E-text prepared by Verity White, Suzanne Shell,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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Transcriber's Note This edition of The Fifth Queen Crowned was extracted froman omnibus edition of the trilogy, and the page numbersand table of contents reflect that. The two previous books of thetrilogy are The Fifth Queen and Privy Seal: His LastVenture.Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has been preserved. |
"Da habt Ihr schon das End vom Lied"
To
Arthur Marwood
PART ONE
The Major Cord, 419
PART TWO
The Threatened Rift, 493
PART THREE
The Dwindling Melody, 541
PART FOUR
The End of the Song, 559
'The Bishop of Rome——'
Thomas Cranmer began a hesitating speech. In the pause after the wordsthe King himself hesitated, as if he poised between a heavy rage and asardonic humour. He deemed, however, that the humour could the moreterrify the Archbishop—and, indeed, he was so much upon the joyous sidein those summer days that he had forgotten how to browbeat.
'Our holy father,' he corrected the Archbishop. 'Or I will say my holyfather, since thou art a heretic——'
Cranmer's eyes had always the expression of a man's who looked atapproaching calamity, but at the King's words his whole face, his closedlips, his brows, the lines from his round nose, all drooped suddenlydownwards.
'Your Grace will have me write a letter to the—to his—to him——'
The downward lines fixed themselves, and from amongst them thepanic-stricken eyes made a dumb appeal to the griffins and crowns of hisdark green hangings, for they were afraid to turn to the King. Henryretained his heavy look of jocularity: he jumped at a weighty gibe—
'My Grace will have thy Grace write a letter to his Holiness.'
He dropped into a heavy impassivity, rolled his eyes, fluttered hisswollen fingers on the red and gilded table, and then said clearly, 'My.Thy. His.'
When he was in that mood he spoke with a singular distinctness that came420up from his husky and ordinary joviality like something dire andterrible—like that something that upon a clear smooth day will suggestto you suddenly the cruelty that lies always hidden in the limpid sea.
'To Cæsar—egomet, I mineself—that which is Cæsar's: to him—that is tosay to his Holiness, our lord of Rome—the things which are of God! Butto thee, Archbishop, I know not what belongs.'
He paused and then struck his hand upon the table: 'Cold porridge is thyportion! Cold porridge!' he laughed; 'for they say: Cold porridge to thedevil! And, since thou art neither God's nor the King's, what may I callthee but the devil's self's man?'
A heavy and minatory silence seemed to descend upon him; theArchbishop