Master Aske went over to the fire. Mother Judde looked up at him, but her head went on nodding to the working of her treadle, and she did not interrupt her crooning. He stood for a few minutes, warming his hands, and looking about the room, before he saw July. He took off his cap to her, hesitated, and then came across the room towards the window. July, her face burning with embarrassment and distress, scrambled off the seat and curtseyed to him. It seemed to her that there was nothing she could, and nothing he would, say to heal the unforgivable slight she had put upon him.
He said, ‘Good morning to you, Mistress July,’ and pushed aside July’s thread and scissors from one of the cushions in the window-seat. When he had sat down she still stood in front of him, looking only at his shoes, her sewing hanging from her clasped hands. He took up the hem of it.
‘Do you like sewing?’ he asked.
July shook her head, but could not speak, so he asked her again, did she like sewing, and then, glancing up, saw her with her cheeks burning and tears in her eyes, and thought that she was a strange child, and was sorry for her because she was such a skinny little thing and her eyes so big.
‘My niece July,’ he said, ‘loves to sew.’
‘I know.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You said so.’
He laughed. He remembered now that he had said so, talking to Meg, quietly, by the fire, a few nights ago.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘you are a good girl to sit sewing, and with such neat small stitches that a man with one eye can hardly see them.’ He did not know what pains July had taken since she had heard of his July, to shorten and straighten the great staggering stitches she generally made. But as if he knew he put his arm about her and drew her to his knee, and spread out the shift, smoothing it over his leg.
To July it was as if a miracle had been performed. In a breath, and without a word said, all was forgiven. She began to grow bold. ‘Sir—’ she whispered, staring at the thick springy hair that fell across his cheek as he stooped over the piece of linen.
‘Anon?’ He glanced up at her, half smiling.
‘Why have you only one eye?’
‘Because someone came for me with a fishing rod and struck out the other.’
‘Who?’
‘One of my brothers. Kit. The second one.’
‘Oh!’ July twisted her hands together. ‘Did it hurt?’
Master Aske, glancing up, saw her face, and his arm tightened about her for a second. ‘Oh yes,’ he told her lightly. ‘But never mind. It was a long time ago.’
‘Was he sorry?’
‘Kit? He was. And the more when my father beat him.’
‘Is that—’ July asked, having no sorrow to spare for Kit. ‘Is that why you are not a knight?’ To her mind he was like that Sir Lancelot whose pre-eminence among all knights she had learned by listening to a book from which Meg sometimes read aloud.
‘No,’ Master Aske explained. ‘But I am the third son, and that is why.’
July gave up the mythical Sir Lancelot without a pang. ‘What are you?’
He told her, ‘A barrister – utter barrister, and I hope one day inner barrister.’ And then, without knowing why, he said what lurked in his thoughts these days, pricking him with uneasy shame. ‘Once I thought to have been a monk.’ He had not long intended that, and only years ago, but he could not rid it from his mind just now, seeing that now his desire was for a thing so different. And after he had spoken he sat silent, frowning.
It took July a little while to make up her mind that his frown did not mean that he was angry with her. Then she wriggled in his arm, and put a finger on the haft of the small knife that hung at his belt, so as to recall him from his thoughts.
‘That’s what I sharpen my pens with,’ he told her, but it was not the knife she was interested in.
‘How many brothers have you?’ she asked, ‘and sisters?’
‘D’you want to know?’
She nodded fiercely, so he stuck out one hand with all the fingers spread, and bent a finger for each one he told her.
‘There’s Jack – he’s the eldest, and my little July’s father. Then my big sisters, Bet and July, who are dead.’ He paused to cross himself and bowed his head, saying something in Latin. July crossed herself too.
‘Then there’s Kit, then me, then—’
‘What is your name?’
‘Mine?’ He seemed surprised that she did not know it, as if it were written all over him. ‘Why! Robert. And then—’
‘Do they call you Robert?’
‘Sundays and Saints’ Days,’ he told her, ‘but working days it’s Robin.’
‘Silly!’ she cried delightedly, loving him very much, and having quite forgotten her awe of him. She began to laugh and dabbed her nose against his, and put her arms round his neck meaning to kiss him.
She did not, because just then Sir John came in, and Meg. Meg made very merry over July’s lover, and said that they’d have a wedding before Lent began. It was not July she was teasing, for the three of them went on together to the solar, leaving July alone. Aske, who was hardly ever at a loss, was now a little put out, but he answered Meg’s sallies as best he could, as they went up.
February 12
The lords whom the Duke of Norfolk had bidden to his house stood about the fireplace in the gallery, waiting for him to come to them. Their waiting should not have been tedious because there were many rarities to look at in the gallery: enamelled clocks, carved gems, some books most exquisitely printed by a press in Venice, and the arras hangings themselves, which showed the story of Ulysses, with gods and goddesses, ships, and many strange sea beasts. Though it was a dark day the room was bright with candle-flame and firelight and the Duke’s gentlemen served his guests with cakes and plenty of very good wine.
But the lords, who knew pretty well for what kind of business they had been summoned, talked only in low voices, and not at all when the Duke’s gentlemen were near, unless they spoke of trivial things.
At the end of about half an hour the Duke came in. He looked smaller than ever, with his face peering out of deep furs that faced and lined his long coat of purple and crimson velvet. He greeted them all with a sort of plain, blunt courtesy that made those who did not know him well think him to be the simple, honest soldier. Those that knew him better were aware that there were in his head too many schemes, and too great, for a man of that humour. Yet, whether they knew him or no, his manner always worked on others. The lords disposed themselves to listen patiently to business which, they could well guess, would be unpleasing to them.
And unpleasing it was, for the Duke, standing in the midst and stretching out his fine, small hands to the fire, set before them how ill the Pope had treated the King in not remitting to judgement in England this cause of the King’s divorce, since here at home it should be judged according to the privileges of the kingdom. ‘And,’ said he, turning a ring with a great sapphire round and round on his finger, ‘even without those same privileges the cause should be judged here, for there are Doctors, learned and many, that say matrimonial causes belong to the temporal jurisdiction, so that the King, as Emperor in his kingdom, hath the judgement of them, and not the Pope. But come,’ said he, looking round at them again with the same candid air, ‘give me your advice, for well I believe there is no man here but would spend life and goods maintaining the King’s rights.’
After that there was a silence, so complete that they could hear the tick-tock of the German clock measuring time away. Someone coughed; someone shifted his feet in the rushes and stirred a sweet scent of rosemary, strawed along with other sweet herbs. When Lord Darcy spoke they all turned quickly towards him, and each man was glad that another had spoken before himself.
And what Darcy said pleased them too, for he promised the Duke that for his part life and goods were at the King’s service. ‘But on the other part,’ he said, and met the Duke’s eyes, ‘I have heard tell, and in divers books read, that matrimonial ca
uses are spiritual and under the Church’s jurisdiction. And, my Lord,’ said he – and now the Duke turned his glance away – ‘surely the King and his honourable Privy Council know what is right in this matter without coming to us to—’ Darcy paused and laughed, ‘to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them.’
Many of those there murmured that, yea, that was their counsel also, and none spoke against it, for the cunning old lord had shifted back the burden which the Duke had hoped might be shogged off on to the shoulders of the noblemen. The Duke was put out and showed it. He had thought by this device to threaten the Pope with the word that the Lords of England were in agreement with the King’s Grace in this matter. It would have set him high in the King’s favour had he succeeded where all others had failed; besides, if he had succeeded, his niece would have been Queen.
February 13
Meg lay late in bed, so Sir John sent up July and one of the women to bring her the bread and fish and ale that other people were breakfasting on this first morning of Lent. When the woman had gone down July stayed, laying Meg’s cloth-of-gold petticoat in the big hutch at the foot of the bed, and hanging up her carnation satin gown, all of which had been cast down anyhow when Meg and Sir John came back, late last night, from the masking at Gray’s Inn.
While July was busy Meg began again to tease her about Master Aske. July, as usual, took it in silence, because she knew well enough that if she answered, Meg would strike harder and probe deeper with words. But she heard how Master Aske, ‘your lover’, was dressed last night, all in tags and tails and skins. ‘Cyclops he was. I asked him what Cyclops were, but he would only laugh at me. He said that was his part since he had one eye.’
Meg stopped talking to drink some of the ale and July took the opportunity to curtsey and get to the door. ‘May I go now, Madame?’
‘No – no – stay a little. Come here, sister.’
When July came to the bed Meg surprised her very much by taking her in her arms. July stood very still while Meg held her cheek to cheek.
‘Nay, sister,’ Meg whispered, ‘listen and I’ll tell you a secret. It’s your lover that I love much more than I love that great ox downstairs. Oh, he’s a witty man, not a block of wood. And though he’s but a third son, yet by the Mass I think he will be greater than Sir John one day, for there’s – there’s a power in him.’ Meg sat with her proud, lovely face lifted as though she looked into the future and saw fame there and heard horns blowing.
July tried to draw away and Meg let her, except that she still held her by the wrist.
‘I think,’ said Meg, with one of her bright wild smiles, ‘I think – nay, by Cupid! I know he loves me. Shall I tell you what he said? “You’re too bright, Mistress Meg,” he said, “for a man with but one eye. You’ll make me blind.” “Then, Sir,” I answered him, “you’ll have to go tapping along the roads with a stick; ’tis pity, but the maids will be the safer.” “It’s not the maids I’m after,” says he, and then he laughed and said right under Sir John’s nose, “A word in your ear. When he’s out of the way one fine night, send me a token, and I’ll come.” “Holy Virgin! I will,” I told him; and when he asked, “What will you send?” “A whetstone,” I said, and because we laughed, and because I said “A whetstone,” that fat ox thought I was promising Robin the prize for a lie.’
And she began to sing, sawing July’s hand up and down in time with the tune—
‘I saw a dog seething a souse,
And an ape thatching a house,
And a pudding eating a mouse.
I saw an egg eating a pie,
Give me a drink, my mouth is dry.
It is not long since I told a lie.
And I will have the whetstone if I may.’
‘But,’ she said, and suddenly flung July’s hand away to cross her arms over her own breast and hug herself tight, ‘but he – Robin – when there was dancing caught my fingers hard – aye, cruel hard – and whispered to me that he meant it all.’ She laughed softly. ‘The dear fool! His voice was angry and his face as red as fire. “I mean it, you bawd!” he said, as though he hated to mean it. But I’ll make him love to mean it. He shall love me better than he loves Our Lady and all the Saints. Aye, even the prettiest little she-saint in the Calendar.’
July was at the door. ‘You’re jealous, sister,’ Meg cried. She did not mean what she said, because July was a child, but July had a scowling way with her, and Meg loved to tease. As the girl went out Meg began to sing, very softly, to herself—
‘A! Robin, gentle Robin—’
March 8
Will Wall came bustling into the room at Gray’s Inn, waving a letter and crying that here was the York carrier in, ‘and news for us, Master, from home.’
Robert Aske took it; ‘Less noise, fellow,’ he bade Will, and slipped the letter under his thigh on the bench, and, though Will hung about, would not read it, but went on with his law book. Hatfield and Wat Clifton, who had looked up, returned to their occupations. Will, giving it up at last, crept away, shaking his head and pursing his lips. Master Hatfield and Master Clifton might guess what ailed his master that he was so surly these days, but Will knew.
After a time Aske took up the letter and broke the seal. He read it through twice, and then laid it on his knee, and opened the book again. But now he did not follow the learned arguments of Justice and Counsel long dead and gone, but instead he saw the house at Aughton and the fields about, and his father, on a hundred chance and trivial occasions: cracking nuts in his teeth by the fire; kneeling in church; drinking with the reapers at the harvest home. He could hear his voice too.
Presently he got up and went out. Will was in the little closet half-way down the stairs, where he slept; he was polishing the silver studs on his master’s best belt. Aske went in, shut the door, and laid his hand on Will’s shoulder from behind.
‘The news is – my father’s dead.’
‘Master Robin!’ said Will, turning to him, and then away. So they stood in silence, neither looking at the other, but Aske’s hand hard on Will’s shoulder.
‘My mother,’ Aske said, in a stifled voice, ‘will be glad of his coming there where she is.’ And that made Will weep too, and they sat down together, as if they had been boys again, on Will’s pallet, and spoke of Sir Robert, and of Aughton, with the long silences of old friendship.
But after a time Will began to fidget and grow uneasy, and at last said, ‘Master, may I speak?’
Aske turned to him, stared, frowned, and said, ‘No.’ But Will did speak.
‘Master Robin,’ said he, ‘what the master leaves is all good – good name, good memory, good sons to carry on the name.’
‘Hush!’ Aske told him but he would not.
‘It’s for you to leave sons as good,’ Will said, and then Aske sprang up, and went away from him to walk about the streets till dusk. Will was an unaccountable fellow, a sloven, a drunkard, and quarrelsome too sometimes, but he had spoken the truth. Marriage and sons – that was the right, sound, clean way for a man. But for Aske there was Margaret Cheyne, Sir John Bulmer’s minion, and there was nothing else but her. He was in as great shame as he was in pain that it was so.
March 25
It was the last Sunday in Lent, but the fast had not enabled Robert Aske to call back his thoughts and desires from rushing, like flames on a wind, always towards Meg Cheyne. And in the evening, as he and another man had come back in the twilight to the gate of Gray’s Inn, a boy was waiting for him, in a patched green coat, with cheeks as red as a strawberry and eyes as bright as a bird’s.
‘Who sent you?’ said Aske, who had never seen the lad before.
‘She told me not to say.’
That set the other man laughing and he went away mocking and railing at Aske over his shoulder.
Then the boy took out of his pouch a thing wrapped in a scrap of carnation satin. It was heavy in Aske’s hand, and he knew without opening it that it was the whetstone which is the prize for the greatest liar,
and the token which Meg had promised.
‘She bade me say “to-night”, and she said you’d give me a groat, or more maybe.’
Aske gave him two groats, and went up to his room; he was glad that neither of his fellows was there, and that he could cast the whetstone unseen into the coffer, still wrapped in the bright satin. He was glad also that they should not see him begin to dress himself hastily, without calling Will Wall, in his best clothes.
It was while he searched in the bigger coffer for his silver studded belt that he came on the old sword which had belonged to his great grandfather, Sir Richard Aske, and which his father had given him when he was between boy and man. His fingers met the hilt, and he drew them away quickly, and sat back on his heels. He had not till this moment contemplated anything but to go to Meg. Now he remembered that he had sent no word at all by the boy. He need not go. He thought, ‘I’ll not go,’ and then ‘O! God forgive me!’ He reached out his hand again and searched for the silver studded belt till he found it.
March 26
Before it was light old Mother Judde came into the dark chamber, shielding with her hand the flame of the wax taper she carried. She lit with it all the candles in the room, and then pulled back the curtains of the bed, but softly so that the rings did not knock together.
‘Come now,’ she said, and tittered as she looked down at the tumbled bed. ‘Come, my turtle-doves, you must part.’
Aske started up. He neither felt nor looked like a turtle-dove, but like a young man who has a bad taste in his mouth from drinking too much wine last night, and a worse taste in his mind.
He did not glance at Meg, but flung out of bed and began to drag on his clothes. The room was at once cold and stuffy, and as the candles began to gutter and smoke the air grew worse.
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