THE DEVIL AT COURT
It was half-past two of the clock when Cicely, who carried her boy in
her arms, accompanied by Emlyn, Thomas Bolle and Jacob Smith, found
herself in the great courtyard of the Palace of Whitehall. The place was
full of people waiting there upon one business or another, through whom
messengers and armed men thrust their way continually, crying, “Way!
In the King’s name, way!” So great was the press, indeed, that for some
time even Jacob could command no attention, till at length he caught
sight of the herald who had visited his house in the morning, and
beckoned to him.
“I was looking for you, Master Smith, and for the Lady Harflete,” the
man said, bowing to her. “You have an appointment with his Grace, have
you not? but God knows if it can be kept. The ante-chambers are full of
folk bringing news about the rebellion in the north, and of great lords
and councillors who wait for commands or money, most of them for money.
In short the King has given order that all appointments are cancelled;
he can see no one to-day. The Lord Cromwell told me so himself.”
Jacob took a golden angel from his pouch and began to play with it
between his fingers.
“I understand, noble herald,” he said. “Still, do you think that you
could find me a messenger to the Lord Cromwell? If so, this trifle----”
“I’ll try, Master Smith,” he answered, stretching out his hand for the
piece of money. “But what is the message?”
“Oh, say that Pink Pearl would learn from his Lordship where he can lay
hands upon £1000 without interest.”
“A strange message, to which I will hazard an answer--nowhere,” said the
herald, “yet I’ll find some one to deliver it. Step within this archway
and wait out of the rain. Fear not, I will be back presently.”
They did as he bid them, gladly enough, for it had begun to drizzle and
Cicely was afraid lest her boy, with whom London did not agree too well,
should take cold. Here, then, they stood amusing themselves in watching
the motley throng that came and went. Bolle, to whom the scene was
strange, gaped at them with his mouth open; Emlyn took note of every one
with her quick eyes, while old Jacob Smith whispered tales concerning
individuals as they passed, most of which were little to their credit.
As for Cicely, soon her thoughts were far away. She knew that she was at
a crisis of her fortune; that if things went well with her this day she
might look to be avenged upon her enemies, and to spend the rest of
her life in wealth and honour. But it was not of such matters that
she dreamed, whose heart was set on Christopher, without whom naught
availed. Where was he, she wondered. If Jacob’s tale were true, after
passing many dangers, but a little while ago he lived and had his
health. Yet in those times death came quickly, leaping like the
lightning from unexpected clouds or even out of a clear sky, and who
could say? Besides, he believed her gone, and that being so would be
careless of himself, or perchance, worst thought of all, would take some
other wife, as was but right and natural. Oh! then indeed----
At this moment a sound of altercation woke her to the world again, and
she looked up to see that Thomas Bolle was bringing trouble on them.
A coarse fat lout with a fiery and a knotted nose, being somewhat in
liquor, had amused himself by making mock of his country looks and red
hair, and asking whether they used him for a scarecrow in his native
fields.
Thomas bore it for a while, only answering with another question:
whether he, the fat fellow, hired out his nose to London housewives to
light their fires. The man, feeling that the laugh was against him,
and noticing the child in Cicely’s arms pointed it out to his friends,
inquiring whether they did not think it was exactly like its dad. Then
Thomas’s rage burnt up, although the jest was silly and aimless enough.
“You low, London gutter-hound!” he exclaimed; “I’ll learn you to insult
the Lady Harflete with your ribald japes,” and stretching out his big
fist he seized his enemy’s purple nose in a grip of iron and began to
twist it till the sot roared with pain. Thereon guards ran up and would
have arrested Bolle for breaking the peace in the King’s palace. Indeed,
arrested he must have been, notwithstanding all Jacob Smith could do
to save him, had not at that moment a man appeared at whose coming the
crowd that had gathered, separated, bowing; a man of middle age with a
quick, clever face, who wore rich clothes and a fur-trimmed velvet cap
and gown.
Cicely knew him at once for Cromwell, the greatest man in England after
the King, and marked him well, knowing that he held her fate and that
of her child in the hollow of his hand. She noted the thin-lipped mouth,
small as a woman’s, the sharp nose, the little brownish eyes set close
together and surrounded by wrinkled skin that gave them a cunning look,
and noting was afraid. Before her stood a man who, though at present he
seemed to be her friend, if he chanced to become her enemy, as once he
had been bribed to be her father’s, would show her no more pity than the
spider shows a fly.
Indeed she was right, for many were the flies that had been snared and
sucked in the web of Cromwell, who, in his full tide of power and pomp,
forgot the fate of his master, Wolsey, in his day a greater spider
still.
“What passes here?” Cromwell said in a sharp voice. “Men, is this the
place to brawl beneath his Grace’s very windows? Ah! Master Smith, is it
you? Explain.”
“My Lord,” answered Jacob, bowing, “this is Lady Harflete’s servant
and he is not to blame. That fat knave insulted her and, being
quick-tempered, her man, Bolle, wrang his nose.”
“I see that he wrang it. Look, he is wringing it still. Friend Bolle,
leave go, or presently you will have in your hand that which is of no
value to you. Guard, take this beer-tub and hold his head beneath the
pump for five minutes by the clock to wash him, and if he comes back
again set him in the stocks. Nay, no words, fellow, you are well served.
Master Smith, follow me with your party.”
Again the crowd parted as they walked after Cromwell to a side door that
was near at hand, to find themselves alone with him in a small chamber.
Here he stopped and, turning, surveyed them all narrowly, especially
Cicely.
“I suppose, Master Smith,” he said, pointing to Bolle, who was wiping
his hands clean with the rushes from the floor, “this is the man that
you told me played the devil yonder at Blossholme. Well, he can play
the fool also. In another minute there would have been a tumult and you
would have lost your chance of seeing his Grace, for months perhaps,
since he has determined to ride from London to-morrow morning
northwards, though it is true he may change his mind ere then. This
rebellion troubles him much, and were it not for the loan you promise,
when loans are needed, small hope would you have had of audience. Now
come quickly and be careful that you do not cross the King’s temper, for
it is tetchy to-day. Indeed, had it not been for the Queen, who is with
him and minded to see this Lady Harflete, that they would have burnt as
a witch, you must have waited till a more convenient season which may
never come. Stay, what is in that great sack you carry, Bolle?”
“The devil’s livery, may it please your Lordship.”
“The devil’s livery, many wear that in London. Still, bring the gear, it
may make his Grace laugh, and if so I’ll give you a gold piece, who have
had enough of oaths and scoldings, aye,” he added, with a sour grin,
“and of blows too. Now follow me into the Presence, and speak only when
you are spoken to, nor dare to answer if he rates you.”
They went from the room down a passage and through another door, where
the guards on duty looked suspiciously at Bolle and his sack, but at a
word from Cromwell let them through into a large room in which a
fire burned upon the hearth. At the end of this room stood a huge,
proud-looking man with a flat and cruel face, broad as an ox’s skull, as
Thomas Bolle said afterwards, who was dressed in some rich, sombre stuff
and wore a velvet cap upon his head. He held a parchment in his hand,
and before him on the other side of an oak table sat an officer of state
in a black robe, who wrote upon another parchment, whereof there were
many scattered about on the table and the floor.
“Knave,” shouted the King, for they guessed that it was he, “you have
cast up these figures wrong. Oh, that it should be my lot to be served
by none but fools!”
“Pardon, your Grace,” said the secretary in a trembling voice, “thrice
have I checked them.”
“Would you gainsay me, you lying lawyer,” bellowed the King again. “I
tell you they must be wrong, since otherwise the sum is short by £1100
of that which I was promised. Where are the £1100? You must have stolen
them, thief.”
“I steal, oh, your Grace, I steal!”
“Aye, why not, since your betters do. Only you are clumsy, you lack
skill. Ask my Lord Cromwell there to give you lessons. He learned under
the best of masters, and is a merchant by trade to boot. Oh, get you
gone and take your scribblings with you.”
The poor officer hastened to avail himself of this invitation. Hurriedly
collecting his parchments he bowed himself from the presence of his
irate Sovereign. At the door, about twelve feet away, however, he
turned.
“My gracious Liege,” he began, “the casting of the count is right. Upon
my honour as a Christian soul I can look your Majesty in the face with
truth in my eye----”
Now on the table there was a massive inkstand made from the horn of a
ram mounted with silver feet. This Henry seized and hurled with all
his strength. The aim was good, for the heavy horn struck the wretched
scribe upon the nose so that the ink squirted all over his face, and
felled him to the floor.
“Now there is more in your eye than truth,” shouted the King. “Be off,
ere the stool follows the inkpot.”
Two ladies who stood by the fire talking together and taking no heed,
for to such rude scenes they seemed to be accustomed, looked up and
laughed a little, then went on talking, while Cromwell smiled and
shrugged his shoulders. Then in the midst of the silence which followed
Thomas Bolle, who had been watching open-mouthed, ejaculated in his
great voice--
“A bull’s eye! A noble bull! Myself cannot throw straighter.”
“Silence, fool,” hissed Emlyn.
“Who spoke?” asked the king, looking towards them sharply.
“Please, my Liege, it was I, Thomas Bolle.”
“Thomas Bolle! Can you sling a stone, Thomas Bolle, whoever you may be?”
“Aye, Sire, but not better than you, I think. That was a gallant shot.”
“Thomas Bolle, you are right. Seeing the hurry and the unhandiness of
the missile, it was excellent. Let the knave stand up again and I’ll bet
you a gold noble to a brass nail that you’ll not do as well within an
inch. Why, the fellow’s gone! Will you try on my Lord Cromwell? Nay,
this is no time for fooling. What’s your business, Thomas Bolle, and who
are those women with you?”
Now Cromwell stepped forward, and with cringing gestures began to
explain something to the King in a low voice. Meanwhile, the two ladies
became suddenly interested in Cicely, and one of them, a pale but pretty
woman, splendidly dressed, stepped forward to her, saying--
“Are you the Lady Harflete of whom we have heard, she who was to have
been burnt as a witch? Yes? And is that your child? Oh! what a beautiful
child. A boy, I’ll swear. Come to me, sweet, and in after years you can
tell that a queen has nursed you,” and she stretched out her arms.
As good fortune would have it the child was awake, and attracted by the
Queen’s pleasant voice, or perhaps by the necklace of bright gems
that she wore, he held out his little hands towards her and went quite
contentedly to her breast. Jane Seymour, for it was she, began to fondle
him with delight, then, followed by her lady, ran to the King, saying--
“See, Harry, see what a beautiful boy, and how he loves me. God send us
such a son as this!”
The King glanced at the child, then answered--
“Aye, he would do well enow. Well, it rests with you, Jane. Nurse him,
nurse him, perhaps the sex is catching. I and all England would see you
brought to bed of that sickness, Sweet. What said you, Cromwell?”
The great minister went on with his explanations, till the King,
wearying of him, called out--
“Come here, Master Smith.”
Jacob advanced, bowing, and stood still.
“Now, Master Smith, the Lord Cromwell tells me that if I sign these
papers, you, on behalf of the Lady Harflete, will loan me £1000 without
interest, which as it chances I need. Where, then, is this £1000?--for
I will have no promises, not even from you, who are known to keep them,
Master Smith.”
Jacob thrust his hand beneath his robe, and from various inner pockets
drew out bags of gold, which he set in a row upon the table.
“Here they are, your Grace,” he said quietly. “If you should wish for
them they can be weighed and counted.”
“God’s truth! I think I had better keep them, lest some accident should
happen to you on the way home, Master Smith. You might fall into the
Thames and sink.”
“Your Grace is right, the parchments will be lighter to carry, even,” he
added meaningly, “with your Highness’s name added.”
“I can’t sign,” said the King doubtfully, “all the ink is spilt.”
Jacob produced a small ink-horn, which like most merchants of the day he
carried hung to his girdle, drew out the stopper and with a bow set it
on the table.
“In truth you are a good man of business, Master Smith, too good for
a mere king. Such readiness makes me pause. Perhaps we had better meet
again at a more leisured season.”
Jacob bowed once more, and stretching out his hand slowly lifted the
first of the bags of gold as though to replace it in his pocket.
“Cromwell, come hither,” said the King, whereon Jacob, as though in
forgetfulness, laid the bag back upon the table.
“Repeat the heads of this matter, Cromwell.”
“My Liege, the Lady Harflete seeks justice on the Spaniard Maldon,
Abbot of Blossholme, who is said to have murdered her father, Sir John
Foterell, and her husband, Sir Christopher Harflete, though rumour has
it that the latter escaped his clutches and is now in Spain. Item:
the said Abbot has seized the lands which this Dame Cicely should have
inherited from her father, and demands their restitution.”
“By God’s wounds! justice she shall have and for nothing if we can give
it her,” answered the King, letting his heavy fist fall upon the table.
“No need to waste time in setting out her wrongs. Why, ‘tis the same
Spanish knave Maldon who stirs up all this hell’s broth in the north.
Well, he shall boil in his own pot, for against him our score is long.
What more?”
“A declaration, Sire, of the validity of the marriage between
Christopher Harflete and Cicely Foterell, which without doubt is good
and lawful although the Abbot disputes it for his own ends; and an
indemnity for the deaths of certain men who fell when the said Abbot
attacked and burnt the house of the said Christopher Harflete.”
“It should have been granted the more readily if Maldon had fallen also,
but let that pass. What more?”
“The promise, your Grace, of the lands of the Abbey of Blossholme and of
the Priory of Blossholme in consideration of the loan of £1000 advanced
to your Grace by the agent of Cicely Harflete, Jacob Smith.”
“A large demand, my Lord. Have these lands been valued?”
“Aye, Sire, by your Commissioner, who reports it doubtful if with all
their tenements and timber they would fetch £1000 in gold.”
“Our Commissioner? A fig for his valuing, doubtless he has been bribed.
Still, if we repay the money we can hold the land, and since this Dame
Harflete and her husband have suffered sorely at the hands of Maldon and
his armed ruffians, why, let it pass also. Now, is that all? I weary of
so much talk.”
“But one thing more, your Grace,” put in Cromwell hastily, for Henry was
already rising from his chair. “Dame Cicely Harflete, her servant, Emlyn
Stower, and a certain crazed old nun were condemned of sorcery by a
Court Ecclesiastic whereof the Abbot Maldon was a member, the said Abbot
alleging that they had bewitched him and his goods.”
“Then he was pleader and judge in one?”
“That is so, your Grace. Already without the royal warrant they were
bound to the stake for burning, the said Maldon having usurped the
prerogative of the Crown, when your Commissioner, Legh, arrived and
loosed them, but not without fighting, for certain men were killed and
wounded. Now they humbly crave your Majesty’s royal pardon for their
share in this man-slaying, if any, as also does Thomas Bolle yonder, who
seems to have done the slaying----”
“Well can I believe it,” muttered the King.
“And a declaration of the invalidity of their trial and condemning, and
of their innocence of the foul charge laid against them.”
“Innocence!” exclaimed Henry, growing impatient and fixing on the last
point. “How do we know they were innocent, though it is true that if
Dame Harflete is a witch she is the prettiest that ever we have heard of
or seen. You ask too much, after your fashion, Cromwell.”
“I crave your Grace’s patience for one short minute. There is a man here
who can prove that they were innocent; yonder red-haired Bolle.”
“What? He who praised our shooting? Well, Bolle, since you are so good a
sportsman, we will listen to you. Prove and be brief.”
“Now all is finished,” murmured Emlyn to Cicely, “for assuredly fool
Thomas will land us in the mire.”
“Your Grace,” said Bolle in his big voice, “I obey in four words--I was
the devil.”
“The devil you were, Thomas Bolle. Now, your meaning?”
“Your Grace, Blossholme was haunted, I haunted it.”
“How could you do otherwise if you lived there?”
“I’ll show your Grace,” and without more ado, to the horror of Cicely,
Thomas tumbled from his sack all his hellish garb and set to work to
clothe himself. In a minute, for he was practised at the game, the
hideous mask was on his head, and with it the horns and skin of the
widow’s billy-goat; the tail and painted hides were tied about him, and
in his hand he waved the eel spear, short-handled now. Thus arrayed he
capered before the astonished King and Queen, shaking the tail that had
a wire in it and clattering his hoofs upon the floor.
“Oh, good devil! Most excellent devil!” exclaimed his Majesty, clapping
his hands. “If I had met thee I’d have run like a hare. Stay, Jane, peep
you through yonder door and tell me who are gathered there.”
The Queen obeyed and, returned, said--
“There be a bishop and a priest, I cannot see which, for it grows dark,
with chaplains and sundry of the lords of Council waiting audience.”
“Good. Then we’ll try the devil on these devil-tamers. Friend Satan,
go you to that door, slip through it softly and rush upon them roaring,
driving them through this chamber so that we may see which of them will
be bold enough to try to lay you. Dost understand, Beelzebub?”
Thomas nodded his horns and departed silently as a cat.
“Now open the door and stand on one side,” said the King.
Cromwell obeyed, nor had they long to wait. Presently from the hall
beyond there rose a most fearful clamour. Then through the door shot the
bishop panting, after him came lords, chaplains, and secretaries, and
last of all the priest, who, being very fat and hampered by his gown,
could not run so fast, although at his back Satan leapt and bellowed.
No heed did they take of the King’s Majesty or of aught else, whose only
thought was flight as they tore down the chamber to the farther door.
“Oh, noble, noble!” hallooed the King, who was shaking with laughter.
“Give him your fork, devil, give him your fork,” and having the royal
command Bolle obeyed with zeal.
In thirty seconds it was all over; the rout had come and gone,
only Thomas in his hideous attire stood bowing before the King, who
exclaimed--
“I thank thee, Thomas Bolle, thou hast made me laugh as I have not
laughed for years. Little wonder that thy mistress was condemned for
witchcraft. Now,” he added, changing his tone, “off with that mummery,
and, Cromwell, go, catch one of those fools and tell them the truth ere
tales fly round the palace. Jane, cease from merriment, there is a time
for all things. Come hither, Lady Harflete, I would speak with you.”
Cicely approached and curtseyed, leaving her boy in the Queen’s arms,
where he had gone to sleep, for she did not seem minded to part with
him.
“You are asking much of us,” he said suddenly, searching her with a
shrewd glance, “relying, doubtless, on your wrongs, which are deep, or
your face, which is sweet, or both. Well, these things move Kings mayhap
more than others, also I knew old Sir John, your father, a loyal man and
a brave, he fought well at Flodden; and young Harflete, your husband, if
he still lives, had a good name like his forebears. Moreover your enemy,
Maldon, is ours, a treacherous foreign snake such as England hates, for
he would set her beneath the heel of Spain.
“Now, Dame Harflete, doubtless when you go hence you will bear away
strange stories of King Harry and his doings. You will say he plays the
fool, pelting his servants with inkpots when he is wrath, as God knows
he has often cause to be, and scaring his bishops with sham Satans, as
after all why should he not since it is a dull world? You’ll say, too,
that he takes his teaching from his ministers, and signs what these lay
before him with small search as to the truth or falsity. Well, that’s
the lot of monarchs who have but one man’s brain and one man’s time;
who needs must trust their slaves until these become their masters, and
there is naught left,” here his face grew fierce, “save to kill them,
and find more and worse. New servants, new wives,” and he glanced at
Jane, who was not listening, “new friends, false, false, all three of
them, new foes, and at the last old Death to round it off. Such has been
the lot of kings from David down, and such I think it shall always be.”
He paused a while, brooding heavily, then looked up and went on, “I know
not why I should speak thus to a chit like you, except it be, that
young though you are, you also have known trouble and the feel of a sick
heart. Well, well, I have heard more of you and your affairs than you
might think, and I forget nothing--that’s my gift. Dame Harflete, you
are richer than you have been advised to say, and I repeat you ask much
of me. Justice is your due from your Sovereign, and you shall have it;
but these wide Abbey lands, this Priory of Blossholme, whose nuns have
befriended you and whom you desire to save, this embracing pardon for
others who had shed blood, this cancelling outside of the form of law of
a sentence passed by a Court duly constituted, if unjust, all in return
for a loan of a pitiful £1000? You huckster well, Lady Harflete,
one would think that your father had been a chapman, not rough John
Foterell, you who can drive so shrewd a bargain with your King’s
necessities.”
“Sire, Sire,” broke in Cicely in confusion, “I have no more, my lands
are wasted by Abbot Maldon, my husband’s hall is burnt by his soldiers,
my first year’s rents, if ever I should receive them, are promised----”
“To whom?”
She hesitated.
“To whom?” he thundered. “Answer, Madam.”
“To your Royal Commissioner, Dr. Legh.”
“Ah! I thought as much, though when he spoke of you he did not tell it,
the snuffling rogue.”
“The jewels that came to me from my mother are in pawn for that £1000,
and I have no more.”
“A palpable lie, Dame Harflete, for if so, how have you paid Cromwell?
He did not bring you here for nothing.”
“Oh, my Liege, my Liege,” said Cicely, sinking to her knees, “ask not a
helpless woman to betray those who have befriended her in her most sore
and honest need. I said I have nothing, unless those gems are worth more
than I know.”
“And I believe you, Dame Harflete. We have plucked you bare between us,
have we not? Still, perchance, you will be no loser in the end. Now,
Master Smith, there, does not work for love alone.”
“Sire,” said Jacob, “that is true, I copy my masters. I have this lady’s
jewels in pledge, and I hope to make a profit on them. Still, Sire,
there is among them a pink pearl of great beauty that it might please
the Queen to wear. Here it is,” and he laid it upon the table.
“Oh, what a lovely thing,” said Jane; “never have I seen its like.”
“Then study it well, Wife, for you look your last upon it. When we
cannot pay our soldiers to keep our crown upon our head, and preserve
the liberties of England against the Spaniard and the Pope of Rome, it
is no time to give you gems that I have not bought. Take that gaud and
sell it, Master Smith, for whatever it will fetch among the Jews, and
add the price to the £1000, lessened by one tenth for your trouble. Now,
Dame Harflete, you have bought the favour of your King, for whoever
else may, I’ll not lie. Ah! here comes Cromwell. My Lord, you have been
long.”
“Your Grace, yonder priest is in a fit from fright, and thinks himself
in hell. I had to tarry with him till the doctor came.”
“Doubtless he’ll get better now that you are gone. Poor man, if a sham
devil frights him so, what will he do at last? Now, Cromwell, I have
made examination of this business and I will sign your papers, all of
them. Dame Harflete here tells me how hard you have worked for her, all
for nothing, Cromwell, and that pleases me, who at times have wondered
how you grew so rich, as your learner, Wolsey, did before you. _He_ took
bribes, Cromwell!”
“My Liege,” he answered in a low voice, “this case was cruel, it moved
my pity----”
“As it has ours, leaving us the richer by £1000 and the price of a
pearl. There, five, are they all signed? Take them, Master Smith, as the
Lady Harflete is your client, and study them to-night. If aught be wrong
or omitted, you have our royal word that we will set it straight. This
is our command--note it, Cromwell--that all things be done quickly
as occasion shall arise to give effect to these precepts, pardons and
patents which you, Cromwell, shall countersign ere they leave this room.
Also, that no further fee, secret or declared, shall be taken from
the Lady Harflete, whom henceforth, in token of our special favour, we
create and name the Lady of Blossholme, from her husband or her child,
as to any of these matters, and that Commissioner Legh, on receipt
thereof, shall pay into our treasury any sum or sums that Dame Harflete
may have promised to him. Write it down, my Lord Cromwell, and see that
our words are carried out, lest it be the worse for you.”
The Vicar-General hastened to obey, for there was something in the
King’s eye that frightened him. Meanwhile the Queen, after she had seen
the coveted pearl disappear into Jacob’s pocket, thrust back the child
into Cicely’s arms, and without any word of adieu or reverence to the
King, followed by her lady, departed from the room, slamming the door
behind her.
“Her Grace is cross because that gem--your gem, Lady Harflete--was
refused to her,” said Henry, then added in an angry growl, “‘Fore God!
does she dare to play off her tempers upon me, and so soon, when I am
troubled about big matters? Oho! Jane Seymour is the Queen to-day, and
she’d let the world know it. Well, what makes a queen? A king’s fancy
and a crown of gold, which the hand that set it on can take off again,
head and all, if it stick too tight. And then where’s your queen? Pest
upon women and the whims that make us seek their company! Dame Harflete,
you’d not treat your lord so, would you? You have never been to Court, I
think, or I should have known your eyes again. Well, perhaps it is well
for you, and that’s why you are gentle and loving.”
“If I am gentle, Sire, it is trouble that has gentled me, who have
suffered so much, and know not even now whether after one week of
marriage I am wife or widow.”
“Widow? Should that be so, come to me and I will find you another and a
nobler spouse. With your face and possessions it will not be difficult.
Nay, do not weep, for your sake I trust that this lucky man may live to
comfort you and serve his King. At least he’ll be no Spaniard’s tool and
Pope’s plotter.”
“Well will he serve your Grace if God gives him the chance, as my
murdered father did.”
“We know it, Lady. Cromwell, will you never have finished with those
writings? The Council waits us, and so does supper, and a word or two
with her Grace ere bedtime. You, Thomas Bolle, you are no fool and can
hold a sword; tell me, shall I go up north to fight the rebels, or bide
here and let others do it?”
“Bide here, your Grace,” answered Thomas promptly. “‘Twixt Wash and
Humber is a wild land in winter and arrows fly about there like ducks at
night, none knowing whence they come. Also your Grace is over-heavy for
a horse on forest roads and moorland, and if aught should chance, why,
they’d laugh in Spain and Rome, or nearer, and who would rule England
with a girl child on its throne?” and he stared hard at Cromwell’s back.
“Truth at last, and out of the lips of a red-haired bumpkin,” muttered
the King, also staring at the unconscious Cromwell, who was engaged on
his writing and either feigned deafness or did not hear. “Thomas Bolle,
I said that you were no fool, although some may have thought you so, is
there aught you would have in payment for your counsel--save money, for
that we have none?”
“Aye, Sire, freedom from my oath as a lay-brother of the Abbey of
Blossholme, and leave to marry.”
“To marry whom?”
“Her, Sire,” and he pointed to Emlyn.
“What! The other handsome witch? See you not that she has a temper? Nay,
woman, be silent, it is written in your face. Well, take your freedom
and her with it, but, Thomas Bolle, why did you not ask otherwise when
the chance came your way? I thought better of you. Like the rest of us,
you are but a fool after all. Farewell to you, Fool Thomas, and to you
also, my fair Lady of Blossholme.”