Katherine Christian

Robert Herries looked up, staggered to his feet and, chuckling,
started across the floor towards his father.

Nicholas Herries, his father, and Rosamund Herries, his mother,
looked at him with love and pride. Nicholas, a vast man, was in
this year 1603 fifty-nine years of age and his wife thirty-seven.

They were in their own house at Westminster and all was very well
with them. Robert, their only child, was now three years of age.
In build he was broad and well-formed but short, his sturdy legs
strong on the ground, his round head well set on his thick neck,
his eyes steady and piercing.

He was still a baby but already he had self-confidence and
independence. He was a grave baby now: he chuckled only when his
father was at hand. Everything that was told to him, the rhymes
that his mother sang to him, the cautions and admonitions that Mrs.
Margit, his nurse, gave to him--all these he took in and
remembered.

Already it was facts that he liked the best; his mind wandered at
fairy-stories. Any tale that he was told must be well
substantiated. That was perhaps the reason that his father meant
more to him than any other in his world, for there was no doubt or
question about his father, so large was he and solid, so strong in
the arm, and when he held his son against his breast the thumping
of his heart was like the reassurance of a great beating drum.

Already Robert felt safe against any sort of peril if his father
were there. But he was not in any case a nervous baby and he had
already a firm preponderance of the Herries matter-of-fact common
sense. Facts indeed were facts and it was already his rule of life
to go by what you could see, feel, hold and even seize. And what
he seized he held. At this present he was holding what was just
then his favourite possession--a Fool with silver bells, a red cap
and a great hooked nose. As he crossed the shining parlour floor
to his father he held the Fool tightly in his chubby fist and the
bells carolled gaily.

Nicholas had been almost asleep, for he had had a hard day that had
included a visit to the Queen. Then the fire was blazing finely in
the open hearth, throwing its erratic lights on the colours of dark
green, gold, and brilliant blue that Rosamund was working into her
tapestry.

Nicholas had been almost dreaming--dreaming about his long life and
the principal scenes in it, of the girl Catherine he had loved who
had given her life for him, of his dear brother Robin who had been
tortured to his death in the Tower, and after that of England that
he loved so dearly. He had come to full awareness with a start,
crying: 'England is a lovely place: I would have no other.' And
then, realizing his son, he had stretched out his great arms:
'Come, Robin--come!'

At once Robin had started across the floor. They had given him
this pet name after his beloved uncle, but he did not hesitate, as
his uncle would have done, seeing both sides of the argument. He
saw only one--that he liked above all things his father's arms,
their warmth and strength and perfect safety.

So he started at once across the floor, the red-capped Fool, with
his proud nose, held captive in his fist.

Nicholas picked him up, carried him to his mother who kissed him,
then he took him from the room high on his shoulder.