Queen. They lit small fires on the turf and, standing round them, sang triumphal hymns. A Princess was coming from Cleves, a Lutheran; the day-spring from on high was visiting them; soon, soon now, the axe and the flail should be given into their hands.
In the dawn their boats could be seen pulling like water-beetles all across the pallid river from the Essex shores. They clustered in grey masses round the common steps.
A German horse merchant from the City pulled a putrid cat out of the river mud and held it over his head. He shrieked: ‘Hic hocus pocus,’ parodying the ‘Hoc corpus meum’ of the Mass. The soldiers of the Duke of Norfolk were unable to reach him for the crowd. There were but ten of them, under a captain, set to guard the little postern in the side wall of the garden. Towards ten o’clock the Mayor of London came by land. He had with him all his brotherhood with their horses and armed guards in a long train. The mayor and his aldermen had entrance into the palace, but the Duke had given orders that men and horses must bide in the park. There were forty battles of them, each of one hundred men.
The great body came in sight, white, shining even in the grey among the trees along the long garden wall.
‘Body of God,’ the captain said, ‘there shall be broken crowns.’ He bade his men hold their pikes across, and paced unconcernedly up and down before the door.
The City men came down in a solid body, and at sight of the red crosses on their white shoulders the Lutherans set up a cry of ‘Rome, Rome.’ Their stones began to fly at once, and, because they pressed so closely in, the City bowmen had no room to string their bows. The citizens struck out with their silvered staves, but the heavy armour under their white surcoats hindered them. The Lutherans cried out that the Kingdom of God was come on earth because a Queen from Cleves was at hand.
An alderman’s charger was struck by a stone. It broke loose and crashed all foaming and furious through a tripe stall on which a preacher was perched to hold forth. The riot began then. All in among the winter trees the City men in their white and silver were fighting with the Lutherans in their grey frieze. The citizens’ hearts were enraged because their famous Dominican preacher had been seized by the Archbishop and spirited into Kent. They cried to each other to avenge Dr. Latter on these lowsels.
Men struck out at all and sundry. A woman, covered to the face in a fur hood and riding a grey mule, was hit on the arm by the quarterstaff of a Protestant butcher from the Crays, because she wore a crucifix round her neck. She covered her face and shrieked lamentably. A man in green at the mule’s head, on the other side, sprang like a wild cat under the beast’s neck. His face blazed white, his teeth shone like a dog’s, he screamed and struck his dagger through the butcher’s throat.
His motions were those of a mad beast; he stabbed the mule in the shoulder to force it to plunge in the direction of the soldiers who kept the little gate, before in the throng the butcher had reached the ground. The woman was flogging at the mule with her reins. ‘I have killed ’un,’ he shrieked.
He dived under the pikes of the soldiers and gripped the captain by both shoulders. ‘We be the cousins of the Duke of Norfolk,’ he cried. His square red beard trembled beneath his pallid face, and suddenly he became speechless with rage.
Hands were already pulling the woman from her saddle, but the guards held their pikes transversely against the faces of the nearest, crushing in noses and sending sudden streaks of blood from jaws. The uproar was like a hurricane and the woman’s body, on high, swayed into the little space that the soldiers held. She was crying with the pain of her arm that she held with her other hand. Her cousin ran to her and mumbled words of inarticulate tenderness, ending again in ‘I have killed ’un.’
The mob raged round them, but the soldiers stood firm enough. A continual cry of ‘Harlot, harlot,’ went up. Stones were scarce on the sward of the park, but a case bottle aimed at the woman alighted on the ear of one of the guards. It burst in a foam of red, and he fell beneath the belly of the mule with a dry grunt and the clang of iron. The soldiers put down the points of their pikes and cleared more ground. Men lay wallowing there when they retreated.
The man shouted at the captain: ‘Can you clear us a way to yon stairs?’ and, at a shake of the head, ‘Then let us enter this gate.’
The captain shook his head again.
‘I am Thomas Culpepper. This is the Duke’s niece, Kat,’ the other shouted.
The captain observed him stoically from over his thick and black beard.
‘The King’s Highness is within this garden,’ he said. He spoke to the porter through the little niche at the wicket. A company of the City soldiers, their wands beating like flails, cleared for a moment the space in front of the guards.
Culpepper with the hilt of his sword was hammering at the studded door. The captain caught him by the shoulder and sent him to stagger against the mule’s side. He was gasping and snatched at his hilt. His bonnet had fallen off, his yellow hair was like a shock of wheat, and his red beard flecked with foam that spattered from his mouth.
‘I have killed one. I will kill thee,’ he stuttered at the captain. The woman caught him round the neck.
‘Oh, be still,’ she shrieked. ‘Still. Calm. Y’ kill me.’ She clutched him so closely that he was half throttled. The captain paced stoically up and down before the gate.
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I have sent one hastening to his duke-ship. Doubtless you shall enter.’ He bent to pull the soldier from beneath the mule’s belly by one foot, and picking up his pike, leaned it against the wall.
With his face pressed against his cousin’s furred side, Thomas Culpepper swore he would cut the man’s throat.
‘Aye, come back again,’ he answered. ‘They call me Sir Christopher Aske.’
The red jerkins of the King’s own guards came in a heavy mass round the end of the wall amid shrieks and curses. Their pike-staves rose rhythmically and fell with dull thuds; with their clumsy gloved hands they caught at throats, and they threw dazed men and women into the space that they had cleared before the wall. There armourers were ready, with handcuffs and leg-chains hanging like necklaces round their shoulders.
The door in the wall opened silently, the porter called through his niche: ‘These have leave to enter.’ Thomas Culpepper shouted ‘Coneycatcher’ at the captain before he pulled the mule’s head round. The beast hung back on his hand, and he struck it on its closed eyes in a tumult of violent rage. It stumbled heavily on the threshold, and then darted forward so swiftly that he did not hear the direction of the porter that they should turn only at the third alley.
Tall and frosted trees reached up into the dim skies, the deserted avenues were shrouded in mist, and there was a dead and dripping silence.
‘Seven brawls y’ have brought me into,’ the woman’s voice came from under her hood, ‘this weary journey.’
He ran to her stirrup and clutched her glove to his forehead. ‘Y’ave calmed me,’ he said. ‘Your voice shall ever calm me.’
She uttered a hopeless ‘Oh, aye,’ and then, ‘Where be we?’
They had entered a desolate region of clipped yews, frozen fountains, and high, trimmed hedges. He dragged the mule after him. Suddenly there opened up a very broad path, tiled for a width of many feet. On the left it ran to a high tower’s gaping arch. On the right it sloped nobly into a grey stretch of water.
‘The
