THE HOUSE OF THE WIZARD
[Illustration: QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN
FROM AN ENGRAVING AFTER THE ORIGINAL OF HOLBEIN]
THE
HOUSE OF THE WIZARD
BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR
AUTHOR OF
“ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” “AN IMPERIAL LOVER,”
“A YANKEE VOLUNTEER”
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1899
COPYRIGHT
BY A. C. MCCLURG AND CO.
A. D. 1899
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CAREWS OF DEVON 7
II. A MESSENGER FROM MY LORD PRIVY SEAL 18
III. MISTRESS BETTY GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD 30
IV. THE QUEEN AT KIMBOLTON 40
V. THE GENTLEMAN IN THE RUSSET CLOAK 52
VI. THE WIZARD’S VISIT 65
VII. MISTRESS CAREW’S ALLEGIANCE 82
VIII. THE KING’S MESSENGERS 93
IX. THE MAN WITH A SCAR 102
X. MISTRESS BETTY GOES TO COURT 112
XI. OLD MADAM AT HOME 126
XII. THE PRECONTRACT 142
XIII. THE QUEEN AT GREENWICH 152
XIV. THE STRANGE HOUSE BY THE THAMES 162
XV. A CRY OF TREASON 172
XVI. MY LADY CRABTREE TO THE RESCUE 189
XVII. BETTY AND HER CHAMPION 201
XVIII. A ROYAL LOVE TOKEN 208
XIX. THE JOUSTS AT GREENWICH 215
XX. IN THE APPLE ORCHARD 224
XXI. A MESSENGER FROM LONDON 234
XXII. MY LORD PRIVY SEAL 242
XXIII. MISTRESS BETTY USES HER WHIP 256
XXIV. LOVE AT THE TRAITOR’S GATE 265
XXV. A SEASON OF WAITING 282
XXVI. A PRINCE’S BAPTISM 289
XXVII. THE WIZARD IN THE TOWER 300
XXVIII. A SNARE 309
XXIX. MASTER CROSS-EYES 319
XXX. SIR WILLIAM WINS A WAGER 327
XXXI. THE WIZARD’S FATE 337
The House of the Wizard
CHAPTER I
THE CAREWS OF DEVON
IN the days of King Henry VIII., between Honiton and Exeter, at Luppit,
stood Mohun’s Ottery, the great house of the Carews of Devon. Built
like a fortress, it was too strong to be reduced, save by cannon, and
its walls had sheltered for many years a race of gallant gentlemen,
while its gates were ever open with a generous hospitality that
welcomed both the rich and the poor. Its furnishings and tapestries
were so magnificent that it was commonly reported that they would grace
the king’s palace at Greenwich and not suffer by contrast with any
royal trappings.
The Carews were famous, both at home and abroad, and had been since
the first Carru came over with the Norman Conqueror. There was never
a quarrel on English soil, or for the English cause, that a Carew was
not in the forefront of the battle. One had been Lord Lieutenant of
Ireland, one a captain of Harfleur for King Henry V., and another
fought for Henry VII. A proud and valiant race, claiming kindred with
the Geraldines, loyal and courteous to their friends and ready with
sword and dagger for England’s foes and their own. Sir William Carew,
the head of the Devon branch of the family, held noble sway at Mohun’s
Ottery, and day by day a hundred poor and more were fed by his open
hand, for in those times there was no niggardly charity, although the
king’s laws spared not the valiant beggar. Every gentleman’s house was
in itself a tavern, and men of all conditions came unbidden to the
board, finding, too, a night’s lodging, even though it might be but a
bed of straw upon the stone floor of the hall. The food was neither
scanty nor of mean order; cooks who fed a hundred or so at one meal
were accustomed to serving in a day beef, mutton, venison, pigs, geese,
plovers, curlews, besides pike, bream, and porpoise, and of ale and
wine there was no lack. A plentiful, free feast that drew a multitude
of pensioners; the odors that floated from the kitchens, even on a fast
day, brought a retinue of visitors to the doors, and after meal time
the sounds of revelry told their own story, giving ample proof that
there were no empty stomachs.
It was Shrove Tuesday in the year 1535, and the midday dinner was over
at Mohun’s Ottery, as great a company as usual having been entertained.
Upon the doorstep stood Sir William Carew and his guest, Master
Raleigh, the father of Sir Walter, who was then unborn. These two
worthies were engaged in deep and grave converse upon public matters,
for the Act of the Supremacy had been followed by the Treason Act, and
Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher were in the Tower, having refused
to take the oath without conditions. So there was no lack of matter
for discussion, and the faces of these two were neither unruffled nor
jolly, though they had so lately dined. However, their conversation
was doomed to a sharp interruption. A horse and rider came suddenly
in sight upon the high-road, advancing at so mad a gait that both men
paused in their talk to watch the approach. A great bay horse, flecked
with foam and with blood upon his flank, showing a cruel spur, and on
his back a large and handsome man, gayly dressed, his velvet cloak
embroidered with gold and his hat beplumed, but reeling in his saddle,
keeping his seat, as it seemed, only by a miracle.
“It is Sir Thomas,” Raleigh remarked, after a second glance at the red
face of the rider.
“Ay,” retorted Carew, bitterly, “my worthy brother and, as usual, in
his cups. A naughty rogue it is, and like to be a disgrace to his
blood.”
As he spoke, he fixed a scornful gaze upon the drunken man who was now
coming to the door, trying, too, to sit straight in the saddle, as if
he knew that his brother’s disapproving eyes were on him. A little way
from the entrance stood a large stone horse-block, from which the women
of the household mounted, and toward this Sir Thomas Carew urged his
horse.
“He has been gaming at Exeter,” Sir William remarked coldly; “he is
ever thus after he has been brawling and drinking in a public house. I
have not seen him for a twelvemonth, and I doubt not that he comes to
borrow a hundred pounds; such is like to be his case. ’Pon my soul, a
meritorious beggar!”
The words were scarcely spoken ere Sir Thomas struck his spur again
into his horse’s bleeding flank. The great brute plunged, swerving
madly to one side; his tipsy rider, reeling from the saddle, fell
headlong upon the stone block, rolled over and lay in a hideous heap
at his brother’s feet. The horse turning about as suddenly, trampled
him under foot and rushed back toward the stables, clearing a wide path
in the crowd of spectators who had come out to view the accident. Sir
William and Raleigh both hastened to the fallen man, but something in
the limpness of his figure told its own story. He lay face downward,
and they turned him over to find a lump of mangled flesh, his neck
being broken just below the skull, and his drink-blurred eyes stared
into space.
“Stone dead,” Carew said sternly; “cut off in his sins. God pity him,
for he is like enough to be damned!”
“Here is a sad end,” rejoined Raleigh, looking gravely at the dead man;
“a gallant gentleman brought into such a case by evil communications.
Lend a hand, good fellow, and we will carry in this body,” he added,
addressing the nearest bystander, for the curious crowd had gathered in
a constantly narrowing circle around the central figures.
“Let be, Raleigh,” Sir William interposed coldly; “these grooms shall
take him up; he deserved less for the dishonor he has brought upon his
name.”
With the same proud indignation, unforgiving even to the dead, he
directed the removal of the corpse, and then he and Raleigh followed
it into the house. Without, all tongues were loosed at their departure
and gossip flowed on every hand, and there was food enough for it in
such a life and such a death as this.
“I told Sir Tom ’twould be so!” one of the spectators said, with the
air of a man who felt justified; “that brute was like to end some man’s
life, and who but a Carew would back him in the state of liquor that
yonder poor gentleman was?”
“That horse? Why, man, he held him above all else he had,” cried
another; “he valued the beast above his daughter.”
“Like enough,” was the reply; “certain it is that he valued him above
his wife, poor lady!”
“She has been dead these many years, I take it,” said a third; for,
after the fashion of all such leeches, they were eager to discuss the
affairs of the family whose substance they devoured.
“Ay, dead enough, good luck to her!” rejoined the first speaker.
“They do say Sir Thomas wagered her at dice the very night on which
his daughter was born, and lost his bet, too; but his opponent levied
not the debt, and the poor lady, dying not many years thereafter,
perchance never knew it. Howbeit, it is certain that had she known it,
she could not have hated him more heartily than she did.”
“That’s true enough, my masters,” said an ancient crone. “I knew her
woman, and a sorry death the poor thing made. Even at that hour her
husband was as tipsy as he was but now, and came into her chamber
blubbering, as a sot will sometimes, and with great oaths, that he
would guard her child. My lady heeded not his voice, but cried out
to her tirewoman that the end was near, and she thanked the dear God
for it, and to let her go in peace! She looked but once at her little
daughter and then fell to weeping and blessing her, saying that the
queen would care for this lamb, and so turned her white face to the
wall and died.”
“The queen,--did she commend her baby to the queen?” they all exclaimed.
“Ay, ay,” the old woman answered, “to the queen’s grace; there was but
one queen then, but now there is the old queen and Queen Nan Bullen,
and God wot how many queens there be!”
“Hold thy tongue, mistress!” cried one; “thou wilt be up by the
Treason Act, and hang at Tyburn, if thou hast so foul a tongue!”
“Belike I shall, and all of ye,” the old creature laughed shrilly; “but
it would not profit much to twist my shrivelled neck, there be fairer
ones that would furnish a better entertainment.”
“Where is Carew’s child?” cried one whose thirst for knowledge was not
yet slaked.
“Hidden somewhere in that old nest of his,” returned one of the
gossips; “a sad life she’s had of it and is like to be in a worse case
yet. Sir Thomas never did her a good turn until this day; the worst he
did was to father her. An ill-favored wench, too, when last I saw her,
thin and yellow and with a cold way that made no friends.”
“Then ye have not seen her lately,” the old woman said with a chuckle;
“she has shot up like a young sapling, and has eyes like two stars, and
a smile that will turn many a young fool’s head, albeit her purse is
empty and her kirtle patched.”
“Poor wench, poor Mistress Betty, my heart doth ache for her,” a kinder
woman said, shaking her head.
Strangely enough, at that same moment Mistress Betty Carew was spoken
of within the house by Sir William and his wife. He turned from his
brother’s corpse, a certain stern relenting in his face, and said to
Lady Carew, “There is the child.”
“Ay, we must have her here, William,” his wife replied at once; “you
may not leave your own blood in so poor a strait as he is like to have
left the maid.”
Sir William mused. “How old is she?” he asked.
“Seventeen, come Michaelmas,” Lady Carew replied, watchful of her
husband’s face, her own heart full of compassion for the orphan.
“I know not how she may be bred up,” he said doubtfully; “she was a
plain wench when last I saw her, but that is five years since. Well,
well, she must even come and follow this wretched man’s funeral, and
then you and she will doubtless find a way to settle it to your own
liking.”
So it was that Mistress Betty came to Mohun’s Ottery; a tall, slim
girl in a black gown and with a calm look on her young face that
startled her uncle, so unlike was it to anything in youth. Sir Thomas
was carried from the home of his ancestors with all due state and
ceremony, but there was no pretence of mourning, and the well-born
rogue was laid in his narrow house without a tear. After it was over,
the affairs of the orphan were soon disposed of by Sir William. Finding
that she was dowerless, save for a beauty of which her childhood had
given no promise, he kept her under his own roof, and she lived there
until other events took her to far other scenes. She was then in her
girlhood, growing every day in beauty of a strong and striking type,
and carrying her head like a queen rather than a penniless maid living
in dependence at her uncle’s house. Her form, though slender, gave the
promise of a richer outline, and as she grew happier in her new home,
a color came into her cheeks, a sparkle to her eyes that made her
lovely in the sight of many who marvelled that so plain a child should
grow so beautiful. Lady Carew fretted much, however, at the will that
Mistress Betty showed, which brooked no crossing, and the tongue that
could, in anger, cut like a whip, for this beauty was no saint. There
was, however, that in her lordly nature which scorned all meanness
and baseness, a nobility that shone through the imperfections of her
temper like a star, and looked out through the windows of her great
eyes,--eyes that were clear brown, heavily fringed with black lashes,
and set beneath two straight, black brows. Her mouth closed, perhaps,
a trifle too firmly for so young a woman, and her chin was clear cut as
a man’s, but her voice was sweet and low, and there was witchery in her
smile.