THE KING’S MESSENGERS
THE seventh of January had passed, the Queen of England had been
carried to her last resting-place at Peterborough Abbey, and that
other Queen of England rejoiced at Greenwich. The knot in the affairs
of state, which had set emperor and king and pope at variance, was
severed. The unhappy woman, whose troubles had shaken a throne, would
henceforth seek only the crown immortal. She was gone, and the winter
sunlight shone brightly on the walls of Kimbolton, as if to exorcise
the phantoms of that sorrow which had broken a royal heart. Within,
there was desolation in those rooms where the queen had held her little
levees, and which now seemed peopled with ghosts. The long story of
her passionate struggle to maintain her own and her daughter’s claims
seemed written upon the walls. Every footstep echoed sadly in the
vacant galleries, every corner was full of shadows. Doors stood open,
articles of wearing apparel, bits of unfinished embroidery lay on the
floor, tapers that had burned low and sputtered in the sockets left
a forlorn remnant of congealed wax upon the candlesticks; the great
hearths were gray with ashes and the dead logs had fallen from the
fire-dogs. The chill wind swept down the chimneys, roared and moaned at
the casements, shrieking around the castle as if to tear its way within
and sweep away the last vestige of the dead woman’s presence. She had
died like a queen, calmly and with unfaltering courage; even in death
her claim to royalty remained, and here it was recognized; no man at
Kimbolton thought of her save as the queen.
Her household was on the point of dissolution. The king’s messengers
had come down from London,--the crown lawyer, Dr. Rich, some gentlemen
of the Privy Council, Sir William Carew and Master Simon Raby,--and
there followed much stir and excitement. Catherine’s effects were
being examined, her maids separated, her servants discharged. The
royal officers were busied with many matters and were peremptory
and exacting; messengers ran to and fro, the courtyard was full of
horses, the hall crowded with attendants. There was all the bustle
attendant upon the final breaking up of such an establishment. On one
side were the pale and sorrowful faces of the late queen’s personal
followers, who sincerely mourned the loss of a good and charitable
mistress; on the other were the hard, shrewd countenances of the king’s
commissioners, intent only on fulfilling an unpleasant duty, and not a
little relieved that the cause of so much dissension, and such a menace
to the peace of the realm, was finally removed. It was a curious scene,
and one to teach a lesson in the futility of all earthly ambitions, the
fleeting pride of all worldly honors.
In a window recess of the hall stood Mistress Carew, cloaked and
muffled for a journey, and at her side was Master Raby. The two stood
looking down into the crowded court and talking in low tones. She was
to ride with her uncle to Greenwich upon some errand,--what she knew
not, but she had much curiosity to learn, nursing a hope that she was
to have a glimpse of the court. However, she kept her own counsel, and
listened with a serious face to the talk of her companion.
“This matter has been a grief to the king’s grace,” he said, speaking
too low for any ears but those of his fair auditor; “I would not have
believed that he could be so moved thereat. ’Tis said that when he
read her last letter, he wept and lamented her.”
“Do men always weep so late?” asked Mistress Betty, coldly, her bright
eyes turning scornfully upon the speaker; “forsooth, sir, I would
rather be treated with more kindness while I lived than so lamented in
death.”
Master Raby was taken by surprise. The sudden sharpness of her tone,
her expressive glance, came after a passive attitude of attention.
“And so would I,” he said heartily; “yet surely, mistress, a late
repentance is better than none.”
“I would have none of it,” retorted his companion, with disdain; “had
I been treated like this queen, I would never have written so loving
a letter to the king, no, not I! Poor lady! she was too meek, or,
perhaps, too good a Christian. A little more spirit would have made him
mend his ways in time. I do think that never was a woman who deserved
more pity.”
“There are some who would call your speech treasonable, Mistress
Carew,” Raby said, but his eyes were full of amusement as he looked
at the flushed, angry face before him; “speak not too warmly in this
lady’s cause before other witnesses, I pray you.”
“Sir, she was hardly used,” declared Betty, stoutly; “I would say so if
you were the king’s highness.”
“And if you said it with that tone and look, I do wager he would pardon
you,” exclaimed the other, smiling; “indeed, I believe the king has
known some hours of regret. At least, he has ordered the court into
deep mourning; but the queen--” Raby shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“Queen Anne Boleyn? What of her?” asked the young girl, a certain scorn
in her fresh voice.
“Queen Anne and all her ladies are wearing yellow,” Raby said, “and a
curious spectacle it is. They do say she has remarked that she only
regretted that the Lady Catherine made so good an end.”
“’Tis a shame,” cried Betty; “she is but a harlequin to dress so. This
queen was a good woman, and so deserves all respect.”
“It is reported that she plotted with the Spaniards against this
realm,” remarked her companion, watching her face.
Mistress Betty flushed rose-red; the thought of the hidden packet came
to her mind. This charge she could neither parry nor deny, but her pity
for the dead woman outlived her horror of treasonable practices. She
lifted her head haughtily.
“And so would I, if I had been born a Spaniard and so suffered at the
hands of the English,” she declared; “it was only human.”
At this Master Raby laughed outright. The dead queen’s champion was
irresistible in her youth and beauty and that fearlessness which was
her birthright. He drew her out, delighted at the frankness and spirit
of her speech; he was a courtier, sated, too, with the follies and the
pleasures of that gilded life, a much admired gallant, a favorite with
the ladies of Queen Anne, but here was a fresh experience and he found
it irresistible. Meanwhile, Mistress Betty, whose nature was cast in a
sharper outline, who saw things with the uncompromising eyes of youth,
scarcely detected his enjoyment of the little dialogue.
“Truly, it would be dangerous to offend you, Mistress Carew,” he said,
still laughing softly; “but take you no thought of that other aspect of
the affair? The peril to the state, the sharp necessity of loyalty when
the kingdom is in peril, and the Bishop of Rome would bring us all to
disaster if he could. Has he not caused his bulls to be nailed up on
every church door in Flanders, and held us up as a legitimate prey for
the faithful? Was it not wrong for this princess who had been a queen
of England to desire the desolation of this realm?”
Betty stood a moment thinking, biting her lip and pressing her hands
together. After a moment she looked up into Master Raby’s amused eyes,
and her cheeks burned.
“I believe that I should have done worse,” she cried, “if any one had
dared to so insult me.”
“Happily, Mistress Carew, no man would ever attempt it,” said her
companion, softly; “your face is too fair to be so soon forgotten. This
poor lady was older than the king and never handsome, nor did his grace
ever love her.”
“More shame to him!” said Betty, sharply; “she was his wife.”
Master Raby laughed again. “Ah, Mistress Carew,” he said, “you must
talk with my lord of Canterbury! Must a man love a woman because she is
his wife?”
Betty gave him a swift, sidelong glance. “Sir,” she said demurely,
“I know nothing of a man’s heart, but I have heard that it is like a
mirror and reflects every face that looks in it, only that, unlike a
mirror, you may never break it.”
“You are young to be so cruel,” her companion cried, delighted, “and
verily, mistress, you will find many hearts do break before you make
one blest.”
“You are a courtier, Master Raby,” she replied, “and have a readier wit
than mine, but you can never make me admire the woman who broke this
good queen’s heart.”
“Nay,” he answered softly, “it is you, fair Mistress Betty, who will
make me do your bidding, not I you.”
At this, she blushed the color of a fresh June rose, being as yet
unused to fine speeches, and Master Raby stood looking at her, thinking
her fairer than any beauty of the court, when Sir William Carew came up
and cut the conversation short.
“Come, niece,” he said briefly, “we ride at once. And you, Raby, will
you bear us company or no?”
“I thank you, yes, Sir William,” he replied with alacrity; “all is in
readiness; the horses at the door, and my man, whom you admired so
much, in attendance.”
“The knave will hang,” rejoined Carew, grimly. “Come, Betty, there is
no time for fine speeches or farewells. I must set out for Greenwich
without delay, and you go with me.”
“Whither, uncle?” said Betty, quickly; “surely not to the court?”
“And wherefore surely not?” asked Sir William, testily.
“I know not what you will do with me there,” his niece said softly.
“You go to the queen’s grace, my girl,” Carew replied grimly, “if she
will have you.”
Master Raby smiled and glanced at Betty.
“’Tis come, Mistress Carew,” he whispered, as he helped her to the
saddle. “I pray thee tell the king thy mind.”
“And so I will, if he asks me, Master Raby,” declared Betty, with
spirit, “and, mayhap, it will do him good. A bitter truth is ofttimes
wholesome medicine.”