THE QUEEN AT KIMBOLTON
THE shadows of evening were gathering fast when the little party
halted at the gates of Kimbolton. There was much parley, and the royal
warrant was produced before the visitors were admitted, the delay and
formality impressing Betty with the feeling of entering a prison; and
she followed her uncle reluctantly across the courtyard, where a few
torches flared in the gloom. No womanish qualms, however, oppressed
Carew, and he walked boldly forward, leaving Raby to attend upon his
niece, an office which the younger man eagerly accepted; indeed, he had
already won the good opinion of Mistress Betty by his courtly gallantry
upon the road. Bred in the country and under unfortunate auspices,
she was little accustomed to the attendance of a courtier, and she
noted young Master Raby’s courtesy and graceful tact with some secret
admiration, though she held her head high and was, as usual, chary of
her smiles, perhaps, because--like every beauty--she knew their value.
Unfavorably impressed both with the place and with the lack of state
and hospitality, she shrank back a little, and so it was that she and
her cavalier were late in entering the hall, and found Sir William
already in deep converse with the castellan, Sir Edmund Bedingfield.
Neither of these worthies heeded the young people, scarcely noting
their entrance, but stood talking and perusing a letter, no doubt the
instructions of my lord privy seal. Mistress Betty and Raby drew near
to the fire in the great chimney, a pile of logs of such length that
one end might burn while the other was cold, but giving little warmth,
for the opening above was of such huge dimensions that gusts of cold
air came down with greater alacrity than the sparks and smoke went up.
There was a lack of due attendance, a cheerless and gloomy aspect that
increased the young girl’s unfavorable impression, and she shivered a
little, bending over the fire and holding out her hands to the blaze.
“A dull place,” said Simon Raby, in a low tone; “a dull place for an
uncrowned queen.”
“Poor lady!” murmured Betty, forgetful of her uncle’s recent
instructions, “’tis enough to break her heart.”
“I never knew her,” Raby answered. “I was away in France with Sir John
Wallop until the queen that now is was crowned, but they do tell me
that this lady is too strong and resolute a woman to greatly mourn the
loss of state or earthly glory; but ’tis awful to consign a princess to
so mean a case as this.”
Betty, remembering now the commands that were laid upon her, turned the
subject without an open expression of her own feeling on this point.
“You were in France?” she said; “’tis there my cousin Peter is; he ran
away, you know, and coming to Paris, was taken into the household of
Sir John Wallop.”
“I know him,” her companion answered, smiling; “a gay and fiery
gallant, who is like to make a brave record for Mohun’s Ottery.”
At this moment they were interrupted by Bedingfield, who, turning from
Sir William, for the first time cast a glance in Betty’s direction.
“Is this the maid?” he asked.
“Come hither, niece,” Carew said, “and make your curtsy to Sir Edmund;
you are now committed to his charge to be introduced to the princess
dowager.”
“Who is little likely to be pleased thereat,” remarked Bedingfield,
with a frankness which yet farther chilled Betty’s heart. “I bid you
welcome, mistress,” he added dryly; “it is a sorry place for a young
maid at best, and of late her highness has been ailing and in no plight
to crave gay attendance.”
“Discourage her no more, Bedingfield,” Sir William remarked; “the wench
is sufficiently cast down at the prospect, without your croaking talk.”
“It mends not a matter to dress it in gay colors,” Bedingfield retorted
briefly. “Come, young mistress, follow me to the princess; there is no
place to bestow you until I know her wishes, and ’tis best to cut a
long matter short.”
“I would make some changes in my garments,” Mistress Betty said
quietly, “before I go to--to her grace.”
“There is no need,” Sir Edmund replied, with evident impatience to have
an unpleasant task accomplished; “you may lay aside your cloak in the
antechamber while I learn her highness’s wishes in the matter, and so
end it.”
Without more words, he turned to the staircase and began the ascent,
and after one glance at her uncle to ascertain his wishes, Betty
followed with a heavy heart. She was not without a little thrill of
excitement at the thought of seeing this unhappy queen, and there was,
too, all a young girl’s curiosity and eagerness for adventure, but she
dreaded a cold reception, knowing so well how unwelcome she was likely
to be, sent, as she was, by one whom the poor woman must regard as her
greatest enemy. So in a tumult of contrary emotions Mistress Betty
walked down the gloomy, ill-lighted corridor, behind the castellan,
mentally contrasting this dull place with Mohun’s Ottery. They were
not to gain admittance without some parley; the queen allowed no
intercourse with the royal officers stationed about her by the king.
She lived among her own people, and Bedingfield had to crave permission
to speak with her. Finally, a page admitted them into a small anteroom,
where Betty was told to wait and lay aside her mantle. There was a
closed door opposite to the one at which they had entered, and from
behind it came the sound of voices engaged in conversation, which
was hushed as Bedingfield opened the door and passed through. Betty
knew that he was going into the presence of the queen, and she stood
listening with anxiety. She heard a woman’s voice address him at once;
the cold dignity of the tone and the slightly foreign accent made her
sure of the identity of the speaker.
“What tidings, Sir Edmund?” she asked; “my maids tell me there is a
stir below, and truly we long for any change; ay, almost welcome evil
rather than the dull monotony of suspense.”
“No news, madam,” replied Bedingfield; “only a messenger from my lord
privy seal and--”
“Alack, alack!” cried Catherine, hastily, “I did not speak sooth; news
from that quarter is ill news indeed. If it had been from the king’s
highness--but that comes no more to me.”
“In a way it is, madam,” Sir Edmund answered; “the king’s grace hath
sent another maid to attend upon your highness.”
“Another maid!” the queen exclaimed, in a tone of irony; “you mock me,
sir; ’tis not possible that so great state is allowed the Queen of
England? Four maids! Such a train will be a grievous charge upon you.”
“Nay, madam, I do beseech you, lay not the blame of your poor
attendance upon me,” Bedingfield said, with some feeling; “I may not
exceed my orders.”
“Your orders,” said the queen, bitterly; “who gave them to you, man,
but that tailor’s son, mine enemy?”
“Nay, madam; you do wrong my lord privy seal,” Bedingfield returned;
“he is but the mouthpiece of the king’s grace.”
“It may be, and it should not be,” Catherine said sadly; “yet the time
may come when even Cromwell will regret it. I do remember that my lord
cardinal wrought against me to his own downfall, and died loving me, as
I believe, better than his creature, who still wears a paper crown.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Bedingfield spoke abruptly.
“I would know your highness’s pleasure in regard to the maid who waits
without.”
“The maid!--what maid?” exclaimed Catherine, as if awakened from a
dream; “oh, ay, I do remember! Why, send her to me, sir; I fear her
not, even though she be a spy of my lord privy seal. If she has a
woman’s heart, doubtless it will be moved to see her queen brought to
so low estate; and if she has no heart, then will I rejoice that mine
enemies may have a true report of how chastely and honorably the Queen
of England bears herself under the deepest injury that a woman and a
wife can suffer.”
“Do I understand that your grace will see the maid to-night?”
Bedingfield asked dryly.
“When it be your pleasure, sir,” the queen answered coldly; “a prisoner
hath no choice.”
“Nay, madam,” Bedingfield began haughtily, “I--”
“Send her, sir,” exclaimed the queen, sharply; “I would see her now! I
am weary, and words mend not my case; let us so end the matter.”
“As you will, madam,” the castellan replied; “I do but my duty.”
“I doubt it not, good Bedingfield,” she answered with sad courtesy,
“but I have known duty more graciously done. Howbeit, send me the maid;
I would see what sort of a creature my Lord Cromwell sends to watch his
queen.”
“Your grace mistakes the matter,” Sir Edmund said awkwardly; “this is
a well-bred maiden, the niece of a gallant gentleman of Devon, Sir
William Carew.”
“Carew?” repeated the queen, thoughtfully. “I should know the name,
kindred of the master of horse, as I remember, and he is truly a noble
soldier. Fate and Cromwell are propitious; I looked for worse. Let
there be no more delay, sir; my heart fluttereth at the thought of
four female attendants,” she added, with a touch of irony.
Having overheard all this talk, so little calculated to allay her
misgivings, Betty waited for Bedingfield’s summons with increased
agitation. When he came to the door and beckoned to her to advance, she
did so with great reluctance; although never a timid girl, she felt
deeply embarrassed as she entered the room beyond, and found herself in
the presence of Catherine of Arragon. Her eyes dazzled by the greater
illumination, she was, at first, only conscious that she stood in a
large room where there was a bright fire burning on the hearth, and
before it several figures. She made her curtsy almost mechanically, and
it was a moment before she collected her thoughts, and then she found
that the queen was addressing her.
“I bid you welcome, maiden,” Catherine said not unkindly. “Sir Edmund
tells me that you are sent by my lord privy seal, whereby I know you to
be chosen rather to his liking than my own comfort; but God forbid that
I should misjudge so young a heart as thine! What is your name?”
“Betty Carew,” was the answer, in a low tone, “the daughter of Sir
Thomas Carew of Devon.”
“Thomas Carew,” repeated the queen, with sudden recollection. “Your
mother was the daughter of Lord Penrith; I knew her well, and I do now
recall that she commended her child to my care, when I was little able
to care for any one; a falling tree doth crush the flower at its root.
Blessed Virgin, how strange is destiny! That very child sent down to
watch her royal mistress!”
Catherine spoke in a low tone, more to herself than to those about her,
and sat for a few moments lost in revery. She was seated in a great
chair before the hearth, and there was much calm dignity and sadness in
her whole aspect, but she was both unlovely and unattractive; a stout
woman with a pale, large-featured face which ill health and trouble
had aged before her time. Her expression was austere, and there were
traces of deep sorrow and anxiety in the furrows that already marked
her brow and the deep purple shadows under her dark eyes. Her gown
was of black velvet, with large, flowing sleeves over small, straight
ones, which had lace ruffles over the hands. On her head was a high,
crownlike, five-cornered cap edged with jewels, two pieces falling
down from it over the ears, and at the back was fastened the Spanish
mantilla, its graceful folds draping her shoulders and showing her
face in strong relief against the black background. Behind her chair
were grouped three ladies-in-waiting, and all bent curious glances on
the young stranger. Mistress Betty’s blooming youth and brilliantly
colored beauty had never shown to a more dazzling advantage than it did
by contrast now, and Catherine herself, looking up from her revery,
observed it and smiled sadly.
“Alas!” she said, “poor maid, this place is like to be no better than
a tomb to one so young, albeit safer for your soul’s grace now than
Greenwich. I have no entertainment, no masks, no dances to break the
cold monotony. You may pray here, weep here, die here, but verily, you
will have no revelry. If you but remember to be a woman, and bear a
woman’s heart in your breast, as did your mother, you will find me no
unkind mistress to you, though, God knows, an impoverished one. Wilt
serve me on such terms as these?”
“Madam, I will do my duty, and I can no more,” Betty answered in a low
tone, divided between her pity and her uncle’s instructions.
The queen smiled ironically. “Well tutored in her ‘duty,’ doubtless,”
she said, turning to her maids; “a cautious answer, aptly mouthed.
But, pshaw! I grow a weak woman to be angered with a baby. The wench
is tired, I know; these men take no thought for a woman’s strength,
and doubtless she has ridden long and far. Take her away and find some
place to bestow her, and to-morrow we will give some employment to her.
Can you sing, Mistress Carew?” she added to Betty.
“I can both sing and play upon the harp, madam,” the young girl
answered gravely, for Catherine’s words offended her, even though she
felt the justice of the queen’s suspicions.
“A musician,” said Catherine, more graciously; “now am I reconciled.
Like Saul, my soul finds consolation in music; it seems my lord privy
seal would send me a female David! Well, well, leave me, maiden;
I am weary, and I would not have you think your queen a sour and
uncharitable woman with no lenient word for youth. Go eat and sleep,
and to-morrow we will be merry.”