Beauvallet Read online

  ‘Follow me, señor, if you please,’ said the secretary, and led the way up the stairs to a long gallery above.

  Down a labyrinth of corridors they seemed to walk, until they came to a curtained doorway. Beauvallet went through into a severely furnished chamber, and was left there to wait again.

  More martyrdoms hung on the walls. Sir Nicholas grimaced at them, and deplored his Catholic Majesty's taste. Another half-hour passed; King Philip was in no hurry, it seemed. Sir Nicholas looked out of the window on to a paved court, and yawned from time to time.

  Back came the secretary at last. ‘His Majesty will receive you, señor,’ he said, and gave back the Chevalier's credentials into his keeping. ‘This way, if you please.’ He held back the curtain for Beauvallet to pass out, and led him across the corridor to double doors. These opened at his scratch upon the solid panels; Sir Nicholas found himself in an ante-chamber where two men sat writing at a table, and two guards stood beside the doors. He followed the secretary across the room to a curtained archway; the curtain was swung back by a guard there, and the secretary went through. ‘The Chevalier de Guise, sire,’ he said, bowing very low, and drew back a little against the wall.

  Sir Nicholas came coolly in, paused a moment as the curtain fell back into place behind him, and in one swift glance noted the contents of this bare, cell-like apartment. There was little enough to note. A chest, an escritoire, a priest by the window, a table in the middle of the room, and behind it, seated in a high-backed chair with arms, with his foot upon a velvet stool, a pallid man with sparse yellow locks, flecked with grey; and a yellow beard, scant as his meagre thatch; and hooded eyes, sombre and vulturine under the puckered lids.

  Sir Nicholas sank gracefully down on to his knee; the plumes in his hat swept the ground before him. ‘God's my life!’ was his irrepressible thought. ‘The two of us in one small room, and he does not know it!’

  ‘The Chevalier de Guise,’ repeated Philip in a slow, harsh voice. ‘We bid you welcome, señor.’

  But there was no kindliness in the expressionless tone; nor any life in those dull eyes. ‘There would be less kindliness if he knew how he bade Nick Beauvallet welcome,’ thought Sir Nicholas, as he rose to his feet.

  Philip, sitting so still in his chair, seemed to study him for a moment. It was tense, that moment, fraught with peril. Sir Nicholas stood calmly under the scrutiny; they were not to know how ready to be out was the sword at his side. The moment passed. ‘You have letters for us,’ said the slow voice.

  Beauvallet brought the silken packet out from the breast of his doublet, came to the table, knelt again, and so offered it.

  The King's hand touched his as he took the packet; the fingers felt cold and slightly damp. He gave the packet to the secretary, and made a movement to Beauvallet to rise. ‘Your first visit to Spain, señor?’

  ‘My first, sire.’

  Philip inclined his head. The secretary had slit the silken wrapper, and now spread crackling sheets before his master. Philip's eyes travelled slowly over the first page, but never changed in their lack-lustre expression. ‘I see you are cousin to the Duc de Guise, señor,’ he remarked, and pushed the sheets away from him on the table's polished surface. ‘We will look over these matters, and have an answer for you in a week or so.’ Haste was not a word in his Majesty's vocabulary. He spoke to the secretary. ‘Vasquez, if Don Diaz de Losa is in the palace you will send to fetch him.’ He brought his gaze back to Beauvallet. ‘Don Diaz will look to your entertainment, señor. Your lodging?’

  Beauvallet gave the name of his inn. Philip seemed to consider it. ‘Yes, it is best,’ he said. ‘You are not here officially.’

  ‘I give out, sire, that I am travelling for my pleasure.’

  ‘That is well,’ said Philip. ‘You will contrive to pass the time pleasantly, I trust. Madrid has much to show.’

  ‘I have promised myself a ride out to see the great Escorial, sire,’ said Sir Nicholas, assuming reverential tones.

  Some spark of life entered Philip's eyes, enthusiasm into his dead voice. He began to talk of his vast palace, nearing its completion, he said. He talked as one absorbed in his theme, as in a holy matter, and was still talking when Matteo de Vasquez came back into the room. He was accompanied by a stately gentleman of middle years, dressed very magnificently, in contrast to the black-garbed King.

  The brief enthusiasm left Philip. He presented Don Diaz de Losa, and consigned the Chevalier to his care. In the wake of this nobleman Beauvallet bowed himself out of the King's cabinet.

  It seemed that Don Diaz was in the King's confidence, for he asked none but the most trivial questions. He had a grave Castilian courtesy, and begged that the Chevalier would call on him for any needs he might have. He escorted him through the corridors to a gallery, where a fair sprinkling of gentlemen were gathered, and presented him punctiliously to all who were present. The Chevalier was a gentleman from the French Court, travelling to enlarge his knowledge of the world. Thus Beauvallet was sponsored into society. Don Diaz requested his company at a party at his house that evening, Beauvallet accepted without hesitation. He stayed some while in the gallery talking to these grandees of Spain, and presently took his leave. Don Diaz went with him to the hall, and they parted with great politeness.

  Joshua was anxiously awaiting his master's return, and heaved a large sigh of relief upon seeing him come in. Sir Nicholas flung himself into a chair. ‘God's Death, what a court!’ he said. Then he began to laugh. ‘What a king! what a graven king! If one had but whispered El Beauvallet in his ear! Only to see him start!’

  ‘God forbid!’ said Joshua devoutly. ‘Hey, but this likes me not at all!’ He looked anxiously. ‘How long do we remain, master?’

  ‘Who knows? What a tale for Drake! God send I win through to tell him!’

  ‘God send so indeed, sir,’ said Joshua glumly.

  ‘Comfort you, knave: in three short weeks the Venture will cruise off that smuggling port we wot of, and every night she will creep in towards the coast, and watch for my signal.’

  ‘What use if you be clapped up?’ said Joshua rather tartly.

  ‘I shall win free, don’t doubt it. Hearken, my man, a moment! This plot grows thicker still, and there are pitfalls. If I should fall into one…’ He paused, and sniffed at his pomander, eyes narrowed and meditative. ‘Ay. If I be taken, Joshua, remove on the instant from this place, with all my traps. Go look for an obscure tavern against our needs. I shall then know where to find you. When you hear of my death – or if I come not inside ten days – make all speed to that port, and signal with a lantern after dark, as you know how. That's in case of need. Trust yet awhile in Beauvallet's luck. Go now, and nose me out the house of Don Diaz de Losa. I visit there this evening. If you can get news of Don Manuel de Rada, call me your debtor.’

  ‘A plague on all women!’ Joshua said. But he said it on the other side of the door.

  Don Diaz de Losa's apartments were crowded when Beauvallet arrived that evening. There was dicing going forward in one room, where a great many young caballeros were gathered, but the function seemed to have more the nature of a cold reception. Magnificent gentlemen strolled from group to group; there were ladies amongst them, not so discreet as had been the ladies of Spain in a bygone age. Serving men in the de Losa livery, each one bearing his master's cognizance offered refreshments on heavy silver trays to the guests. There was wine in glasses of Venetian ware: Valdepeñas from Morena, red wine of Vinaroz and Benicarlo; Manzanilla, lightest of sherris-wine from San Lucar. With these went sweetmeats and fruit: Asturian pomegranates and grapes from Malaga, but other refreshment there was none. To an English taste this might seem meagre, to be sure, in the face of so much ostentatious display. Don Diaz's house had carpets to tread upon, chairs lined with cut velvet, candelabras of wrought silver, a Toledo clock of rare design, hangings of silk and tapestry, but it did not seem to be the Spanish custom to entertain guests with banquets, as would have been done in kindlier Engla
nd.

  There was an oppressive grandeur over all, as though each man were mindful of his high degree, and the canons of polite behaviour. No voice was raised light-heartedly; all talk was measured and punctilious, so that Beauvallet's laugh sounded strangely in this sedate gathering, and men turned their heads to see whence came the care-free sound.

  It had been provoked by a gentleman from Andalusia, to whom Don Diaz had made the Chevalier known. This Southerner had a gaiety lacking in the grave Castilians, or the proud Aragonese, and had cracked some joke for the Chevalier's delectation. They stood chatting easily enough, so easily that Don Juan was moved to congratulate the Chevalier on the excellence of his Spanish. No doubt the señor had been in Spain before, or had at least Spanish friends?

  Beauvallet owned to a Spanish friend, and said that this one had enjoyed the acquaintance of Don Manuel de Rada y Sylva. Had he the name aright?

  ‘Ah, the late Governor of Santiago!’ Don Juan said, and shook his head.

  The golden pomander was held to the Chevalier's nose. Over it his eyes were watchful. ‘I had thought to present myself to him,’ Beauvallet said.

  ‘You have not heard, señor: Don Manuel is dead these three months. A strange tale!’

  ‘Dead!’ Beauvallet said. ‘How is that?’

  ‘The West Indian climate, señor. Treacherous! ah, but treacherous! But there was more to it: a tale to take one's breath away!’

  ‘But let me hear it, señor, of your kindness!’

  The Southerner spread out his hands. ‘Have you in France heard of a certain English pirate? One named El Beauvallet?’

  ‘Assuredly!’ Sir Nicholas’ eyes danced. ‘Who has not heard of him? The Scourge of Spain I have heard him called. Am I right?’

  ‘Very right, señor. Alas! They say the man uses witchcraft.’ Don Juan crossed himself, and was swiftly imitated. Sir Nicholas’ black lashes hid the laughter in his downcast eyes. When he raised them again they were grave, if you could discount the merriness that must always lurk at the back of them. Don Juan, absorbed in his tale, did not notice it. ‘He sacked and sank the ship that bore Don Manuel home, and – you will scarce credit it – took Don Manuel and his daughter aboard his own vessel.’

  ‘So!’ Beauvallet raised politely surprised eyebrows. ‘But where for?’

  ‘Who shall say, señor? A mad whim one would suppose, for one can hardly credit such a man with chivalrous intent. They say he is mad, who have had traffic with him. But he had the effrontery, señor, to put into a port of Spain, and there to set Don Manuel ashore!’

  ‘You astonish me, señor,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘I suppose he bore off the daughter to England, this famous freebooter?’

  ‘One might have expected it, but no. Dona Dominica took no hurt, though her father died soon after his landing. She is under the guardianship of her good aunt, Dona Beatrice de Carvalho.’

  ‘Thank you for that information,’ thought Sir Nicholas, and made a mental note of the name. Aloud he said: ‘But this is a wonder that you recount, señor! To escape unhurt from the clutches of so desperate a villain as this Beauvallet!’ His shoulders shook ever so slightly.

  A gentleman standing close to them turned his head and looked keenly. He bowed to Don Juan, and again to the Chevalier. ‘Your pardon, señor, but you spoke a certain name. Has that freebooter been taken at last?’

  Don Juan made the introduction, but it was Beauvallet who answered. ‘Nay, nay, señor! Surely he bears a charmed life? I have heard men say so.’

  ‘As to that, we shall see señor,’ said the newcomer. ‘You have set eyes on him, maybe?’

  ‘I have seen him, yes,’ Sir Nicholas answered. The long fingers that swung the pomander gently to and fro never quivered. ‘In Paris, where he sometimes visits.’

  Don Juan displayed a lively curiosity. ‘Is it so indeed? And is he as mad as they say? They tell us, who have had dealings with him, that he is a man with black hair who laughs.’

  White teeth gleamed for a moment. ‘Yes, he laughs, señor,’ said Sir Nicholas. A chuckle came, they little knew how audacious. ‘I dare swear if he stood in this room surrounded by his enemies at this moment, he would still laugh. It is a habit with him.’

  ‘One hardly credits it, señor,’ the stately gentleman replied. ‘There would very soon be an end to his laughter.’ He bowed slightly, and passed on.

  Don Diaz came up at that moment, and laid his hand on Beauvallet's arm. ‘I have been searching for you, Chevalier. I would present you to a countryman of yours: your ambassador, M. de Lauvinière.’

  Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Beauvallet betray how unwelcome this courtesy was to him. Danger crouched before him; he went smiling towards it: Beauvallet's way!

  Don Diaz led him across the room, and spoke in a soft undertone. ‘It is judged best, señor, that no secret should be made of your visit to Madrid. M. de Lauvinière might then suspect. I need not warn you to be on your guard with him. There he stands, near the door.’

  The Frenchman was a man with grey hair and a hook nose. His eyes were deep-set, and he looked piercingly. Upon Don Diaz's presentation of the Chevalier he bowed, and looked with a keenness that probed deep. ‘A cousin of the Duc de Guise?’ he said. ‘I do not think…’ He frowned a little, and his eyes never wavered from Beauvallet's face. ‘But I claim the very slightest acquaintance with the Guises.’

  Therein lay a certain safeguard, thought Beauvallet. It was not to be expected that a member of the Court party would be on terms of friendship with the great Guise family.

  ‘I am a distant cousin of the Duc's, monsieur,’ said Sir Nicholas.

  ‘So?’ De Lauvinière looked still more searchingly. ‘Of what branch of the family, monsieur, if one may ask?’

  It would not do to hesitate. ‘Of the junior branch, monsieur. The Duc is my cousin in the second degree.’

  ‘I have heard of you, monsieur,’ the ambassador said. ‘I had thought you were a younger man. Do you make a long stay in Madrid?’

  ‘Why no, monsieur, I believe not. I have a desire to visit Sevilla and Toledo.’

  ‘Ah yes, you should certainly journey south,’ nodded de Lauvinière.

  A lady came up on the arm of her husband to claim his attention. Beauvallet drew back thankfully. Had he been vouchsafed a glimpse of a postscript added to de Lauvinière's letter home, and despatched upon the morrow, it might have shaken his nerve.

  ‘I should be glad,’ wrote his excellency, ‘if you would discover what age man is the Chevalier Claude de Guise, cousin to the present Duc. Let me have what news you can hear of him, in especial of what like he is, of what height, and of what lineaments. Your assured friend, Henri de Lauvinière.’

  Ten

  In bed next morning Sir Nicholas sipped a cup of chocolate and gave ear to his servant. Joshua had the news he wanted, and imparted it after his own fashion as e laid out his master's dress. A bottle of wine with the landlord of the Rising Sun had loosened a tongue that dealt much in gossip. Who so clever as Joshua Dimmock at finding out information? Let Sir Nicholas be at ease: the lady was found.

  ‘In the guardianship of her aunt. I know,’ Sir Nicholas said.

  Joshua was put out. ‘Ay, so it is, and Don Manuel dead these three months. The lady inherits all – all!’

  ‘That does not concern us,’ said Beauvallet. ‘She cannot carry her lands to England.’

  ‘True, master, very true. But here is somewhat you may not have heard. Her espousals are talked of.’

  Sir Nicholas yawned. ‘They will be more talked of yet,’ said he.

  ‘Master, the tale runs that she will wed her cousin, one Diego de Carvalho.’

  ‘So-so!’ said Beauvallet. ‘Early days to talk of betrothals yet. Cousin, eh? That means a dispensation, or I’m much at fault.’

  ‘You mistake me, sir: nothing is yet done. These are rumours.’ He laid a finger against his nose. ‘This gives to think, master. I learn that the Carvalhos are as poor as may be. Nothing to gape at
there, you say. True; there seem few enough nobles here with coins to rub together. Curious, curious! And yet so much pomp! We do not use that way in England. Under my breath I say it; have no fear of me. Perpend then, master. What if this aunt – her name is Beatrice, for your better information – hath made a little plot to possess herself of all this wealth?’

  ‘Very possible,’ nodded Sir Nicholas. ‘And a bribe to the Church to hasten the dispensation.’

  ‘Certain, I think, master. These priests! If what one hears be true!’

  ‘What do you learn of Don Diego?’ demanded Sir Nicholas.

  ‘Little to the point, sir. A creature of no weight, as it seems to me. These Spanish caballeros! Foh, match me a young English man, say I! Well, he is prodigal: all young men are so. It's to say nothing. He does what all spring-aids do in ruffling it about the town. For the rest I learn that he is accounted well-looking, rides comely, knows how to handle a bilbo, hath elegant accomplishments by the score. You nose out a fop. I do not gainsay it, for so it appears to me. He need not concern us.’

  ‘He might concern us very nearly,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘What else? Is the father of this fine sprig alive?’

  ‘Surely, master, but here again I would say, a creature of no account. As I read our host's talk – in his cups he waxes a thought garrulous. Strange sight in one so prim! – he lies beneath his good lady's thumb.’ He made a descriptive gesture. ‘So! By all I can understand that is a lady of odd manners, sir. You would say an original. We shall doubtless know more anon. They have estates somewhere to the north of Burgos, as I apprehend, but at this present, sir, they stay, all four, at their house in Madrid. This I have found, off the Plaza de Oriente. While you slept, master, I have been about the town a little. Some fine buildings, to be sure, and a quantity of Popish Churches – enough to turn a man's stomach. The house of the Carvalho you may find easily. There is a wall grown with a vine at the back, and, as I judge, a garden upon the inner side.’ He rolled a knowing eye. ‘Thought I, we may find a use for that. Further, master, there is to be a ball given this day week at that house, in honour of our Diego's birthday. This is much talked of, for it seems these Spaniards do not give them often. All the world will be there.’