Chapter 46

THE KING’S HIGHNESS

As Chris knelt with the others, and the door closed behind him, he was aware of a great room with a tall window looking on to the river on his left, tapestry-hung walls, a broad table heaped with papers in the centre, a high beamed ceiling, and the thick carpet under his knees.

For a moment he did not see the King. The page who had beckoned them in had passed across the room, and Chris’s eyes followed him out through an inner door in the corner.

Then, still on his knees, he turned his eyes to see the Archbishop going towards the window, and up the step that led on to the dais that occupied the floor of the oriel.

Then he saw the King.

* * * * *

A great figure was seated opposite the side door at which they had entered on the broad seat that ran round the three sides of the window. The puffed sleeves made the shoulders look enormous; a gold chain lay across them, with which the gross fingers were playing. Beneath, the vast stomach swelled out into the slashed trunks, and the scarlet legs were crossed one over the other. On the head lay a broad plumed velvet cap, and beneath it was the wide square face, at once jovial and solemn, with the narrow slits of eyes above, and the little pursed mouth fringed by reddish hair below, that Chris remembered in the barge years before. The smell of musk lay heavy in the air.

Here was the monstrous carrion-beast then at last, sunning himself and waiting.

* * * * *

So the party rested a moment or two, while the Archbishop went across to the dais; he knelt again and then stood up and said a word or two rapidly that Chris could not hear.

Henry nodded, and turned his bright narrow eyes on to them; and then made a motion with his hand. The Archbishop turned round and repeated the gesture; and Chris rose in his place as did the others.

“Master Torridon, your Grace,” explained the Archbishop, with a deferential stoop of his shoulders. “Your Grace will remember--”

The King nodded abruptly, and thrust his hand out.

Chris touched his father behind.

“Go forward,” he whispered; “kiss hands.”

The old man went forward a hesitating step or two. The Archbishop motioned sharply, and Sir James advanced again up to the dais, sank down, and lifted the hand to his lips, and fell back for the others.

When Chris’s turn came, and he lifted the heavy fingers, he noticed for a moment a wonderful red stone on the thumb, and recognised it. It was the Regal of France that he had seen years before at his visit to St. Thomas’s shrine at Canterbury. In a flash, too, he remembered Cromwell’s crest as he had seen it on the papers at Lewes--the demi-lion holding up the red-gemmed ring.

Then he too had fallen back, and the Archbishop was speaking.

“Your Grace will remember that there is a Mr. Ralph Torridon in the Tower--an agent of Mr. Cromwell’s--”

The King’s face moved slightly, but he said nothing.

--“Who is awaiting trial for destroying evidence. It is that, at least, your Grace, that is asserted against him. But it has not been proved. Master Torridon here tells me, your Highness, that it cannot be proved, but that he wishes to acknowledge it freely on his son’s behalf.”

Henry’s eyes shot back again at the old man, ran over the others, and settled again on Cranmer’s face, who was standing beside him with his back to the window.

“He is here to plead for your Grace’s clemency. He wishes to lay before your Grace that his son erred through over-faithfulness to Mr. Cromwell’s cause; and above all that the evidence so destroyed has not affected the course of justice--”

“God’s Body!” jarred in the harsh voice suddenly, “it has not. Nor shall it.”

Cranmer waited a moment with downcast eyes; but the King was silent again.

“Master Torridon has persuaded me to come with him to your Grace to speak for him. He is not accustomed--”

“And who are these fellows?”

Chris felt those keen eyes running over him.

“This is Master Nicholas Maxwell,” explained the Archbishop, indicating him. “Master Torridon’s son-in-law; and this, Mr. Herries--”

“And the priest?” asked the King.

“The priest is Sir Christopher Torridon, living with his father at Overfield.”

“Ha! has he always lived there then?”

“No, your Grace,” said Cranmer smoothly, “he was a monk at Lewes until the dissolution of the house.”

“I have heard somewhat of his name,” mused Henry. “What is it, sir, that I have heard of you?”

“It was perhaps Mr. Ralph Torridon’s name that your Grace--” began Cranmer.

“Nay, nay, it was not. What was it, sir?”

Chris’s heart was beating in his ears like a drum now. It had come, then, that peril that had always been brooding on the horizon, and which he had begun to despise. He had thought that there could be no danger in his going to the King; it was so long since Lewes had fallen, and his own part had been so small. But his Grace’s memory was good, it seemed! Danger was close to him, incarnate in that overwhelming presence. He said nothing, but stood awaiting detection.

“It is strange,” said Henry. “I have forgot. Well, my Lord?”

“I have told your Grace all,” explained the Archbishop. “Mr. Ralph Torridon has not yet been brought to trial, and his father hopes that your Grace will take into consideration these two things: that it was a mistake of over-faithfulness that his son committed; and that it has not hindered the course of justice.”

“Well, well,” said Henry, “and that sounds to be in reason. We have none too much of either faithfulness or justice in these days. And there is no other charge against the fellow?”

“There is no other charge, your Grace.”

There fell a complete silence for a moment or two.

Chris glanced up at his father, his own heart uplifted by hope, and saw the old man’s face trembling with it too. The wrinkled eyes were full of tears, and his lips quivered; and Chris could feel the short cloak that hung against him shaking at his hand. Nicholas’s crimson face showed a mingling of such emotion and solemnity that Chris was seized with an internal hysterical spasm; but it suddenly died within him as he brought his eyes round, and saw that the King was staring at him moodily....

The Archbishop’s voice broke in again.

“Are we to understand, your Grace, that your Grace’s clemency is extended to Mr. Ralph Torridon?”

“Eh! then,” said the King peevishly, “hold your tongue, my Lord. I am trying to remember. Where is Michael?”

“Shall I call him, your Grace?”

“Nay, then; let the lawyer ring the bell!”

Mr. Herries sprang to the table at the King’s gesture, and struck the little hand-bell that stood there. The door where the page had disappeared five minutes before opened silently, and the servant stood there.

“Michael,” said the King, and the page vanished.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Cranmer stood back a little with an air of patient deference, and his quick eyes glanced up now and again at the party before him. There was a certain uneasiness in his manner, as Chris could see; but the monk presently dropped his eyes again, as he saw that the King was once more looking at him keenly, with tight pursed lips, and a puzzled look on his forehead.

The thoughts began to race through Chris’s brain. He found himself praying with desperate speed that Michael, whoever he was, might not know; and that the King might not remember; and meanwhile through another part of his being ran the thought of the irony of his situation. Here he was, come to plead for his brother’s life, and on the brink of having to plead for his own. The quiet room increased his sense of the irony. It seemed so safe and strong and comfortable, up here in the rich room, with the tall window looking on to the sunlit river, in a palace girt about with guards; and yet the very security of it was his danger. He had penetrated into the stronghold of the great beast that ruled England: he was within striking distance of those red-stained claws and teeth.

Then suddenly the creature stirred and snarled.

“I know it now, sir. You were one of the knaves that would not sign the surrender of Lewes.”

Chris lifted his eyes and dropped them again.

“God’s Body,” said the King, “and you come here!”

Again there was silence.

Chris saw his father half turn towards him with a piteous face, and perceived that the lawyer had drawn a little away.

The King turned abruptly to Cranmer.

“Did you know this, my Lord?”

“Before God, I did not!”--but his voice shook as he answered.

Chris was gripping his courage, and at last spoke.

“We were told it was a free-will act, your Grace.”

Henry said nothing to this. His eyes were rolling up and down the monk’s figure, with tight, thoughtful lips. Cranmer looked desperately at Sir James.

“I did not know that, your Grace,” he said again. “I only knew that this priest’s brother had been very active in your Grace’s business.”

Henry turned sharply.

“Eh?” he said.

Sir James’s hands rose and clasped themselves instinctively. Cranmer again looked at him almost fiercely.

“Mr. Ralph Torridon was one of the Visitors,” explained the Archbishop nervously.

“And this fellow a monk!” cried the King.

“They must have met at Lewes, your Grace.”

“Ah! my Lord,” cried Sir James suddenly. “I entreated you--”

Henry turned on him suddenly.

“Tell us the tale, sir. What is all this?”

Sir James took a faltering step forward, and then suddenly threw out his hands.

“Ah! your Grace, it is a bitter tale for a father to tell. It is true, all of it. My son here was a monk at Lewes. He would not sign the surrender. I--I approved him for it. I--I was there when my son Ralph cast him out--”

“God’s blood!” cried the King with a beaming face. “The one brother cast the other out!”

Chris saw the Archbishop’s face suddenly lighten as he watched the King sideways.

“But I cannot bear that he should be saved for that!” went on the old man piteously. “He was a good servant to your Grace, but a bad one to our Lord--”

The Archbishop drew a swift breath of horror, and his hands jerked. But Henry seemed not to hear; his little mouth had opened in a round hole of amazed laughter, and he was staring at the old man without hearing him.

“And you were there?” he said. “And your wife? And your aunts and sisters?”

“My wife is dead,” cried the old man. “Your Grace--”

“And on which side was she?”

“She was--was on your Grace’s side.”

Henry threw himself back in his chair.

* * * * *

For one moment Chris did not know whether it was wrath or laughter that shook him. His face grew crimson, and his narrow eyes disappeared into shining slits; his fat hands were on his knees, and his great body shook. From his round open mouth came silent gusts of quick breath, and he began to sway a little from side to side.

Across the Archbishop’s face came a deferential and sympathetic smile, and he looked quickly and nervously from the King to the group and back again. Sir James had fallen back a pace at the King’s laughter, and stood rigid and staring. Chris took a step close to him and gripped his hand firmly.

There was a footstep behind, and the King leaned forward again, wiping the tears away with his sleeve.

“Oh, Michael, Michael!” he sobbed, “here is a fine tale.”

A dark-dressed man stepped forward from behind, and stood expectant.

“God! What a happy family!” said the King. “And this fellow here?”

He motioned towards Nicholas, with a feeble gesture. He was still weak with laughter.

The young squire moved forward a step, rigid and indignant.

“I am against your Grace,” he said sharply.

Henry grew suddenly grave.

“Eh! that is no way to speak,” he said.

“It is the only way I can speak,” said Nicholas, “if your Grace desires the truth.”

The King looked at him a moment; but the humour still shone in his eyes.

“Well, well. It is the truth I want. Michael, I sent for you to know about the priest here; but I know now. And is it true that his brother in the Tower--Ralph Torridon--was one of the Visitors?”

The man pursed his lips a moment. He was standing close to Chris, a little in front of him.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Oh! well. We must let him out, I suppose--if there is nothing more against him. You shall tell me presently, Michael.”

The Archbishop looked swiftly across at the party.

“Then your Grace extends--”

“Well, Michael, what is it?” interrupted the King.

“It is a matter your Majesty might wish to hear in private,” said the stranger.

“Oh, step aside, my Lord. And you, gentlemen.”

The King motioned down to the further end of the room, as Michael came forward.

The Archbishop stepped off the low platform, and led the way down the floor; and the others followed.

* * * * *

Chris was in a whirl of bewilderment. He could see the King’s great face interested and attentive as the secretary said something in his ear, and then suddenly light up with amusement again.

“Not a word, not a word,” whispered Henry harshly. “Very good, Michael.”

The secretary then whispered once more. Chris could hear the sharp sibilants, but no word. The King nodded once more, and the man stepped down off the dais.

“Prepare the admission, then,” said the King after him.

The secretary bowed as he turned and went out of the room once more.

Henry beckoned.

“Come, gentlemen.”

He watched them with a solemn joviality as they came up, the Archbishop in front, the father and son together, and the two others behind.

“You are a sad crew,” began the King, eyeing them pleasantly, and sitting forward with a hand on either knee, “and I am astonished, my Lord of Canterbury, at your companying with them. But we will have mercy, and remember your son’s services, Master Torridon, in the past. That alone will excuse him. Remember that. That alone. He is the stronger man, if he turned out the priest there. And I remember your son very well, too; and will forgive him. But I shall not employ him again. And his forgiveness shall cover yours, Master Priest; but you must be off--you must be off, sir,” he barked suddenly, “out of these realms in a week. We will have no more treason from you.”

The fierce overpowering personality flared out as he spoke, and Chris felt his heart beat sick at the force of it.

“And you two gentlemen,” went on the King, still smouldering, “you two had best hold your tongues. We will not hear such talk in our presence or out of it. But we will excuse it now. There, sir, have I said enough?”

Sir James dropped abruptly on his knees.

“Oh! God bless your Grace!” he began, with the tears running down.

Henry made an abrupt gesture.

“You shall go to your son,” he said, “and see how he fares, and tell him this. And she shall have the order of release presently, from me or another.”

Again the little mouth creased and twitched with amusement.

“And I hope he will be happy with his mother. You may tell him that from me.”

The Archbishop looked up.

“Mistress Torridon is dead, your Grace,” he said softly and questioningly.

“Oh, well,” said the King; and thrust out his hand to be kissed.

* * * * *

Chris did not know how they got out of the room. They kissed hands again; the old man muttered out his thanks; but he seemed bewildered by the rush of events, and the supreme surprise. Chris, as he backed away from the presence, saw for the last time those narrow royal eyes fixed on him, still bright with amusement and expectancy, and the great red-fringed cheeks creased about the tiny mouth with an effort to keep back laughter. Why was the King laughing, he wondered?

They waited a few minutes in the ante-room for the order that the Archbishop had whispered to them should be sent out immediately. They said nothing to one another--but the three sat close, looking into one another’s eyes now and again in astonishment and joy, while Mr. Herries stood a little apart solemn and happy at the importance of the rôle he had played in the whole affair, and disdaining even to look at the rest of the company who sat on chairs and watched the party.

The secretary came to them in a few minutes, and handed them the order.

“My Lord of Canterbury is detained,” he said; “he bade me tell you gentlemen that he could not see you again.”

Sir James was standing up and examining the order.

“For four?” he said.

“Why, yes,” said the secretary, and glanced at the four men.

Chris put his hand on his father’s arm.

“It is all well,” he whispered, “say nothing more. It will do for Beatrice.”