“Now, Master Smith, the Lord Cromwell tells me that if I sign these papers, you, on behalf of the Lady Harflete, will loan me £1000 without interest, which as it chances I need. Where, then, is this £1000?—for I will have no promises, not even from you, who are known to keep them, Master Smith.”
Jacob thrust his hand beneath his robe, and from various inner pockets drew out bags of gold, which he set in a row upon the table.
“Here they are, your Grace,” he said quietly. “If you should wish for them they can be weighed and counted.”
“God’s truth! I think I had better keep them, lest some accident should happen to you on the way home, Master Smith. You might fall into the Thames and sink.”
“Your Grace is right, the parchments will be lighter to carry, even,” he added meaningly, “with your Highness’s name added.”
“I can’t sign,” said the King doubtfully, “all the ink is spilt.”
Jacob produced a small ink-horn, which like most merchants of the day he carried hung to his girdle, drew out the stopper and with a bow set it on the table.
“In truth you are a good man of business, Master Smith, too good for a mere king. Such readiness makes me pause. Perhaps we had better meet again at a more leisured season.”
Jacob bowed once more, and stretching out his hand slowly lifted the first of the bags of gold as though to replace it in his pocket.
“Cromwell, come hither,” said the King, whereon Jacob, as though in forgetfulness, laid the bag back upon the table.