Jacob thrust his hand beneath his robe, and from various inner pockets drew out bags of gold, which he set in a row upon the table.

“Here they are, your Grace,” he said quietly.  “If you should wish for them they can be weighed and counted.”

“God’s truth!  I think I had better keep them, lest some accident should happen to you on the way home, Master Smith.  You might fall into the Thames and sink.”

“Your Grace is right, the parchments will be lighter to carry, even,” he added meaningly, “with your Highness’s name added.”

“I can’t sign,” said the King doubtfully, “all the ink is spilt.”

Jacob produced a small ink-horn, which like most merchants of the day he carried hung to his girdle, drew out the stopper and with a bow set it on the table.

“In truth you are a good man of business, Master Smith, too good for a mere king.  Such readiness makes me pause.  Perhaps we had better meet again at a more leisured season.”

Jacob bowed once more, and stretching out his hand slowly lifted the first of the bags of gold as though to replace it in his pocket.

“Cromwell, come hither,” said the King, whereon Jacob, as though in forgetfulness, laid the bag back upon the table.

“Repeat the heads of this matter, Cromwell.”

“My Liege, the Lady Harflete seeks justice on the Spaniard Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, who is said to have murdered her father, Sir John Foterell, and her husband, Sir Christopher Harflete, though rumour has it that the latter escaped his clutches and is now in Spain.  Item:  the said Abbot has seized the lands which this Dame Cicely should have inherited from her father, and demands their restitution.”

“By God’s wounds! justice she shall have and for nothing if we can give it her,” answered the King, letting his heavy fist fall upon the table.  “No need to waste time in setting out her wrongs.  Why, ’tis the same Spanish knave Maldon who stirs up all this hell’s broth in the north.  Well, he shall boil in his own pot, for against him our score is long.  What more?”

“A declaration, Sire, of the validity of the marriage between Christopher Harflete and Cicely Foterell, which without doubt is good and lawful although the Abbot disputes it for his own ends; and an indemnity for the deaths of certain men who fell when the said Abbot attacked and burnt the house of the said Christopher Harflete.”

“It should have been granted the more readily if Maldon had fallen also, but let that pass.  What more?”

“The promise, your Grace, of the lands of the Abbey of Blossholme and of the Priory of Blossholme in consideration of the loan of L1000 advanced to your Grace by the agent of Cicely Harflete, Jacob Smith.”

“A large demand, my Lord.  Have these lands been valued?”

“Aye, Sire, by your Commissioner, who reports it doubtful if with all their tenements and timber they would fetch L1000 in gold.”