The Fifth Queen Series

  Once he said, ‘Sister, I—’ but she paid him no heed.

  After a time she looked coldly at his face and then he moved along the table, fingered the globe very gently, touched the books and returned to her side. He stood with his little legs wide apart. Then he sighed, then he said—

  ‘Sister, the Queen did bid me ask you a question.’

  She looked round upon him.

  ‘This was the Queen’s question,’ he said bravely: ‘ “Cur—why—nunquam—never—rides—dost thou smile—cum—when—ego, frater tuus—I, thy little brother—ludo—play—in camerâ tuâ—in thy chamber?” ’

  ‘Little Prince,’ she said, ‘art not afeared of me?’

  ‘Aye, am I,’ he answered.

  ‘Say then to the Queen,’ she said, ‘ “Domina Maria—the Lady Mary—ridet nunquam—smileth never—quod—because—timoris ratio—the reason of my fear—bona et satis—is good and sufficient.” ’

  He held his little head upon one side.

  ‘The Queen did bid me say,’ he uttered with his brave little voice, ‘ “Holy Writ hath it: Ecce quam bonum et dignum est fratres—fratres—” ’ He faltered without embarrassment and added, ‘I ha’ forgot the words.’

  ‘Aye!’ she said, ‘they ha’ been long forgotten in these places; I deem it is overlate to call them to mind.’

  She looked upon him coldly for a long time. Then she stretched out her hand for his paper.

  ‘Your Highness, I will set you a copy.’

  She took his paper and wrote—

  ‘Malo malo malâ.’

  He held it in his chubby fist, his head on one side.

  ‘I cannot conster it,’ he said.

  ‘Why, think upon it,’ she answered. ‘When I was thy age I knew it already two years. But I was better beaten than thou.’

  He rubbed his little arm.

  ‘I am beaten enow,’ he said.

  ‘Knowest not what a swingeing is,’ she answered.

  ‘Then thou hadst a bitter childhood,’ he brought out.

  ‘I had a good mother,’ she cut him short.

  She turned her face to her writing again; it was bitter and set. The little prince climbed slowly into the chair on the dais. He moved sturdily and curled himself up on the cushion, studying the words on the paper all the while with a little frown upon his brows. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he set the paper upon his knee and began to write.

  At that date the Lady Mary was still called a bastard, though most men thought that that hardship would soon be reversed. It was said that great honours had been shown her, and that was apparent in the furnishing of her rooms, the fineness of her gear, the increase in the number of the women that waited on her, and the store of sweet things that was provided for her to eat. A great many men noted the chair with a dais that was set up always where she might be, in her principal room, and though her ladies said that she never sat in it, most men believed that she had made a pact with the King to do him honour and so to be reinstated in the estate in which she held her own. It was considered, too, that she no longer plotted with the King’s enemies inside or out of the realm; it was at least certain that she no longer had men set to spy upon her, though it was noted that the Archbishop’s gentleman, Lascelles, nosed about her quarters and her maids. But he was always spying somewhere and, as the Archbishop’s days were thought to be numbered, he was accounted of little weight. Indeed, since the fall of Thomas Cromwell there seemed to be few spies about the Court, or almost none at all. It was known that gentlemen wrote accounts of what passed to Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester. But Gardiner was gone back into his see and appeared to have little favour, though it was claimed for him that he had done much to advance the new Queen. So that, upon the whole, men breathed much more freely—and women too—than in the days before the fall of Privy Seal. The Queen had made little change, and seemed to have it in mind to make little more. Her relatives had, nearly none of them, been advanced. There were few Protestants oppressed, though many Catholics had been loosed from the gaols, most notably him whom the Archbishop Cranmer had taken to be his chaplain and confessor, and others that other lords had taken out of prison to be about them.

  All in all the months that had passed since Cromwell’s fall had gone quietly. The King and Queen had gone very often to mass since Katharine had been shown for Queen in the gardens at Hampton Court, and saints’ days and the feasts of the life of our Lady had been very carefully observed, along with fasts such as had used to be observed. The King, however, was mightily fond with his new Queen, and those that knew her well, or knew her servants well, expected great changes. Some were much encouraged, some feared very much, but nearly all were heartily glad of that summer of breathing space; and the weather was mostly good, so that the corn ripened well and there was little plague or ague abroad.

  Thus most men had been heartily glad to see the new Queen upon her journey there to the north parts. She had ridden upon a white horse with the King at her side; she had asked the names of several that had come to see her; she had been fair to look at; and the King had pardoned many felons, so that men’s wives and mothers had been made glad; and most old men said that the good times were come again, with the price of malt fallen and twenty-six to the score of herrings. It was reported, too, that a cider press in Herefordshire had let down a dozen firkins of cider without any apples being set in it, and this was accounted an omen of great plenty, whilst many sheep had died, so that men who had set their fields down in grass talked of giving them to the plough again, and upon St Swithin’s Day no rain had fallen. All these things gave a great contentment, and many that in the hard days had thought to become Lutheran in search of betterment, now looked in byres and hidden valleys to find priests of the old faith. For if a man could plough he might eat, and if he might eat he could praise God after his father’s manner as well as in a new way.

  Thus, around the Lady Mary, whilst she wrote, the people of the land breathed more peace. And even she could not but be conscious of a new softness, if it was only in the warmth that came from having her window-leads properly mended. She had hardly ever before known what it was to have warm hands when she wrote, and in most days of the year she had worn fur next her skin, indoors as well as out. But now the sun beat on her new windows, and in that warmth she could wear fine lawn, so that, in spite of herself, she took pleasure and was softened, though, since she spoke to no man save the Magister Udal, and to him only about the works of Plautus or the game of cards that they played together, few knew of any change in her.

  Nevertheless, on that day she had one of her more ill moods and, presently, having written a little more, she rang a small silver bell that was shaped like a Dutch woman with wide skirts.

  ‘The Prince annoys me,’ she said to her woman; ‘send for his lady governess.’

  The woman, dressed all in black, like her mistress, and with a little frill of white cambric over her temples as if she were a nun, stood in the open doorway that was just level with the Lady Mary’s chair, so that the stone wall of the passage caught the light from the window. She folded her hands before her.

  ‘Alack, Madam,’ she said, ‘your Madamship knows that at this hour his Highness’ lady governess taketh ever the air.’

  The little boy in the chair looked over his paper at his sister.

  ‘Send for his physician then,’ Mary said.

  ‘Alack, sister,’ the little Prince said before the woman could move, ‘my physician is ill. Jacet—He lieth—in cubiculo—in his bed.’

  The Lady Mary would not look round on him.

  ‘Get thee, then,’ she uttered coldly, ‘to thine own apartments, Prince.’

  ‘Alack, sister,’ he answered, ‘thou knowest that I may not walk along the corridors alone for fear some slay me. Nor yet may I be anywhere save with the Queen, or thee, or with my uncles, or my lady governess, or my physicians, for fear some poison me.’

  He spoke with a clear and shrill voice, and the woman cast down her eye
s, trembling a little, partly to hear such a small, weary child speak such a long speech as if by wizardry—for it was reported among the serving maids that he had been overlooked—and partly for fear of the black humour that she perceived to be upon her mistress.

  ‘Send me then my Magister to lay out cards with me,’ the Lady Mary said. ‘I cannot make my studies with this Prince in my rooms.’

  ‘Alack, Madam,’ the girl said. She was high coloured and with dark eyes, but when she faltered then the colour died from her cheeks. The Lady Mary surveyed her coldly, for she was in the mood to give pain. She uttered no words.

  ‘Alack, alack—’ the maid whimpered. She was full of fear lest the Lady Mary should order her to receive short rations or many stripes; she was filled with consternation and grief since her sweetheart, a server, had told her that he must leave her. For it was rumoured that the Magister had been cast into gaol for sweethearting, and that the King had said that all sweethearts should be gaoled from thenceforth. ‘The Magister is gaoled,’ she said.

  ‘Wherefore?’ the Lady uttered the one expressionless word.

  ‘I do not know,’ the maid wailed; ‘I do not know.’

  The form of the Archbishop’s gentleman glided noiselessly behind her back. His eyes shot one sharp, sideways glance in at the door, and, like a russet fox, he was gone. He was so like a fox that the Lady Mary, when she spoke, used the words—

  ‘Catch me that gentleman.’

  He was brought to the doorsill by the panting maid, for he had walked away very fast. He stood there, blinking his eyes and stroking his fox-coloured beard. When the Lady Mary beckoned him into the room he pulled off his cap and fell to his thin knees. He expected her to bid him rise, but she left him there.

  ‘Wherefore is my secretary gaoled?’ she asked cruelly.

  He ran his finger round the rim of his cap where it lay on the floor beside him.

  ‘That he is gaoled, I know,’ he said; ‘but the wherefore of it, not.’

  He looked down at the floor and she down at his drooped eyelids.

  ‘God help you,’ she uttered scornfully. ‘You are a spy and yet know no more than a Queen’s daughter.’

  ‘God help me,’ he repeated gravely and touched his eyelid with one finger. ‘What passed, passed between the King and him. I know no more than common report.’

  ‘Common report?’ she said. ‘I warrant thee thou wast slinking around the terrace. I warrant thee thou heardst words of the King’s mouth. I warrant thee thou followedst here to hear at my doorhole how I might take this adventure.’

  One of his eyelids moved delicately, but he said no word. The Lady Mary turned her back on him and he expected her order to be gone. But she turned again—

  ‘Common report?’ she uttered once more. ‘I do bid you give me the common report upon this, that the Queen sends to me every day this little Prince to be alone with me two hours.’

  He winced with his eyebrows again.

  ‘Out with the common report,’ she said.

  ‘Madam,’ he uttered, ‘it is usually commended that the Queen should seek to bring sister and Prince-brother together.’

  She shrugged her stiff shoulders up to her ears.

  ‘What a poor liar for a spy,’ she said. ‘It is more usually reported’—and she turned upon the little Prince—‘that the Queen sends thee here that I may work thee a mischief so that thou die and her child reign after the King thy father.’

  The little Prince looked at her with pensive eyes. At that moment Katharine Howard came to the room door and looked in.

  ‘Body of God,’ the Lady Mary said; ‘here you spy out a spy committing treason. For it is still treason to kneel to me. I am of illegal birth and not of the blood royal.’

  Katharine essayed her smile upon the black-avised girl.

  ‘Give me leave,’ she said.

  ‘Your Grace’s poor room,’ Mary said, ‘is open ever to your Grace’s entry. Ubi venis ibi tibi.’

  The Queen bade her waiting women go. She entered the room and looked at Lascelles.

  ‘I think I know thy face,’ she said.

  ‘I am the Archbishop’s poor gentleman,’ he answered. ‘I think you have seen me.’

  ‘No. It is not that,’ she said. ‘It was long ago.’

  She crossed the room to smell at the pinks in the window.

  ‘How late the flowers grow,’ she said. ‘It is August, yet here are still vernal perfumes.’

  She was unwilling to bid the gentleman rise and go, because this was the Lady Mary’s room.

  ‘Where your Grace is, there the spring abideth,’ Mary said sardonically. ‘Ecce miraculum sicut erat, Joshuâ rege.’

  The little Prince came timidly down to beg a flower from the Queen and they all had their backs upon the spy. He ran his hands down his beard and considered the Queen’s words. Then swiftly he was on his feet and through the door. He was more ready to brave the Lady Mary’s after-wrath than let the Queen see him upon his knees. For actually it was a treason to kneel to the Lady Mary. It had been proclaimed so in the old days when the King’s daughter was always subject to new debasements. And who knew whether now the penalty of treason might not still be enacted? It was certain that the Queen had no liking for the Archbishop. Then, what use might she not make of the fact that the Archbishop’s man knelt, seeming to curry favour, though in these days all men knelt to her, even when the King was by? He cursed himself as he hastened away.

  The Queen looked over her shoulder and caught the glint of his red heel as it went past the doorpost.

  ‘In our north parts,’ she said, and she was glad that Lascelles had fled, ‘the seasons come ever tardily.’

  ‘Well, your Grace has not delayed to blossom,’ Mary said.

  It was part of her humour when she was in a taunting mood to call the Queen always ‘your Grace’ or ‘your Majesty’ at every turn of the phrase.

  Katharine looked at the pink intently. Her face had no expression, she was determined at once to have a cheerful patience and not to show it in her face.

  The little Prince stole his hand into hers.

  ‘Wherefore did my father—rex pater meus—pummel the man in the long cloak?’ he asked.

  ‘You knew it then?’ Katharine asked of her stepdaughter.

  ‘I knew it not,’ the Lady Mary answered.

  ‘I saw it from this window, but my sister would not look,’ the Prince said.

  The Queen was going to shut, with her own hand, the door, the little boy trotting behind her, but, purple-clothed and huge, the King was there.

  ‘Well, I will not be shut out in mine own castle,’ he said pleasantly.

  In those, the quiet days of his realm when most things were going well, his face beneath his beard had taken a rounder and a smoother outline. He moved with motions less hasty than those he had had two years before, and when he had cast a task off it was done with and went out of his mind, so that he appeared a very busy man with, between whiles, the leisure to saunter.

  ‘In a half hour,’ he said, ‘I go north to meet the King o’ Scots. I would I had not the long journey to make but could stay with ye. It is pleasant here; the air is livening.’ He caught his little son by the armpits and hoisted him on to his purple shoulders. ‘Hey, princekin,’ he said, ‘what news ha’ you o’ the day?’

  The little Edward pulled his father’s bonnet off that he might the better see the huge brows and the little eyes.

  ‘I told my sister that you did pummel a man in a long gown. What is even “long gown” in the learned tongue?’ He played daintily and languidly with the hair of the King’s temples, and when the King had said that he might call it ‘doctorum toga,’ he added, ‘But my sister would not come to look.’

  ‘Well, thy sister is a monstrous learned wench,’ the King said with a heavy benignity. ‘She could not leave her book.’

  The Lady Mary stood rigid, with a mock humility. She had her hands clasped before her, the folds of her black skirt fell stiffly
just to the ground. She pursed her lips and strove with herself to speak, for she was minded to exhibit disdain, but her black mood was too strong for her.

  ‘I did not read in my book, because I could not,’ she said numbly. ‘Your son disturbed my reading. But I did not come to look, because I would not.’

  With one arm round the boy’s little waist as he sat on high, and one hand on the little feet, the King looked at his daughter in a sudden hot rage; for to speak contemptuously of his son was a thing that filled him with anger and surprise. He opened his mouth to shout. Katharine Howard was gently turning a brass sphere with the constellations upon it that stood upon the table. She moved her fair face round towards the King and set her finger upon her lips. He shrugged his shoulders, prince and all moving up together, and his face took on the expression, half abashed and half resigned, of a man who is reminded by his womankind that he is near to a passionate folly.

  Katharine by that time had schooled him how to act when Mary was in that humour, and he let out no word.

  ‘I do not like that this Prince should play in my room,’ the Lady Mary pursued him relentlessly, and he was so well lessoned that he answered only—

  ‘Ye must fight that cock with Kat. It is Kat that sends him, not I.’

  Nevertheless he was too masterful a man to keep his silence altogether; he was, besides, so content upon the whole that he was sure he could hold his temper in check, and the better to take breath for a long speech, he took the little boy from his shoulder and planted his feet abroad on the carpet.

  ‘See now, Moll,’ he said, ‘make friends!’ and he stretched out a large hand. She shrugged her shoulders half invisibly.

  ‘I will kneel down to the King of this country and to the Supreme Head of the Church as it is here set up by law. What more would you have of me?’