MY LADY CRABTREE TO THE RESCUE
IN the gallery adjoining the apartments of the queen, Simon Raby waited
for tidings of her condition, and also for a glimpse of Mistress Betty.
Francis Bryan had been called away to attend upon the king. Henry had
returned to Greenwich, but made no inquiry for his consort, for of late
they had met only in public.
Raby walked alone in the lofty gallery, pacing to and fro, with his
arms folded on his breast and his head bent in thought. He came of
a brave race, and showed it in his gallant bearing and the fine
expression of his face. Trained from boyhood for a soldier, as every
English boy was in those days, he had seen service both in France and
Ireland, and was esteemed a courageous and keen-witted officer, if
somewhat reckless. Reared in a worldly school, he had led a gay and
careless life; but there were too fine elements of manhood in him to be
choked by the evil that in many natures, under such influences, shoots
up more rapidly than the good. None of his family were living except
his father, and death was soon to sever that last tie. Among all the
beauties of the court who had won his fancy and even touched his heart,
none had ever seemed so charming as the penniless orphan whom fate
had made an attendant upon Queen Anne. His admiration kindled by the
beauty of Betty’s face had swiftly grown into the proportions of a far
deeper passion than he had ever known, and his generous nature, too,
was touched by the peculiar hardships of her situation. For forgetting
her lack of dower he deserved no great credit, since a man like Barton
Henge could also be completely dazzled by the young girl’s personal
loveliness.
As Raby walked there in the gallery, he gave no thought to his
appointment with Henge; a duel was a matter of too common occurrence in
his adventurous life to be of any particular moment. He was an expert
swordsman, and his contempt for his adversary’s character was so great
that he underrated his skill and regarded him as no very dangerous foe.
After the queen’s return, her shrieks were audible even in the place
where Raby walked; but they were hushed at last, and in the stillness
he heard the great clock of the palace striking twelve. He went to a
casement, and throwing it open, looked out upon the night. The moon
was setting and a few soft clouds drifted above it; below, the park
was full of black shadows, and in the distance the hounds of the royal
pack bayed in a melancholy monotone. The strange adventures of the
evening might well have stirred hardier nerves, and Raby shared the
superstitions of the times. The weird black and white outlines of the
scene oppressed him; it seemed to him that a calamity hung over the
palace, and the queen’s wild cries still rang in his ears. He closed
the casement sharply and turned just as the door opened, and Mistress
Carew came in alone. A glance at her pale face told him that something
unusually painful had occurred.
“How fares the queen?” he asked eagerly.
“She sleeps at last,” Betty replied; “but she has been in a grievous
state, crying and laughing like a mad woman, and would take no comfort.
She told her fearful vision to Mistress Wyatt, and ’tis no wonder that
she is so distressed;” and with an awed face and agitated voice she
went on to tell Raby of the mirror and its dark revelations.
“I remember,” she said, in conclusion, “that he made this prophecy to
Queen Catherine at Kimbolton, or something very like it; and when her
maids would have upbraided this queen, she said that they would soon
have cause to pity her and lament her case.”
“Some estrangement there is between the king’s grace and Queen Anne,”
Raby answered in a low tone; “but I take it for a lovers’ quarrel, and
no more. As for this vision, that wizard should be jailed for it. What
need had he to so torment the unhappy lady? Doubtless he is of the
party favoring the Lady Mary and would right gladly drive the queen to
madness. Conspiracy is everywhere, and the death of Catherine has but
discouraged it for a moment; the papists are openly discontent, and
there is a great faction among the nobility, who hate my lord privy
seal. We may be sure that this wizard is among the plotters, and had I
any doubt of it, ’twould be removed by the appearance there of Henge,
who, I believe, is up to the elbows in these treasons, albeit he hath
yet the ear of Cromwell.”
A wave of color swept over Betty’s face at the mention of the obnoxious
name.
“Master Raby,” she said, with embarrassment in her tone, “I have to
thank you for coming to my aid this night, but I was most unhappy to
provoke a quarrel between you and that man, who is unworthy of your
notice.”
“And did you dream that I would stand by to see you annoyed by the
rogue?” he answered lightly; “I would sooner break his neck.”
“And I would not grieve were it broken, sir,” she said, “though I would
not rejoice to cause the death of any man, however vile. Master Raby,
I pray you, let the matter go no further; there is no need for you to
accept a challenge from a rogue.”
Willing to conceal the true state of affairs, Raby smiled.
“We will not speak of that which pains you, Mistress Carew,” he said
cheerfully. “A flogging at Saint Paul’s Cross would better serve the
knave than to meet a gentleman, albeit Henge is of noble blood.”
Mistress Betty gave him a searching glance. Accustomed to the clash
of swords and to many a wild scene in Devon, she had but few feminine
fears, yet her heart throbbed at the thought of a sword-thrust in the
breast of this brave gentleman.
“You are going to fight him,” she said in a low voice, “and for me.
Alas! I was both foolish and wicked to provoke the quarrel; sir, I
pray you to forbear.”
Their eyes met, and she saw a light shining in Raby’s that a duller
woman could have read. A sweet confusion made her stand blushing like a
timid child.
“And if I draw not my sword in your quarrel, for whom shall I draw it?”
he said in a softer tone. “Fear not, Mistress Carew, the rogue shall
have a just chastisement; ’tis not worthy of a thought of yours, yet I
rejoice to think that what I do is not a matter of indifference to you.”
Betty looked up bravely. “Sir,” she murmured, “I shall never forgive
myself if you take hurt in my cause. I pray you let him go; ’twas you
who were the aggressor, and there can be no dishonor in counting the
matter too unworthy for your notice. For my sake, since I made the
offence, I do beseech you leave the quarrel to oblivion.”
Raby took her hand and kissed it passionately. “For thy sake, mistress,
I would do all save lose my honor,” he whispered tenderly.
Betty drew away her hand with a crimson face just as Mary Wyatt and
Lady Rochford came from the queen’s room, and so interrupted the tender
little scene.
“Master Raby, I pray you do me the courtesy to bear this missive to
Sir Francis,” Mrs. Wyatt said in a weary voice; “and then I trust that
we may all sleep sound till morning dawns, and so try to forget this
agony.”
“Has the king come?” asked Lady Rochford; “they told me that his grace
came late last night.”
“And so he did, madam,” Raby replied, as he took Mary Wyatt’s missive
and, with a salutation which included all, although his eyes sought
Betty’s, he left the gallery to do his errand.
“To bed, to bed!” said Lady Rochford, when the three women were alone;
“I am well nigh faint for lack of sleep.”
As they walked together to their chambers, Betty turned thoughtfully to
Mrs. Wyatt.
“Where was the king’s grace to-day?” she asked in a low voice.
“I know not,” retorted Mary Wyatt, in a bitter tone, “but doubtless
with that trollop Seymour!”
Betty asked no more questions, but went to her own room and said a
prayer for the protection of Simon Raby from the man she hated; and
after tossing for a while upon her pillow, fell asleep at last, as the
first light of the winter morning dawned in a gray sky.
A little later, when the sun was rising, its rays shining but faintly
through the heavy mist that was hanging over the scene, making the
tall trees of Greenwich Park loom like spectral giants through the
folds of vapor, Simon Raby set out alone to keep his engagement with
Sir Barton Henge. Armed only with his rapier and muffled in a heavy
cloak, he walked leisurely away from the palace, and proceeded through
the more lonely portions of the park toward the river. His depression
of the night before had passed with the darkness; Queen Anne’s vision
concerned him too little to disturb his thoughts longer. As he passed
beyond the immediate vicinity of the palace, he quickened his steps.
Even at that early hour there was the stir of a great establishment
awakening; he met a company of cooks and scullions running toward the
royal kitchens, and several messengers rode out post-haste, for the
day’s errands began early.
The spot appointed for the meeting was on the outskirts of the park
near the river, and took Raby through the loneliest places. The morning
fog cut off his vision beyond a short circuit as he advanced under the
trees, and after a while all sounds from the palace ceased to reach
his ears. His path grew narrow as he came in sight of the river and was
surrounded by a low thicket where the underbrush had not been cleared
away. The beautiful face and dark eyes of Mistress Betty filled his
mental vision, and he walked on, careless of possible danger from a
treacherous foe; it was not in his nature to take any precaution for
his own safety. He was scarce twenty yards from the trysting-place when
there was a crackling of dead branches on either side of him, and two
masked men sprang out upon him. Unprepared as he was for the onslaught,
he was too bold a soldier to be disconcerted, and his sword flew from
the scabbard. Being swift of foot and agile, he evaded the heavier of
his two assailants, and getting his back against a tree, made a fair
defence. But it was two to one, and he had small chance to escape, and
saw it. In the desperate struggle which ensued, he had no time save to
parry the blows which were aimed at his throat. Then, remembering that
he was near the river and boats might be passing even then, he shouted
twice for help even while he fought with the courage of despair. The
black masks with holes, through which shone the eyes of his assailants,
their silence and their determination began to work upon him, and the
cold perspiration stood out on his face. But with marvellous firmness
he beat back their swords, the gleaming points of which began to dazzle
his eyes. Once more, though sore spent, he shouted, and now there was
an answer, a cry from the direction of the river. At the sound of it
the stouter of the two villains turned and fled into the thicket,
evidently having no mind to encounter a reinforcement; but the other
engaged Raby the more fiercely. However, it was now an equal struggle,
and Simon was giving thrust for thrust when a party of strangers broke
through the thicket from the river side and the mask received so sharp
a blow on the back of his head that he fell prostrate. Looking across
the body of his stricken assailant, Raby recognized with amazement
the manly figure of Lady Crabtree, her farthingale looped high and
displaying her huge boots, while a stout staff was clasped in the great
fist that had dealt the blow. Behind her were a group of her attendants
and some watermen, all gaping at the scene in wide-mouthed curiosity.
“What gear is this, Raby?” she demanded, and stirred the unconscious
man with her foot.
“A small matter, madam,” responded Simon; “two villains would have
murdered me.”
At this, the fallen man began to move; and Lady Crabtree, bending down,
tore the mask from the handsome dark face.
“Henge!” she exclaimed; “a pretty business and a pretty rogue! Now have
we a chance to deliver him to the provost. Here, fellows, lend your
hands and put this gentleman murderer in the barge.”
“Stay, madam,” said Raby, “this is my quarrel; let the villain go. He
hath forfeited all right to meet a gentleman upon equal terms, and
if you drag him into court, he will but blow abroad a matter which
concerns a noble lady. Let the brute run to his kennel. He comes to
himself. Is this your way to fight, Sir Barton?”
Henge staggered to his feet with a muttered curse, and groped about for
his sword.
Old Madam pointed to the path that led from the palace.
“Look you, Barton Henge,” she said; “here be men enough to lay you by
the heels, and if you stir a finger, your throat will be slit, despite
this gentleman who spares you. Go!--and swiftly, for my fingers itch to
rap your pate again, you villain!”
“A curse upon you!” answered Henge, as he prepared to obey, having no
alternative; “for once you have outwitted me, but the devil take me if
you do it again!”
My lady laughed a shrill, discordant laugh.
“He hath you, friend,” she said; “go to the wizard’s house upon the
Thames and worship him!”
Henge gave her a strange look and walked sullenly away without a reply.
“’Twas a chance thrust,” said Lady Crabtree, “but it hit--some deviltry
is brewing in that hole, and I be not mistaken.”