THE SECRETARY OF STATE
/My Lord Garth/ sat peacefully over his books, lighted by four tapers
which Martin had lately placed upon his table. He was labouring over
the _Phaedrus_, and by an odd coincidence relishing the simple
explanation afforded by Socrates of the tale of the abduction of
Oreithyia by Boreas from the banks of the Ilissus. To his lordship
thus engrossed came a wild, dishevelled figure, squelching water from
his boots at every stride.
This was Sir Gervase Crosby. But such a Gervase Crosby as his lordship
had never yet seen or heard.
‘Afoot, my lord!’ came the thundered exhortation. ‘Afoot, and be
doing! Enough of books, by God!’ With a blow of his brawny fist, he
swept the tome from under his lordship’s eyes and sent it crashing to
the ground.
My lord considered him, blinking in his supreme amazement.
‘Od’s light!’ said he. ‘Hath Brutus got the rabies and bitten thee?
Art clean mad?’
The answer came on a sob. ‘Mad! Ay!’ And he flung out his news. ‘Your
daughter’s gone; carried off by that Spanish traitor out of hell.’
Scarcely coherent in his headlong passion, he delivered the full tale
of it.
His lordship sat benumbed: a crumpled, shrunken figure of dismay and
horror and despair. But Sir Gervase knew no mercy, and admonition
followed instantly upon narrative.
‘When a man has a daughter, it is his duty to her, to himself, and to
his God--if so be he have one--to care for her and keep watch over
her. But you sit here with no thought for anything but dust and books
and dead men’s tales, and never trouble your mind of what be doing
among the living, of what villainies may be wrought under your very
nose and against your only child. And now she’s gone. Gone, I say!
Borne off by that villain. A dove in the talons of a hawk!’
Sir Gervase, having cast for once, under the overmastering spur of his
grief, all that diffidence in which usually he approached the Earl,
was terrific and irresistible. Had he but done his wooing in such a
spirit, the horror which now afflicted him might never have fallen
across his life and Margaret’s.
My lord set his elbows on the table, took his head in his hands, and
groaned impotently in his overwhelming misery. He seemed a man
suddenly aged. The spectacle of him was pitiful. But it awoke no pity
in the tortured soul of Gervase Crosby.
‘Ay, groan!’ he sneered at him. ‘Huddle yourself together there and
groan in your helplessness to amend that which you had not the care to
hinder.’ Then, abruptly, scornfully: ‘Give you good-night!’ he cried,
and swung about to depart, tempestuous as he had come.
‘Gervase!’
The heart-broken cry arrested him. Belatedly it broke upon his
distracted reason that, after all, my lord and he were fellow
sufferers. The Earl had risen, and stood now commanding himself, a
gaunt figure, tall despite the scholar’s stoop which almost humped his
shoulders. From their momentary numbness under the shock of the news,
his wits were recovering, and his will was compelling their recovery.
It is for fools and weaklings to lie prostrate under grief. Lord Garth
was neither. This blow was to be met, and if possible to be countered.
He would gird up his loins for whatever contest might lie ahead. Under
the touch of grim necessity, the man of thought was transmuted into
the man of action.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘After her!’ the boy answered wildly. ‘To Spain.’
‘To Spain? Wait, boy! Wait! Let thought precede all action ever.
Naught was ever accomplished without plan. Spoil nothing now by
haste.’
He moved away from the table, wrapping his russet gown about him. His
chin sank to his breast and on his slippered feet he slip-slopped
slowly to the window. He stood there, looking out upon the park and
the black bulk of the elms over which the moon was rising, whilst
Gervase, impressed by the sudden energy of his tone, waited as he was
bidden.
‘To Spain, eh?’ His lordship sighed. ‘You are no Perseus, lad, and
Margaret’s is hardly the case of Andromeda.’ He swung about on a
sudden inspiration. ‘First to the Queen!’ he cried. ‘It may be that
Her Grace will still remember me, and that the memory will count for
something. Moreover, she’s a woman--a very woman--and she should aid a
man to befriend a woman in sore need. I’ll come with you, Gervase.
Call Martin. Tell him to bid them prepare horses and order a couple of
grooms to ride with us. Bid Francis supply us with what moneys he has
at hand. We’ll start so soon as it’s daylight.’
But Gervase shook his head as he answered impatiently.
‘My lord, my lord, I cannot wait for daylight. Every hour is precious
now. I start for London so soon as I have changed my clothes and taken
what gear I need. It was already in my mind to invoke the Queen’s
assistance. I was for seeking Drake or Hawkins that they might procure
me audience. If you will come, my lord, you must follow. It would but
delay me,’ he ended bluntly, ‘to have you with me.’
A flush of indignation overspread the pallid, haggard face of the
student. Then he saw reason, and fetched a sigh. ‘Ay, I am old,’ he
agreed. ‘Too old and feeble to do more than cumber you. But my name
may count for something still; it may count for more with the Queen
than that of either Drake or Hawkins. You shall have letters from me.
I’ll write to Her Grace. She’ll not deny the bearer; and that will be
your opportunity.’
He moved briskly back to his table, cleared a space in that litter of
books and papers, and sat down to write.
Sir Gervase waited with such patience as he could command whilst his
lordship slowly laboured with the pen. For this was no letter that
could be indited swiftly. It required thought, and in his distraction
the Earl’s thoughts went haltingly. At last, however, it was done. My
lord sealed it with his arms, engraved on a massive ring he wore. He
rose to proffer it to Gervase, and almost at once sat down again, weak
and shaken. The mental strain had temporarily sapped his physical
vigour, and made him realize to the full how unfitted he was to take
an active part in the enterprise ahead of the young man.
‘Indeed, indeed, I should but cumber you,’ he confessed. ‘Yet to sit
here waiting… O God! Mine is the harder part, Gervase.’
At last Sir Gervase was touched. He had done the Earl a wrong. There
was red blood in his veins, after all, and he had a heart for other
things than books. He set a hand upon his shoulder.
‘If you trust me, it will help you, my lord. Be assured that what man
can do shall be done; that you could not yourself do more if you were
in your fullest vigour. You shall hear from me from London.’
He was gone like the whirlwind, and a moment later, the Earl seated
again at his table, his head in his hands, heard outside the receding
clatter of flying hooves.
At the peril of his neck, Sir Gervase rode through Smithwick; then
more slowly, yet with a speed cruel to his horse up to the winding
road to Arwenack. Sir John was away from home, a circumstance which
Gervase considered almost fortunate, since thus there would be no time
lost in explanations. Time was to be lost, however, he discovered; a
loss that was to end in a gain: for at Arwenack he found the elder
Tressilian awaiting him.
They had become fast friends, these two, who were brothers-in-arms and
who had received the accolade on the same day and in reward of similar
achievements. There had been some talk between them that so soon as
Gervase’s ship was ready, he and Sir Oliver should unite their forces
and go forth in a joint venture. It was on this very subject which Sir
Oliver had come to discuss with him to-night. Instead he was to listen
to Sir Gervase’s furious tale, whilst Sir Gervase was ridding himself
of his sodden garments.
The vigorous, black-browed Sir Oliver took fire at the narrative. He
swore roundly and fully, for he was ever a rough-tongued man, at Spain
and Spaniards.
‘As God’s my life I’ll bear this thing in mind whenever and wherever I
meet a Spaniard,’ he promised fiercely. Then he became practical. ‘But
why ride to London? Why spend a week upon the road at a time when
every day must count? The Rose of the World will bring you there in
half the time.’
‘The Rose of the World?’ Sir Gervase checked in the very act of
trussing the points of his hose to stare up at his tall friend. ‘My
God, Oliver! Is she ready for sea?’
‘She’s been ready this last week. I could put out at dawn.’
‘Could you put out to-night?’ Sir Gervase’s eyes were feverish with
excitement.
Sir Oliver looked at him. ‘Give chase, do you mean?’
‘What else?’
But Sir Oliver shook his head, considered a moment, then shook it
again. He had a vigorous, practical mind and a mental eye that saw
straight and clearly to the core of things. ‘We’ve missed the tide, or
must miss it before ever we could get aboard; and then the crew’s
ashore and to be assembled. We could drop down the river on the first
of the ebb, just after daybreak; but by then it would be too late to
hope to overtake your Spaniard. And to follow him into Spain you’ll
need some stouter equipment than our swords.’ Again he shook his head.
He sighed. ‘It would have been a rare adventure. But fortune puts it
beyond our reach. So it’s London first, my lad. And it’ll prove the
shorter road in the end. I’ll away, to beat up the crew and get what I
need for myself. When you’ve got your gear together, come aboard.’ He
set one of his great powerful hands on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Keep up
your heart, lad,’ he enjoined, and upon that valediction departed
without waiting for any word of thanks for the readiness with which he
proffered so very generous a measure of assistance.
The Rose of the World dropped down from her moorings at the mouth of
the Penrhyn Creek on the first of the ebb just as day was breaking.
She unfurled her sails to the breezes of dawn, and slipped away
through the water on the first stage of the adventure. It was Sunday
morning. So well did the wind serve them and so ably was the tall ship
handled that by Tuesday’s dawn she came to anchor abreast of Greenwich
Palace. Landing, they went, at Sir Oliver’s instigation, in quest of
Sir John Hawkins, whose influence at Court should open to them its
jealously guarded doors, and that same evening, having ridden hard
from Greenwich, they were conducted by Sir John into the closet of Sir
Francis Walsingham at Whitehall.
In Sir Francis, Gervase beheld the tall, spare man in black with the
long narrow white beard who had stood near the Queen on the day Her
Majesty had given audience to the seamen. He was seated at a table
that was strewn with documents, nor troubled to rise when our two
gentlemen were ushered in by Sir John Hawkins, who had gone ahead to
obtain the Secretary of State’s consent to receive them. On his narrow
grey head he wore a flat black cap with flaps which entirely covered
his ears, a cap which had been fashionable in the late King’s time,
but was rarely to be seen nowadays unless it were upon some City
merchant. But for that matter there was nothing fashionable in all Sir
Francis’ attire. The young secretary industriously engaged at a
writing-pulpit in one of the window-embrasures was of an infinitely
more modish appearance, though similarly clad in black.
Sir John withdrew, leaving the two Cornishmen with Sir Francis.
‘This, sirs,’ he greeted them, ‘is a distressing tale that Sir John
tells me.’ But there was no distress in his formal, level voice, nor
in the chill glance of those pale, calculating eyes with which he
conned them. He invited them to sit, waving a bony hand to indicate
the chairs that stood before his table.
Sir Oliver inclined his head in acknowledgement, and sat down,
stretching his long, booted legs before him. Sir Gervase, however,
remained standing. He was restless and haggard. His tone when he now
spoke was almost fretful. He did not find the Secretary of State
prepossessing; saw little promise of assistance in the man’s chill
exterior. To Sir Gervase, who expected all to share something of his
frenzy, it seemed that the man had ink in his veins, not blood.
‘It is my hope, sir, that I may be vouchsafed occasion to place the
facts before the Queen’s Grace.’
Sir Francis combed his beard. Behind it Sir Gervase fancied that the
lips had parted in a faint smile of weary scorn. ‘Her Majesty shall be
apprised, of course.’
But this was far, indeed, from fulfilling the hopes of Sir Gervase.
‘You will procure me an audience, sir?’ he said, between question and
intercession.
The cold eyes looked at him inscrutably. ‘To what purpose, sir, when
all is said?’
‘To what purpose?’ Sir Gervase was beginning hotly, when the lean hand
upheld checked the burst of indignation that was about to follow.
‘If the Queen, sir, were to grant audience to every man who asks it,
no single second of her day would be left for any of her other
manifold and important occupations. Hence the functions of Her
Majesty’s Ministers.’ He was a pedant instructing a schoolboy in the
elements of worldly conduct. ‘Such action as may be taken in this
regrettable affair the Queen would invite me to take if she were
informed of it. Therefore, we may without any loss show ourselves
dutiful to Her Grace by sparing her this unnecessary audience.’
Sir Oliver shifted in his chair, and his deep voice rang loud and
harsh by contrast with the sleek, level accents of the Secretary.
‘It is not the view of Sir Gervase that Her Majesty should be spared,
or that she will thank any man for sparing her in this matter.’
Sir Francis was neither startled by Tressilian’s vehemence nor
intimidated by the fierceness of his glance.
‘You misunderstand, I think.’ He spoke quietly ever, with that chill
disdain of his. ‘It is Her Majesty’s person alone that I am--that we
all must be--concerned to spare. Her powers, her authority, shall be
exerted to the full. It is my duty to exert them.’
‘In plain terms, Sir Francis, what does that mean?’ Gervase demanded.
Sir Francis sat back in his tall chair, leaning his capped head
against the summit. His elbows resting on its carved arms, he brought
his finger-tips together, and over them considered with interest these
two furious men of action who imagined that a Secretary of State was a
person to be bullied or brow-beaten. ‘It means,’ he said after a
deliberate pause, ‘that I shall make the strongest representations to
the French Ambassador in the morning.’
‘The French Ambassador? What has the French Ambassador to do with
this?’
This time Sir Francis’ smile was no longer covert. ‘Our own relations
with Spain being at this present suspended, the intervention of the
Ambassador of France becomes necessary. It can be relied upon.’
Sir Gervase’s patience was rapidly running out.
‘God’s light!’ he roared. ‘And what is to happen to the Lady Margaret
Trevanion while you represent the matter to the Ambassador of France
and he sends messages to King Philip?’
Sir Francis parted his hands and spread them a little in a deprecatory
gesture. ‘Let us be practical. According to your tale this lady has
already been three days upon the seas in her abductor’s company. The
matter can no longer be of such urgency that we should distress
ourselves over an unavoidable delay in reaching her.’
‘My God!’ cried Gervase in pain.
‘That,’ rasped Sir Oliver, ‘is where the Queen, being a woman, must
take a different view: a less cold-blooded view, Sir Francis.’
‘You do me wrong, sir, as I perceive. No heat of passion will help any
of us here.’
‘I am not sure,’ Sir Oliver answered him. He heaved himself to his
feet. ‘And, anyway, the matter is one for human beings, not for
statesmen. Here we stand, two men who have brought our lives and our
gear to the service of the Queen’s Grace, and all we ask now in return
is that we be brought to audience with Her Majesty.’
‘Nay, nay. That is not all you ask. You ask that, so that you may ask
something else.’
‘It is our right!’ Sir Oliver roared.
‘And we demand it,’ Sir Gervase added. ‘The Queen, sir, would not deny
us.’
Sir Francis looked at them both with the same unrufflable composure
with which he had first received them. The secretary in the
window-embrasure had suspended his labours to lend an ear to this
brow-beating of his formidable master. At any moment he expected to
hear Sir Francis declare the audience at an end. But to his surprise
Sir Francis now rose.
‘If I deny you,’ said he quietly, without the least shade of
resentment, ‘as I account it my duty to Her Majesty, you are of those
who will be stirring up interest until in the end you have your way.
But I warn you that it can serve no good purpose, and is but a waste
of time; your own and the Queen’s. Her Majesty can but entrust the
business to me, to take what steps are in the circumstances possible.
However, if you really insist…’
He paused, and looked at them.
‘I do,’ said Gervase emphatically.
He nodded. ‘In that case I will take you to the Queen at once. Her
Majesty is expecting me before she sups, and it is time I went. If the
audience proves little to your taste, if it is fruitless, as it must
be, of more than could have been achieved without it, I trust you will
remember to place the reproach where it is deserved.’
Tall and gaunt in his black gown that was edged with brown fur, he
moved to the door, and threw it open. ‘Pray follow me,’ he bade them
coldly over his shoulder.