The Tangled Skein Part 15

"Nay! but when that woman is a queen?"

"Take off her crown and what is she, friend?" rejoined His Grace lightly. "A woman . . . to be desired, of course, to be loved, by all means--but at whose feet we should only recline long enough to make all other men envious, and one woman jealous."

Everingham frowned. He hated this flippant, careless mood of his friend.

He did not understand it. To him the idea of such a possibility as a union with the Queen of England was so great, so wonderful, so superhuman almost, that he felt that the man who deserved such incommensurate honour should spend half his days on his knees, thanking G.o.d for such a glorious destiny.

That Wess.e.x hung back when Mary herself was holding out her hand to him seemed to this enthusiast almost a sacrilege.

"But surely you have ambition, my lord?" he said at last.

"Ambition?" replied Wess.e.x with characteristic light-heartedness. "Yes, one!--to be a boy again."

"Nay! an you were that now, you could not understand all that England expects of you. The Queen is hara.s.sed by the Cardinal and the Spanish amba.s.sador. Philip but desires her hand in order to lay the iron heel of Spain upon the neck of submissive England. Your Grace can save us all.

Mary loves you, would wed you to-morrow."

"And send me to the block for my infidelities--supposed or real--the day after, and be free to wed Philip or the Dauphin after all."

"I'll not believe it."

"Friend! do you know what you ask of me? To marry--that is to say to give up all that makes life poetic, beautiful, amusing, the love which lasts a day, the delights which live one hour, woman in her most alluring aspect, the unattainable; and in exchange what do you offer me--the smaller half of a crown."

"The grat.i.tude of a nation . . ." protested Everingham.

"Ah! A woman, however fickle she may be, is more constant than a nation . . . As for grat.i.tude? . . . nay, my lord . . . let us not speak of the grat.i.tude of nations."

"This is not your last word, friend," pleaded Lord Everingham earnestly.

They had reached the foot of the stairs, and were once more under the gateway of the clock tower, where Lady Ursula Glynde had caught sight of them from the great bay-window opposite.

It was a glorious afternoon. October, always lovely in England, was more beautiful and mellow this year than it had ever been. Wess.e.x paused a moment, with his slender hand placed affectionately on his friend's shoulder. He looked round him--at the great windows of the hall, the vast enclosure of the Base Court beyond, the distant tower of the chapel visible above the fantastic roofs and gables of Henry VIII's chambers, the ma.s.sive, imposing grandeur of the great pile which had seen so many tragedies, witnessed so many sorrows, so many downfalls, such treachery and such horrible deaths. A shudder seemed to go through his powerful frame, a look of resolution, of pride, and of absolute disdain crept into his lazy, deep-set eyes. Then he said quietly--

"That is my last word, friend. I'll never be made a puppet on which to hang the cloak of political factions and intrigues. My life belongs to my country, but neither my liberty nor my self-respect. If my friendship will help to influence the Queen into refusing to wed the King of Spain I'll continue to exert it to the best of my ability, but I'll not become Her Majesty's lapdog, nor the tool of my friends."

Then once more the hardness and determination vanished from his face; the nonchalance and careless idleness of the grand seigneur was alone visible now.

With easy familiarity he linked his arm through that of Everingham.

"Shall we rejoin Her Majesty on the terrace?" he said lightly. "She will have finished her orisons, and will be awaiting us. Come, Harry!"

CHAPTER XIII

HIS EMINENCE

A merry company was gathered on the terrace, which, fronting the ill-fated Cardinal Wolsey's rooms, descended in elegantly sloping grades down to the old Pond Garden, giving an exquisite view across the tall, trim hedges, the parterres gay with late summer flowers, and the green bosquets of lilac and yew, to the serpentine river and distant landscape beyond.

Mary Tudor had indeed finished her afternoon orisons. She had recited her rosary in the chapel, kneeling before the altar and surrounded by her maids-of-honour: no doubt she had prayed for the Virgin's help to aid her in the accomplishment of the one great wish which lay so near to her heart.

She was this afternoon expecting the arrival of a special envoy from His Holiness the Pope, and had to curtail her prayers in consequence. She had strolled back to the terrace, because His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno was there, the amba.s.sador of His Most Catholic Majesty the King of Spain, also the Duc de Noailles, who represented the King of France, and Scheyfne, who watched over the interests of the Emperor Charles V in this game of political conflicts, wherein the hand of the Queen of England was the guerdon.

Mary Tudor watched them all with a sleepy eye. She felt dreamy and contented this beautiful afternoon: was not the envoy from Rome bringing her a special blessing from His Holiness? and what could that blessing be but the love of the one man in all the world to whom she would gladly have given her hand to hold and her lips to kiss?

She sighed as she settled herself down on the straight-backed chair which she affected. Noailles and Scheyfne hurried eagerly towards her.

His Eminence bowed low as she approached, but her eyes wandered restlessly round her in search of the one form dear to her, and she frowned impatiently when she missed the proud, handsome face, whose smile alone could bring hers forth in response.

She listened with but half an ear to Noailles' plat.i.tudes, or to His Eminence's smooth talk, until close by she heard the well-known step.

She did not turn her head. Her heart, by its sudden, rapid beating, had told her that he was there.

Mary Tudor was not quite forty then, a woman full of the pa.s.sionate intensity of feeling, characteristic of the Tudors, neither beautiful nor yet an adept at women's wiles; but when she heard Wess.e.x' footsteps on the flagstones of the terrace, her whole face lighted up with that radiance which makes every woman fair--the radiance of a whole-hearted love.

"Nay, my lord Cardinal," she said with sudden impatience, "Your Eminence has vaunted the beauties of Spain long enough to-day. I feel sure," she added, half turning towards Wess.e.x, "that His Grace, though a truant from our side, will hold a brief for Merrie England against you."

The Duke, as he approached, scanned with a lazy eye the brilliant company gathered round the Queen; an amused smile, made up partly of sarcasm, wholly of insouciance, glimmered in his eyes as he caught the frown, quickly suppressed, which appeared on the Cardinal's shrewd, clever face.

"Nay, His Eminence hath but to look on our Sovereign Lady," he said, as he gallantly kissed the tips of the royal hand, graciously extended to him, "to know that England hath naught to envy Spain."

Mary, with the rapid intuition of the woman who loves, seemed to detect a more serious tone in Wess.e.x' voice than was his wont. She looked inquiringly at him. The thoughts, engendered in his mind by Everingham's earnestness and enthusiasm, had left their shadow over his lighter mood.

"You look troubled, my lord!" she said anxiously.

"What trouble I had Your Grace's presence has already dispelled," he replied gently.

It amused him to watch the discomfited faces of his political antagonists, whose presence now Mary seemed completely to ignore. Her whole personality was transformed in his presence: she looked ten years younger; her heavy, slow movements appeared suddenly to gain in elasticity.

She rose and beckoned to Wess.e.x to accompany her. Neither Noailles nor Scheyfne cared to follow, fearing a rebuke.

His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno alone, seeing her turn towards the gardens, ventured on a remark.

"At what hour will Your Majesty deign to receive the envoy of His Holiness?" he asked unctuously.

"As soon as he arrives," replied the Queen curtly.

His Eminence watched the two figures disappearing down the stone steps of the terrace. There was a troubled, anxious look in his keen eyes. The first inkling had just dawned upon him that perhaps he might fail in his mission after all.

A new experience for the Cardinal de Moreno.

When Philip of Spain desired to wed Mary of England he chose the one man in all Europe most able to carry his wishes through. A perfect grand seigneur, veritable prince of the Church, but a priest only in name, for he had never taken Holy Orders, His Eminence shone in every circle wherein he appeared, through the brilliancy of his intellect, the charm and suavity of his manner, and above all by that dominating personality of his, which _willed_ so strongly what he desired to obtain.

Willed it at times--so his enemies said--without scruple. Well, perhaps!

and if so, why not? would be His Eminence's own argument.

Heaven had given him certain weapons: these he used in order to get Heaven's own ends. And in the mind of the Cardinal de Moreno, Heaven was synonymous with the political interests of the Catholic Church. England was too fine a country to be handed over to the schismatic sect without a struggle, the people were too earnest, too deeply religious to be allowed to remain in the enemy's camp.

And His Eminence was not only fighting for an important political alliance for his royal master, but also for the reconquest of Catholic England. Wess.e.x, a firm yet unostentatious adherent of the new faith, was to him an opponent in every sense.

When the Cardinal first landed in England he had been a.s.sured that the volatile and nonchalant Duke would never become a serious obstacle to Spanish plans.