“You are asking much of us,” he said suddenly, searching her with a shrewd glance, “relying, doubtless, on your wrongs, which are deep, or your face, which is sweet, or both. Well, these things move Kings mayhap more than others, also I knew old Sir John, your father, a loyal man and a brave, he fought well at Flodden; and young Harflete, your husband, if he still lives, had a good name like his forebears. Moreover your enemy, Maldon, is ours, a treacherous foreign snake such as England hates, for he would set her beneath the heel of Spain. “Now, Dame Harflete, doubtless when you go hence you will bear away strange stories of King Harry and his doings. You will say he plays the fool, pelting his servants with inkpots when he is wrath, as God knows he has often cause to be, and scaring his bishops with sham Satans, as after all why should he not since it is a dull world? You’ll say, too, that he takes his teaching from his ministers, and signs what these lay before him with small search as to the truth or falsity. Well, that’s the lot of monarchs who have but one man’s brain and one man’s time; who needs must trust their slaves until these become their masters, and there is naught left,” here his face grew fierce, “save to kill them, and find more and worse. New servants, new wives,” and he glanced at Jane, who was not listening, “new friends, false, false, all three of them, new foes, and at the last old Death to round it off. Such has been the lot of kings from David down, and such I think it shall always be.” He paused a while, brooding heavily, then looked up and went on, “I know not why I should speak thus to a chit like you, except it be, that young though you are, you also have known trouble and the feel of a sick heart. Well, well, I have heard more of you and your affairs than you might think, and I forget nothing--that’s my gift. Dame Harflete, you are richer than you have been advised to say, and I repeat you ask much of me. Justice is your due from your Sovereign, and you shall have it; but these wide Abbey lands, this Priory of Blossholme, whose nuns have befriended you and whom you desire to save, this embracing pardon for others who had shed blood, this cancelling outside of the form of law of a sentence passed by a Court duly constituted, if unjust, all in return for a loan of a pitiful £1000? You huckster well, Lady Harflete, one would think that your father had been a chapman, not rough John Foterell, you who can drive so shrewd a bargain with your King’s necessities.” “Sire, Sire,” broke in Cicely in confusion, “I have no more, my lands are wasted by Abbot Maldon, my husband’s hall is burnt by his soldiers, my first year’s rents, if ever I should receive them, are promised----” “To whom?” She hesitated. “To whom?” he thundered. “Answer, Madam.” “To your Royal Commissioner, Dr. Legh.” “Ah! I thought as much, though when he spoke of you he did not tell it, the snuffling rogue.”