Katharine said, 'Poor child, poor child!' But the girl cried out, 'Get you gone, I say! In the Lady Mary's room you shall find my old knight babbling with the maidens. Send him to me, for my head aches scurvily, and he shall dip his handkerchief in vinegar and set it upon my forehead.' 'Let me comb thy hair,' Katharine said; 'my hand is sovereign against a headache.' 'No, get you gone,' the girl said harshly; 'I will have men of war to do these errands for me.' Katharine answered, 'Sit thee down. Thou wilt take my letter; I must ease thy pains.' 'As like as not I shall scratch thy pink face,' Cicely said. 'At these times I cannot bear the touch of a woman. It was a woman made my father run with the Marquis of Exeter.' 'Sweetheart,' Katharine said softly, 'I could hold both thy wrists with my two fingers. I am stronger than most men.' 'Why, no!' the girl cried; 'I may not sit still. Get you gone. I will run upon your errand. If you had knelt to as many men as I have you could not sit still either. And not one of my men was pardoned.' She ran from the room with a sidelong step like a magpie's, and her laugh rang out discordantly from the corridor. The Lady Mary sat reading her Plautus in her large painted gallery, with all her maids about her sewing, some at a dress for her, some winding silk for their own uses. The old knight stood holding his sturdy hands apart between a rope of wool that his namesake Lady Rochford was making into balls. Other gentlemen were beside some of the maids, toying with their silks or whispering in their ears. No one much marked Katharine Howard. She glided to her lady and kissed the dry hand that lay in the lap motionless. Mary raised her eyes from her book, looked for a leisurely time at the girl's face, and then began again to read. Old Rochford winked pleasantly at her, and, after she had saluted his cousin, he begged her to hold the wool in his stead, for his hands, which were used to sword and shield, were very cold, and his legs, inured to the saddle, brooked standing very ill. 'Cicely Elliott hath a headache,' Katharine said; 'she bade me send you to her.' He waited before her, helping her to adjust the wool on to her white hands, and she uttered, in a low voice: 'She hath taken my letter for me.' He said, 'Why, what a' the plague's name ...' and stood fingering his peaked little beard in a gentle perplexity. Lady Rochford pulled at her wool and gave a hissing sigh of pain, for the joint of her wrist was swollen. 'It has always been easterly winds in January since the Holy Blood of Hailes was lost,' she sighed. 'In its day I could get me some ease in the wrist by touching the phial that held it.' She shivered with discomfort, and smiled distractedly upon Katharine. Her large and buxom face was mild, and she seemed upon the point of shedding tears.