They went on to talk of the friars, and of the disfavour that they were in with the King after the unfortunate occurrences of the previous spring, when Father Peto had preached at Greenwich before Henry on the subject of Naboth’s vineyard and the end of Ahab the oppressor.  There had been a dramatic scene, Cromwell said, when on the following Sunday a canon of Hereford, Dr. Curwin, had preached against Peto from the same pulpit, and had been rebuked from the rood-loft by another of the brethren, Father Elstow, who had continued declaiming until the King himself had fiercely intervened from the royal pew and bade him be silent.

“The two are banished,” said Cromwell, “but that is not the end of it.  Their brethren will hear of it again.  I have never seen the King so wrathful.  I suppose it was partly because the Lady Katharine so cossetted them.  She was always in the church at the night-office when the Court was at Greenwich, and Friar Forrest, you know, was her confessor.  There is a rod in pickle.”

Ralph listened with all his ears.  Cromwell was not very communicative on the subject of the Religious houses, but Ralph had gathered from hints of this kind that something was preparing.

When supper was over and the servants were clearing away, Cromwell went to the window where the glass glowed overhead with his new arms and scrolls—­a blue coat with Cornish choughs and a rose on a fess between three rampant lions—­and stood there, a steady formidable figure, with his cropped head and great jowl, looking out on to the garden.

When the men had gone he turned again to Ralph.

“I have something for you,” he said, “but it is greater than those other matters—­a fool could not do it.  Sit down.”

He came across the room to the fireplace, as Ralph sat down, and himself took a chair by the table, lifting the baudkin cushion and settling it again comfortably behind him.

“It is this,” he said abruptly.  “You know that Master More has been in trouble.  There was the matter of the gilt flagon which Powell said he had taken as a bribe, and the gloves lined with forty pound.  Well, he disproved that, and I am glad of it, glad of it,” he repeated steadily, looking down at his ring and turning it to catch the light.  “But there is now another matter—­I hear he has been practising with the Holy Maid and hearkening to her ravings, and that my Lord of Rochester is in it too.  But I am not sure of it.”

Cromwell stopped, glanced up at Ralph a moment, and then down again.

“I am not sure of it,” he said again, “and I wish to be.  And I think you can help me.”

Ralph waited patiently, his heart beginning to quicken.  This was a great matter.

“I wish you to go to him,” said his master, “and to get him into talk.  But I do not see how it can be managed.”

“He knows I am in your service, sir,” suggested Ralph.

“Yes, yes,” said Cromwell a little impatiently, “that is it.  He is no fool, and will not talk.  This is what I thought of.  That you should go to him from me, and feign that you are on his side in the matter.  But will he believe that?” he ended gloomily, looking at the other curiously.