CHAPTER XXV
THE CARDINAL'S MOVE
His Eminence had been left all alone in the room after the passage ofHer Majesty to her own apartments.
"And now, what is the next move in this game of chess?" he mused, as hetook the key of the closet door from his pocket and thoughtfullycontemplated this tiny engine of his far-reaching and elaborate schemes.
"For the moment my guess was a shrewd one. His Grace of Wessex is inthere, and had I not locked that door he would have precipitated aclimax, which had sent Queen Mary into a fever of jealous rage, and theSpanish ambassador and myself back to Spain to-morrow."
He listened intently for a second or so; no sound came from the innerroom. Then he glanced up towards the gallery.
There was, of course, no sign of Lady Ursula. Even if she intended anonto rejoin His Grace, she would certainly wait a little while ere sheonce more ventured to sally forth.
The Cardinal very softly put the key back into the lock, and waited.
Very soon the door was vigorously shaken. His Eminence retired to thefurther end of the room and called loudly--
"Who goes there?"
"By Our Lady!" came in strong accents from the other side of the lockeddoor, "whoever you may be, an you don't open this door, it shall fallin splinters atop of you."
Time to once more recross the room, and turn a small key, and a secondlater the Cardinal stood face to face with the Duke of Wessex.
"His Grace of Wessex!" he murmured, with an expression of boundlessastonishment.
"Himself in person, my lord," rejoined Wessex, trying with all his mightto appear unconcerned before this man, whom he knew to be his deadliestenemy. "Marry!" he added, with well-acted gaiety, "the next moment, anYour Eminence had not released me, I might have lost my temper."
"A precious trifle Your Grace would no doubt have quickly found again,"said His Eminence with marked suavity. "Ah! I well recollect in my youngdays being locked in . . . just like Your Grace . . . by a lady who wasno less fair."
Had he entertained the slightest doubt as to whether the little dramaticepisode just enacted had borne its bitter fruit, he would have seen itsummarily dispelled with the first glance which he had cast at Wessex.
The Duke's grave face was deadly pale, and the violent effort which hemade to contain himself was apparent in the heavily swollen veins of histemples and the almost imperceptible tremor of his hands. But his voicewas quite steady as he said lightly--
"Nay! why should Your Eminence speak of a lady in this case?"
"What have I said?" quoth the Cardinal, throwing up his be-ringed handsin mock alarm. "Nay! Your Grace need have no fear. Discretion is anintegral portion of my calling. I was merely indulging in reminiscences.My purple robes do not, as you know, conceal a priest. Though a princeof the Church, I am an ecclesiastic only in name, and therefore mayremember, without a blush, that I was twenty once and very hot-tempered.The lady in my case put me under lock and key whilst she went to anothergallant."
"Again you speak of a lady, my lord," said the Duke, with the same lightindifference. "May I ask----"
"Nay, nay! I pray you ask me nothing . . . I saw nothing, believe me. . ."
He paused a moment. Wessex had turned to his dog, who, yawning andstretching, after the manner of his kind, and not the least upset by hisrecent incarceration, had just appeared in the doorway of the innerroom.
"I saw nothing," continued the Cardinal, with a voice full of gentle,good-natured indulgence, "save a charming lady standing here alone,close to that door, when I entered with Her Majesty. What Queen Maryguessed or feared, alas! I cannot tell. The charming lady had justturned the key in the lock . . . and this set me thinking of my ownyouth and follies. . . . But Your Grace must pardon an old man who hasbut one affection left in life. Don Miguel is as a son to me----"
"I pray you, my lord," here interrupted Wessex haughtily, "what has theMarquis de Suarez' name to do with me?"
"Only this, my son," rejoined the Cardinal with truly paternalbenevolence, "Don Miguel is a stranger in England . . . I had almosthoped that hospitality would prevent Your Grace from flying your hawkafter his birds. . . .
"Don Miguel would be hard hit," he added quickly, seeing that Wessex, atthe end of his patience, was about to make an angry retort, "for we allknow that where His Grace of Wessex desires to conquer, other vows andother lovers are very soon forgotten . . . But the Marquis is young. . . I would like to plead his cause. . . ."
His keen eyes had never for a moment strayed from the proud face of theDuke. He was shrewd enough to know that in speaking thus, he wasreaching the outermost limits of His Grace's forbearance. His robes andhis age rendered him to a certain extent immune from an actual quarrelwith a man of Wessex' physique, nor did fear for his own personal safetyever enter into the far-seeing calculations of this astute diplomatist.Whatever his weaknesses might be, cowardice was not one of them, and hepursued his own aims boldly and relentlessly.
But he had had to endure a great deal through the personality and thepresence of the Duke of Wessex: the humiliation put upon him this veryafternoon by Mary Tudor still rankled deeply in his mind, and the veinof cruelty, almost inseparable from his nationality, rendered thepresent situation peculiarly pleasing to this dissector of human hearts.
Until this moment he had perhaps not quite realized that His Grace ofWessex had been hard hit. Having wilfully put away from his own lifeevery tender sentiment, he did not understand the quick rise of a greatand whole-souled passion. The Duke had been ever noted for hisgallantry, his chivalry, and his numerous and light amourettes, and theCardinal never imagined that in the daring game which he had planned,and which with the help of the wench Mirrab he was about to play, hewould have to reckon with something more serious than a passingflirtation.
To his feline disposition, his callous estimate of human nature, hisreal hatred for this political rival, there was now a delicioussatisfaction in dealing a really mortal wound to the man for whose sakehe had oft been humiliated.
He felt a thrill of real and cruel delight in seeing this haughtyEnglishman half broken under the strain of this mental torture, whichhis slanderous words helped to aggravate. With half-closed eyes HisEminence was watching the quiver of the proud lip, ever ready withlaughter and jest, the tremor of the slender hands, that peculiarstiffening of the whole figure which denotes a fierce struggle 'twixtraging passion and iron self-control. Was it not a joy to watch thisgaping wound, into which he himself was pouring a deadly poison with asteady and unerring hand?
The game had become doubly interesting now, and so much more important.The Duke, obviously deeply in love with Lady Ursula, would certainlynever turn to another woman again. If the intrigue contrived by HisEminence and the Marquis de Suarez succeeded in accordance with theirexpectations, then not only would His Grace be parted from the lady inaccordance with Queen Mary's ultimatum, but he would probably bury hisdisillusionment and sorrow on some remote estate of his, far from Courtand political strife.
Chance had indeed been kind to the envoys of the King of Spain.
Chance, and the natural sequence of events, skilfully guided by theCardinal's gentle hands.
But His Eminence was clever enough to know exactly how far he might dareventure. For the moment he certainly had said enough. The Duke seemedpartly dazed and had altogether forgotten his presence.
Without a sound the Cardinal glided out of the room.
The closing of the door roused Wessex from the torpor into which he hadfallen. The hall looked sombre and dreary, the wax tapers flickeredfeebly in their sockets, whilst strange shadows seemed to jeer at himfrom the dark corners around. He would not look up at the gallery, thesteps whereon she stood, for it seemed to him as if some mocking witchwearing her face and her golden hair would look down at him from there,and laugh and sneer, until she finally faded from his sight in the armsof the Marquis de Suarez.
"Other vows and other lovers," he mused, whilst trying to shut away fromhis eyes the hel
lish visions which tortured him. "So my beautiful Fannyis not mine at all . . . but the Spaniard's . . . or another's . . .what matter whose? Not true and proud, but a frisky wench, ready forintrigue, of whom these foreigners speak with a coarse laugh and a shrugof the shoulders."
"Harry Plantagenet, my friend," he added, as the dog, seeming to feelthe presence of sorrow, gave his master's hand a gentle lick, "His Graceof Wessex has been made a fool of by a woman. . . . Ah, fortune! ficklefortune! one or two turns of your relentless wheel and a host ofillusions . . . the last I fear me . . . have been scattered to thewinds. . . . Shall we go, old Harry? Meseems you are the only honestperson in this poison-infected Court. We'll not stay in it, friend, Ipromise you. . . . I am thirsting for the pure air of our Devon moors.. . . Come, now . . . we must to bed . . . and sleep. . . . Not dream,old Harry! . . . whatever else we do . . . for God's sake, let us notdream. . . ."