“Go forward,” he whispered; “kiss hands.”
The old man went forward a hesitating step or two. The Archbishop motioned sharply, and Sir James advanced again up to the dais, sank down, and lifted the hand to his lips, and fell back for the others.
When Chris’s turn came, and he lifted the heavy fingers, he noticed for a moment a wonderful red stone on the thumb, and recognised it. It was the Regal of France that he had seen years before at his visit to St. Thomas’s shrine at Canterbury. In a flash, too, he remembered Cromwell’s crest as he had seen it on the papers at Lewes—the demi-lion holding up the red-gemmed ring.
Then he too had fallen back, and the Archbishop was speaking.
“Your Grace will remember that there is a Mr. Ralph Torridon in the Tower—an agent of Mr. Cromwell’s—”
The King’s face moved slightly, but he said nothing.
—“Who is awaiting trial for destroying evidence. It is that, at least, your Grace, that is asserted against him. But it has not been proved. Master Torridon here tells me, your Highness, that it cannot be proved, but that he wishes to acknowledge it freely on his son’s behalf.”
Henry’s eyes shot back again at the old man, ran over the others, and settled again on Cranmer’s face, who was standing beside him with his back to the window.
“He is here to plead for your Grace’s clemency. He wishes to lay before your Grace that his son erred through over-faithfulness to Mr. Cromwell’s cause; and above all that the evidence so destroyed has not affected the course of justice—”
“God’s Body!” jarred in the harsh voice suddenly, “it has not. Nor shall it.”