‘As you please, cousin.’ Dominica sent a fleeting glance upwards to Beauvallet's face, and dropped her eyes again. Obedient to the pull on her hand she went with him across the hall to the ballroom.
‘God pity me, I have borne a fool!’ sighed Dona Beatrice. ‘You do not go well to work, my poor son.’
‘She did it to flout me!’ he said hotly.
‘If she did it promises very well,’ she replied. ‘But when a man like the Chevalier craves a boon there are few women will not grant it. For where he craves he might take, look you.’
‘He is insufferable!’ Diego said. ‘My sword itches to taste his blood.’
Dona Beatrice smiled more broadly. ‘I dare say the Chevalier has some skill with swords,’ she said. ‘I do not think – no, I do not think that you would be well advised to send him a challenge.’
Don Diego stayed glooming a moment. ‘One would think you wanted her to go with him,’ he complained.
‘I did,’ said his mother imperturbably. ‘The girl saw a very personable man, with more charm in his lightest smile, my poor son, than any other here tonight. She was tempted to be forsworn, and I bade her go. Had I intervened for you she would not have danced at all. Now you are sure of her, for she cannot refuse, having danced once.’
In the ballroom Dominica had little opportunity to speak to Sir Nicholas. She dreaded lest some overheard phrase might betray him; for the first few steps of the dance she could only look up eloquently into his face. They drew together a moment, and she whispered: ‘You have come! How could you dare?’
‘Had you not my word, little doubter?’
They drew apart again; another couple was too close to allow them to say more. The music stopped; Sir Nicholas was bowing, and Don Diego was possessively at Dominica's elbow.
She lived through another hour in a fret. Don Diego stayed close at her side; she could only watch Beauvallet across the room, and long to be alone with him. It seemed she would never find the opportunity, but presently her cousin's attention was claimed, and he had to lead another lady out to dance. Dominica cast a quick look round, saw her aunt at the other end of the room, and drew back behind the ample form of a portly dowager. She slipped along the wall then to where heavy curtains hung, shutting off a small antechamber. Knowing Beauvallet's eyes to be upon her she went through, and stood breathlessly waiting.
The curtains moved; he was before her. She went to him in a little run, with both her hands held out, and her eyes full of happy tears. ‘Oh, to see you again!’ she whispered. ‘I never thought it possible!’
He gathered her hands in his, and held them clasped against his breast. ‘Softly, my heart! This is dangerous work.’ His voice was quick and decisive for all he spoke so low. ‘I must have speech with you alone. Which way looks your chamber?’
‘To the garden. Ah, Nicholas, I have wanted you!’
‘My fondling!’ His hands pressed her closer. ‘Does your woman sleep with you?’
‘Nay, I am alone.’ She looked wonderingly up at him.
‘Set a lamp in your window when you judge all to be asleep, to give me a sign. Can you trust me?’
‘Ah, you know! You know I can trust only you. What will you do?’
‘Climb up to you, sweetheart,’ he answered, and smiled at her face of amazement. ‘What windows look out that way?’
‘My woman's – my cousin's closet – some servants.’
‘Good.’ He kissed her hands. ‘Expect me then when you show a light. Patience, my bird!’
He released her, and stepped back. The curtains parted for a moment, and he was gone.
The rest of the evening passed in a bewildered haze for her. She was conscious only of Beauvallet's presence, but he did not come near her again. Her cousin besought her to dance with him again, and when she would not, stayed by her, teasing her ear with his soft speech.
‘Who was the Frenchman?’ she asked. ‘The Chevalier. Is he of the Ambassador's court?’
‘De Guise! No, my dear cousin, the Ambassador owns him not. Some idle traveller swaggering abroad. I trust he will soon be gone from us. It was no wish of mine that he should be invited here tonight. A trifler, no more.’
‘You do not like him, cousin?’ she said, looking sideways.
He raised those expressive shoulders. ‘An arrogant Frenchman who bears himself as though he would snap his fingers in one's face! No, I do not like him, cousin.’
A gleam of mischief shot into her eyes. ‘It is to be hoped he will not snap his fingers in your face, cousin,’ she said demurely.
‘I should have but one answer, Dominica.’ He touched his sword-hilt. ‘I do not think the gay Chevalier would return to France.’
Twelve
It seemed an age before the house was quiet, and all lights put out. Dominica sent her sleepy tirewoman away as soon as she came up from the ball. The woman made little resistance, she could hardly keep her eyes open, and was glad to be sent back to bed. Dominica let her unlace her gown, and put away her jewels. She put on a loose wrapper, and laid another log on the fire. As ill-luck would have it her aunt came in to bid her good-night, and stayed to talk over the ball. She professed herself thankful that the affair was over; it had been very dull, she thought, and the Chevalier de Guise was the only relief she had had from utter boredom. Dominica, very much on her guard, stifled a yawn, and allowed the Chevalier to be well enough.
‘Do not lose your heart to him, my dear,’ remarked her aunt lazily. ‘Frenchmen are sadly fickle, and I believe this one is betrothed already.’
‘Yes, so he said,’ Dominica answered. An imp of malice prompted her to add: ‘So my cousin need not be jealous of him, señora.’
‘Diego is too much in love with you to forbear jealousy of any man who looks twice at you,’ said Dona Beatrice, a hint of cynicism in her voice.
‘Or is he in love with my money?’ asked Dominica sweetly.
‘Very much, my dear. We all are.’ Nothing, it seemed, could disturb Dona Beatrice's composure. She got up out of her chair, and tapped her niece's cheek. ‘No more of this seclusion, child. You will show yourself abroad a little, and remember that we shall soon leave this tiresome town for a little quiet and peace.’
Dominica's eyes were cast down, but the breath was stayed in her throat. ‘Very well, señora,’ she said submissively. ‘But do we leave Madrid indeed?’
‘Shortly, my dear. We shall go north to Vasconosa as soon as may be, and we hope that Diego in the country will like you better than Diego in town.’
Dominica dropped a curtsey. ‘I don’t think it, señora.’
‘No? But you can try to, my dear.’ Dona Beatrice went out with her slow tread, and a minute later a door shut in the distance.
Dominica sat down by the fire to wait. Presently she heard her aunt's tirewoman pass by her door to the stairs that led to the servants’ quarters above. Don Rodriguez, coming up from downstairs, called a good-night to his son, and went into his room. But Don Diego must needs go into his closet, and stay there for what seemed an interminable time to his impatient cousin. At length he came out, and went across the hall to his bedchamber. Dominica heard him speak sharply to his man, and shut the door with a snap. There was silence for a while, and then the same door opened and shut again: his servant had put Don Diego to bed at last.
The man's footsteps died away on the stairs, and silence settled down on the house. Still Dominica waited, counting the slow minutes. She went presently to her door, and softly opened it. All was dark in the passage. Holding her gown close about her that no rustle might betray her presence she stole down the short corridor to the upper hall. A bar of light beneath one of the doors showed that Don Diego was still awake. Dominica stayed where she was, motionless against the wall. In a few minutes the light disappeared. She crept back to her chamber, put more wood upon the fire, and went to arrange her curls in the mirror. When she judged that Don Diego had had time to fall asleep she went out again into the passage, and this time took the p
recaution of listening at her tirewoman's door. She heard a snore, and was satisfied, knowing how very hard to wake was Carmelita. Flitting silently in her stockinged feet she reached the hall, went ghost-like to three doors, and at each listened intently. She must be sure, very sure, that the whole house slept before she signalled to Beauvallet, for he came to certain death if he should be discovered.
No sound reached her straining ears; she crept back to her room, stealthily shut the door, and little by little turned the key in the lock. It went home with a click that seemed to din through the stillness. She stayed, breathing fast, her ear to the crack. No answering stir sounded; nothing but the grating of a mouse nibbling at the wainscoting somewhere down the passage.
She left the door then, and went to the window, and parted the heavy curtains that hung over it. Holding her lamp in her hand she stepped out on to the little semicircular balcony.
Moonlight flooded the garden below, and the trees cast ink-black shadows on the ground. From out the shadow a shadow moved; she saw Beauvallet cross the garden, and raised her free hand in a little welcoming sign. He was beneath her balcony now; she had to lean over to see him. How he would contrive to climb up she did not know, but that he would manage it somehow she was very sure.
He made surprisingly little work over it. A climbing rose gave him his foothold. He came up swiftly and silently, braced a foot against the iron pipe that ran down the side of the house from the rain-gutter, seemed to measure the distance with his eye, and threw himself forward.
Dominica stretched out her hand involuntarily to help him, but he caught the rail of the balcony, and the next instant had swung a leg over it, and was beside her.
Neither spoke a word. Sir Nicholas had an arm about Dominica's waist, and led her into the room, his other hand laid lightly across her parted lips. She set the lamp down on the table while he closed the long windows and drew the curtains over them.
He turned, a moment looked at her, and opened his arms. Dominica went into them in a little run, and felt them close tightly about her.
‘My heart! My dove!’
She could only say: ‘You have come! You have come! It is you, really you!’
‘Had you not my word?’
‘How could I believe? How could I think that you would dare – even you? Oh, querida, why have you come?’ Her hands tugged at his shoulders. ‘There's death lurking in every corner for you!’
‘I have played many games with Death, fondling, but the dice always fell my way. Trust me.’
‘Mad!’ she whispered. ‘Mad Nicholas!’
He kissed her. For a while she was content to lie in his arms, but presently she said on a sigh: ‘Folly, oh folly! I have brought you to your death!’
‘Nay, nay, I came of mine own free will, as I swore I would – to make an Englishwoman of you.’ He made her look up. ‘How now, my heart? Will you go with Mad Nicholas?’
She tried to hide her face. ‘It is not possible. You know it is not. God knows how you are here, but you must go quickly, quickly! You could never escape with me to burden you.’
‘Give me a plain answer, fondling. Will you go with me?’
She evaded him. ‘I have been so unhappy,’ she said pitifully.
‘You shall never be so again, I swear.’ He held her away from him. ‘Will you trust me further yet? Will you put your life in my hands?’
She looked up into his eyes, her own troubled and questioning. He had taken her by storm; he was a lover from a fairytale, and she had longed for him, and dreamed of him, but now that he spoke so urgently, and looked so keenly, she realised all that it would mean to her if she gave herself to him. He was a stranger and an Englishman, and if he won out of Spain a strange land and a strange people awaited her. She loved him, but how little she knew of him! A girl's fears shook her; she looked searchingly, peering for the future, and the colour ebbed in her cheeks. He awaited her answer; she thought how bright his eyes were, how compelling.
‘Nicholas – you could not understand,’ she faltered. ‘I am so alone. I do not know –’
‘I do understand,’ he answered instantly. ‘I love you. Trust me!’
Her fingers sought his. ‘You will be good to me?’ she said in a small voice.
He smiled. ‘I will never beat you,’ he promised.
At that she smiled too, but fleetingly. ‘Nay, do not jest, do not laugh at me!’ she said.
He raised her hands to his lips, and kissed them. ‘On my soul,’ he said, ‘I’ve only the one ambition left; to care for you.’
She nestled back into his arms. ‘If we could! If we only could!’
‘What, doubting still?’ he rallied her. ‘What do you fear, little faint heart?’
‘To lead you to your death,’ she said. ‘How can I not fear it?’
‘Nay, nay, ’tis I shall do the leading,’ he smiled. ‘Have faith, O Lady Disdain!’
‘Not that!’ she protested, but a smile trembled on her at the old memories the name conjured up.
His arm was hard about her shoulders. ‘Do you love me?’ he asked, and his eyes compelled an answer from her.
She looked up. ‘Do you not know that I do – doubter?’
He swooped then, and kissed her almost before she was aware. Holding her close still he asked her with the teasing note in his voice: ‘Shall I make an Englishwoman of you after all, my bird?’
She nodded. ‘Only take me away,’ she said. ‘Take me away from here! Anyway!’
For a moment he held her closely embraced, cheek to cheek. Then he let her go, brought her to the fire, and made her sit down on the faldstool before it. He stirred the smouldering log with his booted foot, and it fell apart, and the flames sprang up. ‘Do they seek to wed you to that pretty cousin of yours?’ he asked abruptly.
‘I hate him!’ she said. ‘I have told my aunt I will never, never wed him, but she – Nicholas, you do not know her! She smiles, and nods, and agrees with me, but she is like a rock! She frightens me, Nicholas. She is so quiet, and it is like a fate pursuing one! Yes, I am afraid, I!’
‘No need,’ he said. ‘Remember I am near you, and take heart. Now how to spirit you away?’
‘How did you come?’ she said. ‘In the Venture – that fishing village?’
‘Nay, over the border, openly, with letters to King Philip,’ he replied.
She gasped. ‘Are you a wizard, then? Tell me, how?’
‘Very simply, child. My luck, no more. I fell in with a secret envoy to the King, and him I slew perforce, and came on in his place. But to get you to the coast is the problem now. It is a-many weary leagues, and the hunt will be up then in right earnest. Barful, barful!’
She sat straight on the faldstool. ‘Nay, but listen, Señor Nicholas! We leave Madrid soon now – I do not know when, but soon. Dona Beatrice told me so tonight, and hoped I might like Diego better in the country than I do here. We go north, to Vasconosa, near Burgos. I do not know when, but Dona Beatrice would wish it to be soon.’
‘God ’ild her, then! What keeps her?’
‘Diego, I think. Oh no, she does not care for him, but of what use to take me into the country if he be not by? And he hath engagements still, and will not go till they are done.’
‘Fiend seize the princox!’ Beauvallet said. ‘North of Burgos? It will serve, it will serve.’
She looked eagerly up at him. ‘It is not more than a day and a night from the coast, but they will watch me close. Can you do it, Nicholas?’
‘Surely, surely, sweetheart. Have no fear. The Venture will lie off that port you wot of, and if the luck holds we may make it safely.’ He went to the window, and drew back the curtain a little way. ‘It is growing light, child. I must be gone.’ He came back to her, and took her hands. ‘Leave me to find a way, chuck. Only let me have a sight of you, and a word with you at need. I lie at the Rising Sun if you should want me, and Joshua is with me to bear a message. I have been about this town a little, but in no house do I meet you. You lie close, love
.’
‘I would not go out. That's over now. I shall go with my aunt to Don Alonso de Alepero's house on Monday. Will you be there?’
‘I can arrange it,’ he said. ‘Expect to see me in this house as soon as may be. This aunt of yours seems to have a fondness for me.’ He bent, and kissed her hands. ‘Now fare thee well, my heart, and fear naught.’
‘Only for you,’ she said.
‘Fear for me when you hear of my death,’ he smiled. ‘Not till then.’ He held her close a moment. ‘Keep Diego at arm's length, my lass,’ he said, twinkling, ‘or I might be tempted to out sword and thrust him there.’
‘Oh, you must be prudent!’ she said urgently. ‘Promise me! He hates you already; he said tonight almost as much.’
‘God save his puppyhood!’ said Sir Nicholas lightly. ‘Am I to be in a sweat for fear of Master Puke-Stocking? We shall come to grips yet, he and I. I can snuff out a fight with the best. He's hot for it.’ He bent to kiss her lips. ‘A last good-night!’
She gave it, clinging to him. ‘You must go – yes, you must go. Oh, my love, I love you!’
Thirteen
It was not perhaps surprising that in so short a time the gay Chevalier de Guise made some noise about the town. He had the trick of it. To be secret, to lie close, seemed to be no part of his design. His credentials were good, Losa's patronage carried him whithersoever he listed, and he used it to the full. There was scarcely anyone in Madrid who had not heard of the Chevalier, few who had not met him. From the Court came no sign. Philip must ponder his reply, annotate the despatch, sleep upon it, lay it aside to ponder it yet again. Those who sought to hurry the Catholic King did so to their own despair. He would do nothing without carefully weighing it; if his brain worked slowly he at least was not aware of it. He was methodical, plodding, infinitely conscientious, and he prided himself upon his cautious judgment.
For Philip to be dilatory up to a point suited Sir Nicholas very well, since, as he saw it, nothing could be done in his affair while Dominica still lay at Madrid. If Philip delayed too long, however, he would have to employ another messenger to carry his answer back to the Guise. Sir Nicholas would be very well pleased to get that answer into his own hands, for it promised to be interesting to an English Protestant. Walsingham would be glad of it, but Sir Nicholas had no notion of serving Master Secretary to his own plan's undoing. There was food enough for Walsingham in the Guise's cyphered letter, a copy of which was safe in Beauvallet's possession. It concerned one Mary Stewart, unfortunate lady, at present a state prisoner in England, and certain illuminating schemes for her future as compiled by his Majesty King Philip, and the Duc de Guise. Fine doings there! Enough to make Master Secretary's hair stand on end.