“Anne is really too good for a Percy, and I find it improper of the Queen to act as a match-maker, and let them go alone in the shrubbery. No, that must have an end!”
“Sire, it is already at an end; I have written to Anne’s father to call her home to Hever.”
“You did well in that, by heaven! Two such families, who both aim at the succession, ought not to unite.”
“Who is there that does not aim at the throne? Just now it was Buckingham, now it is Northumberland, and only because there is no proper heir. Sire, you must consider the country, and your people, and name a successor.”
“No! I will not have anyone waiting for my decease.”
“Then we shall have the Wars of the Roses again, which cost England a million men and eighty of our noblest families.”
The King smiled. “Our noblest!” Then he rose and stepped to the window: “I must now accompany the Queen home,” he said. “She has gone to sleep outside, and this damp is not good for her in her weak condition.”
“At her Majesty’s age one must be very careful,” replied the Cardinal. He emphasized the word age, for Katherine was forty, and gave no more hopes of an heir to the throne. Her daughter Mary might certainly be married, but one did not know to whom.
“Sire,” he continued, “do not be angry, but I have just now opened the Holy Scripture.... It may be an accident—will you listen?”
“Speak.”