CHAPTER XIII
HIS EMINENCE
A merry company was gathered on the terrace, which, fronting theill-fated Cardinal Wolsey's rooms, descended in elegantly sloping gradesdown to the old Pond Garden, giving an exquisite view across the tall,trim hedges, the parterres gay with late summer flowers, and the greenbosquets of lilac and yew, to the serpentine river and distant landscapebeyond.
Mary Tudor had indeed finished her afternoon orisons. She had recitedher rosary in the chapel, kneeling before the altar and surrounded byher maids-of-honour: no doubt she had prayed for the Virgin's help toaid her in the accomplishment of the one great wish which lay so near toher heart.
She was this afternoon expecting the arrival of a special envoy from HisHoliness the Pope, and had to curtail her prayers in consequence. Shehad strolled back to the terrace, because His Eminence the Cardinal deMoreno was there, the ambassador of His Most Catholic Majesty the Kingof Spain, also the Duc de Noailles, who represented the King of France,and Scheyfne, who watched over the interests of the Emperor Charles V inthis game of political conflicts, wherein the hand of the Queen ofEngland was the guerdon.
Mary Tudor watched them all with a sleepy eye. She felt dreamy andcontented this beautiful afternoon: was not the envoy from Rome bringingher a special blessing from His Holiness? and what could that blessingbe but the love of the one man in all the world to whom she wouldgladly have given her hand to hold and her lips to kiss?
She sighed as she settled herself down on the straight-backed chairwhich she affected. Noailles and Scheyfne hurried eagerly towards her.His Eminence bowed low as she approached, but her eyes wanderedrestlessly round her in search of the one form dear to her, and shefrowned impatiently when she missed the proud, handsome face, whosesmile alone could bring hers forth in response.
She listened with but half an ear to Noailles' platitudes, or to HisEminence's smooth talk, until close by she heard the well-known step.She did not turn her head. Her heart, by its sudden, rapid beating, hadtold her that he was there.
Mary Tudor was not quite forty then, a woman full of the passionateintensity of feeling, characteristic of the Tudors, neither beautifulnor yet an adept at women's wiles; but when she heard Wessex' footstepson the flagstones of the terrace, her whole face lighted up with thatradiance which makes every woman fair--the radiance of a whole-heartedlove.
"Nay, my lord Cardinal," she said with sudden impatience, "Your Eminencehas vaunted the beauties of Spain long enough to-day. I feel sure," sheadded, half turning towards Wessex, "that His Grace, though a truantfrom our side, will hold a brief for Merrie England against you."
The Duke, as he approached, scanned with a lazy eye the brilliantcompany gathered round the Queen; an amused smile, made up partly ofsarcasm, wholly of insouciance, glimmered in his eyes as he caught thefrown, quickly suppressed, which appeared on the Cardinal's shrewd,clever face.
"Nay, His Eminence hath but to look on our Sovereign Lady," he said, ashe gallantly kissed the tips of the royal hand, graciously extended tohim, "to know that England hath naught to envy Spain."
Mary, with the rapid intuition of the woman who loves, seemed to detecta more serious tone in Wessex' voice than was his wont. She lookedinquiringly at him. The thoughts, engendered in his mind by Everingham'searnestness and enthusiasm, had left their shadow over his lighter mood.
"You look troubled, my lord!" she said anxiously.
"What trouble I had Your Grace's presence has already dispelled," hereplied gently.
It amused him to watch the discomfited faces of his politicalantagonists, whose presence now Mary seemed completely to ignore. Herwhole personality was transformed in his presence: she looked ten yearsyounger; her heavy, slow movements appeared suddenly to gain inelasticity.
She rose and beckoned to Wessex to accompany her. Neither Noailles norScheyfne cared to follow, fearing a rebuke.
His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno alone, seeing her turn towards thegardens, ventured on a remark.
"At what hour will Your Majesty deign to receive the envoy of HisHoliness?" he asked unctuously.
"As soon as he arrives," replied the Queen curtly.
His Eminence watched the two figures disappearing down the stone stepsof the terrace. There was a troubled, anxious look in his keen eyes. Thefirst inkling had just dawned upon him that perhaps he might fail in hismission after all.
A new experience for the Cardinal de Moreno.
When Philip of Spain desired to wed Mary of England he chose the one manin all Europe most able to carry his wishes through. A perfect grandseigneur, veritable prince of the Church, but a priest only in name, forhe had never taken Holy Orders, His Eminence shone in every circlewherein he appeared, through the brilliancy of his intellect, the charmand suavity of his manner, and above all by that dominating personalityof his, which _willed_ so strongly what he desired to obtain.
Willed it at times--so his enemies said--without scruple. Well, perhaps!and if so, why not? would be His Eminence's own argument.
Heaven had given him certain weapons: these he used in order to getHeaven's own ends. And in the mind of the Cardinal de Moreno, Heaven wassynonymous with the political interests of the Catholic Church. Englandwas too fine a country to be handed over to the schismatic sect withouta struggle, the people were too earnest, too deeply religious to beallowed to remain in the enemy's camp.
And His Eminence was not only fighting for an important politicalalliance for his royal master, but also for the reconquest of CatholicEngland. Wessex, a firm yet unostentatious adherent of the new faith,was to him an opponent in every sense.
When the Cardinal first landed in England he had been assured that thevolatile and nonchalant Duke would never become a serious obstacle toSpanish plans.
The Duke? Perhaps not. But there was the Queen herself, half sick forlove! and women's follies have ere now upset the most deeply laid, mostimportant plans.
"Ah, my friend!" sighed His Eminence with ill-concealed irritation, asthe Marquis de Suarez came idly lounging beside him, "alas! andalack-a-day! when diplomacy hath to reckon with women. . . . Look atthat picture!" he added, pointing with be-ringed, slender, taperingfinger to the figures of Wessex and Mary Tudor disappearing amid thebosquets of the park, "and think that the destinies of Europe dependupon how a woman of forty can succeed in chaining that butterfly."
Don Miguel too had followed with frowning eyes the little comedy justenacted upon the terrace. His intellect, though perhaps not so keen asthat of his chief, was nevertheless sufficiently on the alert torecognize that Mary Tudor had distinctly intended to administer a snubto the entire diplomatic corps, by her marked preference for Wessex'sole company.
"Chance certainly, seems against your schemes and mine, my lordCardinal," he said; "for that butterfly is heart-free and indolent,whilst the woman of forty is a queen."
"Indolent, yes," mused His Eminence, "but ambitious?"
"His friends will supply the ambition," rejoined Don Miguel; "and theCrown of England is a heavy prize."
The Cardinal did not speak for a moment. He seemed buried in thought.
"I was thinking of the beautiful Lady Ursula Glynde," he saidmeditatively after a while.
"Beautiful indeed. But His Grace is never allowed to see her."
"But when he does----"
"Oh! if I judge him rightly, when he does see her--she is passingbeautiful, remember--his roving fancy will no doubt be enchainedfor--shall we say--half an hour--perhaps half a day. . . . What then?"
"Half an hour!" mused the Cardinal. "Much may be done in half an hour,my lord Marquis."
"Bah!"
"In half an hour a woman, even if she be a queen, might become piquedand jealous, and the destinies of Europe will be shaped accordingly."
His keen grey eyes were searching the bosquets, trying to read what wenton behind the dark yew hedges of the park.
"To think that the fate of Catholic Europe should depend upon the chancemeeting of a young girl and a Cou
rt gallant," sighed Don Miguelimpatiently.
"The fate of empires has hung on more slender threads than these erenow, my son," rejoined His Eminence quietly; "diplomacy is the art ofseeming to ignore the great occasions whilst seizing the smallopportunity."
He said nothing more, for at that same moment there came to his ears,gently echoing across the terrace, the sound of a half-gay,half-melancholy ditty. A pure, girlish voice was singing somewherewithin the Palace, like a young caged bird behind the bars, at sight ofthe brilliant sunshine above.
Don Miguel gave a short sarcastic laugh.
"The Lady Ursula's voice," he said.
Then he pointed to the more distant portion of the garden, where Wessexand Mary were once more seen strolling slowly back towards the terrace.
A look of expectancy, of shrewd and sudden intuition crept into theCardinal's handsome face. The eyes lighted up as if with a quick,bright, inward vision, whilst the thin lips seemed to close with a snap,as if bent on guarding the innermost workings of the mind.
He took his breviary from his pocket and began walking along theflagstones of the terrace in the direction whence the song had come. Hishead was bent; apparently he was deeply absorbed in the Latin text.
Don Miguel had not followed him. He knew that his chief wished to bealone. He watched the crimson robes slowly fading away into thedistance. The Cardinal presently disappeared round the angle formed byWolsey's rooms. Beyond these were the fine chambers built by Henry VIII.The sweet song still came from there, wafted lightly on the summerbreeze.