I believe--from evidence that I account abundant--that he
considered it with the cold remorselessness of the monstrous
egotist he was. An upstart, great-grandson to a carpenter, noble
only in two descents, and in both of them stained by the block,
he found a queen--the victim of a physical passion that took no
account of the worthlessness underlying his splendid exterior--
reaching out a hand to raise him to a throne. Being what he was,
he weighed his young wife's life at naught in the evil scales of
his ambition. And yet he had loved her once, more truly perhaps
than he could now pretend to love the Queen.
It was some ten years since, as a lad of eighteen, he had taken
Sir John Robsart's nineteen-year-old daughter to wife. She had
brought him considerable wealth and still more devotion. Because
of this devotion she was content to spend her days at Cumnor,
whilst he ruffled it at court; content to take such crumbs of
attention as he could spare her upon occasion. And during the
past year, whilst he had been plotting her death, she had been
diligently caring for his interests and fostering the prosperity
of the Berkshire estate. If he thought of this at all, he allowed
no weakly sentiment to turn him from his purpose.
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