He protected and guarded her with the king, as she guarded Cranmer, and protected him from the constantly renewed assaults of his enemies.
This it was that they could never forgive the queen--that she had delivered Cranmer, the noble and liberal-minded Archbishop of Canterbury, from their snares.

More than once Catharine had succeeded in destroying their intriguing schemes, and in rending the nets that Gardiner and Earl Douglas, with so sly and skilful a hand, had spread for Cranmer.
If, therefore, they would overthrow Cranmer, they must first overthrow the queen.

For this there was a real means--a means of destroying at once the queen and the hated Seymours, who stood in the way of the papists.
If they could prove to the king that Catharine entertained criminal intercourse with Thomas Seymour, then were they both lost; then were the power and glory of the papists secured.
But whence to fetch the proofs of this dangerous secret, which the crafty Douglas had read only in Catharine's eyes, and for which he had no other support than his bare conviction?
How should they begin to influence the queen to some inconsiderate step, to a speaking witness of her love?
Time hung so heavily on the king's hands! It would have been so easy to persuade him to some cruel deed--to a hasty sentence of death! But it was not the blood of the Seymours for which the king thirsted.
Earl Douglas very well knew that.

He who observed the king day and night--he who examined and sounded his every sigh, each of his softly murmured words, every twitch of his mouth, every wrinkle of his brow--he well knew what dark and bloody thoughts stirred the king's soul, and whose blood it was for which he thirsted.
The royal tiger would drink the blood of the Howards; and that they still lived in health, and abundance, and glory, while he, their king and master, lonely and sad, was tossing on his couch in pain and agony--that was the worm which gnawed at the king's heart, which made his pains yet more painful, his tortures yet keener.
The king was jealous--jealous of the power and greatness of the Howards.
It filled him with gloomy hatred to think that the Duke of Norfolk, when he rode through the streets of London, was everywhere received with the acclamations and rejoicing of the people, while he, the king, was a prisoner in his palace.

It was a gnawing pain for him to know that Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, was praised as the handsomest and greatest man of England; that he was called the noblest poet; the greatest scholar; while yet he, the king, had also composed his poems and written his learned treatises, aye, even a particular devout book, which he had printed for his people, and ordered them to read instead of the Bible.
[Footnote: Burnet, vol.i, p.