He cast himself back from the table into the leathern shoulder-straps of the chair.
'And if,' he continued with sardonic good-humour, 'my fellow and servant may reverse my acts—videlicet, the King's—wherefore shall not I—videlicet, the King—reverse what acts I will? It is to set me below my servants!'
'I am minded to redd up my house!' he repeated after a moment.
'Please it, your Grace——' the Archbishop muttered. His eyes were upon the door.
The King said, 'Anan?' He could not turn his bulky head, he would not move his bulky body.
'My gentleman!' the Archbishop whispered.
The King looked at the opposite wall and cried out—
'Come in, Lascelles. I am about cleaning out some stables of mine.'
The door moved noiselessly and heavily back, taking the hangings with it; as if with the furtive eyes and feathery grace of a blonde fox Cranmer's spy came round the great boards.
'Ay! I am doing some cleansing,' the King said again. 'Come hither and mend thy pen to write.'