CHAPTER II. JOHN CASTELL.
CHAPTER III. PETER GATHERS VIOLETS.
CHAPTER IV. LOVERS DEAR.
CHAPTER V. CASTELL’S SECRET.
CHAPTER VI. FAREWELL.
CHAPTER VII. NEWS FROM SPAIN.
CHAPTER VIII. D’AGUILAR SPEAKS.
CHAPTER IX. THE SNARE.
CHAPTER X. THE CHASE.
CHAPTER XI. THE MEETING ON THE SEA.
CHAPTER XII. FATHER HENRIQUES.
CHAPTER XIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE INN.
CHAPTER XIV. INEZ AND HER GARDEN.
CHAPTER XV. PETER PLAYS A PART.
CHAPTER XVI. BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH.
CHAPTER XVII. THE PLOT.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE HOLY HERMANDAD.
CHAPTER XIX. BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS.
CHAPTER XX. ISABELLA OF SPAIN.
CHAPTER XXI. BETTY STATES HER CASE.
CHAPTER XXII. THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL.
CHAPTER XXIII. FATHER HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE FALCON STOOPS.
CHAPTER XXV. HOW THE MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA.
ENVOI.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“A DOVE, COMRADES!—A DOVE!”
CASTELL DECLARES HIMSELF A JEW
“YOU MEAN THAT YOU WISH TO MURDER ME”
MARGARET APPEARED DESCENDING THE BROAD OAK STAIRS
IN ANOTHER MOMENT THAT STEEL WOULD HAVE PIERCED HIS HEART
THE GALE CAUGHT HIM AND BLEW HIM TO AND FRO
“LADY,” HE SAID, “THIS IS NO DEED OF MINE”
A CRUEL-LOOKING KNIFE AND A NAKED ARM PROJECTED THROUGH THE PANELLING
“MY NAME IS INEZ. YOU WANDER STILL, SEÑOR”
“THERE ARE OTHERS WHERE THEY CAME FROM”
“TO-DAY I DARE TO HOPE THAT IT MAY BE OTHERWISE”
A MAGNIFICENTLY ATTIRED LADY OF MIDDLE AGE
“WAY! MAKE WAY FOR THE MARCHIONESS OF MORELLA!”
“WE ARE PLAYERS IN A STRANGE GAME, MY LADY MARGARET”
“YOU WILL HAVE TO FIGHT ME FIRST, PETER”
FAIR MARGARET
CHAPTER I.
HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD.
It was a spring afternoon in the sixth year of the reign of King Henry
VII. of England. There had been a great show in London, for that day
his Grace opened the newly convened Parliament, and announced to his
faithful people—who received the news with much cheering, since war is
ever popular at first—his intention of invading France, and of leading
the English armies in person. In Parliament itself, it is true, the
general enthusiasm was somewhat dashed when allusion was made to the
finding of the needful funds; but the crowds without, formed for the
most part of persons who would not be called upon to pay the money, did
not suffer that side of the question to trouble them. So when their
gracious liege appeared, surrounded by his glittering escort of nobles
and men-at-arms, they threw their caps into the air, and shouted
themselves hoarse.
The king himself, although he was still young in years, already a
weary-looking man with a fine, pinched face, smiled a little
sarcastically at their clamour; but, remembering how glad he should be
to hear it who still sat upon a somewhat doubtful throne, said a few
soft words, and sending for two or three of the leaders of the people,
gave them his royal hand, and suffered certain children to touch his
robe that they might be cured of the Evil. Then, having paused a while
to receive petitions from poor folk, which he handed to one of his
officers to be read, amidst renewed shouting he passed on to the great
feast that was made ready in his palace of Westminster.
Among those who rode near to him was the ambassador, de Ayala,
accredited to the English Court by the Spanish sovereigns, Ferdinand
and Isabella, and his following of splendidly attired lords and
secretaries. That Spain was much in favour there was evident from his
place in the procession. How could it be otherwise, indeed, seeing that
already, four years or more before, at the age of twelve months, Prince
Arthur, the eldest son of the king, had been formally affianced to the
Infanta Catherine, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, aged one year
and nine months? For in those days it was thought well that the
affections of princes and princesses should be directed early into such
paths as their royal parents and governors considered likely to prove
most profitable to themselves.
At the ambassador’s left hand, mounted on a fine black horse, and
dressed richly, but simply, in black velvet, with a cap of the same
material in which was fastened a single pearl, rode a tall cavalier. He
was about five-and-thirty years of age, and very handsome, having
piercing black eyes and a stern, clean-cut face.
In every man, it is said, there can be found a resemblance, often far
off and fanciful enough, to some beast or bird or other creature, and
certainly in this case it was not hard to discover. The man resembled
an eagle, which, whether by chance or design, was the crest he bore
upon his servants’ livery, and the trappings of his horse. The
unflinching eyes, the hooked nose, the air of pride and mastery, the
thin, long hand, the quick grace of movement, all suggested that king
of birds, suggested also, as his motto said, that what he sought he
would find, and what he found he would keep. Just now he was watching
the interview between the English king and the leaders of the crowd
whom his Grace had been pleased to summon, with an air of mingled
amusement and contempt.
“You find the scene strange, Marquis,” said the ambassador, glancing at
him shrewdly.
“Señor, here in England, if it pleases your Excellency,” he answered
gravely, “Señor d’Aguilar. The marquis you mentioned lives in Spain—an
accredited envoy to the Moors of Granada; the Señor d’Aguilar, a humble
servant of Holy Church,” and he crossed himself, “travels abroad—upon
the Church’s business, and that of their Majesties’.”
“And his own too, sometimes, I believe,” answered the ambassador drily.
“But to be frank, what I do not understand about you, Señor d’Aguilar,
as I know that you have abandoned political ambitions, is why you do
not enter my profession, and put on the black robe once and for all.
What did I say—black? With your opportunities and connections it might
be red by now, with a hat to match.”
The Señor d’Aguilar smiled a little as he replied.
“You said, I think, that sometimes I travel on my own business. Well,
there is your answer. You are right, I have abandoned worldly
ambitions—most of them. They are troublesome, and for some people, if
they be born too high and yet not altogether rightly, very dangerous.
The acorn of ambition often grows into an oak from which men hang.”
“Or into a log upon which men’s heads can be cut off. Señor, I
congratulate you. You have the wisdom that grasps the substance and
lets the shadows flit. It is really very rare.”
“You asked why I do not change the cut of my garments,” went on
d’Aguilar, without noticing the interruption. “Excellency, to be frank,
because of my own business. I have failings like other men. For
instance, wealth is that substance of which you spoke, rule is the
shadow; he who has the wealth has the real rule. Again, bright eyes may
draw me, or a hate may seek its slaking, and these things do not suit
robes, black or red.”
“Yet many such things have been done by those who wore them,” replied
the ambassador with meaning.
“Aye, Excellency, to the discredit of Holy Church, as you, a priest,
know better than most men. Let the earth be evil as it must; but let
the Church be like heaven above it, pure, unstained, the vault of
prayer, the house of mercy and of righteous judgment, wherein walks no
sinner such as I,” and again he crossed himself.
There was a ring of earnestness in the speaker’s voice that caused de
Ayala, who knew something of his private reputation, to look at him
curiously.
“A true fanatic, and therefore to us a useful man,” he thought to
himself, “though one who knows how to make the best of two worlds as
well as most of them;” but aloud he said, “No wonder that our Church
rejoices in such a son, and that her enemies tremble when he lifts her
sword. But, Señor, you have not told me what you think of all this
ceremony and people.”
“The people I know well, Excellency, for I dwelt among them in past
years and speak their language; and that is why I have left Granada to
look after itself for a while, and am here to-day, to watch and make
report——” He checked himself, then added, “As for the ceremony, were I
a king I would have it otherwise. Why, in that house just now those
vulgar Commons—for so they call them, do they not?—almost threatened
their royal master when he humbly craved a tithe of the country’s
wealth to fight the country’s war. Yes, and I saw him turn pale and
tremble at the rough voices, as though their echoes shook his throne. I
tell you, Excellency, that the time will come in this land when those
Commons will be king. Look now at that fellow whom his Grace holds by
the hand, calling him ‘sir’ and ‘master,’ and yet whom he knows to be,
as I do, a heretic, a Jew in disguise, whose sins, if he had his
rights, should be purged by fire. Why, to my knowledge last night, that
Israelite said things against the Church——”
“Whereof the Church, or its servant, doubtless made notes to be used
when the time comes,” broke in de Ayala. “But the audience is done, and
his Highness beckons us forward to the feast, where there will be no
heretics to vex us, and, as it is Lent, not much to eat. Come, Señor!
for we stop the way.”
Three hours had gone by, and the sun sank redly, for even at that
spring season it was cold upon the marshy lands of Westminster, and
there was frost in the air. On the open space opposite to the
banqueting-hall, in front of which were gathered squires and grooms
with horses, stood and walked many citizens of London, who, their day’s
work done, came to see the king pass by in state. Among these were a
man and a lady, the latter attended by a handsome young woman, who were
all three sufficiently striking in appearance to attract some notice in
the throng.
The man, a person of about thirty years of age, dressed in a merchant’s
robe of cloth, and wearing a knife in his girdle, seemed over six feet
in height, while his companion, in her flowing, fur-trimmed cloak, was,
for a woman, also of unusual stature. He was not, strictly speaking, a
handsome man, being somewhat too high of forehead and prominent of
feature; moreover, one of his clean-shaven cheeks, the right, was
marred by the long, red scar of a sword-cut which stretched from the
temple to the strong chin. His face, however, was open and manly, if
rather stern, and the grey eyes were steady and frank. It was not the
face of a merchant, but rather that of one of good degree, accustomed
to camps and war. For the rest, his figure was well-built and active,
and his voice when he spoke, which was seldom, clear and distinct to
loudness, but cultivated and pleasant—again, not the voice of a
merchant.
Of the lady’s figure little could be seen because of the long cloak
that hid it, but the face, which appeared within its hood when she
turned and the dying sunlight filled her eyes, was lovely indeed, for
from her birth to her death-day Margaret Castell—fair Margaret, as she
was called—had this gift to a degree that is rarely granted to woman.
Rounded and flower-like was that face, most delicately tinted also,
with rich and curving lips and a broad, snow-white brow. But the wonder
of it, what distinguished her above everything else from other
beautiful women of her time, was to be found in her eyes, for these
were not blue or grey, as might have been expected from her general
colouring, but large, black, and lustrous; soft, too, as the eyes of a
deer, and overhung by curling lashes of an ebon black. The effect of
these eyes of hers shining above those tinted cheeks and beneath the
brow of ivory whiteness was so strange as to be almost startling. They
caught the beholder and held him, as might the sudden sight of a rose
in snow, or the morning star hanging luminous among the mists of dawn.
Also, although they were so gentle and modest, if that beholder chanced
to be a man on the good side of fifty it was often long before he could
forget them, especially if he were privileged to see how well they
matched the hair of chestnut, shading into black, that waved above them
and fell, tress upon tress, upon the shapely shoulders and down to the
slender waist.
Peter Brome, for he was so named, looked a little anxiously about him
at the crowd, then, turning, addressed Margaret in his strong, clear
voice.
“There are rough folk around,” he said; “do you think you should stop
here? Your father might be angered, Cousin.”
Here it may be explained that in reality their kinship was of the
slightest, a mere dash of blood that came to her through her mother.
Still they called each other thus, since it is a convenient title that
may mean much or nothing.
“Oh! why not?” she answered in her rich, slow tones, that had in them
some foreign quality, something soft and sweet as the caress of a
southern wind at night. “With you, Cousin,” and she glanced approvingly
at his stalwart, soldier-like form, “I have nothing to fear from men,
however rough, and I do greatly want to see the king close by, and so
does Betty. Don’t you, Betty?” and she turned to her companion.
Betty Dene, whom she addressed, was also a cousin of Margaret, though
only a distant connection of Peter Brome. She was of very good blood,
but her father, a wild and dissolute man, had broken her mother’s
heart, and, like that mother, died early, leaving Betty dependent upon
Margaret’s mother, in whose house she had been brought up. This Betty
was in her way remarkable, both in body and mind. Fair, splendidly
formed, strong, with wide, bold, blue eyes and ripe red lips, such was
the fashion of her. In speech she was careless and vigorous. Fond of
the society of men, and fonder still of their admiration, for she was
romantic and vain, Betty at the age of five-and-twenty was yet an
honest girl, and well able to take care of herself, as more than one of
her admirers had discovered. Although her position was humble, at heart
she was very proud of her lineage, ambitious also, her great desire
being to raise herself by marriage back to the station from which her
father’s folly had cast her down—no easy business for one who passed as
a waiting-woman and was without fortune.
For the rest, she loved and admired her cousin Margaret more than any
one on earth, while Peter she liked and respected, none the less
perhaps because, try as she would—and, being nettled, she did try hard
enough—her beauty and other charms left him quite unmoved.
In answer to Margaret’s question she laughed and answered:
“Of course. We are all too busy up in Holborn to get the chance of so
many shows that I should wish to miss one. Still, Master Peter is very
wise, and I am always counselled to obey him. Also, it will soon be
dark.”
“Well, well,” said Margaret with a sigh and a little shrug of her
shoulders, “as you are both against me, perhaps we had best be going.
Next time I come out walking, cousin Peter, it shall be with some one
who is more kind.”
Then she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could
through the thickening crowd. Finding this difficult, before Peter
could stop her, for she was very swift in her movements, Margaret bore
to the right, entering the space immediately in front of the
banqueting-hall where the grooms with horses and soldiers were
assembled awaiting their lords, for here there was more room to walk.
For a few moments Peter and Betty were unable to escape from the mob
which closed in behind her, and thus it came about that Margaret found
herself alone among these people, in the midst, indeed, of the guard of
the Spanish ambassador de Ayala, men who were notorious for their
lawlessness, for they reckoned upon their master’s privilege to protect
them. Also, for the most part, they were just then more or less in
liquor.
One of these fellows, a great, red-haired Scotchman, whom the
priest-diplomatist had brought with him from that country, where he had
also been ambassador, suddenly perceiving before him a woman who
appeared to be young and pretty, determined to examine her more
closely, and to this end made use of a rude stratagem. Pretending to
stumble, he grasped at Margaret’s cloak as though to save himself, and
with a wrench tore it open, revealing her beautiful face and graceful
figure.
“A dove, comrades!—a dove!” he shouted in a voice thick with drink,
“who has flown here to give me a kiss.” And, casting his long arms
about her, he strove to draw her to him.
[Illustration: ]
“A dove, comrades!—A dove!”
“Peter! Help me, Peter!” cried Margaret as she struggled fiercely in
his grip.
“No, no, if you want a saint, my bonny lass,” said the drunken
Scotchman, “Andrew is as good as Peter,” at which witticism those of
the others who understood him laughed, for the man’s name was Andrew.
Next instant they laughed again, and to the ruffian Andrew it seemed as
though suddenly he had fallen into the power of a whirlwind. At least
Margaret was wrenched away from him, while he spun round and round to
fall violently upon his face.
“That’s Peter!” exclaimed one of the soldiers in Spanish.
“Yes,” answered another, “and a patron saint worth having”; while a
third pulled the recumbent Andrew to his feet.
The man looked like a devil. His cap had gone, and his fiery red hair
was smeared with mud. Moreover, his nose had been broken on a cobble
stone, and blood from it poured all over him, while his little red eyes
glared like a ferret’s, and his face turned a dirty white with pain and
rage. Howling out something in Scotch, of a sudden he drew his sword
and rushed straight at his adversary, purposing to kill him.
Now, Peter had no sword, but only his short knife, which he found no
time to draw. In his hand, however, he carried a stout holly staff shod
with iron, and, while Margaret clasped her hands and Betty screamed, on
this he caught the descending blow, and, furious as it was, parried and
turned it. Then, before the man could strike again, that staff was up,
and Peter had leapt upon him. It fell with fearful force, breaking the
Scotchman’s shoulder and sending him reeling back.
“Shrewdly struck, Peter! Well done, Peter!” shouted the spectators.
But Peter neither saw nor heard them, for he was mad with rage at the
insult that had been offered to Margaret. Up flew the iron-tipped staff
again, and down it came, this time full on Andrew’s head, which it
shattered like an egg-shell, so that the brute fell backwards, dead.
For a moment there was silence, for the joke had taken a tragic turn.
Then one of the Spaniards said, glancing at the prostrate form:
“Name of God! our mate is done for. That merchant hits hard.”
Instantly there arose a murmur among the dead man’s comrades, and one
of them cried:
“Cut him down!”
Understanding that he was to be set on, Peter sprang forward and
snatched the Scotchman’s sword from the ground where it had fallen, at
the same time dropping his staff and drawing his dagger with the left
hand. Now he was well armed, and looked so fierce and soldier-like as
he faced his foes, that, although four or five blades were out, they
held back. Then Peter spoke for the first time, for he knew that
against so many he had no chance.
“Englishmen,” he cried in ringing tones, but without shifting his head
or glance, “will you see me murdered by these Spanish dogs?”
There was a moment’s pause, then a voice behind cried:
“By God! not I,” and a brawny Kentish man-at-arms ranged up beside him,
his cloak thrown over his left arm, and his sword in his right hand.
“Nor I,” said another. “Peter Brome and I have fought together before.”
“Nor I,” shouted a third, “for we were born in the same Essex hundred.”
And so it went on, until there were as many stout Englishmen at his
side as there were Spaniards and Scotchmen before him.
“That will do,” said Peter, “we want no more than man to man. Look to
the women, comrades behind there. Now, you murderers, if you would see
English sword-play, come on, or, if you are afraid, let us go in
peace.”
“Yes, come on, you foreign cowards,” shouted the mob, who did not love
these turbulent and privileged guards.
By now the Spanish blood was up, and the old race-hatred awake. In
broken English the sergeant of the guard shouted out some filthy insult
about Margaret, and called upon his followers to “cut the throats of
the London swine.” Swords shone red in the red sunset light, men
shifted their feet and bent forward, and in another instant a great and
bloody fray would have begun.
But it did not begin, for at that moment a tall señor, who had been
standing in the shadow and watching all that passed, walked between the
opposing lines, as he went striking up the swords with his arm.
“Have done,” said d’Aguilar quietly, for it was he, speaking in
Spanish. “You fools! do you want to see every Spaniard in London torn
to pieces? As for that drunken brute,” and he touched the corpse of
Andrew with his foot, “he brought his death upon himself. Moreover, he
was not a Spaniard, there is no blood quarrel. Come, obey me! or must I
tell you who I am?”
“We know you, Marquis,” said the leader in a cowed voice. “Sheath your
swords, comrades; after all, it is no affair of ours.”
The men obeyed somewhat unwillingly; but at this moment arrived the
ambassador de Ayala, very angry, for he had heard of the death of his
servant, demanding, in a loud voice, that the man who had killed him
should be given up.
“We will not give him up to a Spanish priest,” shouted the mob. “Come
and take him if you want him,” and once more the tumult grew, while
Peter and his companions made ready to fight.
Fighting there would have been also, notwithstanding all that d’Aguilar
could do to prevent it; but of a sudden the noise began to die away,
and a hush fell upon the place. Then between the uplifted weapons
walked a short, richly clad man, who turned suddenly and faced the mob.
It was King Henry himself.
“Who dare to draw swords in my streets, before my very palace doors?”
he asked in a cold voice.
A dozen hands pointed at Peter.
“Speak,” said the king to him.
“Margaret, come here,” cried Peter; and the girl was thrust forward to
him.
“Sire,” he said, “that man,” and he pointed to the corpse of Andrew,
“tried to do wrong to this maiden, John Castell’s child. I, her cousin,
threw him down. He drew his sword and came at me, and I killed him with
my staff. See, it lies there. Then the Spaniards—his comrades—would
have cut me down, and I called for English help. Sire, that is all.”
The king looked him up and down.
“A merchant by your dress,” he said; “but a soldier by your mien. How
are you named?”
“Peter Brome, Sire.”
“Ah! There was a certain Sir Peter Brome who fell at Bosworth Field—not
fighting for me,” and he smiled. “Did you know him perchance?”
“He was my father, Sire, and I saw him slain—aye, and slew the slayer.”
“Well can I believe it,” answered Henry, considering him. “But how
comes it that Peter Brome’s son, who wears that battle scar across his
face, is clad in merchant’s woollen?”
“Sire,” said Peter coolly, “my father sold his lands, lent his all to
the Crown, and I have never rendered the account. Therefore I must live
as I can.”
The king laughed outright as he replied:
“I like you, Peter Brome, though doubtless you hate me.”
“Not so, Sire. While Richard lived I fought for Richard. Richard is
gone; and, if need be, I would fight for Henry, who am an Englishman,
and serve England’s king.”
“Well said, and I may have need of you yet, nor do I bear you any
grudge. But, I forgot, is it thus that you would fight for me, by
causing riot in my streets, and bringing me into trouble with my good
friends the Spaniards?”
“Sire, you know the story.”
“I know your story, but who bears witness to it? Do you, maiden,
Castell the merchant’s daughter?”
“Aye, Sire. The man whom my cousin killed maltreated me, whose only
wrong was that I waited to see your Grace pass by. Look on my torn
cloak.”
“Little wonder that he killed him for the sake of those eyes of yours,
maiden. But this witness may be tainted.” And again he smiled, adding,
“Is there no other?”
Betty advanced to speak, but d’Aguilar, stepping forward, lifted his
bonnet from his head, bowed and said in English:
“Your Grace, there is; I saw it all. This gallant gentleman had no
blame. It was the servants of my countryman de Ayala who were to blame,
at any rate at first, and afterwards came the trouble.”
Now the ambassador de Ayala broke in, claiming satisfaction for the
killing of his man, for he was still very angry, and saying that if it
were not given, he would report the matter to their Majesties of Spain,
and let them know how their servants were treated in London.
At these words Henry grew grave, who, above all things, wished to give
no offence to Ferdinand and Isabella.
“You have done an ill day’s work, Peter Brome,” he said, “and one of
which my attorney must consider. Meanwhile, you will be best in safe
keeping,” and he turned as though to order his arrest.
“Sire,” exclaimed Peter, “I live at Master Castell’s house in Holborn,
nor shall I run away.”
“Who will answer for that,” asked the king, “or that you will not make
more riots on your road thither?”
“I will answer, your Grace,” said d’Aguilar quietly, “if this lady will
permit that I escort her and her cousin home. Also,” he added in a low
voice, “it seems to me that to hale him to a prison would be more like
to breed a riot than to let him go.”
Henry glanced round him at the great crowd who were gathered watching
this scene, and saw something in their faces which caused him to agree
with d’Aguilar.
“So be it, Marquis,” he said. “I have your word, and that of Peter
Brome, that he will be forthcoming if called upon. Let that dead man be
laid in the Abbey till to-morrow, when this matter shall be inquired
of. Excellency, give me your arm; I have greater questions of which I
wish to speak with you ere we sleep.”