WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MASTER RODOMONT BITTERN AND
THE PRINCE.
As soon as the street was clear, Osbert inquired whether his Highness
would proceed as far as the Bar-gate, but Philip having now seen enough,
declined, and they began to retrace their steps. The tipplers in the
houses were still at their cups. Some of them, it is true, had staggered
to the windows on hearing Sir Bevis and his _cortége_ pass, but by this
time they had got back to the bottle. However, a party of half-inebriate
guests issued from a large house so suddenly, that the Prince and Osbert
had no time to get out of their way, but were instantly surrounded.
“Ah! who have we here?” cried one of these roysterers, struck by
Philip’s haughty air. “By the life of the Emperor Charles V., a Spanish
grandee! Perchance, one of the Prince’s suite.”
“You are right, Sir,” interposed Osbert; “this noble cavalier is but
newly-arrived at Southampton with his Highness the Prince of Spain, and,
having come ashore on business, is now returning to his ship.”
“How does the noble cavalier style himself?” demanded the other.
“Call me Don Philip—that will suffice,” said the Prince, haughtily.
“Bezo las manos, Señor Don Felipe,” rejoined the other, taking off his
cap. “Your lordship is right welcome to Southampton. Suffer me to
introduce myself to you as Master Rodomont Bittern, a caballero y hombre
de honor, who will be proud to do your lordship a service. These are my
friends, Nick Simnel and Jack Holiday—both caballeros like myself, and
courageous and haughty as bulls. Be known to Don Philip, señores. If
your lordship will permit us, we will escort you to the quay.”
“Ay, and go on board with his lordship, an he likes our company,” cried
Simnel. “We are in the humour for an adventure.”
“I am ready for aught, save the couch,” said Jack Holiday. “Don Philip
will find us jolly cocks, that I promise him.”
“Why should not Don Philip, if he be not pressed, enter worthy Master
Tyrrell’s house, and crush a flask of Bourdeaux?” said another of the
party. “He shall be welcome, I will answer for it.”
“Ah, that he shall, good Master Huttoft,” cried the host, who was
standing in his doorway, and heard what was passing. “He shall have the
best my cellar can produce. I pray you, noble Sir, come in.”
“Enter by all means,” said Rodomont to the Prince. “Master Tyrrell is
well worth knowing. He is the richest merchant we have—richer than the
Italian merchants Nicolini and Guidotti, who dwell near St. John’s.
Master Tyrrell is a descendant of the famous brothers Gervase and
Protasius, who founded the hospital of God’s House. His daughter,
Constance, is surnamed the Pearl of Southampton. A ravishing creature, I
vow. You will lose your heart the instant you behold her. Your
Andalusian beauties are nothing to her.”
“What do you know of Andalusian beauties, Sir?” said Philip.
“By the mass! a good deal,” rejoined Rodomont, significantly; “as your
lordship will guess, when I tell you I have been at Seville. That is how
I knew you for a grandee. I could not be deceived. Enter, I pray you,
and make Master Tyrrell’s acquaintance. You will find his daughter as I
have described her—the fairest creature you ever clapped eyes on. Not,
however, that you will see her to-night, for she is at her devotions.
She is as pious as Saint Elizabeth. Had I the choice, I would take
Constance Tyrrell in preference to our Queen, whom the Prince, your
master, has come hither to marry—ha! ha!”
And the laughter in which he indulged was echoed by his companions.
“Heaven grant that the Prince may not have raised his expectations too
high on the score of his consort’s beauty, or he is like enough to be
disappointed,” pursued Rodomont. “Hath your lordship ever beheld her
Majesty?”
“How could I, Sir?” replied Philip, “since I have never set foot in
England before this hour. But I have seen her portrait by Sir Antonio
More.”
“Sir Antonio is a court painter, and has doubtless flattered her,” said
Rodomont. “By my beard! she is as thin as a whipping-post, and as sour
as verjuice.”
This sally was followed by a shout of laughter from the party.
“Let me impress upon you the necessity of a little caution, Master
Bittern,” said Osbert. “You seem to forget that Don Philip is attached
to his Highness’s person.”
“But he is not going to marry the Queen, therefore the question of her
good or ill looks can have no interest to him,” laughed Rodomont. “After
all, tastes differ, and the Prince may think her Majesty charming,
though I do not.”
“Are you allowed to talk thus freely of great personages in England,
Sir?” demanded Philip, sternly.
“For the present we are, Señor Don Felipe, but there’s no saying what we
may come to, now the Prince, your master, is about to take us in hand,
and teach us manners. Ere long, we shall have a padlock placed upon our
mouths, I make no doubt. They say we are to have the Inquisition, and an
Auto-da-fé once a month to purge us of heresy, and bring back the stray
lambs to the fold. What with the Prince, your master, and Cardinal Pole,
who is shortly expected, we are likely to have a pleasant time of it.
Familiars of the Holy Office will become too familiar with us, and after
a few months passed in secret cells, with red-hot pincers and the rack
for recreation, we shall be burnt alive in the market places, shrouded
from head to foot in a san benito, as I have myself seen done in your
delightful city of Seville.”
“You are trying to frighten us by these horrid descriptions of red-hot
pincers and the rack, Rodomont,” said Simnel. “But it won’t do. Such
things will never come to pass in England.”
“Be not too sure of that, Nick,” rejoined Bittern. “You yourself may
march at the head of a procession of penitents to Smithfield before the
year is out.”
“May be I shall,” rejoined Simnel; “but if I am burned at the stake, you
will bear me company. However, I refuse to believe that the Prince of
Spain has any such fell designs as you calumniously attribute to him.
Don Philip will give us an assurance to the contrary. Doubtless he is in
his Highness’s confidence. I pray your lordship to contradict him. Give
him the lie direct.”
“Set your mind at ease, Sir,” rejoined Philip. “The Prince is a good
Catholic, but that you need not be told. But even his abhorrence of
heresy will not induce him to interfere with the religious affairs of
this realm, which belong, of right, to the Queen and the Church. You
need not fear the establishment of the Inquisition.”
As the words were uttered, a passer-by, who had lingered to hear what
was going forward, exclaimed, “’Tis he!” and then, hurrying on his way,
speedily disappeared.
The exclamation troubled Philip, and he felt the necessity of instant
departure.
“I am sorry I cannot longer continue this discourse, gentlemen,” he
said, “neither can I accept Master Tyrrell’s hospitality. I bid you all
good-night.”
And bowing to the party with a dignity that strongly impressed them, and
prevented them from attempting to accompany him, he walked away with
Osbert.
“My mind misgives me,” said Rodomont, looking after him. “Did I not feel
sure the Prince must be on board the ‘Santissima Trinidada,’ I should
think this haughty hidalgo was he. What an air he has!”
“A princely air, indeed!” exclaimed Simnel.
“Who was it cried ‘’Tis he?’” demanded Bittern.
“Nay, I know not,” returned Jack Holiday. “Whoever the fellow might be,
he went away quickly.”
“From the glimpse I caught of him, he looked like the French
Ambassador,” observed Huttoft. “His Excellency is in Southampton. I saw
him this morning.”
“The French Ambassador!” exclaimed Rodomont. “Nay, then, my suspicions
are well founded. Gentlemen, we have been conversing with the Prince of
Spain.”
Expressions of incredulity arose from the whole party.
“If it be the Prince of Spain, I would not give much for your ears,
Rodomont,” said Simnel, laughing. “Bethink you how disrespectfully you
spoke of the Queen.”
“I but affirmed the truth in saying she was not a beauty,” rejoined
Bittern.
“Ay, but the truth must not be spoken when her Majesty’s looks are in
question,” observed Simnel. “You are in for it, friend Rodomont.”
“Bah! I am not afraid,” cried Bittern, “The Prince will be of my opinion
when he beholds his royal consort. Mark what I say. There is not a
gallant in the Two Castiles fonder of a pretty woman than Don Philip—a
pretty woman, d’ye heed? How then will he reconcile himself to one so
much the reverse of beautiful as the Queen? But we must watch over his
Highness’s safety. The French Ambassador is the Prince’s worst enemy,
and capable of doing him a mischief. Good-night, worthy Master Tyrrell.
We will have another merry bout to-morrow. Come along, gentlemen—but
caution!—caution!—The Prince must not perceive that he is followed.”
With this, they all marched down the street.
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