cross because that gem--your gem, Lady Harflete--was
refused to her," said Henry, then added in an angry growl, "'Fore God!
does she dare to play off her tempers upon me, and so soon, when I am
troubled about big matters? Oho! Jane Seymour is the Queen to-day, and
she'd let the world know it. Well, what makes a queen? A king's fancy
and a crown of gold, which the hand that set it on can take off again,
head and all, if it stick too tight. And then where's your queen? Pest
upon women and the whims that make us seek their company! Dame Harflete,
you'd not treat your lord so, would you? You have never been to Court, I
think, or I should have known your eyes again. Well, perhaps it is well
for you, and that's why you are gentle and loving."

"If I am gentle, Sire, it is trouble that has gentled me, who have
suffered so much, and know not even now whether after one week of
marriage I am wife or widow."

"Widow? Should that be so, come to me and I will find you another and a
nobler spouse. With your face and possessions it will not be difficult.
Nay, do not weep, for your sake I trust that this lucky man may live to
comfort you and serve his King. At least he'll be no Spaniard's tool and
Pope's plotter."

"Well will he serve your Grace if God gives him the chance, as my
murdered father did."

"We know it, Lady. Cromwell, will you never have finished with those
writings? The Council waits us, and so does supper, and a word or two
with her Grace ere bedtime. You, Thomas Bolle, you are no fool and can
hold a sword; tell me, shall I go up north to fight the rebels, or bide
here and let others do it?"

"Bide here, your Grace," answered Thomas promptly. "'Twixt Wash and
Humber is a wild land in winter and arrows fly about there like ducks at
night, none knowing whence they come. Also your Grace is over-heavy for
a horse on forest roads and moorland, and if aught should chance, why,
they'd laugh in Spain and Rome, or nearer, and who would rule England
with a girl child on its throne?" and he stared hard at Cromwell's back.

"Truth at last, and out of the lips of a red-haired bumpkin," muttered
the King, also staring at the unconscious Cromwell, who was engaged on
his writing and either feigned deafness or did not hear. "Thomas Bolle,
I said that you were no fool, although some may have thought you so, is
there aught you would have in payment for your counsel--save money, for
that we have none?"

"Aye, Sire, freedom from my