“An even of late, I was alone in my chamber sewing, having sent Maria forth to buy certain gear I lacked. And being so alone, I began to sing lowly that hymn of Saint Bernard—‘Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur,’ (Note 1) when of a sudden I was aroused from my singing by a sound like a groaning, and that very near. I hearkened, and heard it again. One was surely moaning in the next chamber. Thinking that one of the bower-women might be evil at ease and lack one to help her, I crept forth from my chamber, and, listening at the door of the next, heard plainly the moaning again. I laid mine hand on the latch, and entered.
“It was a large chamber, airy, but not light. All the windows were high up in the wall. There was a bed, divers chairs, and a table; and by the table sat a woman apparelled in black, her arms laid thereon, and her head upon them. Her face showed much pain. She lifted her head slowly as I came towards her, and then I saw that she had the face of a stranger. ‘Who is it?’ she said in a whispered voice. ‘My name, Señora, is Ines de Olanda,’ said I. ‘Meseemeth you lack ease. Could I in any wise bring it unto you?’ ‘Ay, I lack ease, muchacha’ (which is to say, maiden), quoth she. ‘I lack rest. But that lieth in—the grave.’ She spake slowly and uncertainly. ‘Whence comest thou?’ she said again. ‘Thy tone is not of these parts.’—‘Señora,’ said I, ‘I am a stranger from England.’—‘And how camest thou hither?’ quoth she. ‘As reader of English unto the Queen’s Highness,’ said I. ‘How much hast thou read unto the Queen?’ she asked, and smiled.
“Her smile lighted up her face marvellously. It was not a fair face. I misdoubt if it were ever such. Her hair is near white now; but though her complexion were good, and her eyes shining and dark grey, her features must have been alway something harsh and strong. ‘Nothing at all, Señora,’ then said I; ‘for it is now three months sithence my coming, and yet had I never the honour to see her Highness.’—‘Traitors!’ quoth she angrily; and her features grew harsher than ever. I stood in silence. ‘Thou art not a Lutheran?’ she said suddenly. ‘Methinks it should fare ill, Señora, with any that were so here,’ I made answer, desiring to be discreet. ‘Is that any answer to my question?’ she said, knitting her brows. ‘Señora,’ said I, trembling greatly, ‘I cannot tell a lie, even though you may betray me. I am a Lutheran.’—‘I betray thee!’ she said pitifully. ‘Poor child! whoso doth that, it will not be I. I am under the same ban.’—‘Señora!’ I cried, much astonied, ‘you are a Lutheran? here, in the Queen’s Palace.’—‘Doth that amaze thee?’ she answered with another smile. ‘Then a second thing I can tell thee will do so yet more:—I am the Queen.’
“I set myself upon my knees afore her Highness, so soon as my astonishment would give me leave. ‘They do not burn me,’ she said, in the slow uncertain way wherein she had spoken at first. ‘I think they scarce liked to do that. But I had suffered less; for then it had been over long ago. They say I am mad. And it doth seem sometimes as if somewhat in my head were lost,’ she saith, pressing her hands wearily upon her brow. ‘It was Doña Isabel, my mother. She used to give me the cuerda!’—‘Señora,’ I answered, ‘craving your Highness’ pardon, I, being a maid from strange parts, know not that word cuerda!’—‘Have they the thing in your land?’ answered the Queen heavily. ‘Did they try that on my poor sister, your Princess of Wales (Katherine of Aragon)? Ay de mi!’—‘I know not,’ said I, ‘under the gracious pleasure of your Highness, what the thing is.’—‘Look!’ she said, pointing with her thin, trembling hand.
“I looked whither she pointed, and in the further corner of the chamber I saw a frame of pulleys set in the ceiling. But it came not presently to my mind wherefore they were there. ‘They set those short sticks under my arms,’ the Queen said, speaking heavily as it were with sleep. ‘Then they jerk up the pulleys, and I have to go up with them. It hurts very much. I think I scream sometimes, and then he beats me for disturbing people. They alway do it at night. They say I need it, and I am mad. I marvel if they cure mad people so in England. And I think if they did it sometimes in the day, it would not disturb people so much. You see, I understand it not—at least they say so. But I fancy I understood better before the cuerda.’
“I was silent from very horror, as the fearful truth dawned slowly upon me. ‘Ay de mi!’ sighed the Queen again, leaving her head fall back upon her arms. ‘My father never used to do so. They say ’tis by his command. I marvel if they tell me the truth.’—‘Who dareth to do thus unto your Highness?’ I said at last. ‘Denia,’ she said, in the same dreamy fashion, ‘and them he bringeth with him. They want me to confess, and to hear mass. I think they make me go sometimes, when that thing in mine head is lost. But if I know it, I resist them.’
“Again she lifted her head, and her voice grew more resolute. ‘Muchacha, I have been here twenty-six years. All that time, in this chamber! They left me two of my children at the first. Then they took the Infant Don Fernando from me. And all my heart twined round my little maid,—my last-born, my Catalina! So they took her. I never knew why. I never did know wherefore they began at all, save for listening to some French friars that came to see me. And they told me very good things. God was good, they said, and loved me, and Jesus our Lord had taken away all my sins. And it was good to think so. So then they beat me, and set me in the cuerda; and they called me an heretic, and a Lutheran, and all the bad words they knew. I do not think the holy angels at the gates of Paradise will turn me away, nor call me an heretic, because I thought Jesus had taken away my sins. If this be Lutheranism, then I am a Lutheran—then I will be a Lutheran for ever! And those were good friars, that came from Paris. They say the Observants are the ones I should believe. The Queen Doña Isabel set Observants about me. But the Observants beat me, and put me in the cuerda; and the Good Men (Note 2)—the French friars—said Jesus our Lord loved me, and had taken away all my sins. That was the better Evangel of the two. That thing in my head goes wrong when they give me the cuerda. But when I can sit quiet like this, and they will let me alone a little while, I love to think of Jesus our Lord, and of His taking away all my sins. I know not wherefore I should be beaten for that. It is my head, thou seest.’
“Poor, poor lady! I felt great tears running down my face, and dropping on my gown as I knelt. ‘Ay Señora mia!’ I said, so well as I could falter it, ‘Jesus, our dear Lord, hath taken away all our sins that do believe in Him. He loveth your Highness, and if you will cling to Him, He will have you to dwell with Himself at the end of this life.’
“I felt I must use words easy to be received, for her understanding seemed gone, and like unto that of a little child. ‘Ay doncella mia!’ she sighed, ‘I shall be glad when the end of this life is come.’
“And she laid down her poor head so wearily. ‘When the Lord seeth good,’ I answered. ‘Sometimes,’ she said dreamily again, ‘I want so sorely to go forth. I long so much to breathe the sweet, cool air—to see the cork-trees and the olives. They never bring me so much as an orange flower. Then my head goes wrong, thou seest, when this longing cometh on me; and then—. And sometimes I feel sick, and cannot eat. Then they make me eat with the cuerda. I wish Jesus would make haste and help me. I used to understand it all better before I had the cuerda. But I had my husband then, and my children around me. Not one of them ever comes now; and there are six (Note 3). My husband is dead—I think he is; they say so (Note 4). I think they might have let one of them come, if only just to say “Mother” to me. I cannot understand it now; and it seems so long—so long! Ay de mi! if Jesus would come!’