again to the grunting of hogs?’
‘Aye, would I,’ he answered. ‘Thou didst. . . . ’
She moved convulsively in her chair. He grasped her more tightly.
‘Thou yieldest, I know thee!’ he cried triumphantly. He staggered to his feet, still holding her hand.
‘Thou shalt come to Paris. Sha’t be lodged like a Princess. Sha’t see great sights.’
She sprang up, tearing herself from him.
‘Get thee gone from here,’ she shivered. ‘I am done with starving with thee. I know thy apple orchard wooings. Get thee gone from here. It is late. I shall be shamed if a man be seen to leave my room so late.’
‘Why, I would not have thee shamed, Kat,’ he muttered, her strenuous tone making him docile as a child.
‘Get thee gone,’ she answered, panting. ‘I will not starve.’
‘Wilt not come with me?’ he asked ruefully. ‘Thou didst yield in my arms.’
‘I do bid thee begone,’ she answered imperiously. ‘Get thee gold if thou would’st have me. I have starved too much with thee.’
‘Why, I will go,’ he muttered. ‘Buss me. For I depart towards Dover to-night, else this springald cardinal will be gone from Paris ere I come.’
IV
‘Men shall make us cry, in the end, steel our hearts how we will,’ she said to Margot Poins, who found her weeping with her head down upon the table above a piece of paper.
‘I would weep for no man,’ Margot answered.
Large, florid, fair, and slow speaking, she gave way to one of her impulses of daring that covered her afterwards with immense blushes and left her buried in speechless confusion. ‘I could never weep for such an oaf as your cousin. He beats good men.’
‘Once he sold a farm to buy me a gown,’ Katharine said, ‘and he goes to a sure death if I may not stay him.’
‘It is even the province of men — to die,’ Margot answered. Her voice, gruff with emotion, astonished herself. She covered her mouth with the back of her great white hand as if she wished to wipe the word away.
‘Beseech you, spoil not your eyes with sitting to write at this hour for the sake of this roaring boy.’
Katharine sat to the table: a gentle knocking came at the door. ‘Let no one come, I have told the serving knave as much.’ She sank into a pondering over the wording of her letter to Bishop Gardiner. It was not to be thought of that her cousin should murder a Prince of the Church; therefore the bishop must warn the Catholics in Paris that Cromwell had this in mind. And Bishop Gardiner must stay her cousin on his journey: by a false message if needs were. It would be an easy matter to send him such a message as that she lay dying and must see him, or anything that should delay him until this cardinal had left Paris.
The great maid behind her back was fetching from the clothes-prop a waterglobe upon its stand; she set it down on the table before the rush-light, moving on tiptoe, for to her the writing of a letter was a sort of necromancy, and she was distressed for Katharine’s sake. She had heard that to write at night would make a woman blind before thirty. The light grew immense behind the globe; watery rays flickered broad upon the ceiling and on the hangings, and the paper shone with a mellow radiance. The gentle knocking was repeated, and Katharine frowned. For before she was half way through with the humble words of greeting to the bishop it had come to her that this was a very dangerous matter to meddle in, and she had no one by whom to send the letter. Margot could not go, for it was perilous for her maid to be seen near the bishop’s quarters with all Cromwell’s men spying about.
Behind her was the pleasant and authoritative voice of old Sir Nicholas Rochford talking to Margot Poins. Katharine caught the name of Cicely Elliott, the dark maid of honour who had flouted her a week ago, and had pinned up her sleeve that day in Privy Seal’s house.
The old man stood, grey and sturdy, his hand upon her doorpost. His pleasant keen eyes blinked upon her in the strong light from her globe as if he were before a good fire.
‘Why, you are as fair as a saint with a halo, in front of that jigamaree,’ he said. ‘I am sent to offer you the friendship of Cicely Elliott.’ When he moved, the golden collar of his knighthood shone upon his chest; his cropped grey beard glistened on his chin, and he shaded his eyes with his hand.
‘I was writing of a letter,’ Katharine said. She turned her face towards him: the stray rays from the globe outlined her red curved lips, her swelling chest, her low forehead; and it shone like the moon rising over a hill, yellow and fiery in the hair above her brow. The lines of her face drooped with her perplexities, and her eyes were large and shadowed, because she had been shedding many tears.
‘Cicely Elliott shall make you a good friend,’ he said, with a modest pride of his property; ‘she shall marry me, therefore I do her such services.’
‘You are old for her,’ Katharine said.
He laughed.
‘Since I have neither chick nor child and am main rich for a subject.’
‘Why, she is happy in her servant,’ Katharine said abstractedly. ‘You are a very famous knight.’
‘There are ballads of me,’ he answered complacently. ‘I pray to die in a good tulzie yet.’
‘If Cicely Elliott have her scarf in your helmet,’ Katharine said, ‘I may not give you mine.’ She was considering of her messenger to the bishop. ‘Will you do me a service?’
‘Why,’ he answered, with a gentle mockery, ‘you have one tricksy swordsman to bear your goodly colours.’
Katharine turned clean about to him and looked at him with attention, to make out whether he might be such a man as would carry her letter for her.
He returned her gaze directly, for he was proud of himself and of his fame. He had fought in all the wars that a man might fight in since he had been eighteen, and for fifteen years he had been captain of a troop employed by the Council in keeping back the Scots of the Borders. It was before Flodden Field that he had done his most famous deed, about which there were many ballads. Being fallen upon by a bevy of Scotsmen near a tall hedge, after he had been unhorsed, he had set his back into a thorn bush, and had fought for many hours in the rear of the Scottish troop, alone and with only his sword. The ballad that had been made about him said that seventeen corpses lay in front of the bush after the English won through to him. But since Cromwell had broken up the Northern Councils, and filled them again with his own men of no birth, the old man had come away from the Borders, disdaining to serve at the orders of knaves that had been butchers’ sons and worse. He owned much land and was very wealthy, and, having been very abstemious, because he came of an old time when knighthood had still some of the sacredness and austerity of a religion, he was a man very sound in limb and peaceable of disposition. In his day he had been esteemed the most graceful whiffler in the world: now he used only the heavy sword, because he was himself grown heavy.
Katharine
