'How know you? Was it you that wrote it?'
'Please it, your Grace,' his gentleman answered him, 'it was in this
wise. As I was passing by the Queen's chamber wall I heard a great
outcry----'
He laid down his pen beside his writing-board the more leisurely to
speak.
He had seen Udal, beaten and shaking, stagger out from the Queen's door
to where his guards waited to set him back in prison. From Udal he had
learned of this new draft of the letter; of Udal's trouble he knew
before. Udal gone, he had waited a little, hearing the Queen's voice and
what she said very plainly, for the castle was very great and quiet.
Then out had come the young Poins, breathing like a volcano through his
nostrils, and like to be stricken with palsy, boy though he was. Him
Lascelles had followed at a convenient distance, where he staggered and
snorted. And, coming upon the boy in an empty guard-room near the great
gate, he had found him aflame with passion against the Queen's
Highness.
'I,' the boy had cried out, 'I that by my carrying of letters set this
Howard where she sits! I!--and this is my advancement. My sister cast
down, and I cast out, and another maid to take my sister's place.'
And Lascelles, in the guard-chamber, had shown him sympathy and reminded
him that there was gospel for saying that princes had short memories.
'But I did not calm him!' Lascelles said.
On the contrary, upon Lascelles' suggestion that the boy had but to hold
his tongue and pocket his wrongs, the young Poins had burst out that he
would shout it all abroad at every street corner. And suddenly it had
come into his head to write such a letter to his Uncle Badge the printer
as, printed in a broadside, would make the Queen's name to stink, until
the last generation was of men, in men's nostrils.
Lascelles rubbed his hands gently and sinuously together. He cast one
sly glance at the Archbishop.
'Well, the letter was written,' he said. 'Be sure the broadside shall be
printed.'
Cranmer's head was sunk over his book.
'This lad,' Lascelles said softly, 'who in seven days' time again shall
keep the Queen's door (for it is not true that the Queen's Highness is
an ingrate, well sure am I), this lad shall be a very useful confidant;
a very serviceable guide to help us to a knowledge of who goes in to the
Queen and who cometh out.'
The Archbishop did not appear to be listening to his gentleman's soft
voice and, resuming his pen, Lascelles finished his tale with--
'For I have made this lad my friend. It shall cost me some money, but I
do not doubt that your Grace shall repay.'
The Archbishop raised his head.
'No, before God in heaven on His throne!' he said. His voice was shrill
and high; he agitated his hands in their fine, tied sleeves. 'I will
have no part in these Cromwell tricks. All is lost; let it be lost. I
must say my prayers.'
'Has it been by saying of your Grace's prayers that your Grace has lived
through these months?' Lascelles asked softly.
'Aye,' the Archbishop wrung his hands; 'you girded me and moved me when
Cromwell lay at death, to write a letter to the King's Highness. To
write such a letter as should appear brave and faithful and true to
Privy Seal's cause.'
'Such a letter your Grace wrote,' Lascelles said; 'and it was the best
writing that ever your Grace made.'
The Archbishop gazed at the table.
'How do I know that?' he said in a whisper. 'You say so, who bade me
write it.'
'For that your Grace lives yet,' Lascelles said softly; 'though in those
days a warrant was written for your capture. For, sure it is, and your
Grace has heard it from the King's lips, that your letter sounded so
faithful and piteous and true to him your late leader, that the King
could not but believe that you, so loyal in such a time to a man
disgraced and cast down beyond hope, could not but be faithful and loyal
in the future to him, the King, with so many bounties to bestow.'
'Aye,' the Archbishop said, 'but how do I know what of a truth was in
the King's mind who casteth down to-day one, to-morrow another, till
none are left?'
And again Cranmer dropped his anguished eyes to the table.
* * * * *
In those days still--and he slept still worse since the King had bidden
him write this letter to Rome--the Archbishop could not sleep on any
night without startings and sweats and cryings out in his sleep. And he
gave orders that, when he so cried out, the page at his bedside should
wake him.
For then he was seeing the dreadful face of his great master, Privy
Seal, when the day of his ruin had come. Cromwell had been standing in a
window of the council chamber at Westminster looking out upon a
courtyard. In behind him had come the other lords of the council,
Norfolk with his yellow face, the High Admiral, and many others; and
each, seating himself at the table, had kept his bonnet on his head. So
Cromwell, turning, had seen them and had asked with his hard insolence
and embittered eyes of hatred, how they dared be covered before he who
was their president sat down. Then, up against him in the window-place
there had sprung Norfolk at the chain of the George round his neck, and
Suffolk at the Garter on his knee; and Norfolk had cried out that Thomas
Cromwell was no longer Privy Seal of that kingdom, nor president of that
council, but a traitor that must die. Then such rage and despair had
come into Thomas Cromwell's terrible face that Cranmer's senses had
reeled. He had seen Norfolk and the Admiral fall back before this
passion; he had seen Thomas Cromwell tear off his cap and cast it on the
floor; he had heard him bark and snarl out certain words into the face
of the yellow dog of Norfolk.
'_Upon your life you dare not call me traitor!_' and Norfolk had fallen
back abashed.
Then the chamber had seemed to fill with an awful gloom and darkness;
men showed only like shadows against the window lights; the constable of
the Tower had come in with the warrants, and in that gloom the earth had
appeared to tremble and quake beneath the Archbishop's feet.
* * * * *
He crossed himself at the recollection, and, coming out of his stupor,
saw that Lascelles was finishing his writings. And he was glad that he
was here now and not there then.
'Prithee, your Grace,' the gentleman's soft voice said, 'let me bear,
myself, this letter to the Queen.'
The Archbishop shivered frostily in his robes.
'I will have no more Cromwell tricks,' he said. 'I have said it'; and he
affected an obdurate tone.
'Then, indeed, all is lost,' Lascelles answered; 'for this Queen is very
resolved.'
The Archbishop cast his eyes up to the cold stone ceiling above him. He
crossed himself.
'You are a very devil,' he said, and panic came into his eyes, so that
he turned them all round him as if he sought an issue at which to run
out.
'The Papist lords in this castle met on Saturday night,' Lascelles said;
'their meeting was very secret, and Norfolk was their head. But I have
heard it said that not one of them was for the Queen.'
The Archbishop shrank within himself.
'I am not minded to hear this,' he said.
'Not one of them was for the Queen altogether; for she will render all
lands and goods back to the Church, and there is no one of them but is
rich with the lands and goods of the Church. That they that followed
Cromwell are not for the Queen well your Grace knoweth,' his gentleman
continued.
'I will not hear this; this is treason,' the Archbishop muttered.
'So that who standeth for the Queen?' Lascelles whispered. 'Only a few
of the baser sort that have no lands to lose.'
'The King,' the Archbishop cried out in a terrible voice; 'the King
standeth for her!'
He sprang up in his chair and then sank down again, covering his mouth
with his hands, as if he would have intercepted the uttered words. For
who knew who listened at what doors in these days. He whispered
horribly--
'What a folly is this. Who shall move the King? Will reports of his
ambassadors that Cleves, or Charles, or Francis miscall the Queen? You
know they will not, for the King is aware of how these princes batten on
carrion. Will broad sheets of the Lutheran? You know they will not, for
the King is aware of how those coggers come by their tales. Will the
King go abroad among the people any more to hear what they say? You know
he will not. For he is grown too old, and his fireside is made too
sweet----'
He wavered, and he could not work himself up with a longer show of
anger.
'Prithee,' Lascelles said, 'let me bear this letter myself to the
Queen.' His voice was patient and calm.
The Archbishop lay back, impotent, in his chair. His arms were along the
arms of it: he had dropped his book upon the table. His long gown was
draped all over him down to his feet; his head remained motionless; his
eyes did not wink, and gazed at despair; his hands drooped, open and
impotent.
Suddenly he moved one of them a very little.