Beauvallet Page 9

  Sir Nicholas reached, without difficulty, one of the Long Galleries to which he had been directed. Some of the Queen's ladies were gathered here, and many of the court gallants. He learned that the Queen was closeted with the French Ambassador, Sir Francis Walsingham and Sir James Crofts in attendance. This he had from the Vice-Chancellor, Sir Christopher Hatton, strutting in the gallery. Hatton gave him a cool, polite greeting, and two fingers to do what he willed with. Beauvallet let them fall soon enough, and fell into talk with the elegant and grave Raleigh, also waiting for her Grace to come into the gallery. Sir Christopher rolled a fiery eye, and seemed to withdraw the hem of his garment from Raleigh's vicinity. At that Sir Nicholas grinned openly. Sir Christopher's jealousies seemed to him absurd.

  He had to wait perhaps half an hour, but he employed his time pleasantly enough, and very soon drew a shocked titter from one of the Maids of Honour, who rated him for a bold, saucy fellow. This he certainly was.

  There came a stir at the far end of the gallery; a curtain was held back, and four people came slowly into the gallery. First of these was the Queen, a thin lady of no more than middle-height, but mounted on very high heels. A huge ruff, spangled with gems, rose behind her head, which was of fiery colour, much crimped and curled, and elaborately dressed with jewelled combs, and the like. Still more monstrous loomed her farthingale, and her sleeves were puffed out from her arms, and sewn over with jewels. She was dazzling to behold, arrayed in the richest stuffs, glinting with precious stones. She drew all eyes, but she would still have done so had she been dressed in the simplest fustian. Her face might have been a mask for the paint that covered it, but her eyes were very much alive: strange, dark eyes, not large, but very bright, and oddly piercing.

  A little behind her, his hand upon the curtain, De Mauvissière bent his stately head to listen deferentially to some word she had flung at him over her shoulder. Behind him Sir Francis Walsingham was folding a scrap of paper, which anon he handed to Crofts, frowning in the background. Sir Francis’ unfath omable, rather sad eyes, seemed to embrace everyone in the gallery. They rested thoughtfully on Beauvallet for a moment, but he made no sign.

  De Mauvissière bent to kiss the Queen's hand. She was tapping her foot, and her eyes snapped dangerously. Her ladies, being familiar with the signs, knew some misgivings.

  De Mauvissière went out backwards, bowing; the Queen nodded, and still tapped with one foot. She was out of temper, flashed an angry glance at her two ministers, and hunched a pettish shoulder.

  Walsingham crooked a long finger. His royal mistress must be diverted: not Hatton, not Raleigh, whom she might see every day, would serve. Sir Nicholas Beauvallet was come in a good hour.

  ‘God's Death!’ swore her Grace. ‘It seems I am right well entreated!’

  There was a quick step; a gentleman was on his knee before her, and dared to look up, twinkling, into her face.

  ‘God's Death!’ swore her Grace again, hugely delighted. ‘Beauvallet!’

  Well, he had her hand to kiss, got a rap over the knuckles from her fan, and was bidden rise up. The storm had passed over; her Grace was happily diverted. Walsingham might hide a quiet smile in his beard; Sir James Crofts could banish his worried frown.

  ‘Ha, rogue!’ said her Grace, showing teeth a little discoloured in a smile of great good-humour. ‘So you return again!’

  ‘As a needle to the magnet, madam,’ Sir Nicholas said promptly.

  She leaned on his arm, and took a few steps with him down the gallery. ‘What news do ye bring me of my good cousin of Spain?’

  ‘Alack, madam, to my sure knowledge he hath lost three good ships: a carrack, and two tall galleons.’

  Her bright eyes looked sidelong at him. ‘So! So! To whom fell they a prey?’

  ‘To a rogue, madam. One named Beauvallet.’

  She burst out laughing. ‘I swear I love thee well, my merry ruffler!’ She beckoned up Walsingham, and gave him the news. ‘What must we do with him, Sir Francis?’ she demanded. ‘Ask of me, my rogue, and ye shall have.’ She awaited his answer without misgiving for well she knew that he was in need of naught, but was come instead to enrich her coffers.

  ‘Two boons, madam, I crave on my knees.’

  ‘God's Son! This is churlish-sounding, by my faith! Name ’em then.’

  ‘The first is that your Grace will accept of a New Year's gift I am come so tardily to offer – a trifle of rubies, no more. The second is that your Grace will give me leave to travel into France for a space.’

  That did not please her so well. She frowned over it, and would know more. ‘I vow I’ll give you a place about the Court,’ she said.

  It was his turn to frown. Your true courtier would have smiled, and murmured his eternal devotion. This Mad Nicholas must needs twitch his black brows together, and give a quick unmannerly shake of his head.

  ‘By God, you’re a saucy knave!’ her Grace said stridently. But she sounded more amused than angered. ‘What's this? You’ll none?’

  ‘Give me leave to travel awhile, madam,’ begged Sir Nicholas.

  ‘I’m minded to box your ears, sirrah!’ said her Grace.

  ‘Oh, madam, forgive a tongue unused to speak softly! I had rather serve you with the strong arm abroad than lie idle at your Court.’

  ‘Well! well! That's prettily spoken, eh, Walsingham? But I don’t need your strong arm in France. Nay, I grant no licence to you. Be plain with me, sirrah!’ She saw his blue eyes dancing, and struck him lightly on the arm with her fan. ‘Ha, you laugh? God's Death, you are a daring rogue! Let me hear it. Speak, Beauvallet: the Queen listens.’

  ‘Madam, I’ll not deceive you.’ Beauvallet dropped to his knee. ‘Give me leave to go into Spain awhile.’

  This startling request fell into an amazed silence. Then her Grace burst out again into her loud laugh, and those at the far end of the gallery envied Mad Nicholas who could so amuse the Queen. ‘A jest! An idle jest!’ the Queen rapped out. But her piercing gaze was intent upon him. ‘Wherefor, then?’

  ‘Madam, to perform a vow. Grant me so small a boon.’

  ‘Grant you leave to throw away your life? What shall that profit me? Do you hear this, Walsingham? Is the man mad in good sooth, think you?’

  Walsingham was stroking his beard. He too watched Sir Nicholas, but there was no reading what was in his mind. ‘Sir Nicholas might haply bring news out of Spain,’ he said slowly.

  The Queen turned an impatient shoulder. ‘Oh, get some other to do your spies’ work, sir! Well, and if I grant this boon, Sir Nicholas? What then?’

  ‘Why, madam, only tell me what you would have me bring you out of Spain?’

  Maybe the swift rejoinder pleased her; maybe she was curious to know what he would do. She said gaily: ‘Marry, the best that Spain holds, sir. Mind you that!’

  Then Walsingham spoke in his soft, cold voice, leading the talk away from this request. Beauvallet was content to have it so. The Queen gave neither yea nor nay, but Sir Francis Walsingham would certainly give a licence to Sir Nicholas Beauvallet for the good intelligence he saw might come of it.

  Eight

  It was over three months later that Sir Nicholas Beauvallet went riding southwards from Paris towards the Spanish border. There had been some necessary delay at home: treasure to be bestowed at the Queen's pleasure, and his own affairs to look to. He had also to visit his sister in Worcestershire, and she would not soon let him go. He made a merry month of it there, but told Adela nothing of his plans, and trifled shamelessly with the ladies she brought forward to tempt him into matrimony.

  The licence to travel was obtained from Walsingham easily enough. Beauvallet was closeted with this enigmatic man for a full hour, and protested afterwards that the Secretary made him shiver. But it is believed that they were much of a mind in that both would welcome war with Spain.

  With Joshua Dimmock, and a fair stock of money against his needs Sir Nicholas came at last to Paris, and inquired for his distant kinsman, Eustache de
Beauvallet, Marquis de Belrémy. This nobleman, whom Nicholas had not met since certain riotous days in Italy, when both were in the early twenties, was not to be found at his town house. His servants reported him to be at Belrémy, in Normandy, but Beauvallet heard other news that placed the Marquis farther south, on a visit to a friend. There was nothing to be gained from seeking the elusive Marquis through France; Beauvallet swore genially at the delay, and sat him down to await his kinsman's return. He did not visit either the English Ambassador, or the Court of Henri III. For the one, he preferred his presence in France to be unknown; for the other, the fopperies of the French Court were not at all to his taste. He found the means to amuse himself outside the Court, and passed the time very pleasantly.

  At the end of a month the Marquis returned to Paris, and hearing of Beauvallet's visit, straightway kicked his major-domo for allowing his so dear kinsman to lodge otherwhere than in his house, and set forth in a horse-litter to find Sir Nicholas.

  Beauvallet had a comfortable lodging near the Seine. It suited him very well, but Joshua muttered darkly, and saw a Catholic murderer in every convivial guest who came there. Saint Bartholomew's Day was fresh enough yet in a plain Englishman's mind, said he.

  The Marquis, a wiry, resplendent personage, no more than a year older than Beauvallet, came tempestuously into his room, and clasped his kinsman in an ecstatic embrace with many suitable exclamations and reproaches. It was long before Beauvallet could come to his business, for the Marquis had much to say, and much to ask, and many mad memories to recall. But at length the reason for this visit was asked, and then they came to grips. When the Marquis heard that Sir Nicholas wanted a French pass into Spain he at first threw up hands of despair, and cried ‘Impossible!’ At the end of half an hour he said: ‘Well, well, perhaps! But it is madness, and it will be a forgery, and you are a good-for-naught to ask it of me!’ Within the week he brought the pass, and said only ‘Aha!’ when Beauvallet asked how he had managed to procure it. It gave leave for a M. Gaston de Beauvallet to travel abroad. Beauvallet learned that this Gaston was a cousin of the Marquis, and chuckled.

  ‘But look you, my friend!’ the Marquis cautioned him. ‘Do not stumble upon our Ambassador, for he knows Gaston well, and us all. I caution you, be wary! Ah, but to travel into Spain at all! And with that name! Madness! Unutterable folly!’

  ‘Basta, basta! ’ said Sir Nicholas, and frowned upon the pass.

  Now as he rode south it was in his mind that this pass, though it would safely carry him across the Frontier was likely to lead him to exposure at Madrid. He rode in silence, pondering it rather ruefully, but presently he twitched his shoulders as though to cast off these cares, and spurred his horse to a gallop. Joshua, following at a soberer pace with a led sumpter, watched his master disappear down the road in a cloud of dust, and shook his head. ‘Our last venture,’ said Joshua, and kicked his horse to a brisker pace. ‘A plague on all women! Come up, jade!’

  They made no great haste on the journey, for Sir Nicholas was loth to part with the horse he had bought in Paris. It bore him nobly, and he cherished it well. They went south by degrees, resting at the inns along the post road, and came at last to a lonely tavern within half a day's ride of the Frontier.

  It lay in a squalid village, and was obviously unfrequented by travellers. The last great inn they had passed housed a sick man, whom Joshua was quick to nose out. He got wind of a pestilent fever, and was urgent with his master not to remain. The after noon was young yet, and the sun warm. Beauvallet consented to ride on.

  So they came at dusk to this rude inn, lying a little way off the post road. None came forth to welcome them, so Joshua went to kick the door, and raised a shout. Mine host came out, surly-seeming, but when he saw so richly caparisoned a gentleman he lost his scowl, and bowed to the ground. There was a room for the gentleman to be sure, if monseigneur would condescend to this poor abode.

  ‘I condescend,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘Have you a truckle-bed, my man? Then set it up in my chamber for my servant.’ He swung himself down from the saddle, and fondled his mare a moment. ‘Eh, my beauty!’ He had had her through the Marquis’ advice, a fine, fleet black, with powerful quarters, and a mouth of velvet. ‘Take her, Joshua.’ He stretched himself, and swore at his stiffness. The landlord set open the door, and bowed him into the low pitched taproom.

  Beauvallet sent him to fetch wine, and seemed to snuff the air. ‘Faugh!’ It was squalid in the taproom, of a piece with the untidy yard without. He went to the window and forced it open to let in the clean air.

  The landlord came back with the wine, looked askance at the open window, and muttered a little under his breath. Sir Nicholas drank deeply, and upon the shuffling entrance of an out-at-elbows servant, stretched out his legs to have the high boots pulled off.

  He was at supper – a meagre collation which drew sundry pungent remarks from Joshua – when there came the sound of a led horse on the cobbles outside. A moment later the door was thrust open, and a young gentleman came in, very out of temper.

  He was dressed richly, but dust lay on his fine clothes. He scowled at Beauvallet, seated at the table, and shouted for the landlord. Upon this worthy's coming the young gentleman burst into a flood of angry talk. His woes seemed to be many. There was, to start with, the excessive dust upon the road which had well-nigh choked him; to go on, there was a sick man at the regular inn some miles back; to crown his troubles his horse had gone lame, the jade, and another must be brought him on the instant.

  Having delivered himself of this demand my fine gentleman flung off his cloak, bespoke supper, and sat down on the settle with the air of a thwarted schoolboy.

  The problem of horse-flesh was beyond the landlord's solving. He gave his new guest to understand that he had no riding horses in his stables, nor could he tell where any might be found in this hamlet. Monsieur must send to the nearest town, back along the road.

  At this monsieur let forth an oath, and declared that he had no time to waste, but must be gone over the Frontier first thing in the morning. Mine host had nothing to say to this, but shrugged sullenly, and turned away. His ear was seized between a finger and thumb. ‘Look you! a horse, and swiftly!’ snarled monsieur.

  ‘I keep no horse,’ reiterated the landlord. He rubbed his ear, aggrieved. ‘There are but two horses in my barn, and they belong to this gentleman.’

  Upon this monsieur became aware of Beauvallet, struggling with a tough fowl. He bowed slightly. Sir Nicholas raised an eyebrow, and nodded in return, wasting little ceremony.

  ‘Give you good-evening, monsieur.’ The young gentleman tried to conceal his ill-temper. ‘You will have heard that I have suffered a misfortune.’

  ‘Ay, faith, the whole house will have heard it,’ said Sir Nicholas, and poured out more wine.

  Monsieur bit his lip. ‘I have urgent need of a horse,’ he announced. ‘I shall be happy to buy one or other of your nags, if you will sell.’

  ‘A thousand thanks,’ Sir Nicholas answered.

  Monsieur brightened, ‘You will oblige me?’

  ‘Desolated, sir! I cannot oblige you,’ said Sir Nicholas, who had small mind to part with his horses.

  This seemed final, to be sure. A rich colour mounted to monsieur's cheeks; he choked back his spleen, and condescended to plead, though stiffly.

  Sir Nicholas tilted back his chair, and tucked his hands in his belt. He looked mockingly at the young Frenchman. ‘My good young sir, I counsel you to be patient,’ he said. ‘You may send to the town in the morning, and procure a horse against your needs. I do not part with mine.’

  ‘One of these nags!’ Monsieur snorted. ‘I do not think that would suit me, sir.’

  ‘And I am quite sure it would not suit me, sir,’ said Sir Nicholas.

  The Frenchman looked at him with evident dislike. ‘I have informed you, sir, that my need is instant.’

  Sir Nicholas yawned.

  For a moment the Frenchman seemed inclined to burst forth int
o fresh vituperations. He bit his nails, glaring, and took a quick turn about the room. ‘You use me ungraciously!’ he flung over his shoulder.

  ‘Well-a-day!’ said Sir Nicholas ironically.

  Monsieur took yet another turn, seemed again to choke back some hasty utterance, and at length forced a smile. ‘Well, I will not quarrel with you,’ he said.

  ‘You would find it very difficult,’ nodded Sir Nicholas.

  Monsieur opened his mouth, shut it again, and swallowed hard. ‘Permit me to share your board,’ he said at last.

  ‘With all my heart, youngling,’ Sir Nicholas answered, but there had come a watchful gleam into his eyes.

  But the Frenchman seemed to cast aside his evil-humours in good sooth. True, he railed a little at ill-fortune, but was forward with plans for the acquisition of a horse upon the morrow. The plague was on it he could scarce hope to get across the Frontier now for two days. As he remembered the town lay many leagues behind – but he would not complain. He pledged Beauvallet in a brimming cup.

  Supper being at an end, monsieur grew restless, complained of the ill-entertainment, pished at the poor light afforded by two tallow candles, and at length proposed an encounter with the dice, if such might chance to jump with monsieur's humour.

  ‘Excellent, well,’ said Beauvallet, and banged on the table with his empty cup to summon back the landlord. Dice were brought, more wine was set upon the table, and the evening bade fair to be merry.

  The dice rattled in the box. ‘A main!’ said monsieur.

  Beauvallet called it, and cast the dice. Monsieur rattled the bones, and threw a nick. Coins were pushed across the greasy boards; fresh wine was poured; the two men bent over the table, absorbed in the game.

  It was a merry evening enough. The candles burned low in their sockets; the wine passed freely, and more freely yet; money changed hands, back and forth. At last one of the candles guttered dismally, and went out. Beauvallet thrust back his chair, and passed a hand across his brow. ‘Enough!’ he said, somewhat thickly. ‘God's me, after midnight already?’ He rose unsteadily, and stretched his arms above his head. This made for a slight stagger. He laughed. ‘Cup-shotten!’ he said, and laughed again, and swayed a little on his toes.