Beauvallet Read online

  Philip put his finger-tips together, and over them watched the Ambassador. ‘Continue, señor.’

  ‘The Chevalier, sire, very naturally denies this. His papers are in order; I cannot find from anything that I hear that there is any proof to substantiate the charge than Don Maxia de Perinat's word. I have seen Don Maxia, sire, and I must humbly confess that although he speaks as a man altogether convinced, I cannot deem his conviction to be sufficient evidence against the Chevalier. Moreover, sire, it appears that a certain lady who was taken prisoner by this same Beauvallet not so many months ago utterly denies that this man is he.’

  ‘I had not supposed it possible, señor, that El Beauvallet could be in Spain,’ said Philip calmly. ‘You come to request his release.’

  The Ambassador hesitated. ‘Sire, this is a very strange, a very difficult matter,’ he said. ‘It is no part of my desire to act hastily in it.’

  ‘Rest assured, señor, we shall do nothing without careful consideration,’ Philip said. ‘Do you identify the Chevalier?’

  Again there was a momentary hesitation. ‘I cannot do that, sire. I am not over-familiar with the members of the house of Guise; I have never, to my knowledge, met this man. But from what I know of the family I did from the first moment of seeing him suspect that this man might not be what he claimed to be. It is in my mind that the Chevalier de Guise should be a younger man than this, nor can I trace any resemblance to the Guises in his countenance.’

  Philip weighed that. ‘It might thus chance, señor,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly, sire. I may well be mistaken. But upon my first meeting with him I wrote into France to discover more of him. The answer to my letter must be awaited before I can state whether this man is the Chevalier or whether he is not. I have come here today, sire, to request you, very humbly, to be patient a few weeks, to hold your hand, in effect, until I receive the answer to my letter.’

  Philip nodded slowly. ‘We shall do nothing unadvisedly,’ he said. ‘We must think on this. You shall hear more of our decision, señor. Be sure we should be loth to proceed against a subject of our cousin of France.’

  ‘I have to thank your Majesty for your courtesy,’ de Lauvinière said, and bowed over the King's cold hand. He was ushered out of the cabinet, and passed through the antechamber without delay. Perinat tried to stop him, and shot an eager question, but de Lauvinière answered evasively, and passed on.

  The King would not see Don Maxia de Perinat. ‘It does not need for us to listen to Don Maxia,’ he said coldly. ‘He will make his deposition to the Alcalde at a later time. We will give audience to Don Cristobal de Porres.’

  Don Cristobal, commander of the Guards of Castile, Governor of the great barracks where Beauvallet was imprisoned, was awaiting the King's pleasure in the anteroom. He was a man of some forty years of age, dark and tall, with a grave countenance and a thin mouth half concealed by his black mustachio and the pointed beard he wore. He came in very promptly, and stood just inside the door, deeply bowing. ‘Sire!’

  ‘We have sent for you, señor, to inquire into this matter of your prisoner. I do not immediately understand why the ginetes were called in.’

  ‘The Casa Noveli, sire, is hard by the barracks,’ Porres answered. ‘A gentleman came in hot haste with the news that El Beauvallet was captured, and my lieutenant, Cruza, perhaps acted without due reflection. I have held the man in ward against the hearing of your Majesty's pleasure.’

  Philip seemed to be satisfied, for he said nothing for a moment or two, but gazed with apparent abstraction before him. Presently he brought his eyes back to Porres’ face, and spoke abruptly. ‘Let search be made in his baggage,’ he said. ‘We shall require you to keep the Chevalier under surveillance, Don Cristobal, until such time as we make known our further pleasure. If he travels with a Servant –’ he paused. ‘It might be well to interrogate the man.’

  ‘Sire – !’

  Philip waited.

  ‘It was judged expedient, sire, to send early this morning to the inn where the Chevalier lodged. I do not know sire, if this was agreeable to your Majesty, but in consideration – the charge was of such a nature – there was a fear –’

  ‘Compose yourself, señor.’

  ‘In short, sire, acting a little on Don Maxia de Perinat's advice, I caused search to be made through the Chevalier's effects, and sent to apprehend the servant, deeming it a measure your Majesty would approve.’

  ‘You acted precipitately,’ said Philip. ‘These things are not done without good advice. Continue.’

  ‘I ask your Majesty's pardon if I did wrongly. When my men came to the inn they found the – the Chevalier's baggage strewn about, his chests and strong box broken open and empty. His money was gone, his jewels, a sword of Ferrara make, the best of his dress – in short, sire, a seeming robbery, committed by the servant, who had fled.’

  ‘Who had fled,’ repeated the King. ‘But continue, señor.’

  ‘This we thought a suspicious circumstance, sire, but upon question the tapster at the inn confessed to having had speech with the servant last night, when he was evidently making his escape. The man says that he was something merry in his bearing, talked of his good fortune, and said that if his master was laid by the heels it was a good riddance to him, and he was not one to be slow to catch at opportunity.’

  ‘Possible! Possible!’ said Philip. ‘Yet this might well be a ruse. We have to consider all points, Don Cristobal. What said the Chevalier?’

  Don Cristobal smiled rather ruefully. ‘The Chevalier, sire, exhibited a very natural anger, and – in fact, sire, he demands – he is high in his tone – that strict search should be made for the fellow. He would have us send after the man to the Frontier, for he is left penniless. The Chevalier, sire, was particularly enraged at the loss of his sword. He started up, sire, and demanded to know whether the servant had made off with this piece, and upon being told that it was not to be found, he seemed like to fly into a very real passion. The next thing he asked, sire, was whether his papers, too, were gone, and it seemed to me – I was watching him closely – that he showed great relief when I could assure him that they were safe.’

  ‘Ah, the papers were left?’ Philip asked.

  ‘They were discovered, sire, in the inner pocket of a mandilion. I judged that the man had overlooked them in his haste. A wallet was found on the floor with a few odd bills in it, but nothing more. The Chevalier's linen was overturned as though the servant had sought amongst it for something, and we found sundry other articles of raiment.’

  ‘Let these be taken to the Chevalier,’ said Philip. ‘This is a delicate matter, señor, needing our careful judgment.’

  There was the sound of a softly opened door behind him. A man came into the room from some inner room behind Philip, a man in a priest's gown. Philip's thin lips parted in a smile that showed teeth that were yellow and rather pointed. ‘You are come opportunely, Father.’

  The priest had gone unobtrusively to the window, but he turned at Philip's words, and came nearer to the King's chair. He was Father Allen, an English Jesuit, never far from Philip's side. ‘You have need of me, sire?’

  ‘I may have need of you, Father,’ Philip answered cautiously. ‘There is a man held in ward, Father, who is accused of being the freebooter, Beauvallet.’

  ‘I have heard something of this, sire, from Frey Luis.’

  ‘Do you know this Beauvallet, Father?’ asked Philip directly.

  ‘I regret, sire, no. I knew his father by sight, but the sons by hearsay only.’

  ‘A pity.’ Philip's smile died. He regarded the opposite wall for a while. ‘I do not see what El Beauvallet does in Spain,’ he said, and awaited enlightenment.

  It came from Porres. ‘The tale is very strange, sire, almost incredible. It is said – by the lady's cousin – that El Beauvallet came into Spain to carry off Dona Dominica de Rada y Sylva.’

  Philip looked at him. It was plain that such a mad exploit was beyond his Catholic
Majesty's comprehension.

  Father Allen spoke from behind the King's chair. ‘Beauvallet had no need to come into Spain if that had been his purpose.’

  Philip nodded. ‘That is true. This is a very foolish tale,’ he said. ‘Moreover, it is impossible for such a man as El Beauvallet to enter Spain.’

  ‘As to that, sire’ – Father Allen lifted his shoulders – ‘there might be ways of compassing it, if the man were bold enough.’

  A new voice spoke from the door behind Philip. ‘A man in league with the powers of darkness could do it.’ A monk of the Dominican order had come in quietly. His cowl partly shaded his face, but his eyes shone dark and intense. He came farther into the room. ‘I have thought on this, sire.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Who can say what such a man might do?’

  The faintest hint of a contemptuous smile flitted across Father Allen's lips, but he said nothing.

  ‘Consider, sire, what dreadful errand this man may have come upon,’ insisted Frey Luis in a hushed voice.

  Philip brought his gaze round to the Frey. ‘What errand?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Sire, how shall we say that El Beauvallet would hesitate to seek the life of even your Majesty?’ Frey Luis folded his hands in the wide sleeves of his habit and fixed his eyes on Philip.

  Philip moved a paper on his desk. His brain turned this over and detected a flaw. ‘If such were his errand, Frey Luis, he would have made the attempt when I saw him in this room with only yourself present,’ he said.

  ‘Sire, who knows in what cunning ways Satan goes to work?’

  Don Cristobal interposed. ‘I do not think that this man is such a one, sire. I could more readily believe, from what I have seen of the man, in Don Diego de Carvalho's explanation.’

  But King Philip was not at all inclined to believe in it. His matter-of-fact mind discarded it as the wildest of suppositions. ‘A test might be made,’ he mused. ‘A simple Mass, perhaps.’

  Don Cristobal coughed. The dull eyes travelled to his face. ‘You were about to say, señor?’

  ‘The Chevalier, sire, has made the suggestion himself.’

  Philip looked at the Jesuit. Father Allen spoke smoothly. ‘That is clever of him,’ he said. ‘But you should know, sire, that it is not so long since the Beauvallets were of the True Faith. It is almost sure that this man would pass such a test triumphantly.’

  Frey Luis spoke again. ‘There are tests the Holy Inquisition would impose that would be harder to pass. We have to think of the soul, sire. Let this man be given over to the infinite compassion of the Church.’

  Philip laid his hand on the table. ‘A heretic of any nation, Frey Luis, belongs to the Church. I am not so undutiful a son of Christ as to withhold from the Church any heretic, be he a notorious pirate or a peaceable burgher,’ he said austerely. ‘As an enemy of Spain El Beauvallet should be judged by the secular arm, but I have to think of the soul, which must be saved at all costs. The Church demands him.’

  ‘Your Majesty is a faithful son of the Church,’ Father Allen said. ‘That is well known. Humbly I would suggest, sire, that the charge of heresy be strictly followed up.’

  There was a short silence. Don Cristobal stood patiently waiting by the curtain that hung over the doorway. The King's eyes were veiled; he seemed to brood, like some sated vulture. What thoughts passed in that tortuous mind even Father Allen could not guess.

  ‘There is as yet no suspicion of heresy,’ the King said at last. ‘We must remember, Father, that we have to deal with a subject of France.’

  Father Allen bowed his head and stood back. The matter was plain enough now. Philip had no wish to offend the French King upon so trivial a matter, nor did he want his own secret dealings with the Guises to be made public. He would not run the risk of the Chevalier de Guise disclosing these dealings, Father Allen knew well.

  Frey Luis, no Jesuit, but a priest with one single aim, one obsession, did not read the King's mind so acutely, nor, had he been able to appreciate Philip's difficulty, would it have weighed with him. His faith was simple, and burned like a consuming flame; earthly considerations he would never consider. ‘The Inquisition claims him,’ he said. ‘There may yet be time to rescue his soul from the depths to which it has sunk.’

  The King gave only half an ear to this. ‘We gain nothing by haste,’ he said. ‘You assume, Frey Luis, that this man is indeed El Beauvallet. I am not so easily satisfied. I have listened to wild tales; they do not convince me.’

  ‘The Holy Inquisition, sire, is tender above all things and infinitely just,’ said Frey Luis earnestly. ‘It does not leap to conclusions, and there can be nothing to be feared at its hands by a true son of Christ. If this man be the Chevalier he could raise no objection to appearing before a tribunal appointed to sift him.’

  Philip listened in silence. ‘True,’ he said meditatively. ‘There could be no objection. A son of the Church would not flinch from such a test.’ He paused and frowned. Much was revealed in such tests, he knew very well; perhaps more in this instance might be forthcoming than would be agreeable to his Catholic Majesty. The King saw clearly that this was yet another case that went to prove the truth of his maxim that nothing should be attempted without mature reflection. His frown cleared. He repeated his former observation. ‘We gain nothing by undue haste. If the man is proved not to be the Chevalier de Guise, I shall know how to act. Until such time as I receive intelligence from M. de Lauvinière, the Chevalier shall be kept in ward.’ He turned to Porres. ‘This will be your charge, señor. You will treat the Chevalier with all consideration, but let him be kept in guard.’ The frown returned. ‘He must be used with strict courtesy,’ he said slowly. ‘He will appreciate the grave difficulties of our situation. But we would not have him in the least degree rudely entreated.’

  Don Cristobal was a little puzzled. ‘Pardon, sire, is he to be a prisoner, or may he go abroad?’

  Such bluntness was little to Philip's taste. His frown deepened. Father Allen interposed. ‘Sire, if this man should be Beauvallet you cannot guard him too securely.’

  ‘True,’ the King said. ‘We have to think of the safety of our realm. You have some apartment, señor, in which he might be safely bestowed? Some room from which no exit is possible? We do not speak of prison cells.’

  ‘Yes, sire, he is in such a room now, pending your pleasure.’

  ‘There is no need to put indignity upon one who may well be proved innocent of the charge proffered against him,’ Philip said. ‘A lock should suffice, and a sentry outside. You will see to it, señor. We shall hold you responsible for the Chevalier's safety and well-being. You will remark his bearing, and report to us the least sign of an attempt to escape.’

  Don Cristobal bowed. ‘I shall obey your Majesty in all my best,’ he said, and bowed himself out of the closet.

  Seventeen

  No word came from the Al cazar to summon Dominica to answer an examination. Don Rodriguez, uneasily awaiting such a summons, brought back word first that the Chevalier was to be held in ward pending the arrival of word from France; second, that his Majesty had spoken no word concerning Dona Dominica; and thirdly, that Don Miguel de Tobar had started for Madrid sooner than had been expected, and was likely to arrive within the next few days.

  Dona Beatrice was unwillingly roused to action. Sighing over it, she said that it was all very fatiguing, and not a little tiresome, but if suspicion did not rest on Dona Dominica there was no reason why they should not leave Madrid upon Saturday.

  Dominica heard this with dismay. God knows what she hoped for by remaining in the capital; she hardly knew herself, but to journey north so many leagues out of sight or sound of Madrid filled her with despair. To stay could do Beauvallet no good. True enough, but how could one go, knowing him to be in such danger?

  She said never a word, but bowed her head slightly and tried to look indifferent. She was far from that ideal state. While she was borne off north God alone knew what might be done to Beauvallet. She had heard that th
ose who fell into the clutch of the Inquisition were sometimes never heard of again. She fell to trembling and to silent prayer. Her own fate seemed no longer to be a matter of moment. Listlessly she observed a certain quiet satisfaction in her cousin's demeanour which she supposed could betoken no good, but it seemed no longer to signify. If Beauvallet died they might do with her as they would.

  Don Diego left Madrid a day ahead of his mother and cousin. Dominica heard of his plans without change of countenance, but his mother drawled: ‘You do not ride with us?’

  He answered very easily that he would go before to have all in readiness against their coming to Vasconosa. He could not but think that the Carvalho guards would be protection enough for their equipage.

  Dona Beatrice looked at him with narrowed eyes, seemed to consider him, but said only: ‘You are not very gallant, my son.’

  His departure was watched by one of whom he knew nothing. Joshua, anxious to get speech with Dominica, haunted the vicinity of the Casa Carvalho, and saw Don Diego set forward that Friday with his valet and two lackeys with led sumpters. Joshua's sharp nose smelled mischief. He lounged against the sun-baked wall and picked his teeth, but his ears were on the prick and his eyes sharp beneath the slouching brim of his hat. A chance word let fall by one of the lackeys strapping a pack to the sumpter disclosed their destination. There was little need of it; Joshua had been in small doubt. He watched Don Diego mount and gather up the reins; heard him admonish the lackeys to press forward at speed; and saw him ride off. Joshua drew his own conclusions.

  ‘Ay, go swiftly, villain!’ he apostrophised Don Diego. ‘Waste no time, for you will have Mad Nick behind you, never doubt it! Cullion and coystrill! Oh, an eater of broken meats, a very pungent rascal! It would do one's heart good to slit the villain's nose. I shall suggest it to my master in due course.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Master, as I see it, you would do well to break out of ward swiftly. Here's roguery afoot. If I can but get speech with my lady, and know what they will be about! A plague on all women!’