid and ashen, her mouth hanging open. The Queen was moving towards her.

She came very slowly, her hands waving as if she sought support from the air, but her head was erect.

‘What will you do?’ the Lady Mary said. ‘Let us take counsel!’

Katharine Howard said no word. It was as if she walked in her sleep.

V

The King sat on the raised throne of his council chamber. All the Lords of his Council were there and all in black. There was Norfolk with his yellow face who feigned to laugh and scoff, now that he had proved himself no lover of the Queen’s. There was Gardiner of Winchester, sitting forward with his cruel and eager eyes upon the table. Next him was the Lord Mayor, Michael Dormer, and the Lord Chancellor. And so round the horse-shoe table against the wall sat all the other lords and commissioners that had been appointed to make inquiry. Sir Anthony Browne was there, and Wriothesley with his great beard, and the Duke of Suffolk with his hanging jaw. A silence had fallen upon them all, and the witnesses were all done with.

On high on his throne the King sat, monstrous and leaning over to one side, his face dabbled with tears. He gazed upon Cranmer who stood on high beside him, the King gazing upwards into his face as if for comfort and counsel.

‘Why, you shall save her for me?’ he said.

Cranmer’s face was haggard, and upon it too there were tears.

‘It were the gladdest thing that ever I did,’ he said, ‘for I do believe this Queen is not so guilty.’

‘God of His mercy bless thee, Cranmer,’ he said, and wearily he touched his black bonnet at the sacred name. ‘I have done all that I might when I spoke with Mary Hall. It shall save me her life.’

Cranmer looked round upon the lords below them; they were all silent but only the Duke of Norfolk who laughed to the Lord Mayor. The Lord Mayor, a burly man, was more pallid and haggard than any. All the others had fear for themselves written upon their faces. But the citizen was not used to these trials, of which the others had seen so many.

The Archbishop fell on his knees on the step before the King’s throne.

‘Gracious and dread Lord,’ he said, and his low voice trembled like that of a schoolboy, ‘Saviour, Lord, and Fount of Justice of this realm! Hitherto these trials have been of traitor-felons and villains outside the circle of your house. Now that they be judged and dead, we, your lords, pray you that you put off from you this most heavy task of judge. For inasmuch as we live by your life and have health by your health, in this realm afflicted with many sores that you alone can heal and dangers that you alone can ward off, so we have it assured and certain that many too great labours and matters laid upon you imperil us all. In that, as well for our selfish fears as for the great love, self-forgetting, that we have of your person, we pray you that — coming now to the trial of this your wife — you do rest, though well assured we are that greatly and courageously you would adventure it, upon the love of us your lords. Appoint, therefore, such a Commission as you shall well approve to make this most heavy essay and trial.’

So low was his voice that, to hear him, many lords rose from their seats and came over against the throne. Thus all that company were in the upper part of the hall, and through the great window at the further end the sun shone down upon them, having parted the watery clouds. To their mass of black it gave blots and gouts of purple and blue and scarlet, coming through the dight panes.

‘Lay off this burden of trial and examination upon us that so willingly, though with sighs and groans, would bear it.’

Suddenly the King stood up and pointed, his jaw fallen open. Katharine Howard was coming up the floor of the hall. Her hands were folded before her; her face was rigid and calm; she looked neither to right nor to left, but only upon the King’s face. At the edge of the sunlight she halted, so that she stood, a black figure in the bluish and stony gloom of the hall with the high roof a great way above her head. All the lords began to pull off their bonnets, only Norfolk said that he would not uncover before a harlot.

The Queen, looking upon Henry’s face, said with icy and cold tones —

‘I would have you to cease this torturing of witnesses. I will make confession.’

No man then had a word to say. Norfolk had no word either.

‘If you will have me confess to heresy, I will confess to heresy; if to treason, to treason. If you will have me confess to adultery, God help me and all of you, I will confess to adultery and all such sins.’

The King cried out —

‘No! no!’ like a beast that is stabbed to the heart; but with cold eyes the Queen looked back at him.

‘If you will have it adultery before marriage, it shall be so. If it be to be falseness to my Lord’s bed, it shall be so; if it be both, in the name of God, be it both, and where you will and how. If you will have it spoken, here I speak it. If you will have it written, I will write out such words as you shall bid me write. I pray you leave my poor women be, especially them that be sick, for there are none that do not love me, and I do think that my death is all that you need.’

She paused; there was no sound in the hall but the strenuous panting of the King.

‘But whether,’ she said, ‘you shall believe this confession of mine, I leave to you that very well do know my conversation and my manner of life.’

Again she paused and said —

‘I have spoken. To it I will add that heartily I do thank my sovereign lord that raised me up. And, in public, I do say it, that he hath dealt justly by me. I pray you pardon me for having delayed thus long your labours. I will get me gone.’

Then she dropped her eyes to the ground.

Again the King cried out —

‘No! no!’ and, stumbling to his feet he rushed down upon his courtiers and round the table. He came upon her before she was at the distant door.

‘You shall not go!’ he said. ‘Unsay! unsay!’

She said, ‘Ah!’ and recoiled before him with an obdurate and calm repulsion.

‘Get ye gone, all you minions and hounds,’ he cried. And running in upon them he assailed them with huge blows and curses, sobbing lamentably, so that they fled up the steps and out on to the rooms behind the throne. He came sobbing, swift and maddened, panting and crying out, back to where she awaited him.

‘Unsay! unsay!’ he cried out.

She stood calmly.

‘Never will I unsay,’ she said. ‘For it is right that such a King as thou should be punished, and I do believe this: that there can no agony come upon you such as shall come if you do believe me false to you.’

The coloured sunlight fell upon his face just down to the chin; his eyes glared horribly. She confronted him, being in the shadow. High up above them, painted and moulded angels soared on the roof with golden wings. He clutched at his throat.

‘I do not believe it,’ he cried out.

‘Then,’ she said, ‘I believe that it shall be only a second greater agony to you: for you shall have done me to death believing me guiltless.’

A great motion of despair went over his whole body.

‘Kat!’ he said; ‘Body of God, Kat! I would not have you done to death. I have saved your life from your enemies.’

She made him no answer, and he protested desperately —

‘All this afternoon I have wrestled with a woman to make her say that you are older than your age, and precontracted to a cousin of yours. I have made her say it at last, so your life is saved.’

She turned half to go from him, but he ran round in front of her.

‘Your life is saved!’ he said desperately, ‘for if you were precontracted to Dearham your marriage with me is void. And if your marriage with me is void, though it be proved against you that you were false to me, yet it is not treason, for you are not my wife.’

Again she moved to circumvent him, and again he came before her.

‘Speak!’ he said, ‘speak!’ But she folded her lips close. He cast his arms abroad in a passion of despair. ‘You shall be put away into a castle where you shall have such state as never empress had yet. All your will I will do. Always I will live near you in secret fashion.’

‘I will not be your leman,’ she said.

‘But once you offered it!’ he answered.

‘Then you appeared in the guise of a king!’ she said.

He withered beneath her tone.

‘All you would have you shall have,’ he said. ‘I will call in a messenger and here and now send the letter that you wot of to Rome.’

‘Your Highness,’ she said, ‘I would not have the Church brought back to this land by one deemed an adult’ress. Assuredly, it should not prosper.’

Again he sought to stay her going, holding out his arms to enfold her. She stepped back.

‘Your Highness,’ she said, ‘I will speak some last words. And, as you know me well, you know that these irrevocably shall be my last to you!’

He cried—’Delay till you hear — —’

‘There shall be no delay,’ she said; ‘I will not hear.’ She smoothed a strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead in a gesture that she always had when she was deep in thoughts.

‘This is what I would say,’ she uttered. And she began to speak levelly —

‘Very truly you say when you say that once I made offer to be your leman. But it was when I was a young girl, mazed with reading of books in the learned tongue, and seeing all men as if they were men of those days. So you appeared to me such a man as was Pompey the Great, or as was Marius, or as was Sylla. For each of these great men erred; yet they erred greatly as rulers that would rule. Or rather I did see you such a one as was Cæsar Julius, who, as you well wot, crossed a Rubicon and set out upon a high endeavour. But you — never will you cross any Rubicon; always you blow hot in the evening and cold at dawn. Neither do you, as I had dreamed you did, rule in this your realm. For, even as a crow that just now I watched, you are blown hither and thither by every gust that blows. Now the wind of gossips blows so that you must have my life. And, before God, I am glad of it.’

‘Before God!’ he cried out, ‘I would save you!’

‘Aye,’ she answered sadly, ‘to-day you would save me; to-morrow a foul speech of one mine enemy shall gird you again to slay me. On the morrow you will repent, and on the morrow of that again you will repent of that. So you will balance and trim. If to-day you send a messenger to Rome, to-morrow you will send another, hastening by a shorter route, to stay him. And this I tell you, that I am not one to let my name be bandied for many days in the mouths of men. I had rather be called a sinner, adjudged and dead and forgotten. So I am glad that I am cast to die.’

‘You shall not die!’ the King cried. ‘Body of God, you shall not die! I cannot live lacking thee. Kat —— Kat — —’

‘Aye,’ she said, ‘I must die, for you are not such a one as can stay in the wind. Thus I tell you it will fall about that for many days you will waver, but one day you will cry out — Let her die this day! On the morrow of that day you will repent you, but, being dead, I shall be no more to be recalled to life. Why, man, with this confession of mine, heard by grooms and mayors of cities and the like, how shall you dare to save me? You know you shall not.

‘And so, now I am cast for death, and I am very glad of it. For, if I had not so ensured and made it fated, I might later have wavered. For I am a weak woman, and strong men have taken dishonourable means to escape death when it came near. Now I am assured of death, and know that no means of yours can save me, nor no prayers nor yielding of mine. I came to you for that you might give this realm again to God. Now I see you will not — for not ever will you do it if it must abate you a jot of your sovereignty, and you never will do it without that abatement. So it is in vain that I have sinned.

‘For I trow that I sinned in taking the crown from the woman that was late your wife. I would not have it, but you would, and I yielded. Yet it was a sin. Then I did a sin that good might ensue, and again I do it, and I hope that this sin that brings me down shall counterbalance that other that set me up. For well I know that to make this confession is a sin; but whether the one shall balance the other only the angels that are at the gates of Paradise shall assure me.