It was an easy matter to cross the Frontier, armed with the Chevalier
de Guise's credentials. From as much of the despatch to Philip as
he could read, or was not sealed, Beauvallet had learned that the
youthful Frenchman was some sort of a cousin to the Duc de Guise, and
it seemed probable from so particular a mention of him that he had not
been employed on an errand into Spain before. Beauvallet did not doubt
that he could brave out the imposture, but he knew that he carried his
life in his hand. One evil chance, one Frenchman in Madrid to whom the
Chevalier was known, and he might expect to find himself sped. The
knowledge made him set his horse caracolling on the road, never so
keenly enjoying life as when he stood in danger of losing it. He tossed
his sword up in the air, and caught it deftly as it fell. The sunlight
glinted all along the shimmering blade. Between eight crowns the name
Andrea Ferrara was inscribed, and beneath it a pungent motto:--_My bite
is sure_. "A sword and my wits against all Spain!" sang out Beauvallet,
and whistled a catch between his teeth. Then he fell to thinking of her
whom he went to seek, and the leagues passed uncounted.
There was time enough for meditation during these long days upon the
road, for it took them close on two weeks to come within sight of
Madrid, a white town perched on a spur above a vast plateau, looking
north over many windy leagues to the Guadarrama Mountains, and south to
the grand chain that guarded Toledo.
The roads called forth curses from Joshua, struggling with the led
sumpter. Years ago he had journeyed into Spain with Beauvallet, but
he protested that he had forgotten long since how incomparably bad
were the roads. He rode to the rear, and observed all with bright,
calculating eyes. "Naught but sheep!" he grunted. "Enough to ravage
the land. God's Life, but this is a poor country! Ruin stares us in
the face, master, from all sides. Here are no crops, no snug farmers.
Naught but bare rocks, and dust. And sheep--I forget the sheep, which
you would have thought hardly possible. Why, call you this a road? Ho,
we Englishmen can still teach the Spaniards some few matters, it seems!"
"Set a guard on that tongue of yours," Beauvallet said sharply. "Let me
hear no talk of Englishmen. Ay, this is a waste country. Now, how might
a runner go at speed, to the Frontier, let us say?"
"He might not, master, on these roads, without foundering. It's a land
of the Dark Ages, one would say. Bethink you of the fair manor my lord
has built him in Alreston, and look on these grim fortresses!" He spoke
of a gloomy castle seen some miles back along the road, and shuddered.
"Nay, I like not this land. It frowns, master! Mark what I say, it
frowns!"
Over the Guadarrama Mountains they climbed, and dropped on to the
great, parched plateau. They rode league upon weary league, and at last
saw Madrid ahead, and came to it in the cold of the evening. Joshua
shivered on his horse, and muttered against a climate so extreme. He
was roasted by day, he swore, but when evening fell Arctic winds arose
that were like to lay him low of a fever.
Beauvallet knew Madrid of old, but found it grown since his day. He
made his way to the inn of the Rising Sun, lying some paces off the
Puerta del Sol. It was not necessary to caution Joshua again. That
wiry individual ceased complaining as they climbed the steep streets
into the heart of the town, and might be trusted to carry all off with
a bold front. Beauvallet had no fear of unwitting betrayal from him.
French he spoke fluently, if roughly, and Spanish very fairly. He was
not likely to slip into his own tongue through inability to find words
in a foreign language.
Sir Nicholas bespoke a private room at the inn, and supped there that
evening, waited on by Joshua. "Since it is very certain that the French
Ambassador is not privy to this correspondence I carry, you will say,
Joshua, that I am travelling for my pleasure. You know naught of secret
documents."
"Master, what will you do with those papers?" Joshua asked uneasily.
The corners of Sir Nicholas' mouth lifted under the trim moustachio.
"Why, present them to his Catholic Majesty! What else?"
"'S death, sir, will you go into the lion's den?" quaked Joshua.
"I know of only one lion, sirrah, and that one is not to be found in
Spain!" Beauvallet said. "I am bound on the morrow for the Alcazar. Lay
me out a rich suit of the French cut." He brought out the stolen papers
from his bosom, and laid them on the table. "And stitch me these safe
in a length of silk." His eyes twinkled. "What, do you tremble still?
Cross yourself, and say Jesu! It's in the part."
Access to the Alcazar was not found to be so easy as access to any of
Queen Elizabeth's palaces. There was a long delay, many questions, and
the pseudo-Chevalier's credentials were taken from him while he was
left to cool his heels in the great austere hall.
He sat down on a carved chair of cypress wood, and looked about him
with interest. There was much sombre marble, much rich brocade, and
hangings of Flanders tapestry depicting the martyrdoms of various
saints. A statue in bronze stood at the foot of the wide stairway;
there were Turkey carpets on the floor, strange sight to an English
eye, so that footsteps fell muffled. Certain, there was no sound in the
Alcazar. Lackeys stood graven on either side the great door; sundry
personages passed across the hall from time to time, but they spoke
no word. There was a courtier, all in silk and velvet; a soberly clad
individual whom Beauvallet took to be a secretary; a priest of the
Dominican order with his cowl shading his face, and his hands hidden in
the wide sleeves of his habit; an elderly man who looked curiously at
Beauvallet; an officer of the guard, a hurrying woman who might be a
maid of honour.
It was oppressive in the lofty hall; the very hush of the place might
have preyed on nerves less hardy than Beauvallet's. Here, to an
Englishman, was a place of grim foreboding, of lurking terror. It did
not need the sight of that dark priest to conjure up hideous pictures
to the mind.
But Sir Nicholas saw no hideous pictures, and his pulse beat as
steadily as ever. A false step, and he would never again see England:
with a kind of brazen dare-devilry he was confident there would be no
false step. In Paris, a month ago, the Marquis de Belrémy had said
aghast:--"_Mon Dieu, quel sang-froid!_" Could he have set eyes on
his kinsman now he would have been still more aghast, and might have
repeated with even more conviction, that Nicholas would sit jesting in
hell's mouth itself.
After a full half-hour's wait the lackey came back with a long-gowned,
close shaven secretary who looked keenly at Beauvallet. "You are the
Chevalier de Guise?" he asked in French.
Sir Nicholas was swinging his golden pomander. He did not think, from
his knowledge of them, that the Guise would rise out of their seats for
a mere scrivener. Gravely he bowed his head.
"You have letters for his Majesty?" pursued the secretary.
Again Beauvallet bowed, and knew that he was creating a good
impression. Privately he thought: "Our sovereign keeps men of better
blood than this about her, God wot!" He was very quick to nose out the
parvenu.
The secretary bowed in his turn, and held out his hand. "I will deliver
them to his Majesty, señor."
At that Beauvallet raised his black brows delicately. Maybe he thought
it more in the part, maybe it was the audacity of the man, or a mere
curiosity to see this far-famed Philip, but he said gently: "My orders,
señor, are to deliver these letters into his Majesty's own hands."
The secretary bowed again. "All goes very well," thought Beauvallet,
watching him like a lynx, in spite of his careless demeanour.
"Follow me, señor, if you please," said the secretary, and led the way
up the stairs to a long gallery above.
Down a labyrinth of corridors they seemed to walk, until they came to
a curtained doorway. Beauvallet went through into a severely furnished
chamber, and was left there to wait again.
More martyrdoms hung on the walls. Sir Nicholas grimaced at them, and
deplored his Catholic Majesty's taste. Another half-hour passed; King
Philip was in no hurry, it seemed. Sir Nicholas looked out of the
window on to a paved court, and yawned from time to time.
Back came the secretary at last. "His Majesty will receive you, señor,"
he said, and gave back the Chevalier's credentials into his keeping.
"This way, if you please." He held back the curtain for Beauvallet to
pass out, and led him across the corridor to double doors. These opened
at his scratch upon the solid panels; Sir Nicholas found himself in
an ante-chamber where two men sat writing at a table, and two guards
stood beside the doors. He followed the secretary across the room to a
curtained archway; the curtain was swung back by a guard there, and the
secretary went through. "The Chevalier de Guise, sire," he said, bowing
very low, and drew back a little against the wall.
Sir Nicholas came coolly in, paused a moment as the curtain fell back
into place behind him, and in one swift glance noted the contents of
this bare, cell-like apartment. There was little enough to note. A
chest, an escritoire, a priest by the window, a table in the middle of
the room, and behind it, seated in a high-backed chair with arms, with
his foot upon a velvet stool, a pallid man with sparse yellow locks,
flecked with grey; and a yellow beard, scant as his meagre thatch; and
hooded eyes, sombre and vulturine under the puckered lids.
Sir Nicholas sank gracefully down on to his knee; the plumes in his
hat swept the ground before him. "God's my life!" was his irrepressible
thought. "The two of us in one small room, and he does not know it!"
"The Chevalier de Guise," repeated Philip in a slow, harsh voice. "We
bid you welcome, señor."
But there was no kindliness in the expressionless tone, nor any life in
those dull eyes. "There would be less kindliness if he knew how he bade
Nick Beauvallet welcome," thought Sir Nicholas, as he rose to his feet.
Philip, sitting so still in his chair, seemed to study him for a
moment. It was tense, that moment, fraught with peril. Sir Nicholas
stood calmly under the scrutiny; they were not to know how ready to be
out was the sword at his side. The moment passed. "You have letters for
us," said the slow voice.
Beauvallet brought the silken packet out from the breast of his
doublet, came to the table, knelt again, and so offered it.
The King's hand touched his as he took the packet; the fingers felt
cold and slightly damp. He gave the packet to the secretary, and made a
movement to Beauvallet to rise. "Your first visit to Spain, señor?"
"My first, sire."
Philip inclined his head. The secretary had slit the silken wrapper,
and now spread crackling sheets before his master. Philip's eyes
travelled slowly over the first page, but never changed in their
lack-lustre expression. "I see you are cousin to the Duc de Guise,
señor," he remarked, and pushed the sheets away from him on the table's
polished surface. "We will look over these matters, and have an answer
for you in a week or so." Haste was a word not in his Majesty's
vocabulary. He spoke to the secretary. "Vasquez, if Don Diaz de Losa
is in the palace you will send to fetch him." He brought his gaze back
to Beauvallet. "Don Diaz will look to your entertainment, señor. Your
lodging?"
Beauvallet gave the name of his inn. Philip seemed to consider it.
"Yes, it is best," he said. "You are not here officially."
"I give out, sire, that I am travelling for my pleasure."
"That is well," said Philip. "You will contrive to pass the time
pleasantly, I trust. Madrid has much to show."
"I have promised myself a ride out to see the great Escorial, sire,"
said Sir Nicholas, assuming reverential tones.
Some spark of life entered Philip's eyes, enthusiasm into his dead
voice. He began to talk of his vast palace, nearing its completion, he
said. He talked as one absorbed in his theme, as in a holy matter, and
was still talking when Matteo de Vasquez came back into the room. He
was accompanied by a stately gentleman of middle years, dressed very
magnificently, in contrast to the black-garbed King.
The brief enthusiasm left Philip. He presented Don Diaz de Losa, and
consigned the Chevalier to his care. In the wake of this nobleman
Beauvallet bowed himself out of the King's cabinet.
It seemed that Don Diaz was in the King's confidence, for he asked none
but the most trivial questions. He had a grave Castilian courtesy, and
begged that the Chevalier would call on him for any needs he might
have. He escorted him through the corridors to a gallery, where a fair
sprinkling of gentlemen were gathered, and presented him punctiliously
to all who were present. The Chevalier was a gentleman from the
French Court, travelling to enlarge his knowledge of the world. Thus
Beauvallet was sponsored into society. Don Diaz requested his company
at a party at his house that evening, Beauvallet accepted without
hesitation. He stayed some while in the gallery talking to these
grandees of Spain, and presently took his leave. Don Diaz went with him
to the hall, and they parted with great politeness.
Joshua was anxiously awaiting his master's return, and heaved a large
sigh of relief upon seeing him come in, Sir Nicholas flung himself
into a chair. "God's Death, what a court!" he said. Then he began to
laugh. "What a king! what a graven king! If one had but whispered _El
Beauvallet_ in his ear! Only to see him start!"
"God forbid!" said Joshua devoutly. "Hey, but this likes me not at
all!" He looked anxiously. "How long do we remain, master?"
"Who knows? What a tale for Drake! God send I win through to tell it
him!"
"God send so indeed, sir," said Joshua glumly.
"Comfort you, knave: in three short weeks the _Venture_ will cruise
off that smuggling port we wot of, and every night she will creep in
towards the coast, and watch for my signal."
"What use if you be clapped up?" said Joshua rather tartly.
"I shall win free, don't doubt it. Hearken, my man, a moment! This
plot grows thicker still, and there are pitfalls. If I should fall
into one...." He paused, and sniffed at his pomander, eyes narrowed
and meditative. "Ay. If I be taken, Joshua, remove on the instant from
this place, with all my traps. Go look for an obscure tavern against
our needs. I shall then know where to find you. When you hear of my
death--or if I come not inside ten days--make all speed to that port,
and signal with a lantern after dark, as you know how. That's in case
of need. Trust yet awhile in Beauvallet's luck. Go now, and nose me out
the house of Don Diaz de Losa. I visit there this evening. If you can
get news of Don Manuel de Rada, call me your debtor."
"A plague on all women!" Joshua said. But he said it on the other side
of the door.
Don Diaz de Losa's apartments were crowded when Beauvallet arrived that
evening. There was dicing going forward in one room, where a great
many young caballeros were gathered, but the function seemed to have
more the nature of a cold reception. Magnificent gentlemen strolled
from group to group; there were ladies amongst them, not so discreet
as had been the ladies of Spain in a bygone age. Serving men in the
de Losa livery, each one bearing his master's cognizance offered
refreshments on heavy silver trays to the guests. There was wine in
glasses of Venetian ware: Valdepeñas from Morena, red wine of Vinaroz
and Benicarlo; Manzanilla, lightest of sherris-wines from San Lucar.
With these went sweetmeats and fruit: Asturian pomegranates and grapes
from Malaga, but other refreshment there was none. To an English taste
this might seem meagre, to be sure, in the face of so much ostentatious
display. Don Diaz's house had carpets to tread upon, chairs lined
with cut velvet, candelabras of wrought silver, a Toledo clock of rare
design, hangings of silk and tapestry, but it did not seem to be the
Spanish custom to entertain guests with banquets, as would have been
done in kindlier England.
There was an oppressive grandeur over all, as though each man, were
mindful of his high degree, and the canons of polite behaviour.
No voice was raised light-heartedly; all talk was measured and
punctilious, so that Beauvallet's laugh sounded strangely in this
sedate gathering, and men turned their heads to see whence came the
care-free sound.
It had been provoked by a gentleman from Andalusia, to whom Don Diaz
had made the Chevalier known. This Southerner had a gaiety lacking in
the grave Castilians, or the proud Aragonese, and had cracked some joke
for the Chevalier's delectation. They stood chatting easily enough, so
easily that Don Juan was moved to congratulate the Chevalier on the
excellence of his Spanish. No doubt the señor had been in Spain before,
or had at least Spanish friends?
Beauvallet owned to a Spanish friend, and said that this one had
enjoyed the acquaintance of Don Manuel de Rada y Sylva. Had he the name
aright?
"Ah, the late Governor of Santiago!" Don Juan said, and shook his head.
The golden pomander was held to the Chevalier's nose. Over it his eyes
were watchful. "I had thought to present myself to him," Beauvallet
said.
"You have not heard, señor: Don Manuel is dead these three months. A
strange tale!"
"Dead!" Beauvallet said. "How is that?"
"The West Indian climate, señor. Treacherous! ah, but treacherous! But
there was more to it: a tale to take one's breath away!"
"But let me hear it, señor, of your kindness!"
The Southerner spread out his hands. "Have you in France heard of a
certain English pirate? One named El Beauvallet?"
"Assuredly!" Sir Nicholas' eyes danced. "Who has not heard of him? The
Scourge of Spain I have heard him called. Am I right?"
"Very right, señor. Alas! They say the man uses witchcraft." Don Juan
crossed himself, and was swiftly imitated. Sir Nicholas' black lashes
hid the laughter in his down-cast eyes. When he raised them again they
were grave, if you could discount the merriness that must always lurk
at the back of them. Don Juan, absorbed in his tale, did not notice
it. "He sacked and sank the ship that bore Don Manuel home, and--you
will scarce credit it--took Don Manuel and his daughter aboard his own
vessel."
"So!" Beauvallet raised politely surprised eyebrows. "But wherefor?"
"Who shall say, señor? A mad whim one would suppose, for one can hardly
credit such a man with chivalrous intent. They say he is mad, who have
had traffic with him. But he had the effrontery, señor, to put into a
port of Spain, and there to set Don Manuel ashore!"
"You astonish me, señor," said Sir Nicholas. "I suppose he bore off the
daughter to England, this famous freebooter?"
"One might have expected it, but no. Doña Dominica took no hurt,
though her father died soon after his landing. She is under the
guardianship of her good aunt, Doña Beatrice de Carvalho."
"Thank you for that information," thought Sir Nicholas, and made a
mental note of the name. Aloud he said: "But this is a wonder that you
recount, señor! To escape unhurt from the clutches of so desperate a
villain as this Beauvallet!" His shoulders shook ever so slightly.
A gentleman standing close to them turned his head and looked keenly.
He bowed to Don Juan, and again to the Chevalier. "Your pardon, señor,
but you spoke a certain name. Has that freebooter been taken at last?"
Don Juan made the introduction, but it was Beauvallet who answered.
"Nay, nay, señor! Surely he bears a charmed life? I have heard men say
so."
"As to that, we shall see, señor," said the newcomer. "You have set
eyes on him, maybe?"
"I have seen him, yes," Sir Nicholas answered. The long fingers that
swung his pomander gently to and fro never quivered. "In Paris, where
he sometimes visits."
Don Juan displayed a lively curiosity. "Is it so indeed? And is he as
mad as they say? They tell us, who have had dealings with him, that he
is a man with black hair who laughs."
White teeth gleamed for a moment. "Yes, he laughs, señor," said Sir
Nicholas. A chuckle came, they little knew how audacious. "I dare swear
if he stood in this room surrounded by his enemies at this moment, he
would still laugh. It is a habit with him."
"One hardly credits it, señor," the stately gentleman replied. "There
would very soon be an end to his laughter." He bowed slightly, and
passed on.
Don Diaz came up at that moment, and laid his hand on Beauvallet's arm.
"I have been searching for you, Chevalier. I would present you to a
countryman of yours: your ambassador, M. de Lauvinière."
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Beauvallet betray how unwelcome
this courtesy was to him. Danger crouched before him; he went smiling
towards it: Beauvallet's way!
Don Diaz led him across the room, and spoke in a soft undertone. "It
is judged best, señor, that no secret should be made of your visit to
Madrid. M. de Lauvinière might then suspect. I need not warn you to be
on your guard with him. There he stands, near the door."
The Frenchman was a man with grey hair and a hook nose. His eyes were
deep-set, and he looked piercingly. Upon Don Diaz's presentation of the
Chevalier he bowed, and looked with a keenness that probed deep. "A
cousin of the Duc de Guise?" he said. "I do not think...." He frowned a
little, and his eyes never wavered from Beauvallet's face. "But I claim
the very slightest acquaintance with the Guises."
Therein lay a certain safeguard, thought Beauvallet. It was not to
be expected that a member of the Court party would be on terms of
friendship with the great Guise family.
"I am a distant cousin of the Duc's, monsieur," said Sir Nicholas.
"So?" De Lauvinière looked still more searchingly. "Of what branch of
the family, monsieur, if one may ask?"
It would not do to hesitate. "Of the junior branch, monsieur. The Duc
is my cousin in the second degree."
"I have heard of you, monsieur," the ambassador said. "I had thought
you a younger man. Do you make a long stay in Madrid?"
"Why no, monsieur, I believe not. I have a desire to visit Sevilla and
Toledo."
"Ah yes, you should certainly journey south," nodded de Lauvinière.
A lady came up on the arm of her husband to claim his attention.
Beauvallet drew back thankfully. Had he been vouchsafed a glimpse of a
postscript added to de Lauvinière's letter home, and despatched upon
the morrow, it might have shaken his nerve.
"_I should be glad_," wrote his excellency, "_if you would discover
what age man is the Chevalier Claude de Guise, cousin to the present
Duc. Let me have what news you can hear of him, in especial of what
like he is, of what height, and of what lineaments. Your assured
friend, Henri de Lauvinière._"