The eyes of the two evil counsellors met again.
“It were an holy and demeritous work, Sire,” said the priest.
“Be it as you will,” returned Henry hastily. “But mind you, holy Father! you bear what there may be of sin.”
“I can carry it, Sire!”
The royal and reverend conspirators parted; and the Archbishop, mounting his richly-caparisoned mule (an animal used by priests out of affected humility, in imitation of the ass’s colt on which Christ rode into Jerusalem), rode straight to Coldharbour, the town residence of his niece, Joan Duchess Dowager of York. He found her at work in the midst of her bower-women; but no sooner did she hear the announcement of her Most Reverend uncle, than she hurriedly commanded them all to leave the room.
“Well?” she said breathlessly, as soon as they were alone.
“Thy woman’s wit hath triumphed, Joan. ’Twas a brave thought of thine, touching the Lady Lucy of Milan. The King fell in therewith, like a fowl into a net.”
“Nay, the Lady Lucy was your thought, holy Father; I did but counsel to tempt him with some other. Then it shall be done?”
“It shall be done.”
“Thanks be to All-Hallows!” cried the Duchess, with mirth which it would scarcely be too strong a term to call fiend-like. “Now shall the proud minx be brought to lower her lofty head! I hate her!”