The Story of Katharine Howard. Ford Madox Ford

pointed to a word in her book of Plautus.

      ‘Tell me what you know of this,’ she commanded.

      The play was the Menechmi, and the phrase ran, ‘Nimis autem bene ora commetavi. . . . ’ It was difficult for Katharine to bring her mind down to this text, for she had been wondering if indeed her time were at an end before it had begun. She said:

      ‘I have never loved this play very well,’ to excuse herself.

      ‘Then you are out of the fashion,’ Mary said coldly, ‘for this Menechmi is prized here above all the rest, and shall be played at Winchester’s before his Highness.’

      Katharine bowed her head submissively, and read the words again.

      ‘I remember me,’ she said, ‘I had this play in a manuscript where your commetavi read commentavi.’

      Mary kept her eyes upon the girl’s face, and said:

      ‘Signifying?’

      ‘Why, it signifies,’ Katharine said, ‘that Messenio did well mark a face. If you read commetavi it should mean that he scratched it with his nails so that it resembled a harrowed field; if commentavi, that he bethumped it with his fist so that bruises came out like the stops on a fair writing.’

      ‘It is true that you are a good Latinist,’ Mary said expressionlessly. ‘Bring me my inkhorn to that window. I will write down your commentavi.’

      Katharine lifted the inkhorn from its hole in the arm of the chair and gracefully followed the stiff and rigid figure into the embrasure of a distant window.

      Mary bent her head over the book that she held in her hand, and writing in the margin, she uttered:

      ‘Pity that such an excellent Latinist should meddle in matters that nothing concern her.’

      Katharine held the inkhorn carefully, as if it had been a precious vase.

      ‘If you will bid me do naught but serve you, I will do naught else,’ she said.

      ‘I will neither bid thee nor aid thee,’ Mary answered. ‘The Bishop of Winchester claims thy service. Serve him as thou wilt.’

      ‘I would serve my mistress in serving him,’ Katharine said. ‘He is a man I love little.’

      Mary pulled suddenly from her bodice a piece of crumpled parchment that had been torn across. She thrust it into Katharine’s free hand.

      ‘Such letters I have had written me by my father’s men,’ she said. ‘If this bishop should come to be my father’s man I would take no service from him.’

      Katharine read on the crumpled parchment such words as:

      ‘Be you dutiful . . .

       I will not protect . . .

      You shall be ruined utterly . . .

      You had better creep underground . . .

      Therefore humble you . . . ’

      ‘It was Thomas Cromwell wrote that,’ the Lady Mary cried. ‘My father’s man!’

      ‘But if this brewer’s son be brought down?’ Katharine pleaded.

      ‘Why, I tore his letter across for it is filthy,’ Mary said, ‘and I keep the halves of his letter that I may remember. If he be brought down, who shall bring his master down that let him write so?’

      Katharine said:

      ‘If this tempter of the Devil’s brood were brought down there should ensue so great an atonement from his sorrowful master whom he deludes. . . . ’

      Mary uttered a ‘Tush!’ of scorn and impatience. ‘This is the babbling of a child. My father is no holy innocent as you and your like feign to believe.’

      ‘Nevertheless I love you most well,’ Katharine pleaded.

      Mary snapped her book to. Her cold tone came back over her heat as the grey clouds of a bitter day shut down again upon a dangerous flicker of lightning.

      ‘Do as you will,’ she said, ‘only if your head fall I will stir no finger to aid you. Or, if by these plottings my father could be got to send me his men upon their knees and bearing crowns, I would turn my back upon them and say no word.’

      ‘Well, my plottings are like to end full soon,’ Katharine said. ‘Privy Seal hath sent for me upon no pleasant errand.’

      Mary said: ‘God help you!’ with a frigid unconcern, and walked back to her chair.

      VI

       Table of Contents

      Cromwell kept as a rule his private courts either in his house at Austin Friars, or in a larger one that he had near the Rolls. But, when the King was as far away from London as Greenwich, or when such ill-wishers as the Duke of Norfolk were in the King’s neighbourhood, Cromwell never slept far out of earshot from the King’s rooms. It was said indeed that never once since he had become the King’s man had he passed a day without seeing his Highness once at least, or writing him a great letter. But he contrived continually to send the nobles that were against him upon errands at a distance — as when Bishop Gardiner was made Ambassador to Paris, or Norfolk sent to put down the North after the Pilgrimage of Grace. Such errands served a double purpose: Gardiner, acting under the pressure of the King, was in Paris forced to make enemies of many of his foreign friends; and the Duke, in his panic-stricken desire to curry favour with Henry, had done more harrying, hanging and burning among the Papists than ever Henry or his minister would have dared to command, for in those northern parts the King’s writ did not run freely. Thus, in spite of himself the Duke at York had been forced to hold the country whilst creatures of Privy Seal, men of the lowest birth and of the highest arrogance, had been made Wardens of the Marches and filled the Councils of the Borders. Such men, with others, like the judges and proctors of the Court of Augmentations, which Cromwell had invented to administer the estates of the monasteries and escheated lords’ lands, with a burgess or two from the shires in Parliament, many lawyers and some suppliants of rank, filled the anterooms of Privy Seal. There was a matter of two hundred of them, mostly coming not upon any particular business so much as that any enemies they had who should hear of their having been there might tremble the more.

      Cromwell himself was in the room that had the King’s and Queen’s heads on the ceiling and the tapestry of Diana hunting. He was speaking with a great violence to Sir Leonard Ughtred, whose sister-inlaw, the widow of Sir Anthony Ughtred, and sister of the Queen Jane, his son Gregory had married two years before. It was a good match, for it made Cromwell’s son the uncle of the Prince of Wales, but there had been a trouble about their estates ever since.

      ‘Sir,’ Cromwell threatened the knight, ‘Gregory my son was ever a fool. If he be content that you have Hyde Farm that am not I. His wife may twist him to consent, but I will not suffer it.’

      Ughtred hung his head, which was closely shaved, and fingered his jewelled belt.

      ‘It is plain justice,’ he muttered. ‘The farm was ceded to my brother after Hyde Monastery was torn down. It was to my brother, not to my brother’s wife, who is now your son’s.’

      Cromwell turned upon the Chancellor of the Augmentations who stood in the shadow of the tall mantelpiece. He was twisting his fingers in his thin grey beard that wagged tremulously when he spoke.

      ‘Truly,’ he bleated piteously, ‘it stands in the register of the Augmentations as the worshipful knight says.’

      Cromwell cried out, in a studied rage: ‘I made thee and I made thy office: I will unmake the one and the other if it and thou know no better law.’

      ‘God help me,’ the Chancellor gasped. He shrank again into the shadow of the chimney, and his blinking eyes fell upon Cromwell’s back