“In a way it is, madam,” Sir Edmund answered; “the king’s grace hath sent another maid to attend upon your highness.”
“Another maid!” the queen exclaimed, in a tone of irony; “you mock me, sir; ’tis not possible that so great state is allowed the Queen of England? Four maids! Such a train will be a grievous charge upon you.”
“Nay, madam, I do beseech you, lay not the blame of your poor attendance upon me,” Bedingfield said, with some feeling; “I may not exceed my orders.”
“Your orders,” said the queen, bitterly; “who gave them to you, man, but that tailor’s son, mine enemy?”
“Nay, madam; you do wrong my lord privy seal,” Bedingfield returned; “he is but the mouthpiece of the king’s grace.”
“It may be, and it should not be,” Catherine said sadly; “yet the time may come when even Cromwell will regret it. I do remember that my lord cardinal wrought against me to his own downfall, and died loving me, as I believe, better than his creature, who still wears a paper crown.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Bedingfield spoke abruptly.
“I would know your highness’s pleasure in regard to the maid who waits without.”
“The maid!—what maid?” exclaimed Catherine, as if awakened from a dream; “oh, ay, I do remember! Why, send her to me, sir; I fear her not, even though she be a spy of my lord privy seal. If she has a woman’s heart, doubtless it will be moved to see her queen brought to so low estate; and if she has no heart, then will I rejoice that mine enemies may have a true report of how chastely and honorably the Queen of England bears herself under the deepest injury that a woman and a wife can suffer.”
“Do I understand that your grace will see the maid to-night?” Bedingfield asked dryly.