Cromwell glanced from her impassioned face to Sir William’s. Woman’s devotion was an old story to him, from the faithful love of Margaret Roper to the loyalty of Mary Wyatt. There was something in the spectacle that depressed him.
“The charge against Raby is of the most serious nature, mistress,” he said, “but I will give him all the time I can, albeit the king’s service must not suffer therefrom. Nor will I refuse to let you carry him what comfort you may, but ’tis a sorry errand for one so young, so beautiful, and so brave. I wish your heart were more happily placed.”
“My lord,” said Betty, gravely, “love is nothing worth that may not bear misfortune.”
Cromwell gave her an earnest look. It may be that his own thoughts went back to the dying Wolsey, and he knew that he had not failed to fight the last gallant fight for the fallen cardinal.
“That is true enough, fair mistress,” he said kindly; “I do think that Raby hath at least a greater happiness in the Tower than some true men who go free. Carew, I will give a warrant for you and this brave wench to visit the prisoner, and I speak sooth when I say that I would gladly see the matter righted.”
As he spoke, he wrote a formal warrant addressed to the Lieutenant of the Tower, admitting Sir William and his niece to visit a state prisoner. He handed it to Betty.
“There, mistress,” he said, “I had not the heart to refuse thee;” and then, after another look at her, “I know that face surely; thou hast been at court?”
“’Tis the wench you sent to Kimbolton, my lord,” Carew said, “and lately she attended Queen Anne Boleyn.”
Cromwell leaned back in his chair, shading his face with his hand.
“I meant not to give the wench two such sad appointments,” he said gravely. “I do not care to think of the past in either case. Happily, the king is well married and if there be but a boy!”