CHAPTER IV
FRIENDS AND ENEMIES
In the meanwhile the two gallants were returning from their visit to thewitch's tent.
As they came down the steps more than one voice among the passers-byinquired eagerly--
"What fortune, sirs?"
"In truth she hath strange powers," was the somewhat guarded response.
The two men strolled up to a neighbouring wine-vendor and ordered somewine. They had thrown their cloaks aside and removed their masks, forthe air was close. The rich, slashed doublets, thus fully displayed, thefine lace at throat and wrist, the silken hose and chased daggers, allbetokened the high quality and wealth of the wearers.
Neither of them seemed much above thirty years of age; each had the airof a man in the prime of life, and in the full enjoyment of all the goodthings which the world can give.
But in their actual appearance they presented a marked contrast.
The one tall and broad-shouldered, florid of complexion, and somewhatreddish about the hair and small pointed beard; the other short,slender, and alert, with keen, restless eyes, and with sensuous lips forever curled in a smile of thinly veiled sarcasm.
Though outwardly on most familiar terms together, there was distinctlyapparent between the two men an air of reserve, and even of decided, ifperhaps friendly, antagonism.
"Well, milor Everingham," said the Spaniard after a while, "what say youto our adventure?"
"I say first and foremost, my lord," replied Everingham with studiedgallantry, "that my prophecy proved correct--the mysterious necromancerwas no proof against Spanish wiles; she unveiled at a smile from DonMiguel, Marquis de Suarez, the envoy of His Most Catholic Majesty."
"Nay," rejoined Don Miguel, affecting not to notice the slight tone ofsarcasm in his friend's pleasant voice, "I scarce caught a glimpse ofthe wench's face. The tent was so dark and her movements so swift."
There was a moment's silence. Lord Everingham seemed lost in meditation.
"You are thoughtful, milor," remarked Don Miguel. "Have the genii of themoon conquered your own usually lively spirits?"
"Nay, I was thinking of the curious resemblance," mused Everingham.
"A resemblance?--to whom?"
"As you say, the tent was dark and the wench's movements swift, yet Icould see that, though coarsely clad and ill-kempt, that witch, whomthey call Mirrab, is the very physical counterpart of the new Courtbeauty, the Lady Ursula Glynde."
"The fiancee of the Duke of Wessex!" exclaimed the Spaniard."Impossible!"
"Nay, my lord," rejoined Everingham pointedly, "she scarce can be calledHis Grace's fiancee as yet. They were children in their cradles when_her_ father plighted their troth."
The Spaniard made no immediate reply. With an affected, effeminategesture he was gently stroking his long, black moustache. Everingham,on the other hand, was eyeing him keenly, with a certain look ofdefiance and challenge, and in a moment the antagonism between the twomen appeared more marked than before.
"But gossip has it," said the Marquis at last, with assumed nonchalance,"that Lady Ursula's father--the Earl of Truro, was it not?--swore uponhis honour and on his deathbed that she should wed the Duke of Wessex,whenever he claimed her hand, or live her life in a convent. Nay, I butrepeat the rumour which has reached me," he added lightly; "put me rightif I am in error, my lord. I am but a stranger, and have not yet had thehonour of meeting His Grace."
"Bah!" said Everingham impatiently, "His Grace is in no humour to wed,nor do the Earl of Truro's deathbed vows bind _him_ in any way."
He took up his bumper, and looking long and thoughtfully into it, hesaid with slow emphasis--
"If the Duke of Wessex be inclined to marry, believe me, my lordMarquis, that it shall be none other than the Queen of England! Whom mayGod bless and protect," he added, reverently lifting his plumed hat withone hand, whilst with the other he held the bumper to his lips andtossed down the full measure of wine at one draught.
"Amen to that," responded Don Miguel with the same easy nonchalance.
He too drained his bumper to the dregs; then he said quietly--
"But that is where we differ, milor. His Eminence the Cardinal de Morenoand myself both hope that the Queen of England will wed our master KingPhilip of Spain."
Everingham seemed as if he would reply. But with a certain effort hechecked the impatient words which had risen to his lips. Englishmen hadonly just begun to learn the tricks and wiles of Spanish diplomacy, thesmiles which hide antagonisms, the suave words which disguise impulsivethoughts.
Lord Everingham had not wholly assimilated the lesson. He had frownedimpatiently when the question of the marriage of his queen had beenbroached by the foreigner. It was a matter which roused the temper ofevery loyal Englishman just then; they would _not_ see Mary Tudor weddedto a stranger. England was beginning to feel her own independence; herchildren would not see her under another yoke.
Mary, in spite of her Spanish mother, was English to the backbone.Tudor-like, she had proved her grit and her pluck when opposing factionstried to wrest her crown from her. She was Harry's daughter. Her loyalsubjects were proud of her and proud of her descent, and many of themhad sworn that none but an English husband should share her throne withher.
With the same sarcastic smile still lurking round his full lips theSpaniard had watched his friend closely the while. He knew full wellwhat was going on behind that florid countenance, knew the antagonismwhich the proposed Spanish marriage was rousing just then in the heartsand minds of Englishmen of all classes.
But he certainly did not care to talk over such momentous questions at acountry fair, with the eyes and mouths of hundreds of yokels gapingastonishment at him.
As far as he was concerned the half-amicable discussion was closed. Heand his friend had agreed to differ. According to Spanish ideas,divergence in political opinions need not interfere with pleasantcamaraderie.
With a genuine desire, therefore, to change the subject of conversation,Don Miguel rose from his seat and idly scanned the passing crowd.
"Carramba!" he ejaculated suddenly.
"What is it?"
"Our two masks," whispered the Spaniard. "What say you, milor, shall weresume our interrupted adventure and abandon the tiresome field ofpolitics for the more easy paths of gallantry?"
And without waiting for his friend's reply, eager, impetuous, fond ofintrigues and mysteries, the young man darted through the crowd in thedirection where his keen eyes had spied a couple of hooded figures,thickly veiled, who were obviously trying to pass unperceived.
Everingham followed closely on the young Spaniard's footsteps. But thesun had already sunk low down in the west. Outlines and silhouettes hadbecome indistinct and elusive. By the time the Marquis de Suarez and hisEnglish friend had elbowed their way through the throng the twomysterious figures had once more disappeared.