Flanders
to aid the continual rebellions, conspiracies and risings in England.
He had done it too often, and he had repented as often, at the last
moment. It was true that the marriage had thrown Charles into the arms
of France: the French King and he were at that very minute supping
together in Paris. They would be making treaties that were meant to be
broken, and their statesmen were hatching plots that any scullion
would reveal. Francis and his men were too mean, too silly, too
despicable, and too easily bribed to hold to any union or to carry out
any policy....

He sipped his wine slowly. It was a little cold, so he set it down
beside the fire. He wanted to go to bed, but the Archbishop was coming
to hear how Henry had received his Queen, and to pour out his fears.
Fears! Because the King had been sick at sight of the Cleves woman! He
had this King very absolutely in his power; the grey, failing but
vindictive and obstinate mass known as Henry was afraid of his
contempt, afraid really of a shrug of the shoulder or a small sniff.

With the generosity of his wine and the warmth of his fire, his
thoughts went many years ahead. He imagined the King either married to
or having repudiated the Lady from Cleves, and then dead. Edward, the
Seymour child, was his creature, and would be king or dead. Cleves
children would be his creations too. Or if he married the Lady Mary he
would still be next the throne.

His mind rested luxuriously and tranquilly on that prospect. He would
be perpetually beside the throne, there would be no distraction to
maintain a foothold. He would be there by right; he would be able to
give all his mind to the directing of this world that he despised for
its baseness, its jealousies, its insane brawls, its aimless
selfishness, and its blind furies. Then there should be no more war,
as there should be no more revolts. There should be no more
jealousies; for kingcraft, solid, austere, practical and inspired,
should keep down all the peoples, all the priests, and all the nobles
of the world. 'Ah,' he thought, 'there would be in France no power to
shelter traitors like Brancetor.' His eyes became softer in the
contemplation of this Utopia, and he moved his upper lip more slowly.

Now the Archbishop was there. Pale, worn with fears and agitation, he
came to say that the King had called to him Bishop Gardiner and the
more Catholic lords of the Council. Cranmer's own spy Lascelles had
made this new rep