“’Tis naught, Your Majesty, but that the head of Sir Thomas More is no longer on the bridge.”
“What!” cried the King, roaring, that none might guess his voice shook. “Who moved it then?”
There was no answer.
“Who moved it then?” he roared again.
“’Tis not known, Your Majesty . . . ’Tis but known that it is gone.”
He shut the window. His knees trembled; the whole of his great body shook. The head of More the martyr had been removed from the bridge, where it should have remained with the heads of other traitors. What means this? What meant it? A miracle, was it? There had been One who had risen from the dead; what if this man, More, were such another!
He could see the shrewd, kind face, did he but close his eyes; he could recall the humor, the mocking kindliness. He remembered the man so well; often had he walked in the Chelsea garden, his arm about the fellow’s neck. He remembered when he had written his book denouncing Luther, who had worked with him, whose lucid style, whose perfect Latin knowledge had largely made the book. And because he had had need to show this man he could not disobey his master, he had murdered him. True he had not wielded the axe; true he had not been the one to place the head among the heads of traitors; but he was the murderer nevertheless. His old friend More—the brightest light in his realm! He remembered how the man had walked with him and Katharine on the terraces of the palace, and talked of the stars, pointing them out to the royal pair, for he and Katharine had been interested in astronomy then. Now he was dead, he who had never wanted to sun himself in the brilliance of court life; who would have preferred to live quietly in the heart of his family with his books. He was dead; and his head had disappeared. This might be a miracle, a sign!
Anne came in, saw that he was distressed, and was unusually soft and ready to comfort him.
“You have had some shock.”
He looked at her eagerly; she thought he had the air of a frightened boy who is afraid to be left in the dark.
“More’s head has gone from London Bridge!”
She was taken aback; she looked at him, wide-eyed; and they were drawn together in their fear.
“Anne,” he said groping for her hand, “what means this, thinkest thou?”
She took his hand and pressed it firmly; she forgot the miracle of the missing head, since the fear which had been with her night and day was evaporating. Henry needed her; at moments such as this, it was to her he turned; she had been too easily humiliated, too ready to show her humiliation. She had nothing to fear. She was the wife of a man who, having absolute power, would have his way, but a clever woman might manage him still. She could see her folly stretching right back to her coronation; she thought she saw why she had appeared to lose her power over him. Now here he was, trembling and afraid, superstitious in an age of superstition, lacking that courage which had made her the reckless creature she was.
She smiled at him.
“My lord, someone has removed the head.”
“But who would dare?”
“He was a man who had many friends, and one of these might be ready to take his head from where it belonged.”
“I see that, Anne.” He was feeling better already; he looked at her through softly sentimental eyes. She was very beautiful, and now she was gentle and very reassuring; she was clever too; the others paled quickly. When Anne reassured, there was a good deal that was truth in the reassurance; the others flattered; it was good to be with Anne. “That was where the head belonged,” he said fiercely. “He was a traitor, Anne.”
“As all who seek to disobey Your Majesty’s commands,” she said.
“Thou speakest truth. ’Twas a friend of his that took the head. By God, that in itself was a traitorous act, was it not!”
She stroked his hand.
“Indeed it was. There will be those simple people who ever look on traitors as saints. Mayhap it would be well to leave this matter. Why should it worry us? We know the man deserved to die.”
“By God, you’re right!” he cried. “’Tis a matter of small importance.”
He did not wish to leave her; she distracted his thoughts from the memory of that severed head with its kindly mocking eyes.
It was reconciliation. In the court it was said: “She has a power over him, which none other could exercise.”
Her enemies cursed her. If she but give him a son, they said, she is Queen of England till her death.
Chapuys wrote home to the Emperor, Charles, telling him that the King of England was over and over again unfaithful, but that the concubine was cunning and knew how to manage the King. It would be unwise to attach too much importance to his brief infatuations for court ladies.
Anne was preparing the most splendid banquet the court had yet seen. She was feverish with delight. She felt as though she had come through a nightmare of terror, and now here was the morning to prove that the shadows had been conjured up out of her imagination, that they had no existence in truth. How could she have been so foolish; how could she have believed that she who had held the King so well in check, could have lost control now! She was supreme; his need of her was passionate and lasting; now that—as her husband—he was conscious of the shackles that held him to her, all she need do was lengthen the tether. Her fault had been in trying to keep it as tight as a mistress might. All a wife needed was a little more subtlety, and it had taken her two years of doubts and nightmares to realize this. Let him wander away from her, let him dally with others—it would but be to compare them with his incomparable Queen.
She was gayer than she had ever been. She designed new costumes; she called to her the most brilliant courtiers to arrange an entertainment that should enchant the King; Witty Wyatt, subtle George, gentle Harry Norris, amusing Francis Bryan, Henry Howard, those gay courtiers Francis Weston and William Brereton; others too, all the brightest stars of the court clustered about her, and she the dazzling center as it used to be. The King was with her constantly; she planned and thrilled to her plans.
One day she found one of the youngest of the musicians sitting alone playing, and she paused to listen, delighting in his delicate touch, thinking, He is more than ordinarily good. She had Madge Shelton bring him to her. He was young and slender, a rather beautiful boy with long tapering fingers and dreamy, dark eyes.
“Her Majesty heard your music,” said Madge. “She thought it good.”
The boy was overcome with the honor of being noticed by the Queen, who smiled on him most graciously.
“I would have you play awhile,” she said. “I feel you could be of use to us in the revels, for it would seem to me that we have not so many musicians of your talent in the court that we can afford to leave out one who plays as you do.”
She was charming, because she at once saw that his admiration was not merely that which he would give to his Queen. Her long sleeves hung over the hand with its slight malformation; the other, with long, white, jewel-decked fingers, rested lightly on her chair. He could not take his wondering eyes from her, for he had never been so close to her before.
“What is his name?” she asked, when he had been dismissed.
“It is Smeaton, Your Majesty. Mark Smeaton.”
“He was poorly clad,” she said.
“He is one of the humbler musicians, Your Majesty.”
“See that he has money with which to procure himself clothes. He plays too well to be so shabbily attired. Tell him he may play before me; I will have a part for him to take at the entertainment.”
She dismissed him from her mind, and gave herself over to fresh plans. There was an air of lightheartedness among her friends; George seemed younger, excessively gay. The Queen herself was as sparkling as she had ever been when she was the King’s mistress. She was the center of the brilliant pageant, the pivot round which the wit and laughter revolved; she was the most lovely performer. The King watched the entertainment, his eyes for her alone. Anne! he thought, inwardly chuckling. By God, she was meant to be a Queen. She could amuse him, she could enchant him, she could divert him, she could cast unpleasant thoughts from his mind.
He had forgotten Fisher; More too almost, for the removal of his head from London Bridge had been no miracle but the bold action of his daughter, Margaret Roper, who had gone stealthily and by night. Anne had learned this, and brought him the news.
“By God!” he had cried. “’Tis a treasonable offense to go against the King’s command!” She had soothed him. “Let be! Let be! ’Twas a brave action. Doubtless the girl loved her father well. People are full of sentiment; they would not care that a girl should be punished because she loved her father well. Let us have done with this gruesome affair of a traitor’s head. To please me, I would ask Your Majesty not to pursue the matter.”
He had frowned and feigned to be considering it, knowing full well that his people would not care for interference with Margaret Roper; then she had wheedled, and kissed him, and he had patted her thighs and said: “Well then, sweetheart, since you ask it, it shall be done. But I like not treason . . . I like it not at all!” She had smiled, well pleased, and so had he. An unpleasant business was done with.
He watched her now—the loveliest woman in the court—and too many of these young profligates had their eyes upon her, ready to be over-bold an they dared. He liked to know that they fancied her, even while it filled him with this smoldering rage. He could laugh. None dared to give her more than covert looks, for it would be treason to cast over-desirous eyes on what belonged to the King; and well they knew this King’s method of dealing with traitors! He called to her, would have her sit by him, would let his hands caress her.
It was borne home to the Queen’s enemies that their hopes had been premature, and to her friends that they had feared too soon.
Catherine Howard was joyous as a lark; like the lively young grasshopper, she danced all through the summer months without a thought of winter. She was discovering that she was more than ordinarily pretty; she was the prettiest of all the ladies; she had, said some, a faint resemblance to her cousin the Queen. She developed a love of finery, and being kept short of decorative clothes or the money with which to provide herself with even the smallest addition to her wardrobe, she looked to her lover to provide these. Derham was only too delighted. He was enchanted by the lovely child, who was so very youthful at times, at others completely mature. He would provide her with many little luxuries besides—wines and sweetmeats, fruit and flowers. So when Catherine yearned to possess an ornament called the French Fennel, which was being worn by all the court ladies who would follow the latest fashion, Derham told her that he knew a little woman in London with a crooked back who was most skilled in the making of flowers of silk. Catherine begged him to get this done for her. “I will pay you when I have the means,” she told him, which set him smiling and begging her that it should be a present. And so it was, but when she had the precious ornament, she was afraid to wear it until she had let it be known that one of the ladies had given it to her, for the Duchess was more watchful than she had been at Horsham.
It was tiresome of the old lady to have taken the precaution of locking the chamber door each night. Derham was an adventurous young man; he was passionately in love. He was not going to let a key separate him from Catherine. A little planning, a little scheming, a little nodding and looking the other way by those who liked to see good sport, and it was not such a difficult matter to steal the key after it had been brought to the Duchess.
There was the additional spice of planning what should be done, should there be a sudden intrusion.
“You would have to hurry into the gallery and hide there!” said Catherine.
“That I could do with the greatest of ease!” said Derham.
He would come to the chamber at any hour of the night; it was a highly exciting adventure they were both enjoying.
The others watched, rather wistfully. Derham was such a handsome young man and so much in love with the child; there were some, such as Dorothy Barwicke and a newcomer, Jane Acworth, who whispered to each other that Catherine Howard was the sort who would always find men to love her. What use to warn her? She was too addicted to physical love to heed any warning. If she realized that the path she was treading might be dangerous, she might try to reform, but she would surely slip back. She was a lusty little animal, irresistible to men because she found them irresistible. Mary Lassells thought the Duchess should be told, in secret so that she could come up and catch them in the act, but the others were against this. They wanted no probings, nor inquiries. They pointed out that they would all be implicated—even Mary Lassells, since she had been months in the house and had not seen fit to warn Her Grace before.
The Duchess was less comfortable in her mind than she had been. Apart from the rumors she heard at court, she sensed the presence of intrigue in her own household. She watched Catherine, flaunting her new French Fennel. Heaven knew there were plenty of men all too eager to take advantage of a young girl. She saw something in Catherine’s face, something secret and knowledgeable, and the memory of it would recur in her uneasy thoughts. Her other granddaughter, she believed, was not happy; the Duchess preferred not to think of what might be happening at court; better to turn her attention to her own house. Were the young men too free with the girls? She would have to be arranging a marriage for young Catherine soon; when she next saw the Queen, she would have a word with her about this. In the meantime the greatest care must be exercised.
Sometimes the Duchess did not sleep very well; sometimes she would wake in the night and fancy she heard footsteps on the stairs, or a muffled burst of laughter overhead. She knew now that for some time she had been suspicious of what went on in the girls’ apartments; there were some over-bold wenches there, she believed. I must bestir myself; I must look into this. There is my little granddaughter, Catherine to be considered. That French Fennel . . . She had said she got it from Lady Brereton. Now did she? Would her ladyship give such a handsome gift? What if one of the young gentlemen was seeking Catherine’s favors by offering gifts! It was not a very pleasant reflection.
Forced by a sense of impending danger both at court and at Lambeth, she roused herself one night soon after twelve, and went to the place where the key of the ladies’ apartment should be. It was not there. Puffing and panting with the fear of what she would find if she went to the room, she nevertheless could make no excuse for not going. It had ever been her habit to avoid the unpleasant, but here was something for the avoidance of which it would be most difficult to find an adequate excuse.
She put on a robe and went out of her sleeping apartment to the corridor. Slowly she mounted the staircase. She was distressed, for she was sure she could hear muffled voices coming from that room; she paused outside the door. There was no sound inside the room now. She opened the door and stood on the threshold. All the ladies were in their beds, but there was in that room an atmosphere of such tenseness that she could not but be aware of it, and she was sure that, though they had their eyes shut, they but feigned sleep.
