I.—THE WAY SHE SHOULD GO.
Note.—This is the story of Elizabeth. You know her best as the Queen of that great age of England which shattered the empire of Spain and won for the English blood and English ideals the heritage of the New World and changed the future of humanity. In the triumph of that fight we see the fierce, keen face of Elizabeth, and that cold Tudor craft of hers and the vehement will. You may read here of her magnificence when the conquering lords of the sea were proud to acclaim her their inspiration, when the most splendid gallants of all history worshipped at her throne, when she made a jest of many a lover and sometimes of herself. But before that you find her forlorn and desperate, plotting to save her birthright and life from the sister who dreaded her, and the Spaniard who hated, and the hungry intriguers who coveted her to be their tool. First of all you must meet her, a sad cunning child in the maze of that cruel court which Henry VIII. made for his greedy passion of mastery. And first and last, by fate or her own proud choice, she stands lonely for the honour of England.
THE palace of Placentia glowed crimson above the broad river. On the lawn a child sat, all red hair and brown frock. A barge of purple and gold was turning against the glittering eddies of the ebb to make the palace stairs. The child started up and revealed herself thin, too small yet for her bones. Out of the flood of red hair, her face was thrust, pale and aquiline. She was running to the walk by the river, when she saw a short drab woman, still and staring. She checked. It was plainly beneath her dignity to be caught running after sights. She had a glimpse of a large crimson man landing from the barge, and turned away with her head held high and haughty. It was not for the Lady Elizabeth of England to be interested in her father.
She dropped herself down on the grass again to her play. She had a score of little wooden figures gaudily painted. They could stand, and their arms could move. She arranged them in new scenes: they were a king and his court, hunters over their quarry, knights at sword play, soldiers in rank. Their occupations were limited, for they had not a woman among them. Her quick hands grew listless. She stopped and stared at the mannikins drearily. She began to frown at them, and her thin face was too fierce for a child's.
She scrambled to her feet and stood looking about, ploughing furrows in the grass with a foot. Then she made for the short drab woman who was pacing by the river, “Mary!”
The woman turned. The sunlight fell on a sallow face with no eyebrows. Save for that it was well formed, but dreary and sour.
“Mary, shoot a match with me.”
“Make thy match with my waiting woman.” The voice was hard. She looked at the child as something she loathed, and turned and stalked away ungainly.
Over Elizabeth's cheekbones came spots of red and she stared after the little drab woman with flashing eyes, but she made a careful curtsey. Then slowly, with dragging steps, she wandered over the lawn. She was aimless, she went this way and that, she gaped and gazed about her drearily....
The lawn ended in a bank, and as she climbed that “the most excellent cordial smell” of strawberry leaves dying was about her; then she passed into a lane of musk roses and gave a cry and darted forward. A tiny boy was coming towards her. Feeble legs bore him unsurely and his fat cheeks were pale and flaccid and his eyes dull. When he saw her, he gave a silly, happy laugh, but cut it short to turn and look nervously behind him. Close behind him was a sturdy lad, rosy and good-humoured and silly, not to be feared; but then came a man in black with a square, hard face.
Elizabeth gave one swift glance at him and ran on to the little boy and put her arms round him, “Come and play with my men, brother.” The child laughed and nestled against her; then, with another look behind him, drew away.
A cold voice came from the man in black. The Prince's royalty may not company with the Lady Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth rose to her lean height. “Oh, is Dr. Gardiner my brother's lord? Dr. Gardiner would make himself King.”
“Dr. Gardiner obeys the King's will”—he smiled at her—“which is dread to any who dares deny it.” He walked on and took the little boy's hand and drew him from Elizabeth. “You will be safe, sir, in the privy garden. Come, Master Barnaby.” The Prince stumbled at his side, holding away from him. Master Barnaby, the Prince's whipping-boy, made a funny face at Elizabeth and shambled after them.
Elizabeth stood with her bony hands clenched, glaring and flushed. Gardiner looked back at her. She flung round and pretended to be smelling a rose. They passed out of sight and an iron gate clanged. The rose bush broke in her hand. She started away and stamped her foot. She thrust her hand into her eyes and gave a sob and struck herself.... Fighting hard to be calm and proud, she made for the palace.
On her way she saw Gardiner walking the lawn with her sister Mary. Their voices were very busy. She hurried on, and her quick eyes glowed and flashed.
His Most Gracious Majesty Henry, by the grace of God, Defender of the Faith, was now at his fourth wife. Mary's mother, Catharine the Spaniard, shamelessly divorced, had slunk wretched and defiant to the grave. The hot-blooded woman of the wonderful hair, who had lured the King to cast off wife and faith, and change the fate of a nation to possess her, Anne Boleyn, whose heir was Elizabeth, had been branded, guilty or guiltless, with horrible shame and slaughtered. Jane Seymour, the pale, soulless creature for whom she had been forsaken, had borne the King a sickly prince as the man-child he needed, and faded out of life. In her place was a strange figure, a placid German house-wife, Anne of Cleves.
Thomas Cromwell, the Protestant Machiavelli, had lured the King into marriage with her to bind him to the German Protestants and the enemies of Spain and the Pope. And behold, the woman was plain, and Cromwell had committed the sin without forgiveness. The King cast him off in righteous wrath and his enemies destroyed him. How long would Anne of Cleves wear the King's ring? There was no fault in her, no venom could imagine any fault in the stolid woman, save ugliness. But her husband was Henry VIII.
Mary and Elizabeth, the sisters, were dowered with their mothers' mutual hate. Mary's Spanish blood kept hot the memory of her mother's wrongs, and she missed no chance to make the child of the low-born, shameless woman suffer. Elizabeth, cunning by nature and trained by the court's cruelty to the inscrutable craft of an unhappy child, endured everything, betrayed nothing. But she, too, forgot nothing; and keener, subtler than Mary, she saw everything. Mary, her rival, her foe, in consort with Gardiner, who was of all the men about the King the bitterest against the German Queen—the child was quick to imagine danger as any time-serving courtier. What new plan, what change afoot?
“Elizabeth flung back a sharp answer to a coarse jest.”
Elizabeth ran into the palace. What she feared, the child's mind might not have been able to tell. Her life was all fear and caution and lies. Anne the Queen had ever been kind to her, and she, the child of the quarrel with Spain and the Pope, counted Anne her guard and ally.
She found the Queen, but could hardly see her for clothes. All the room was flooded with a sea of rich, piebald colours, velvets and brocades and cloth of silver and gold and furs. In the midst the Queen sat, her lap laden with dresses, and her heavy German waiting women held up before her and paraded more dresses and unmade stuff. They were all voluble together, like housewives in a mercer's shop.
For a moment the child was dazzled by the feminine allure of it, and forgot her troubles and cried “Oh!” and laughed and stood round-eyed.
The Queen turned. Her long, pockmarked face was mottled red by excitement; the narrow eyes were almost bright. She gave a loud, deep laugh. “Ah, little love, come and see the pretty things.” Her voice was guttural, with a thick German accent. She moved her large, angular frame awkwardly. “Come, sit by me. Thou must choose something for thy own.”
Elizabeth came quickly to a dress of cloth of gold, on which a pattern was worked by masses of gold leaf. “Please you, I will have that,” she cried eagerly.
“Then she felt a silence. Queen and waiting-women were all staring at her, and the women's faces exhibited emotions. One of them began to cry. The Queen waved a hand at her: “Tsss, tsss, Lotta! Not that, my child.” She shrugged her broad shoulders. “It is my wedding-dress.”
Elizabeth let it fall from her caressing fingers. She stared round the room. “What are you all doing?” she cried anxiously.
“I take a count of my robes, little love. See, I am going away.”
A second time the woman Lotta exploded sobs and was rebuked.
“Going away?” the child repeated in a dull voice, her face pale and drawn. “Please you, madame, why?”
“Ah, do not make a sad face. I will not be sad. The King, he is very kind. I take with me all my robes and my jewels.”
“The King sends you away? And you—you” The child drew apart. The fear in her face was yielding to something hard.
The Queen shrugged her shoulders. “See, I am not beautiful.”
“He sends you away? And you—you do not care?” the child said coldly.
“I obey, little one. It is better, Do not be sad; he makes me rich.”
The child laughed.
“What is that?. I do not understand. Thou art sorry I go, little one, is it not?”
“You do not care. You are weak. You are all weak.”
“All weak! What dost thou say?” She looked at her women and back to the child with a puzzled frown. “These! They have done nothing. This is foolish, little one.”
“Oh, you cannot understand. You are all weak.” Her hands were clenched, she spoke fiercely, and her eyes flamed. “You are just one more, just like all the rest. Oh!” She flung out her thin arms wildly. “Mary's mother who was sent away—my mother who was killed—Edward's mother who died—now you”
The Queen giggled. “But—but I am not like those, little one. See, I am alive. Also, I mean to keep alive. I like it better.”
The child exclaimed at her. “You—you are not angry, even. You do not care. You will not be anything or do anything. If he lets you stay alive, it is enough.”
“Herrgott! It is something which is better than nothing, my child.” The Queen stared at her in stolid amazement.
“If I were you I would loathe myself,” the child cried. “Oh, I would not let it be! I would keep myself Queen always and always.”
The Queen gave another shrug. “Little wild cat!” she said, and laughed, but the kindliness of her was banished.
The child turned upon her, free from all pretence of respect. “You! Do you feel no hurt of it? Are you not ashamed? Why do you go?”
The Queen flushed. “Little naughty one! Thou lovest me no more if I am not Queen. Is it not? Go, make thy love to Mistress Catharine.”
“Mistress Catharine?” the child echoed. “Catharine Howard?” Her thin face was set in an ugly sneer.
“Ah, thou wilt love her now—and greatly. So, little false one!”
The child stood up. “I shall not. I shall not love any one. I do not want any one to love me.” She stalked out of the room.
The Queen tossed her head. “Little snake!” she said, and turned again to her dresses. But the tearful Lotta gave a sob under her breath, and murmured, “The poor little maid!”
Elizabeth went slowly through the blotches of light and shade in the palace corridor. You see her a long wisp of a girl, her red mane tumbling over her face as she walks with head bent, her pale high brow furrowed across and across, and her thin lips twitching.
“The child came from behind the tapestry, saying solemnly, 'Do you like Dr. Gardiner?' Catharine Howard screamed, and started back with her hand to her throat.”
The German Queen, friend of her friends, her party, her faith, was to be banished. What triumph, and what opportunity for those of Gardiner's mind, who fought to reconcile the King with Spain and Rome and make him disown the daughter who was the quarrel incarnate. If Catharine Howard were the new Queen, a soft round minx all prettiness, if she were the tool of Gardiner. The child felt herself fighting desperately for life, honour, royalty. There were always strange threats echoing through the court. She might be thrown into a sickly prison. She might be married to a low-born fool. She, who was a princess of England, as royal as the mongrel Spaniard her sister, or the feeble baby brother, with the right and hope some day to reign.
Mistress Catharine Howard must be caught and sounded. But in the room where the maids of honour lolled and giggled and chattered, Mistress Catharine was not to be found. Elizabeth flung back a sharp answer to a coarse jest and hurried away. It was worth while to try the woman's private lodging.
The little anteroom was empty, but as Elizabeth looked in she heard a peal of gay laughter from the room beyond. She stole in quietly and listened. Then came Mistress Catharine's voice, vastly arch. “Nay, in faith, sir. If I should wed all who tell me I am fair, I were wife to more men than I can count.” She giggled, “I think it would weary me in a while.”
“Mistress Catharine weary of lovers! A miracle!”
“Not of lovers, good Thomas, but of husbands. Heigho! I fear it was for a husband you were born.”
The gentleman laughed loud. “Come, try me, Kate.”
There was the sound of a polite scuffle. The child in the anteroom sneered savagely. Mistress Catharine spoke through laughter: “No, sir, no. You would not suit my complexion.”
“Why, then, I will make it blush and we are well matched.”
“Oh, like a fool and his folly. And they are soon parted. Faith, Master Culpepper, when I blush it shall be for something more than you.”
“Then take me boldly, Kate, and blush when thou wilt.”
“Take thee! I would—for fast days. With another or twain to keep holiday withal.”
“And a king to wear o' working days! God save the wench for modesty. But come, am I Lenten fare? Am I a penance?”
The child in the anteroom gave an angry laugh as she heard them laughing and sounds of the gentleman being repulsed. Then she checked herself and drew back. There were footsteps in the corridor, a hand on the door. She slipped behind the tapestry. The sturdy black form of Dr. Gardiner came in. He paused a moment. There was still some noise as of a skirmish of coquetry. He tapped at the inner door and flung it open.
The child heard an exclamation and a scurry, then Gardiner's voice fierce with anger: “Master Culpepper! You offend against the order of the King's court. You peril yourself, sir.”
“Why, how now, Doctor? What sets you preaching?”
“This is no place for you, sir. This is the private lodging of a lady of honour.”
“Right, Doctor. And no place for a priest, neither.”
“What, sirrah, are you impudent? Get you gone and take heed to yourself. Do not force yourself on women of high estate, if you would keep your skin whole. And hark ye, Master Culpepper: a loose tongue may loose your head from your shoulders. I have done. If I do not see you or hear of you again, it will be well for you.”
There was silence. When Culpepper spoke again, his voice was chastened. “Why, then—why, what an alarm is this because a man pays his duty to a fair lady?”
“If you have no wit, sirrah, be taught by those who have. Away with you! Mistress Catharine bids you trouble her no more.”
“Mistress Catharine”
“My patience is out, Master Culpepper. Get you gone!”
The child behind the tapestry, peeping out, saw Culpepper slink away. His plump, handsome face was blotched with red, and he stooped and slouched as though all the strength had gone out of him. In the farther room Catharine Howard flung her trim little form upon a chair like an angry child. Gardiner approached her, but she stared away from him, pouting.
“Madame”—he banished the angry menace from his voice, but he talked to her like a schoolmaster—“such folly as this will destroy you.”
“I am not a fool,” she snapped.
“I wish to believe that. Do not make it difficult.”
“I will not have you preach at me. What have I done? I have not done anything wrong.”
“Will you tell the King that it pleases you to play with Master Culpepper?”
She grew pale. “Why, it is nothing. It is only sport. And what is it to the King if I—if”
“The King bade me say that he would walk in the privy garden at four.”
“Oh!” It was a cry of childish triumph. She clasped her hands together and her eyes glittered, and she laughed to herself.
“It is a great honour, madame.”
Catharine sprang up. “Doctor! told you? It is true? He means”
“Madame, you had best not know what he means. The King loves humility.”
She laughed. “Fie, Doctor; would you teach me a woman's business?”
“I would teach you, madame”—he bent his black brows—“that only your folly can harm you now—or after. Be advised by those who wish you well, and you may be the envy of every woman in the world.”
“And the servant of pious Dr. Gardiner!” She laughed at him. “Oh, Doctor, I kiss your solemn hands.”
“No, madame. Keep your sport now for your master.” He turned on his heel and strode out.
Catharine made a face after him. Then she went dancing about the room, laughing and clapping her hands, now staying a moment to look at herself in the mirror and pull her dress and pat her hair. She came to her wardrobe and was feverishly busy in it, but in another moment gave a petulant cry and turned and hurried away.
The child came from behind the tapestry, saying solemnly, “Do you like Dr. Gardiner?”
Catharine screamed, and started back with her hand to her throat. “Oh, by'r Lady! Good lack, how ghostly! Oh, why do you frighten me, child? Why are you hiding there? What have you heard?”
Elizabeth looked as if she would cry. “I want you. Every one was hating me, and you are always kind. I came here to find you. Then Dr. Gardiner came. He always frightens me. I hid. Please do not be angry”—she made a curtsey—“I did not mean to do wrong.”
Catharine ran to her and kissed her. “Thou poor forlorn little maid. Nay, 'tis no matter. Come, come, do not look so sad. I am not angry.”
“I am frightened,” the child protested solemnly. “Do you like Dr. Gardiner? I think he hates you.”
“Oh, faith, why?” Catharine laughed.
“I do not know.” The child stared at her. “The way he looks. The way he looked at you when he went away.”
Catharine's pretty face grew cross, She was silent a moment. “'Tis a sour priest, child.” She tossed her head. “Never heed him. Faith, he does not trouble me.”
“I am afraid,” said the child solemnly.
“Fie, children must never be afraid!” Catharine kissed her again. “There, run away with thee and play.”
“Will you not play with me?” The child was plaintive.
“I've no time for thee now. Another day. Do not hinder me now.”
The child went obediently but with slow and listless steps, and Catharine, as she hurried to seek a tirewoman's skill, was sorry for her. But once out of sight, Elizabeth ran fast to the privy garden.
To a child's mind that privy garden was a very castle of mystery. Through the scrollwork of the gates one might see strange devices wrought in the ground with stones of many colours, likewise a fountain which spouted clear water and transformed it into a flood of wine and molten gold as it fell. There were gilt statues too, and strange flowers and trees. The high red walls on their outer side bore great plums and apricots. What wondrous fruit should grow within! But it was not safe to linger or look long at the gates, for that privy garden was only to be trodden by the King and those the King chose for his company and that son whom he loved if he loved anything but himself and England. It was forbidden to the King's daughter.
Elizabeth had never enjoyed childhood. She had never dared be naughty for the pure delight of naughtiness. Disobedience of any one of the unalterable laws made to hold her in subjection meant that she would be put to shame before the underlings of the court. But if there was something to be gained by disobedience, she was always ready for the risk. And now she needed to know what would happen in the privy garden: whether Catharine was to be Queen, how the King felt for her and she for the King. The unhappy child knew that she must spy out everything to keep herself safe.
So you find her with hands clasped on the bars of the gate and her sharp face thrust through, peering, listening. She heard her brother's voice shrill and peevish. “I do not want thee, naughty Barnaby!” Then the sound of footsteps and an angrier cry: “Naughty Barnaby, do not go away!
“So be it, sir. I am here and I am not here. For I am beside myself,” quoth Barnaby the whipping-boy placidly.
“Thou art a fool,” the angry child cried.
“Truly, sir, a fool I am. Else I were not here at all.”
They came round a brier hedge into Elizabeth's sight, the little boy calling out: “Thou shalt be whipped, naughty Barnaby!”
“Truly, sir, once again. Now go I to Dr. Gardiner and say 'Prithee, whip me roundly, for my lord the Prince he is very naughty.' And he lays on with good will, for in sooth he loves thee dearly, and I come back to thee all an ache and a smart from neck to leg.” He contorted himself comically.
The child began to whimper. “No, Barnaby. Do not go to Dr. Gardiner. I will be good. Do not go to Dr. Gardiner.”
“Barnaby, Barnaby, fat face Barnaby,” Elizabeth called from the gate.
“How now? Which of my sweethearts calls?” The whipping-boy looked round him with a grin. “Oh! see the noble lady, sir—like a falcon poking out of a cage.” He made a mock bow to Elizabeth's hawk face behind the bars.
“Elizabeth!” the little Prince cried. “I want Elizabeth!” and he ran as well as his unsteady legs could to the gate. Barnaby shambled after.
“See! I've brought my men, Edward.” She held up two of the gaudy wooden mannikins. “They will not heed me at all. They are naughty and froward. They must have a man like thee to rule them.”
“I will whip them,” said the little boy solemnly. “I will scold them like the King.”
Elizabeth nodded and smiled to Barnaby: “Let me in, good Barnaby, prithee, let me in.” She clasped all her mannikins to her bosom in one hand and thrust the other through the bars and patted his shoulder and stroked him. “Art a dear fellow, Barnaby.” She made eyes and smiled and her lean fingers caressed him. “I have been always kind to thee, thou knowest. Thou art so big and strong and bold. Alack!”—she became mightily plaintive—“it is I who most need kindness.”
Barnaby put his head on one side and pretended to ogle her. “Art a sweet lady,” he said sentimentally. “But for honesty—God save thee!”
“I want them!” the little boy cried, holding out his hands for the mannikins.
“Good Barnaby, let me in. I am so lonely. There is no one here will play. Ah, I would not be cruel to thee.”
“Good lack, fair lady, if I were thy whipping-boy—“he wriggled his back comically—“I should need live my life standing.”
“I would never let thee suffer for my sake, Barnaby,” Elizabeth said mournfully.
Barnaby affected to sob.
“I want them,” the little Prince began to whimper. “I want them, Let her in, Barnaby, naughty Barnaby.”
“Nay, then, if we are all to weep, let us e'en do somewhat to weep for.” He reached up and loosed the bolt above Elizabeth's head.
The gate swung and in she danced. “Good Barnaby, kiss my hand.”
“As you might say 'Kiss the rod,'” Barnaby grimaced.
Whereat she slapped his face royally.
On a plot of grass behind the brier hedge the wooden men were set up and Elizabeth told the tale of their iniquities and the little Prince scolded them with chill cruelty. It was a queer, ugly business, as though a callous masterful man talked from his little flacid, feeble body. But Elizabeth was not frightened or concerned. She was listening for other sounds, her eyes quick all about the garden, and suddenly she stared up at Barnaby. The black shape of Dr. Gardiner had crossed the grass not far away and vanished stealthily. He must have seen her. He had done nothing. He had not scolded. He had not spoken. Why?
He would never miss a chance of humbling her without grave cause, and here she was defying him. What restrained him? Was he afraid—afraid to make a noise—afraid to reveal himself? Ay, with reason enough, if he too were spying upon the King. It must be that. Why else should he be lurking in the privy garden at the hour when he had bidden Mistress Catharine come wait His Majesty's pleasure? Dr. Gardiner daring to spy upon his master's amours! Elizabeth's eyes sparkled. She was schooled enough in the ways of the court to understand what the cunning priest wanted. She saw that it concerned him much to know how the King's gracious proffer of marriage was made and taken, how strong his passion was, how the pretty minx bore herself to him privately, how much power she was like to have and how long she would keep it. It was just this knowledge the girl wanted for herself. She felt herself matched against Gardiner's cold, cunning ferocity. But she saw that he might be in danger as well as herself. Doubtless, Catharine was his creature. Doubtless, to make her Queen would be a triumph for him. And yet—and yet—the girl's excited mind imagined many a danger for him.
“Catharine was clinging to the King, and her pretty face all wondering innocence. 'My Lord, what does he mean? See, he tries to frighten me.'”
The little Prince plucked at her sleeve. “Elizabeth! They are good ones. See! They are sad and sorry. They ask me to punish them so that they can be happy again.” He displayed the wooden men with their limbs bent into attitudes of humble prayer.
“Oh, Edward, how grand! Thou hast mastered them mightily. In truth, dear, thou wast born to be a king.”
Behind them Barnaby chuckled. “And thou, sweet lady, to be a woman.”
But the little boy smiled, self-content. “I will have them all beaten and they will love me. I will tell them to love thee also, Elizabeth. Then they will be afraid not to.”
“Then thou 'lt be a king indeed, Edward. Ah, if thou wouldst let me be thy sister always.”
The child was puzzled. “But—but a sister must be a sister always.”
“Not when a man has a wife”
“I will not ever have a wife,” the Prince cried passionately. “They are an abom—abomination, and always wanting something. My father has told me so. He says they are all alike, except in the face.”
“His royal Majesty should know,” Barnaby chuckled.
“I will not have a wife. I will let thee be my sister always, Elizabeth,” the child declared.
“Oh, Edward!” she was grateful with emotion. “And I will always serve thee and care for thee—but I shall fear thee sometimes. Thou art so stern.”
“That is right,” said the child with his big head held high, and he fell to beating the wooden men.
Over the lacework of coloured stones by the fountain came Catharine Howard. Her little form was piquant in a simple robe of primrose silk that pretended modesty. She walked with tiny childish steps, her hands were clasped before her, her eyes cast down. If even to Elizabeth's eyes she looked rather demure than innocent, doubtless she knew her business.
She lingered by the fountain, gazing down into its coloured waters in a languorous luscious pose that the water mirrored comically. Elizabeth watched eagerly, watched her and the path of white stones by which she had come. The little Prince found that his punishment of the wooden men was not winning due attention. “Elizabeth,” he said in a tone of peevish reproach, “What is it, Elizabeth? I am being so splendid.” Then with a stifled cry his voice changed and spoke terror. “Oh, come away, Elizabeth, come away! I do not like him.”
Elizabeth started round. “Who is it? Who has come?”
“I do not want him to see me. Let us hide, let us hide!” He shrank back and back.
From about the fountain radiated hedges of brier and roses. Behind one the children were playing. Behind another lurked Dr. Gardiner. The children could see him and he them. Both he and they were safe out of sight of Mistress Catharine Howard, or of any one who came by the white path.
And down the white path some one was coming—a huge unwieldy man who rolled in his walk as if he were too heavy for his legs. His coat was of crimson velvet covered with gold lace, its buttons of diamonds. His cap was overlaid with ermine caught in a clasp of gold, There was gold-work over his swollen legs and feet. Above all the glitter was a big flabby face, very white, mottled with dull red. A thin fur of yellow beard hardly concealed the ruthless lines of the mouth and the hanging jowl. His eyes were little and sunken in loose flesh, but they glittered. So Henry the Defender of the Faith came wooing his fifth wife.
Mistress Catharine stood still, demurely unaware of him, though the stones groaned beneath his feet. She was murmuring to herself the music of a dance composed by His Majesty.
His fat hand was on her shoulder before she heard him. “Ha, sweeting!” he said gruffly. He was fat and scant of breath.
She gave a little cry and started back, and made him a trembling curtsey. “Sir—my lord—ah, I was dreaming, I think.” She was much embarrassed, with a fair hand at her heaving bosom.
He laughed. “What dreams, sweetheart? Come, tell truth. What dreams trouble thy little head o' these days?” His voice, though the worse for age and good living, had still a musical tone. His coarse face was ugly in a cynical smile.
She turned away and hung her head.
“What! Dreams that a maid cannot tell? How should this be, pretty one? Nay, then, hold up thy head. I know thee, nor look for a cold saint in thee.”
“My lord”—she struggled timidly, fluttering in his arm—“my lord, do not humble me so.”
“Humble thee!” He laughed contempt. “Enough of playing coy, Kate. Nay, come, thou art a sweet piece, and I'll have none other humble thee than I. Here's thy place, child.” He drew her against him,
“Ah, I cannot, my lord. I dare not.” She struggled more vigorously. “Nay, nay, indeed, I am afraid.”
At first he laughed. Then, as she did not yield soon, “Enough, child, enough. Come, kiss me and ha' done.” He jerked up her face.
She grew still. She looked at him, and her lips trembled into a smile,
The King crushed her against him and kissed her fiercely. She clung to him.
He let her go soon with a laugh, and: “So, so. Now let the dreams come swiftly true, Kate.”
“Outside on the terrace she found the King sprawling in a great chair. He was pleased to be jovial. 'Ha, Bess, wouldst thou whip me again?'”
She was demure and coy. “Indeed, my lord, that is at thy pleasure,” she smiled. She began to hum another love-song of his Majesty's composition. But suddenly she broke off with an unfeigned start and a cry.
All this while, Barnaby, the whipping-boy had been in sore alarm. What would happen if the King caught them spying upon his affections, Barnaby's skin suspected with horror! But the little Prince was holding fast to Elizabeth for fear of Dr. Gardiner, and Elizabeth would not be dragged away. At last, when the King had finished with his lady and there was no more to be seen, Barnaby made a desperate effort to get them safe off.
Catharine heard the scurry. She cried out and ran to see who dared play spy.
“What is it now?” the King growled. He followed her and saw the children, and swore roundly. “Come you here, rogues!” he roared, and stood glaring at them and growling.
Barnaby gave a comical groan. “No wonder my mother cried when I was born.” He nudged Elizabeth. “Come, face him and have it over.”
Elizabeth, after one moment of hesitation, tossed her head and stared haughtily at her red-faced father. She stalked up to him, quaintly majestic. The little Prince hung back and stumbled, but she kept firm hold and dragged him on. Barnaby shuffled after them, grinning sheepishly.
Elizabeth made a proud curtsey. “I give you greeting, sir.”
The King swore at her. “What brought you here, rogues?”
“Sir, sir, it was not me,” the little boy whined, “Elizabeth brought me.”
“And to make an end, sir,” quoth Barnaby briskly, “I brought the Lady Elizabeth.”
“Thou shalt be whipped till the blood runs for a scurvy knave, sirrah,” the King roared.
“It is not fair,” said Elizabeth. Her voice was shrill and her pale face tense, but she fronted the King's rage squarely.
“God's death!” he roared. “Thou insolent wench! Wilt thou school me? 1“ll have thy wantonness cooled. Answer me, malapert! How darest thou venture in the privy garden?”
“I dare play with my brother. I wanted to play with him on the lawns. But Dr. Gardiner bade him into the privy garden. So into the privy garden I came. Edward wanted me and I wanted Edward. Please you, sir, is it wrong that we should play?”
“Dr. Gardiner brought thee into the privy garden? And at this hour? What stupid lie is this?”
“Please you, sir, no lie,” quoth Barnaby, “though in sooth mighty stupid.”
“Dr.Gardiner did make me come here,” said the little boy plaintively. “I did want to play with Elizabeth.”
“Tn faith, sir,” Elizabeth put in meekly, “if you doubt me, call on Dr. Gardiner. “He has”—her voice died demurely—“he has been lurking and spying on my lady Catharine ever since she came here.”
Catharine gave a cry of horror.
The King swore vehemently. “Why then, have we had all the court in audience?” He panted and shook with wrath. Any gentleman would prefer to propose to his wife in private, and Henry VIII. was very jealous of his dignity. “God's wounds! Am I to be made a jest?” he shouted. “Gardiner! What, Stephen Gardiner, I say! Come out of thy hiding, knave.”
Dr. Gardiner, having watched that romantic wooing to its end, having satisfied himself how much the King hungered for Catharine and how well she could play her part, was stealing discreetly away when this royal roar broke upon his ears. He was startled. The scolding of the children should have made his escape easy. He could not conceive how he had been detected. Even if the brats had seen him, they would never dare tell upon him. He hesitated in bewilderment, and while he hesitated the King roared at him again. There was no help for it. He despised the King on many counts, but dared not despise the storm of his anger. He turned and came delicately.
As soon as he was in sight round the hedge, that huge quivering form roared out oaths at him and he saw the little Prince cower against Elizabeth, who stood pale and still, watching her father with bright eyes.
He bowed suavely. “You were pleased to call me, sir?”
“I was not pleased to call thee, sirrah,” the King roared. “Nor shalt thou be pleased to hear. What knavery brings thee here, rascal?”
“By your leave, sir,” the priest answered glib, “I came seeking Prince Edward.”
“Ay, ay.” Deep in the bloated flushed face the King's eyes gleamed cunning. “And why is Prince Edward here? Because thou didst send him. Thou didst send him that so thou couldst come and seek him and have an excuse if thou wast caught spying.” His cold crafty tone broke into a roar again. “Insolent fool!” He raised his fist all a-tremble with menacing rage. “Dost think I am to be cheated by thy dull tricks? Art a knavish spy, rascal! What! Thrust thy impudent ears upon my privacy, set thy lewd eyes leering? God's death, priest, I'll teach thee a holier life!”
“Sir, you do me wrong!” Gardiner cried. “This part were far beneath me. I am your servant and God's.”
“Oh, rogue wouldst make God warrant thy knavery? Out upon thy impudence! Away with thee! If I see thy black brows again they shall leer from the scaffold.”
Gardiner turned a little away and set his eyes on Catharine, who stood humbly in the background. “My lady, I pray you entreat his Majesty's kindness for me. I pray the most noble, gracious lady Catharine do me right, as she hath ever known me zealous in the King's service.”
Catharine gave a faint cry, and as the King turned on her she slipped her hand in his and murmured: “My good lord, what shall I say?”
Gardiner frowned at her. The King gave a brutal laugh: “Why, Kate, say—'sirrah priest, my lord is well rid of a rogue.'”
Gardiner's dark eyes grew fierce and strove to command her: “I pray the lady Catharine, if she hath not good cause to speak me fair.”
Elizabeth started. She knew well what he meant by his threatening eyes and voice. He menaced Catharine with the discovery of her coquetries with Culpepper. How would the woman answer? Would she play a weak game and let him win after all?
But Catharine was clinging to the King, and her pretty face all wondering innocence. “My lord, what does he mean? See, he tries to frighten me.”
There was a moment of silence. Plainly Gardiner had not dreamed that she would defy him. He hesitated. He could not hope for any profit of telling tales against the woman while the King's passion was hot for her. He knew the King too well. But he ventured one step more: “Frighten, madame? Nay, what power have I to frighten thee?”
“None, none,” Catharine cried boldly. “But you have often spied upon me and often sought to school me and often spoken me cruelly.”
Again there was silence. Gardiner was bewildered that the fool should dare turn upon him so. Then the King spoke with ominous calm. “Sirrah priest, methinks thou hast stripped thyself naked now. So thou didst hope to make thyself terrible to my lady here till she would be thy slave. It was something bold, priest.” Then once more he let himself roar out his rage. “Thou infamous vile wretch, I know thy tricks! What, spy upon my designs and menace my lady if she will not serve thee! Get thee gone! Render thy charges to my Lord Hertford and put thyself in his guard. I will take order with thee that none shall dread thee more.”
“To Lord Hertford?” Gardiner cried. The man was the chief of his enemies.
“Get thee gone, I say, lest I soil my hands with thy flesh!” the King roared.
Gardiner slunk desperate away.
The little Prince who had been cowering behind Elizabeth, plucked at her sleeve nervously, anxious to escape. But Elizabeth was gazing after the vanquished Gardiner, a flush of excited triumph on her cheeks.
So the King saw her. “Ha, what of our other puny spy?” he growled. Elizabeth stared at him. “Ay, mistress, what lie hast thou?”
“I do not tell lies!” the child cried fiercely. “I am not a spy. It is infamous to call me that!”
“Why, how now, wench?” The King gave a rough contemptuous laugh.
“I say it is infamous, my lord.” She gave a stamp of her foot. “I am of your own blood and no more base than you. But it is ever so. You treat me as I were a vile thing. I am not given any honour. It is a crime if I play a game, if I speak with my brother. You make me the slave, the butt of that rogue Gardiner there or any who hates me. Yes, any knave about the court may put your daughter to shame. You—you” She stammered with rage.
The King looked down at the quaint wisp of a girl all vehement and palpitating, and broke into a great roar of laughter.
“Oh ay,” she cried shrilly, “it is a jest, it is a great jest. I am your daughter and I have to fawn upon ushers and waiting women! I—I could kill myself sometimes! Ah, how dare you laugh?” She struck at him with her open hands in a frenzy of passion. The little Prince screamed.
Still the King laughed.
“In truth, my lord, it is something hard to mock her,” said Catharine timidly.
“Mock? Who, I?” he gasped. “Nay, faith, I never liked her so well. Come, Bess, art of my own blood, indeed.” He tossed her up in the air and kissed her. “There, seal peace with me. We will have a new order for thee. Kate, I give her to thee, as thou lovest me.”
“A sweet command, my lord,” said Catharine demurely.
“Sayest thou?” he kissed the pretty face.
Elizabeth drew away discreetly. The little Prince was too frightened to play more, and she dispatched him with Barnaby, who must needs grimace as he kissed her hand and wink and wink again. She waited to attend on Catharine.
When the King dismissed his love, Elizabeth stole up and knelt to her and escorted her to the palace. But Catharine went in a hurry, and her downcast face betrayed no joy or pride. Once safe in her chamber, she cast herself down upon a couch. Elizabeth stared in amazement at tears and a heaving bosom.
“Why do you cry?” she said coldly.
“Why?” Catharine gave an hysterical laugh. “Because it is so lonely and terrible.”
“If I were Queen,” said the child with contempt, “I would not mind being lonely.”
“Wouldst thou not?” Catharine laughed through sobs.
“No, indeed not, because it were so sweet to be terrible.”
Catharine stared at her. “God help thee, child!” she said. “Go, now go!”
Elizabeth went away wondering, despising her.
Outside on the terrace.she found the King sprawling in a great chair while his musicians made ready to play. She stole up to him, fearful, but with a brave face. He was pleased to be jovial. “Ha, Bess, wouldst thou whip me again?”
She looked at him a minute, and dared a joke. “Not—not if you are not naughty.”
He laughed, and pulled her down on his knee.
She was aware, with throbbing delight, of the startled glances of the lords and gentlemen about him. The musicians began to play. Away across the lawn she saw the little drab figure of her sister Mary, wandering alone unheeded, looking (the child fancied cruelly for her ally—her friend Gardiner. Elizabeth flushed, and felt her heart beat to the gay music. She was enthroned with the King. She had conquered them all.
••••••
When twilight fell and she ran in with wild happiness, she found Lotta, the tearful German waiting woman, busy making her poor room pleasant for her. Lotta sprang upon her and hugged her to an ample bosom. “Ach, my child, my poor child!”
Elizabeth forced herself away. “Why dost thou pity me?” she cried angrily.
“Dear God!”: Lotta cried. “It 1s because thou art not a child at all.”
The next story in the series treats of the adventures of the Princess Elizabeth and the Lord High Admiral Lord Seymour, and is entitled