Beauvallet (14 page)

‘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?’

‘’Sdeath, 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 of 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 not a word 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 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-wine 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?