Catherine looked up quickly.
“You speak confidently,” she said; “why so?”
“Your grace does well to ask,” he answered gravely. “I have seen a vision, such an one as no man sees but once or twice in a lifetime, even though he is born to read the stars.”
“Speak on,” said the queen, as he paused.
The little circle by the fire had drawn close, all eager attention except Mistress Betty, who stood apart, angry and secretly alarmed, although she fought stoutly against the dread which beset her. At the queen’s admonition, the wizard drew nearer, and stood facing the hearth, the red glow of the embers casting a lurid light on his wizened figure and a fiery glint in his great eyes. He did not seem to see the others, but recited his tale like a man in a trance.
“’Twas night,” he said, “and I was in my laboratory studying the heavens. Mars was red as blood. Suddenly, before me, there was a wide ray of white light which constantly expanded, until I saw in it a marvellous flower-garden, a vast place, full of bloom and with great gates, on which were emblazoned the arms of England. Within, there was a tall white rose upon a single stem, and it shone lustrous. No one was in the garden, and without were the pope, the Emperor of the Germans, and the Queen of Hungary, while, closer to the gate, stood your grace’s champion, Reginald Pole. Presently I saw a woman walking through the garden dressed in cloth of gold, with a crown on her head, and on her robes the arms of England and Spain united. She came across the garden to the white rose, and it bowed down to her; she plucked it, holding it up and looking at Pole, and then I knew her. After that, she touched the gates with the white rose and they flew open, and those without came in and kissed her. When she kneeled to receive the pope’s blessing, I saw her face plainly; it was the Princess Mary.”
When he ceased speaking, Catherine covered her face with her hands; the superstition of the age and her blood stirred within a naturally strong woman. After a moment, she spoke almost in a whisper.
“And the king?” she said.
“Madam, you know the northern prophecy,” the wizard replied; “the decorate rose shall be slain in his mother’s womb,—which means the death of one who hath offended. And she”—the speaker lowered his voice so that it was scarcely more than a whisper—“she who hath wrought this woe, her horoscope doth show a sudden and a shameful death.”
“I pray it may be so!” exclaimed one of the queen’s women; “may a curse light on her—may—”