“Kneel down,” said the queen, solemnly; and both Betty and Donna Maria mechanically obeyed. The room was still, a dim light crept in at the windows, the tapers flared behind the dark canopy of the bed. The attendants stood back in the shadows. Catherine raised herself a little on her pillows and lifted her hands, clasping them before her; her eyes shone with a strange luster in the deadly whiteness of her face.
“His holiness the pope,” she said in a clear voice, “hath declared my marriage valid. I am the wife of Henry, King of England. I do call upon you all to witness; this maid also, who is not of us,—I die the queen! And I do solemnly charge you, at the peril of your souls, to bear in mind that the king has one true and legitimate daughter, the Lady Mary, Princess Royal of England and heiress to the throne.”
She remained a moment with her hands lifted, her face growing more rigid. There was the sound of suppressed sobbing in the room. The queen’s arms fell heavily and she sank back in a deathlike swoon.
CHAPTER VIII
THE KING’S MESSENGERS
The seventh of January had passed, the Queen of England had been carried to her last resting-place at Peterborough Abbey, and that other Queen of England rejoiced at Greenwich. The knot in the affairs of state, which had set emperor and king and pope at variance, was severed. The unhappy woman, whose troubles had shaken a throne, would henceforth seek only the crown immortal. She was gone, and the winter sunlight shone brightly on the walls of Kimbolton, as if to exorcise the phantoms of that sorrow which had broken a royal heart. Within, there was desolation in those rooms where the queen had held her little levees, and which now seemed peopled with ghosts. The long story of her passionate struggle to maintain her own and her daughter’s claims seemed written upon the walls. Every footstep echoed sadly in the vacant galleries, every corner was full of shadows. Doors stood open, articles of wearing apparel, bits of unfinished embroidery lay on the floor, tapers that had burned low and sputtered in the sockets left a forlorn remnant of congealed wax upon the candlesticks; the great hearths were gray with ashes and the dead logs had fallen from the fire-dogs. The chill wind swept down the chimneys, roared and moaned at the casements, shrieking around the castle as if to tear its way within and sweep away the last vestige of the dead woman’s presence. She had died like a queen, calmly and with unfaltering courage; even in death her claim to royalty remained, and here it was recognized; no man at Kimbolton thought of her save as the queen.
Her household was on the point of dissolution. The king’s messengers had come down from London,—the crown lawyer, Dr. Rich, some gentlemen of the Privy Council, Sir William Carew and Master Simon Raby,—and there followed much stir and excitement. Catherine’s effects were being examined, her maids separated, her servants discharged. The royal officers were busied with many matters and were peremptory and exacting; messengers ran to and fro, the courtyard was full of horses, the hall crowded with attendants. There was all the bustle attendant upon the final breaking up of such an establishment. On one side were the pale and sorrowful faces of the late queen’s personal followers, who sincerely mourned the loss of a good and charitable mistress; on the other were the hard, shrewd countenances of the king’s commissioners, intent only on fulfilling an unpleasant duty, and not a little relieved that the cause of so much dissension, and such a menace to the peace of the realm, was finally removed. It was a curious scene, and one to teach a lesson in the futility of all earthly ambitions, the fleeting pride of all worldly honors.
In a window recess of the hall stood Mistress Carew, cloaked and muffled for a journey, and at her side was Master Raby. The two stood looking down into the crowded court and talking in low tones. She was to ride with her uncle to Greenwich upon some errand,—what she knew not, but she had much curiosity to learn, nursing a hope that she was to have a glimpse of the court. However, she kept her own counsel, and listened with a serious face to the talk of her companion.
“This matter has been a grief to the king’s grace,” he said, speaking too low for any ears but those of his fair auditor; “I would not have believed that he could be so moved thereat. ’Tis said that when he read her last letter, he wept and lamented her.”
“Do men always weep so late?” asked Mistress Betty, coldly, her bright eyes turning scornfully upon the speaker; “forsooth, sir, I would rather be treated with more kindness while I lived than so lamented in death.”
Master Raby was taken by surprise. The sudden sharpness of her tone, her expressive glance, came after a passive attitude of attention.