The King's Achievement, Robert Hugh Benson [beginner reading books for adults txt] 📗

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's 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 role 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.


CHAPTER XI


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 beard 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