THE MAN WITH A SCAR
IT was a cold and dreary night in London, and through the mist the
lights of the inn blinked like great yellow eyes. Within the public
room there was much jovial entertainment. It was well filled with
guests, some drinking, others playing at dice, and a few eating belated
suppers. It was an establishment much patronized by men of fashion,
and the assembly was of a less motley character than that of most
public houses. Two or three young gentlemen in velvets and satins, with
ruffs of fine lace and jewel-hilted weapons, threw dice at one table,
while at another sat a stately personage in black velvet, perusing
some parchments with the assistance of a shrewd-faced, deferential
companion, the one having the appearance of an eminent jurist and
the other being, no doubt, his clerk. At yet another table sat some
travellers, whose fur-trimmed garments and full wallets suggested
wealthy merchants. Mine host bustled about with a rubicund and smiling
countenance, attended by several servants and a rosy-faced Hebe
bearing the wine cups and glasses. The innkeeper had the air of one who
felt his pockets filling and his reputation growing at the same moment;
a state of bliss seldom attained except by those who minister to the
inner man, the way to a man’s purse, as well as to his heart, being
through his stomach. There was a buzz of conversation, the rattle of
dice, the click of glasses, but it was yet too early for the potations
to take effect, and there was perfect decorum upon all sides.
Beyond this room, which was for public entertainment, there was a
smaller one, opening into it by a low door, in one panel of which was
a little window, a mere aperture, and through this the occupant of the
private apartment might survey the outer room with slight risk of being
discovered,--a convenient peep-hole, where mine host could spy upon his
guests at pleasure. It was a small place and nearly filled by a table
and two chairs. On opposite sides of this table were seated now two men
engaged in earnest conversation. The tapers burning between them shed
their light on the faces of both. To the right sat a little man clad in
a russet cloak, the wizard Sanders; on the left, was quite a different
person. The stranger was tall and well made, fully forty years of age,
and with a face that, while it was handsome in a coarse, bold fashion,
was also rather sinister in expression, and with a sensual mouth and
chin. He was very dark, his hair, already touched with gray on the
temples, accentuating the olive tint of his complexion, and his eyes
being light gray, the effect was not altogether pleasing. Yet his
features were fine and only marred by the scar of a sword-cut, which
almost obliterated his left eyebrow. His dress was of the richest, his
cloak covered with gold embroidery, and the green satin doublet slashed
with white brocade, while his hands, white and soft as a woman’s, were
jewelled. His embroidered gloves lay on the table beside his rapier,
the hilt of which was beautiful in workmanship and glistened with
precious stones. He sat with his elbow on the table, leaning his head
upon his hand and listening to the wizard, who was speaking in low
tones, though no ear could hear him but his companion’s.
“The trump card is gone,” he said calmly, his keen eyes watching the
other narrowly, “but we have yet the Lady Mary.”
“Tush!” ejaculated his friend, “what of that? ’Tis said the king may
have a boy.”
The wizard shook his head with a slow smile.
“Never,” he said composedly. “Henry has ill luck with his men children.
This gay lady is falling out of favor, too; another star riseth yonder.”
“Ay, so they say,” retorted the other, gloomily; “but the change is
like to bring us small comfort, if it comes. We shall have no merry
time until we get the base blood out of the council; yonder hell-hound
tracks us by the scent. I would he were begging again at the door of
Master Friskyball.”
“Look you, Sir Barton,” rejoined the wizard, “my lord privy seal is
more like to pull you by the pate than you him;” and Sanders laughed
with wicked amusement as he eyed his listener. “Bear in mind the fate
of Ap Ryce, and be not too forward. Cromwell is beating the bush
for traitors, and if he finds you,” again the little man laughed
unpleasantly, “a short shrift and your head would grin on London
Bridge.”
“And if it does, why, curse you, so shall yours, you evil spirit!” Sir
Barton cried with a fierce outbreak of temper, the mocking tone of
Sanders having struck him like a goad.
“Pshaw!” retorted the wizard, coolly, “why fall out so swiftly? I do
not fear you, man, or any one. Think you I am so great a fool as to
play this game and lose? Who was it that dealt secretly with the Nun of
Kent?”
He was watching the other with malicious enjoyment; noting the start of
amazement and fear, he leaned back and laughed with a fiendish delight
that enraged the dark man still more.
“You are a fiend!” Sir Barton said between his set teeth. “I tell you,
Sanders, if you betray me, I will send you to the devil before you can
grin that hellish grin of yours twice.”
Undaunted either by the threats or the furious aspect of the man, the
little wizard laughed with apparently intense amusement.
“Come, come, Sir Barton,” he said mockingly, “sit, man; ’tis not in
your horoscope that you should murder me. I find you useful,” he added
in a changed tone, “and you, I believe, have found me so. Waste no
more threats upon me; I fear you as little as the snake that I keep in
my chamber, and whose fangs I drew long since, although he is still
excellent to scare women and children. Save your excessive fury until
such time as the Spaniards and the Irish come to set my Lady Mary on
the throne, when we shall live right merrily again and this same king
shall die as did the man-queller Richard.”
“If we die not first and rot for our part in it,” retorted his
companion, sullenly, having recovered his composure.
“You are not wont to be so downcast, Sir Barton,” the astrologer
remarked, “nor need be. Cromwell’s new notion of parish registers is
working for us among the vulgar; they believe it but a design to find
the means of taxing them, and that they shall no longer eat white meat
or fowls without paying dues to the king’s grace. More than half this
realm is with us; and of the peers, from his grace of Norfolk down, I
think they love not the new order of things, nor do they like the rule
of the cloth-shearer’s son.”
“Ay,” replied his companion, “we are like to have Lord Hussey and
Darcy, besides the Nevilles and the faction of the White Rose. ’Tis
certain we can raise the northern counties when the time is ripe, and
then, the devil take me if I be not the first to thrust a sword in
Cromwell’s belly!” He rose as he spoke and took up his weapon, handling
it as if he loved the thought of the use for which he intended it.
“The devil is very like to have thee, friend,” retorted the wizard,
smiling; “but hark! what stir is that without? Some new-comers are in
the courtyard.”
Sir Barton walked to the door, and pushing back the slide which had
closed the window in the panel, he looked into the public room.
“It is a party of travellers,” he said carelessly; and then changing
his tone, “’tis Sir William Carew of Mohun’s Ottery, that young coxcomb
Raby, and a woman--a handsome one at that,” he added with an oath.
The wizard, who was watching him as a cat watches a mouse, smiled
maliciously.
“Is it a young maid?” he asked, “tall and fine-shaped as Diana, with
red cheeks and great brown eyes that sparkle and change at every
glance, and with hair like the raven’s wing?”
“You have made a fair description,” the tall man replied, “but, by
heaven, you cannot do her justice! She is muffled up, but I saw her
face as she came in, and she’s a beauty.”
The wizard laughed again so wickedly that Sir Barton turned on him.
“Thou grinning devil!” he said; “what is sticking in thy gullet?”
“’Tis retribution, sir,” Sanders said coolly; “you discarded a
penniless betrothed. Penniless she is, but marvellous fair.”
An expression of amazement tinged with superstitious dread came over
his companion’s face.
“How in the fiend’s name do you track men out?” he asked.
The wizard pointed upward. “The stars, noble sir,” he answered meekly;
“my poor art.”
“Who is this beauty?” Sir Barton demanded sharply; “you know well
enough.”
“Ay, I know,” replied Sanders, calmly; “no velvet-tempered kitten,
either. ’Tis Sir William’s niece, the daughter of that rake, Sir
Thomas.”
Sir Barton, uttering an exclamation of profane surprise, opened the
door and walked into the public room, leaving the wizard alone in the
little closet.
Sir William Carew was talking with the host, while in a retired corner,
near the entrance, stood Mistress Betty, and beside her, Master Raby.
The young girl’s mantle was muffled about her shoulders, but her hood
had fallen back a little, revealing enough of the face beneath to draw
the attention of many of the guests. But she was so busily engaged
in talking to her companion that she was unconscious of the admiring
glances cast in her direction. A servant had brought some hot drinks
for the party and would have set a table for them, but this Sir William
refused, saying that he was pressed for time. Sir Barton walked up
to him, to be received in no very friendly fashion, Carew’s greeting
indicating plainly that he desired no company upon the road. After an
ineffectual attempt at conversation, the other drew back haughtily,
but stood watching Mistress Betty, until the persistency of his gaze
attracted the attention of her cavalier, who moved between, giving the
offender a hard glance that was intended to teach him better manners.
It was returned in kind, the two men looking defiance at each other
over the heads of those who sat at the tables. In a few moments,
however, Sir William led his party out again to resume their journey.
As Raby helped Betty into the saddle, he saw the tall man standing on
the threshold of the inn.
“Your uncle’s friend must needs follow still, Mistress Carew,” he
remarked; “the impudent knave never took his eyes from your face; he
deserves chastisement.”
Betty laughed softly. “Nay, sir,” she said in an amused tone, “surely
the curiosity of a stranger is no great offence.”
“I should be the happier for laying my sword across his shoulders, for
all that,” retorted her companion.
The young girl glanced at the dark figure on the threshold with new
interest; she was not without enjoyment of the admiration that she
was beginning to receive. One of the stable-boys came running with a
lighted torch to help Sir William to adjust his saddle. Master Raby
bent forward and took Betty’s bridle rein.
“Let me guide thy beast, Mistress Carew,” he said.
But she heard him not. The light of the torch flared full on the figure
in the door. Even through the mist, which hung between like a thin
veil, she saw the glittering dress, the dark face, and the scar across
the left eyebrow.
A moment afterwards, Carew’s party rode out of the yard.
“Uncle, uncle,” cried Mistress Betty, in a strange voice, “who was
yonder dark man that spoke with you?”
“’Twas Henge, Sir Barton Henge,” said Carew; “but what is that to thee,
wench?”