Chapter 45

PLACENTIA

The river-front of Greenwich House was a magnificent sight as the four men came up to it one morning nearly three weeks later. The long two-storied row of brick buildings which Henry had named Placentia, with their lines of windows broken by the two clusters of slender towers, and porticos beneath, were fronted by broad platforms and a strip of turf with steps leading down to the water, and at each of these entrances there continually moved brilliant figures, sentries with the sunlight flashing on their steel caps and pike-points, servants in the royal livery, watermen in their blue and badges.

Here and there at the foot of the steps rocked gaudy barges, a mass of gilding and colour, with broad low canopies at the stern, and flags drooping at the prow; wherries moved to and fro, like water-beetles, shooting across from bank to bank with passengers, above and below the palace, or pausing with uplifted oars as the stream swept them down, for the visitors to stare and marvel at the great buildings. Behind rose up the green masses of trees against the sloping park. And over all lay the July sky, solemn flakes of cloud drifting across a field of intense blue.

There had been a delay in the fulfilment of the Archbishop’s promise; at one time he himself was away in the country on affairs, at another time the King was too much pressed, Cranmer reported, to have such a matter brought before him; and then suddenly a messenger had come across from Lambeth with a letter, bidding them present themselves at Greenwich on the following morning; for the day following that had been fixed for Cromwell’s execution, and the Archbishop hoped that the King would be ready to hear a word on behalf of the agent whose loyalty had failed to save his master.

* * * * *

The boatman suddenly backed water with his left-hand oar, took a stroke or two with his right, glancing over his shoulder; and the boat slid up to the foot of the steps.

A couple of watermen were already waiting there, in the Archbishop’s livery, and steadied the boat for the four gentlemen to step out; and a moment later the four were standing on the platform, looking about them.

They were at one of the smaller entrances to the palace, up-stream. A hundred yards further down was the royal entrance, canopied and carpeted, with the King’s barge rocking at the foot, a number of servants coming and going on the platform, and the great state windows overlooking all; but here they were in comparative quiet. A small doorway with its buff and steel-clad sentry before it opened on their right into the interior of the palace.

One of the watermen saluted the party.

“Master Torridon?” he said.

Chris assented.

“My Lord bade me take you through to him, sir, as soon as you arrived.”

He went before them to the door, said a word to the guard, and then the party passed on through the little entrance-hall into the interior. The corridor was plainly and severely furnished with matting under-foot, chairs here and there set along the wainscot, pieces of stuff with crossed pikes between hanging on the walls; through the bow windows they caught a glimpse now and again of a little court or two, a shrubbery and a piece of lawn, and once a vista of the park where Henry in his younger days used to hold his May-revels, a gallant and princely figure all in green from cap to shoes, breakfasting beneath the trees.

Continually, as they went, first in the corridor and then through the waiting rooms at the end, they passed others going to and fro, servants hurrying on messages, leisurely and magnificent persons with their hats on, pages standing outside closed doors; and twice they were asked their business.

“For my Lord of Canterbury,” answered the waterman each time.

It seemed to Chris that they must have gone an immense distance before the waterman at last stopped, motioning them to go on, and a page in purple livery stepped forward from a door.

“For my Lord of Canterbury,” said the waterman for the last time.

The page bowed, turned, and threw open the door.

They found themselves in a square parlour, carpeted and hung with tapestries from floor to ceiling. A second door opened beyond, in the window side, into another room. A round table stood in the centre, with brocaded chairs about it, and a long couch by the fireplace. Opposite rose up the tall windows through which shone the bright river with the trees and buildings on the north bank beyond.

They had hardly spoken a word to one another since they had left Charing, for all that was possible had been said during the weeks of waiting for the Archbishop’s summons.

Cranmer had received them kindly, though he had not committed himself beyond promising to introduce them to the King, and had expressed no opinion on the case.

He had listened to them courteously, had nodded quietly as Chris explained what it was that Ralph had done, and then almost without comment had given his promise. It seemed as if the Archbishop could not even form an opinion, and still less express one, until he had heard what his Highness had to say.

* * * * *

Chris walked to the window and the lawyer followed him.

“Placentia!” said Mr. Herries, “I do not wonder at it. It is even more pleasing from within.”

He stood, a prim, black figure, looking out at the glorious view, the shining waterway studded with spots of colour, the long bank of the river opposite, and the spires of London city lying in a blue heat-haze far away to the left.

Chris stared at it too, but with unseeing eyes. It seemed as if all power of sensation had left him. The suspense of the last weeks had corroded the surfaces of his soul, and the intensity to which it was now rising seemed to have paralysed what was left. He found himself picturing the little house at Charing where Beatrice was waiting, and, he knew, praying; and he reminded himself that the next time he saw her he would know all, whether death or life was to be Ralph’s sentence. The solemn quiet and the air of rich and comfortable tranquillity which the palace wore, and which had impressed itself on his mind even in the hundred yards he had walked in it, gave him an added sense of what it was that lay over his brother, the huge passionless forces with which he had become entangled.

Then he turned round. His father was sitting at the table, his head on his hand; and Nicholas was staring round the grave room with the solemnity of a child, looking strangely rustic and out of place in these surroundings.

It was very quiet as Chris leaned against the window-shutter, in his secular habit, with his hands clasped behind his back, and looked. Once a footstep passed in the corridor outside, and the floor vibrated slightly to the tread; once a horn blew somewhere far away; and from the river now and again came the cry of a waterman, or the throb of oars in rowlocks.

Sir James looked up once, opened his lips as if to speak; and then dropped his head on to his hand again.

The waiting seemed interminable.

Chris turned round to the window once more, slipped his breviary out of his pocket, and opened it. He made the sign of the cross and began--

“_In nomine Patris et Filii...._”

Then the second door opened; he turned back abruptly; there was a rustle of silk, and the Archbishop came through in his habit and gown.

Chris bowed slightly as the prelate went past him briskly towards the table where Sir James was now standing up, and searched his features eagerly for an omen. There was nothing to be read there; his smooth large-eyed face was smiling quietly as its manner was, and his wide lips were slightly parted.

“Good-day, Master Torridon; you are in good time. I am just come from His Highness, and will take you to him directly.”

Chris saw his father’s face blanch a little as he bowed in return. Nicholas merely stared.

“But we have a few minutes,” went on the Archbishop. “Sir Thomas Wriothesly is with him. Tell me again sir, what you wish me to say.”

Sir James looked hesitatingly to the lawyer.

“Mr. Herries,” he said.

Cranmer turned round, and again made that little half-deprecating bow to the priest and the lawyer. Mr. Herries stepped forward as Cranmer sat down, clasping his hands so that the great amethyst showed on his slender finger.

“It is this, my Lord,” he said, “it is as we told your Lordship at Lambeth. This gentleman desires the King’s clemency towards Mr. Ralph Torridon, now in the Tower. Mr. Torridon has served--er--Mr. Cromwell very faithfully. We wish to make no secret of that. He destroyed certain private papers--though that cannot be proved against him, and you will remember that we were doubtful whether his Highness should be informed of that--”

Sir James broke in suddenly.

“I have been thinking of that, my Lord. I would sooner that the King’s Grace knew everything. I have no wish that that should be kept from him.”

The Archbishop who had been looking with smiling attention from one to the other, now himself broke in.

“I am glad you think that, sir. I think so myself. Though it cannot be proved as you say, it is far best that His Grace should know all. Indeed I think I should have told him in any case.”

“Then, my Lord, if you think well,” went on Mr. Herries, “you might lay before his Grace that this is a free and open confession. Mr. Torridon did burn papers, and important ones; but they would not have served anything. Master Cromwell was cast without them.”

“But Mr. Torridon did not know that?” questioned the Archbishop blandly.

“Yes, my Lord,” cried Sir James, “he must have known--that my Lord Cromwell--”

The Archbishop lifted his hand delicately.

“Master Cromwell,” he corrected.

“Master Cromwell,” went on the old man, “he must have known that Mr. Cromwell had others, more important, that would be certainly found and used against him.”

“Then why did he burn them? You understand, sir, that I only wish to know what I have to say to his Grace.”

“He burned them, my Lord, because he could not bear that his hand should be lifted against his master. Surely that is but loyal and good!”

The Archbishop nodded quietly three or four times.

“And you desire that his Grace will take order to have Mr. Torridon released?”

“That is it, my Lord,” said the lawyer.

“Yes, I understand. And can you give any pledge for Mr. Torridon’s good behaviour?”

“He has served Mr. Cromwell,” answered the lawyer, “very well for many years. He has been with him in the matter of the Religious Houses; he was one of the King’s Visitors, and assisted in the--the destruction of Lewes priory; and that, my Lord, is a sufficient--”

Sir James gave a sudden sob.

“Mr. Herries, Mr. Herries--”

Cranmer turned to him smiling.

“I know what you feel, sir,” he said. “But if this is true--”

“Why, it is true! God help him,” cried the old man.

“Then that is what we need, sir; as you said just now. Yes, Mr. Herries?”

The lawyer glanced at the old man again.

“That is sufficient guarantee, my Lord, that Mr. Ralph Torridon is no enemy of his Grace’s projects.”

“I cannot bear that!” cried Sir James.

Nicholas, who had been looking awed and open-mouthed from one to the other, took him by the arm.

“You must, father,” he said. “It--it is devilish; but it is true. Chris, have you nothing?”

The monk came forward a step.

“It is true, my Lord,” he said. “I was a monk of Lewes myself.”

“And you have conformed,” put in the Archbishop swiftly.

“I am living at home peaceably,” said Chris; “it is true that my brother did all this, but--but my father wishes that it should not be used in his cause.”

“If it is true,” said the Archbishop, “it is best to say it. We want nothing but the bare truth.”

“But I cannot bear it,” cried the old man again.

Chris came round behind the Archbishop to his father.

“Will you leave it, father, to my Lord Archbishop? My Lord understands what we think.”

Sir James looked at him, dazed and bewildered.

“God help us! Do you think so, Chris?”

“I think so, father. My Lord, you understand all?”

The Archbishop bowed again slightly.

“Then, my Lord, we will leave it all in your hands.”

There was a tap at the door.

The Archbishop rose.

“That is our signal,” he said. “Come, gentlemen, his Grace will be ready immediately.”

Mr. Herries sprang to the door and opened it, bowing as the Archbishop went through, followed by Sir James and Nicholas. He and Chris followed after.

* * * * *

There was a kind of dull recklessness in the monk’s heart as he went through. He knew that he was in more peril than any of the others, and yet he did not fear it. The faculty of fear had been blunted, not sharpened, by his experiences; and he passed on towards the King’s presence, almost without a tremor.

The room was empty, except for a page by the further door, who opened it as the party advanced; and beyond was a wide lobby, with doors all round, and a staircase on the right as they came out. The Archbishop made a little motion to the others as he went up, gathering his skirts about him, and acknowledging with his disengaged hand the salute of the sentry that stood in the lobby.

At the top of the stairs was a broad landing; then a corridor through which they passed, and on. They turned to the left, and as they went it was apparent that they were near the royal apartments. There were thick leather rugs lying here and there; along the walls stood magnificent pieces of furniture, inlaid tables with tall dragon-jars upon them, suits of Venetian armour elaborately worked in silver, and at the door of every room that opened on the corridor there was standing a sentry or a servant, who straightened themselves at the sight of the Archbishop. He carefully acknowledged each salutation, and nodded kindly once or twice.

There was a heavy odour in the air, warm and fragrant, as of mingled stuffs and musk, which even the wide windows set open towards the garden on the right hand did not wholly obliterate.

For the first time since leaving Charing, Chris’s heart quickened. The slow stages of approach to the formidable presence had begun to do their work; if he had seen the King at once he would not have been moved; if he had had an hour longer, he would have recovered from his emotion; but this swift ordered approach, the suggestiveness of the thick carpets and furniture, the sight of the silent figures waiting, the musky smell in the air, all combined now to work upon him; he began to fancy that he was drawing nearer the presence of some great carrion-beast that had made its den here, that was guarded by these discreet servitors, and to which this smooth prelate, in the rôle of the principal keeper, was guiding him. Any of these before him might mark the sanctuary of the labyrinth, where the creature lurked; one might open, and a savage face look out, dripping blood and slaver.

A page threw back a door at last, and they passed through; but again there was a check. It was but one more waiting room. The dozen persons, folks of all sorts, a lawyer, a soldier, and others stood up and bowed to the prelate.

Then the party sat down near the further door in dead silence, and the minutes began to pass.

There were cries from the river once or twice as they waited; once a footstep vibrated through the door, and twice a murmur of voices sounded and died again.

Then suddenly a hand was laid on the handle from the other side, and the Archbishop rose, with Sir James beside him.

There was still a pause. Then a voice sounded loud and near, and there was a general movement in the room as all rose to their feet. The door swung open and the Garter King-at-Arms came through, bland and smiling, his puffed silk sleeves brushing against the doorpost as he passed. A face like a mask, smooth and expressionless, followed him, and nodded to the Archbishop.

Cranmer turned slightly to his party, again made that little movement, and went straight through.

Chris followed with Mr. Herries.