THE CARDINAL'S PUPPETS
His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno knew well how to gauge the moods and
tempers of the English people of his time. He had rightly guessed that
the Duke of Wessex, whom but a few hours ago his countrymen were ready
to condemn to a shameful death, would remain the hero of the hour, until
the enthusiasm of his friends had once more cooled down to a more normal
pitch.
Mary Tudor was deeply grateful to the Cardinal, for what she truly
believed was a wonderful triumph of persuasion over the obstinacy of a
guilty conscience. If in her innermost heart she bitterly resented the
fact that Wessex owed his acquittal to outside influences rather than to
the will of his Queen, she nevertheless was ready enough to acknowledge
how completely His Eminence had succeeded, and how little ground she had
for not keeping her share of the momentous compact which she had made
with him.
"If Your Eminence is instrumental in saving His Grace from the block I
will marry King Philip of Spain!"
That was her bond, and already the Cardinal had claimed its fulfilment.
The Queen of England stood definitely pledged to give her hand to Philip
II, King of Spain.
The Spanish alliance, so much dreaded by the patriotic faction of
England, was all but an accomplished fact. Bitter disappointment reigned
in the hearts of all those who had hoped to see an English peer upon
the English throne. Yet all Wessex' friends were bound to admit that
from the very moment when the Duke's acquittal suddenly roused all their
dormant hopes, one look at his face had sufficed to tell them that those
same hopes had been born but to die again. There stood a man, broken in
health and spirits, tired of life, without buoyancy or youth, or that
delightful vigour which had made the name of Wessex sound a note of
gladness throughout the land.
Even as he stepped down from the bar and his adherents showered good
wishes upon him, he looked twenty years older than he had done on that
bright happy day a fortnight ago when, the cynosure of all eyes, the
most brilliant ornament of that gorgeous court, he seemed to stand
smiling on the steps of the throne, gently dallying with a crown.
Yet Mary Tudor, wilfully forgetting for the moment her pledge to the
Spaniards, longing to enjoy these last few hours when she was still
free, had showered smiles, fetes, honours upon the man she loved, happy
to feel his lips pressed upon her hand in loyalty and gratitude.
She had never inquired of him how much real truth there was in the story
which Ursula Glynde had told in open court. Perhaps she did not care to
know. She was weak enough--woman enough--to rejoice at the thought of
her rival's complete humiliation. She was content to let the events of
that fateful night remain completely wrapped in mystery. Vaguely she
felt that in some sort of way the elucidation of it would not be
altogether detrimental to Ursula Glynde, at the same time she knew that
never now could the young girl, who had come between her and the man she
loved, aspire to become Duchess of Wessex.
The scandal had been too great, and unless some unexpected and
wonderful thing happened, which would signally clear Ursula's maiden
fame, she would for ever remain under the ban of this mystery which had
besmirched her good name.
Ursula had been quite right when she asserted with bitter sarcasm that
His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno seemed to be the prime mover in the
game of puppets, which was now proceeding within the precincts of the
Palace. With the royal signature appended to his bond, he felt that his
position was now impregnable, and he moved about among the English lords
and courtiers as a vice-regent would in the absence of a king.
The fact that a messenger from Scotland had arrived in the morning with
news of the ambassadors to the Queen Regent, without any mention of
either Lord Pembroke's or Lord Everingham's sudden departure from
thence, had completely calmed any fears he still might have of the
latter's too sudden reappearance at Hampton Court. In any case now he
had still some days before him during which he could consolidate his
success, by establishing direct intercourse between King Philip and the
Queen of England. He hoped before many hours had elapsed to obtain from
Mary Tudor an actual letter, writ in her own hand to her royal
betrothed.
Thus secure in his invulnerable position, the Cardinal had thought it
prudent as well as expedient to accede to Ursula's wishes, which seemed
very like commands, and he had used his diplomatic skill to good purpose
in persuading Mary Tudor to allow the interview between the young girl
and His Grace.
At the same time His Eminence was sufficiently wary so to manipulate his
puppets that the interview should be of the briefest, and in this he was
like enough to succeed.
It was in order to celebrate the happy return of His Grace to Court
that the Queen had, at his request, granted a free pardon to all those
who were to be brought for trial on the same day as the Duke. Two
o'clock in the afternoon of the day following this great event, had been
fixed when all these poor people, vagrants and beggars mostly, one or
two political prisoners, perhaps, were to thank His Grace for their
freedom publicly in the grounds of the Palace.
The Cardinal, well aware of this, skilfully working too on the Queen's
still restive jealousy, had suggested to Mary that Ursula Glynde should
await the Duke of Wessex in the hall at fifteen minutes before the hour.
"A quarter of an hour, Your Majesty," he said insinuatingly, when first
on that same morning he had broached the subject, "fifteen short
minutes, during which the breach 'twixt His Grace and a disgraced maiden
can but be irretrievably widened."
"Your Eminence seems to think that I desire a breach," retorted Mary
with Tudor-like haughtiness.
"Far from me even to think such a thought," rejoined the Cardinal
blandly; "but as a faithful servant of Your Majesty, soon to become a
loyal subject when Your Grace is Queen of Spain, I hold the welfare of
all those whom you deign to honour very much at heart. . . . And I was
thinking of His Grace of Wessex."
"What of him, my lord?"
"The Duke is proud, Your Majesty; would it be well, think you, if a girl
of Lady Ursula Glynde's reputation were to become Duchess of Wessex?"
"Think you she hath the desire?"
"_Quien sabe?_" he replied guardedly, "but an Your Majesty will trust my
judgment, a brief interview with His Grace would soon scatter her hopes
to the winds."
Thus did this astute diplomatist play upon every fibre of a woman's
emotions. His calculations were made to a nicety--only the interview
which Ursula had demanded and no more! This to pacify the young girl in
case she became defiant, but the meeting itself just short enough to
avoid any harm.
At twenty minutes before two, Ursula was bidden to the Great Hall by
command of Her Majesty. The Duchess of Lincoln--tearful and
kind--received her in the great window embrasure. Her motherly heart
ached to see the bitter sorrow of the beautiful girl, who had been so
full of vitality and merriment a brief fortnight ago.
With a strange instinct, which she herself could not have explained,
Ursula had dressed herself all in white. A rich brocaded kirtle and
shimmery silken paniers seemed to accentuate the dull pallor of her
cheeks. Only her golden hair gave a brilliant note of colour and of life
to this marble statue, who seemed only to exist through its blue
magnetic eyes.
"The page has gone to bid His Grace of Wessex attend upon you here, my
child," said the good old Duchess, as she took Ursula's cold hands in
hers, and mechanically stroked them with her own kind, wrinkled palms.
"Think you he will come?" asked Ursula dully.
"I doubt not but he will, my dear. His Grace owes you his life."
"Yes?"
"But before he comes, my treasure," murmured the dear old soul, "I would
have you know that I'll never believe aught, save that you are good and
pure. Some day, perhaps, you will love me well enough to tell me the
secret which is gnawing at your heart."
She paused, quite frightened at the expression of intense soul-agony
which was suddenly apparent in every line of the wan young face.
Ursula bent her tall, graceful figure, and raising the gentle motherly
hands to her hot lips she kissed them with passionate tenderness.
"In God's name, my dear, kind Duchess," she murmured, "do not speak soft
words to me. The Holy Virgin has helped me to keep calm; I must not
break down . . . not now . . . that he is coming."
Now there was the sound of firm footsteps crossing the chamber beyond.
Ursula drew herself up, and for a moment a strange, scared expression
came into her face, then one of intense, yet inexpressible tenderness.
Mutely she beckoned to the old Duchess, who, understanding this earnest
appeal, withdrew without uttering another word.
The next moment the door at the further end of the hall was opened. A
page loudly announced--
"His Grace the Duke of Wessex!"
And for the first time since the awful moment when alien intrigues had
parted them, these two, who had so fondly loved, so deeply suffered,
were alone, face to face at last.