Chris looked at the Prior a moment and down again. He was sitting with tight lips, and hands clasped in his lap, and his eyes were wild and piteous.
They borrowed an oar presently from another boat, and went on up towards Southwark. The wherryman pawed once to spit on his hands as they neared the rush of the current below the bridge.
“That was Master Cromwell with His Grace,” he said.
Chris looked at him questioningly.
“Him with the gold collar,” he added, “and that was Audley by him.”
The Prior had glanced at Chris as Cromwell’s name was mentioned; but said nothing for the present. And Chris himself was lost again in musing. That was Ralph’s master then, the King’s right-hand man, feared next in England after the King himself—and Chancellor Audley, too, and Anne, all in one wooden boat. How easy for God to put out His hand and finish them! And then he was ashamed at his own thought, so faithless and timid; and he remembered Fisher once more and his gallant spirit in that broken body.
A minute or two later they had landed at the stairs, and were making their way up to the hostel.
The Prior put out his hand and checked him as he stepped ahead to knock.
“Wait,” he said. “Do you know who signed the order we used at the Tower?”
Chris shook his head.