THE HOUSE OF THE WIZARD

QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN
FROM AN ENGRAVING AFTER THE ORIGINAL OF HOLBEIN

THE
House of the Wizard

BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR
AUTHOR OF
“ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” “AN IMPERIAL LOVER,”
“A YANKEE VOLUNTEER”

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1899

Copyright
By A. C. McClurg and Co.
A. D. 1899

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

The House of the Wizard

CHAPTER I
THE CAREWS OF DEVON

In the days of King Henry VIII., between Honiton and Exeter, at Luppit, stood Mohun’s Ottery, the great house of the Carews of Devon. Built like a fortress, it was too strong to be reduced, save by cannon, and its walls had sheltered for many years a race of gallant gentlemen, while its gates were ever open with a generous hospitality that welcomed both the rich and the poor. Its furnishings and tapestries were so magnificent that it was commonly reported that they would grace the king’s palace at Greenwich and not suffer by contrast with any royal trappings.

The Carews were famous, both at home and abroad, and had been since the first Carru came over with the Norman Conqueror. There was never a quarrel on English soil, or for the English cause, that a Carew was not in the forefront of the battle. One had been Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, one a captain of Harfleur for King Henry V., and another fought for Henry VII. A proud and valiant race, claiming kindred with the Geraldines, loyal and courteous to their friends and ready with sword and dagger for England’s foes and their own. Sir William Carew, the head of the Devon branch of the family, held noble sway at Mohun’s Ottery, and day by day a hundred poor and more were fed by his open hand, for in those times there was no niggardly charity, although the king’s laws spared not the valiant beggar. Every gentleman’s house was in itself a tavern, and men of all conditions came unbidden to the board, finding, too, a night’s lodging, even though it might be but a bed of straw upon the stone floor of the hall. The food was neither scanty nor of mean order; cooks who fed a hundred or so at one meal were accustomed to serving in a day beef, mutton, venison, pigs, geese, plovers, curlews, besides pike, bream, and porpoise, and of ale and wine there was no lack. A plentiful, free feast that drew a multitude of pensioners; the odors that floated from the kitchens, even on a fast day, brought a retinue of visitors to the doors, and after meal time the sounds of revelry told their own story, giving ample proof that there were no empty stomachs.

It was Shrove Tuesday in the year 1535, and the midday dinner was over at Mohun’s Ottery, as great a company as usual having been entertained. Upon the doorstep stood Sir William Carew and his guest, Master Raleigh, the father of Sir Walter, who was then unborn. These two worthies were engaged in deep and grave converse upon public matters, for the Act of the Supremacy had been followed by the Treason Act, and Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher were in the Tower, having refused to take the oath without conditions. So there was no lack of matter for discussion, and the faces of these two were neither unruffled nor jolly, though they had so lately dined. However, their conversation was doomed to a sharp interruption. A horse and rider came suddenly in sight upon the high-road, advancing at so mad a gait that both men paused in their talk to watch the approach. A great bay horse, flecked with foam and with blood upon his flank, showing a cruel spur, and on his back a large and handsome man, gayly dressed, his velvet cloak embroidered with gold and his hat beplumed, but reeling in his saddle, keeping his seat, as it seemed, only by a miracle.

“It is Sir Thomas,” Raleigh remarked, after a second glance at the red face of the rider.

“Ay,” retorted Carew, bitterly, “my worthy brother and, as usual, in his cups. A naughty rogue it is, and like to be a disgrace to his blood.”

As he spoke, he fixed a scornful gaze upon the drunken man who was now coming to the door, trying, too, to sit straight in the saddle, as if he knew that his brother’s disapproving eyes were on him. A little way from the entrance stood a large stone horse-block, from which the women of the household mounted, and toward this Sir Thomas Carew urged his horse.

“He has been gaming at Exeter,” Sir William remarked coldly; “he is ever thus after he has been brawling and drinking in a public house. I have not seen him for a twelvemonth, and I doubt not that he comes to borrow a hundred pounds; such is like to be his case. ’Pon my soul, a meritorious beggar!”

The words were scarcely spoken ere Sir Thomas struck his spur again into his horse’s bleeding flank. The great brute plunged, swerving madly to one side; his tipsy rider, reeling from the saddle, fell headlong upon the stone block, rolled over and lay in a hideous heap at his brother’s feet. The horse turning about as suddenly, trampled him under foot and rushed back toward the stables, clearing a wide path in the crowd of spectators who had come out to view the accident. Sir William and Raleigh both hastened to the fallen man, but something in the limpness of his figure told its own story. He lay face downward, and they turned him over to find a lump of mangled flesh, his neck being broken just below the skull, and his drink-blurred eyes stared into space.

“Stone dead,” Carew said sternly; “cut off in his sins. God pity him, for he is like enough to be damned!”

“Here is a sad end,” rejoined Raleigh, looking gravely at the dead man; “a gallant gentleman brought into such a case by evil communications. Lend a hand, good fellow, and we will carry in this body,” he added, addressing the nearest bystander, for the curious crowd had gathered in a constantly narrowing circle around the central figures.

“Let be, Raleigh,” Sir William interposed coldly; “these grooms shall take him up; he deserved less for the dishonor he has brought upon his name.”

With the same proud indignation, unforgiving even to the dead, he directed the removal of the corpse, and then he and Raleigh followed it into the house. Without, all tongues were loosed at their departure and gossip flowed on every hand, and there was food enough for it in such a life and such a death as this.

“I told Sir Tom ’twould be so!” one of the spectators said, with the air of a man who felt justified; “that brute was like to end some man’s life, and who but a Carew would back him in the state of liquor that yonder poor gentleman was?”

“That horse? Why, man, he held him above all else he had,” cried another; “he valued the beast above his daughter.”

“Like enough,” was the reply; “certain it is that he valued him above his wife, poor lady!”

“She has been dead these many years, I take it,” said a third; for, after the fashion of all such leeches, they were eager to discuss the affairs of the family whose substance they devoured.

“Ay, dead enough, good luck to her!” rejoined the first speaker. “They do say Sir Thomas wagered her at dice the very night on which his daughter was born, and lost his bet, too; but his opponent levied not the debt, and the poor lady, dying not many years thereafter, perchance never knew it. Howbeit, it is certain that had she known it, she could not have hated him more heartily than she did.”

“That’s true enough, my masters,” said an ancient crone. “I knew her woman, and a sorry death the poor thing made. Even at that hour her husband was as tipsy as he was but now, and came into her chamber blubbering, as a sot will sometimes, and with great oaths, that he would guard her child. My lady heeded not his voice, but cried out to her tirewoman that the end was near, and she thanked the dear God for it, and to let her go in peace! She looked but once at her little daughter and then fell to weeping and blessing her, saying that the queen would care for this lamb, and so turned her white face to the wall and died.”

“The queen,—did she commend her baby to the queen?” they all exclaimed.

“Ay, ay,” the old woman answered, “to the queen’s grace; there was but one queen then, but now there is the old queen and Queen Nan Bullen, and God wot how many queens there be!”

“Hold thy tongue, mistress!” cried one; “thou wilt be up by the Treason Act, and hang at Tyburn, if thou hast so foul a tongue!”

“Belike I shall, and all of ye,” the old creature laughed shrilly; “but it would not profit much to twist my shrivelled neck, there be fairer ones that would furnish a better entertainment.”

“Where is Carew’s child?” cried one whose thirst for knowledge was not yet slaked.

“Hidden somewhere in that old nest of his,” returned one of the gossips; “a sad life she’s had of it and is like to be in a worse case yet. Sir Thomas never did her a good turn until this day; the worst he did was to father her. An ill-favored wench, too, when last I saw her, thin and yellow and with a cold way that made no friends.”

“Then ye have not seen her lately,” the old woman said with a chuckle; “she has shot up like a young sapling, and has eyes like two stars, and a smile that will turn many a young fool’s head, albeit her purse is empty and her kirtle patched.”

“Poor wench, poor Mistress Betty, my heart doth ache for her,” a kinder woman said, shaking her head.

Strangely enough, at that same moment Mistress Betty Carew was spoken of within the house by Sir William and his wife. He turned from his brother’s corpse, a certain stern relenting in his face, and said to Lady Carew, “There is the child.”

“Ay, we must have her here, William,” his wife replied at once; “you may not leave your own blood in so poor a strait as he is like to have left the maid.”

Sir William mused. “How old is she?” he asked.

“Seventeen, come Michaelmas,” Lady Carew replied, watchful of her husband’s face, her own heart full of compassion for the orphan.

“I know not how she may be bred up,” he said doubtfully; “she was a plain wench when last I saw her, but that is five years since. Well, well, she must even come and follow this wretched man’s funeral, and then you and she will doubtless find a way to settle it to your own liking.”

So it was that Mistress Betty came to Mohun’s Ottery; a tall, slim girl in a black gown and with a calm look on her young face that startled her uncle, so unlike was it to anything in youth. Sir Thomas was carried from the home of his ancestors with all due state and ceremony, but there was no pretence of mourning, and the well-born rogue was laid in his narrow house without a tear. After it was over, the affairs of the orphan were soon disposed of by Sir William. Finding that she was dowerless, save for a beauty of which her childhood had given no promise, he kept her under his own roof, and she lived there until other events took her to far other scenes. She was then in her girlhood, growing every day in beauty of a strong and striking type, and carrying her head like a queen rather than a penniless maid living in dependence at her uncle’s house. Her form, though slender, gave the promise of a richer outline, and as she grew happier in her new home, a color came into her cheeks, a sparkle to her eyes that made her lovely in the sight of many who marvelled that so plain a child should grow so beautiful. Lady Carew fretted much, however, at the will that Mistress Betty showed, which brooked no crossing, and the tongue that could, in anger, cut like a whip, for this beauty was no saint. There was, however, that in her lordly nature which scorned all meanness and baseness, a nobility that shone through the imperfections of her temper like a star, and looked out through the windows of her great eyes,—eyes that were clear brown, heavily fringed with black lashes, and set beneath two straight, black brows. Her mouth closed, perhaps, a trifle too firmly for so young a woman, and her chin was clear cut as a man’s, but her voice was sweet and low, and there was witchery in her smile.

CHAPTER II
A MESSENGER FROM MY LORD PRIVY SEAL

Michaelmas had come and gone, and it was past the middle of October when a messenger came down post-haste from London. It was after supper, and there was revelry among the retainers and visitors at Mohun’s Ottery. In the great hall, however, there were but few; Sir William had only his favored guest, Master Raleigh, and besides these two were Lady Carew, her daughter, Mistress Cicely, and her niece. There were three sons, but none were home. Peter, who ran away to France, was even then with Sir John Wallop; that same Sir Peter who made the barns of Crediton smoke for the Lord Protector in after years. That evening the little company sat about the fire, the women working with their needles in a group at the left, and at the right sat Raleigh watching his host brew a posset. It was a matter of grave import to Carew, and he let no other hand mix the rare composition, but stood over it; a noble figure, a man in middle life, having a fine head and grizzled hair, with the keen, bright eye and strong jaw of a resourceful and stubborn nature. His rich dress of Flemish velvet, dark as the dregs of wine, his great lace ruff and heavy chain of gold, set off his person and made it the more striking in contrast to the darker, plainer garb of Raleigh. The guest watched his friend stir the beverage and smiled at his ardor.

“What secret lurks in it,” he said, “that you let no man brew it for you, Carew? I should scarce be willing to take the pains that you have this night, though I do heartily acknowledge you the king of posset makers.”

“If it be not worth the pains, it is not worth the drinking,” replied Sir William; “’tis like a fine child, it may not come into the world without some travail and a good leech. See you, friend Raleigh, there is a secret in stirring it aright and putting in the parts in due season. If the cream and almonds be not wisely boiled with the amber and musk, and if you heat not the sack before you put in the eggs, then is there confusion, worse than these late troubles have brought upon this realm, and caused much in the same way, too, by a domestic disagreement.”

Master Raleigh shook his head gravely at this, his mind slipping away from the posset as his next words betrayed.

“It will be happy for the realm if it prove but a domestic quarrel,” he said thoughtfully, “since the Act of the Succession there can be no doubt that there is much foreign meddling, and, I fear me, plots against the king’s majesty, made over seas, are foster-mothered here at Bugden; albeit, I do not greatly blame that noble lady that she will not yield. To her it must seem a sore and bewildering visitation of evil.”

“God help her!” cried Lady Carew; “she was a good wife to the king, and deserveth better at his hands.”

“Hush, madam!” retorted her lord, sternly; “a woman’s heart is more full of pity than of wisdom. It is not for us to dispute the matter; there is talk enough, and no little harm from it. The marriage hath been set aside, and let us hear no more of it while there is another queen and an infant princess.”

“Ay, it is an easy matter for a man to forget his wife for a pretty face,” replied the good dame, hotly; “this is a policy that men like, since it favoreth their own slips upon the road; but no good will come of it, I warrant.”

Raleigh laughed, looking from the husband to the wife; and even Sir William smiled, though a little grimly.

“The women are all alike,” he said; “there is a great cackling amongst them over this, and if the petticoats could set the kingdom in order, I doubt not one fair lady would hang as high as Haman.”

“I blame them not for their pity for one we know,” Raleigh answered quietly; “it seems, forsooth, a great wrong, yet would I not see the Lady Mary come to the throne to bring back the Bishop of Rome and the Spaniards. These last I loved not ever; albeit there is cause for mourning that we lose with them the Flanders trade. Yet my heart has not been in all these acts; the fall of Sir Thomas More was, in itself, grief enough to me, for I had much friendship for that virtuous gentleman.”

“Could it not have been averted?” asked Lady Carew, sadly; “he and Fisher both consented to swear to the Act of the Succession, with an exception, as I heard; could not this suffice?”

“Nay, madam,” Raleigh answered quietly, “since the very clauses they excepted to were those which did declare the king’s first marriage illegal, and his present one legal. Of what profit would it be to swear allegiance to the Princess Elizabeth and, in the same breath, to refuse her legitimacy? It may not be. We must have a settled succession; if the king have not male issue, I fear me there will be war in any case. Besides the Lady Mary and the troubles that my Lady Salisbury is like to hatch in the cause of the White Rose, there is the King of Scots, and verily no English stomach can digest him and not vomit.”

“Nay, forsooth!” exclaimed Sir William; “there shall be no Scotch dressing to an English pudding while there is a sword in Devonshire. If the king could but get a boy there might be an end in peace, but as it is, one girl child set up against another, and one-half the kingdom crying ‘Mary,’ the other ‘Elizabeth,’ and so blood and fire from Land’s End to the Tweed, and, eftsoons, the King of Scots!”

“Friend Carew, let not thy posset burn, for all that,” said Master Raleigh, smiling, for in his vexation Sir William had well nigh forgotten his brewing.

“’Tis ready,” Carew answered, taking it from the fire; “Cicely, wench, hast ground the amber and sugar for it?”

As he spoke, there was a great stir without, the sound of hurrying feet and voices. The group by the fire paused in their talk to listen, and looked down toward the door at the lower end. In a moment it was opened and an attendant came swiftly across the hall and addressed Sir William, who still stirred the posset while Mistress Cicely sprinkled the amber over it.

“A messenger from London, your worship,” the servant announced hurriedly, “and he craves leave to speak with you at once.”

“From whom?” asked Carew, shortly.

“My lord privy seal,” replied the man, in an awestricken tone.

Sir William’s face showed both surprise and anxiety, but his manner changed but little.

“Where have you got him?” he asked.

“Without, sir; shall I bring him here?”

“Nay, I will go to him,” Carew replied, after an instant of thought. “Raleigh, drink thou the sack, I will return again;” and he followed the servant from the hall.

Lady Carew glanced nervously across at her guest.

“May it be trouble?” she asked in an anxious voice.

Raleigh shook his head. “In these times we cannot know, madam,” he replied, “but I take it that Sir William stands well with the king’s highness and with Cromwell.”

“Ay, so we believe,” she said, speaking low, “but which of us can know how soon change may come? Wolsey, More, Fisher, the unhappy and gracious lady at Bugden! Why may not my good lord be caught also in the toils?”

A shadow crossed Raleigh’s face, but it was only for the moment; after it came his ready smile.

“Madam,” he said gently, “I know not how it may be, but I am sure that Sir William’s honest heart and clean hands are truly valued by the king’s grace; you know the saying is that ‘King Harry loves a man,’ and nowhere in this realm will he find a more valiant soldier or a more honest and God-fearing gentleman than your husband; albeit, Sir William may—from his own frankness—have made some enemies. A great-hearted man who dealeth honestly is like to have them, for there be many who do hate the odor of the truth.”

Lady Carew sighed. “It may be that my heart is over-anxious,” she said; “these be troubled times, and Sir William hath often told me that my outspoken sympathy with that good queen is like to bring him into evil straits.”

There was no more time for the good dame’s fears and misgivings, for at this moment Sir William returned, followed by a young man of fine bearing, whose rich attire was besprinkled with mud from hard riding.

“Madam, I bring you a welcome visitor,” Carew said briefly. “My wife and Master Raleigh, this is Master Simon Raby, the son of Lord Raby of Sussex.”

The young stranger made his obeisance with the easy grace of a courtier, drawing near to the group by the fire, and at Sir William’s invitation laying aside his cloak and disclosing a gallant figure. A tall man, broad-shouldered enough, yet graceful, with a fine, frank face, which had in it the pink and white color of a girl’s, but bold and brave enough to bear this dainty touch of nature. His hair was chestnut color, and his dark eyes were keen, but with a merry glance in them. He wore the rich dress of the court, his velvet doublet slashed with satin and edged with fur, Flanders lace upon his ruff, and in the side of his velvet cap were set three crimson feathers, clasped with a great jewel, while his velvet cloak was lined with crimson sarsenet. Certainly a figure for the two young girls to look at in some amazement, being little used to court gallants down in Devonshire; and while they viewed him, no doubt approvingly but in discreet silence, his eyes rested in some wonder and manifest admiration upon the glowing face of Mistress Betty. All the time, however, he talked with Master Raleigh, while Lady Carew and her husband spoke apart. Sir William held in his hand a letter, of which he evidently had much to say, and both he and his wife glanced frequently at the two young maidens by the fire. At last Carew turned abruptly to his niece.

“Betty,” he said, “what say you to a brief absence from home, that you may attend upon a great lady, who is in poor health and—unhappy, and so has need of your service?”

Mistress Betty looked up amazed, with a pretty deepening of the color in her cheeks, and it was noted that Master Raby listened to her answer with much attention.

“I am so happy here at Mohun’s Ottery, good uncle,” she said, “that I love not the thought of quitting it; yet so deep am I in your debt that it is for you to direct me as you will, and for me to obey with love and cheerfulness.”

Sir William smiled. “Wisely and modestly spoken, wench,” he said, “and I have so little wish to part with you that I would fain find an excuse to my lord privy seal, but there is none. Therefore prepare for the journey; to-morrow morning you will ride with me.”

Mistress Betty’s bright face paled a little and her eyes clouded. “Where go we, uncle?” she asked quickly.

“Of that you shall know hereafter,” he answered shortly, his own brow frowning slightly; “it is enough that you attend a noble lady by order of the privy seal.”

Mistress Betty bit her lips, casting down her eyes, a sudden chagrin in her manner. Young as she was, she had no love of orders that were unexplained, and Master Raby, seeing her expression, addressed her with a pleasant courtesy.

“I fear your service may be sad, mistress,” he said gravely, “but, happily for you, it is like to be a short one, if rumor saith the truth.”

“Is it so, indeed?” exclaimed Raleigh, a sorrowful surprise in his kindly face. “I heard it not, ere now;” for he understood the reference, although Betty did not.

“True enough, I fear me,” Raby answered, “although we know it not at Greenwich.”

“How goes it there?” asked Sir William, anxiously.

“Gay, marvellously gay,” his guest replied, “though the king’s grace has been troubled with the swelling in his leg again.”

At this Sir William shook his head.

“And no boy yet,” he said; “pray Heaven this realm may see a prince before his highness yields further to these troubles, and so leaves us with our swords at each other’s throats!”

“What other tidings?” asked Raleigh, eagerly.

“None of late importance,” Raby answered. “Fox has gone to talk to the Lutheran princes against the French intrigues; Master Latimer is made Bishop of Worcester; the parliament has passed the vagrant act, and the universities will pay no more tenths and first fruits; there has been a great mask at Greenwich and a wizard has come to London who promises to show the king his own successor, but his grace will none of him.”

“It may be that he dreads to inquire into so grave a matter,” suggested Lady Carew.

“I know not, madam,” answered Raby, smiling; “it is a much mooted question, even now that the little princess is proclaimed.”

“Ay, but we have had already enough of such fancies,” retorted Carew, stoutly; “we have not forgot the Oxford conjurer, nor the prophecy that he made whereby he declared that none of ‘the Cadwallader blood’ should reign long, and would even have raised an heir to Lancaster from the bloody field of Tewkesbury. All such matters be but the beginning of treason;” and the good baron turned to his posset in open disgust of the sorcerer’s arts.

Far other thoughts ran in the mind of his elder guest; Raleigh sat looking at the fire with much perplexity upon his face.

“Latimer a bishop!” he said, at last; “I do remember the time when they would have burnt him but for my lord cardinal; strange, too, that Wolsey’s hand should have plucked such a fagot from the fire. Verily, these are days when swift changes come upon this realm.”

CHAPTER III
MISTRESS BETTY GOES OUT INTO THE WORLD

Under a gray sky and over moors, brown with the frost, rode Mistress Betty Carew upon her first journey into the great world. She and her uncle were escorted by Master Raby and a few stout retainers, all being well armed, for travellers encountered some perils upon those lonely roads. The young girl, going out upon an unknown errand and feeling herself almost a stranger even to Sir William, spoke but little, her mind being full of many thoughts and fancies. She had as yet no intuition of her destination, and marvelled not a little at the peremptory summons coming to one so little known as she was. Happily for her, she had been bred up in the school of misfortune and had profited by its early and sharp lessons. Naturally imperious in temper, she had learned to submit to the inevitable, and accepted this sudden and unwelcome change as part of her uncertain destiny, knowing that her poverty and dependence made her a plaything in the hands of fate. She had learned also in that early school to be a close observer of men and women, and was not unskilful in reading character, although so young. Therefore she smiled a little when she heard her uncle’s sharp comment on Simon Raby’s groom.

“What hangdog knave is that thou hast there, Raby?” Sir William asked, when they were leaving an inn where they had stopped for a few moments.

“You mean not my groom surely, Sir William?” said Raby, smiling; “an honest fellow, who has served me two years or more.”

“I marvel that he stayed so long out of gaol,” Carew answered dryly; “a crop-eared villain, who will hang some day at Tyburn.”

The younger man laughed gayly. “A sorry prophecy, sir,” he said lightly; “the man has served me faithfully, as far as I know, and seems free enough of bad habits,—drinks less, thieves less, and quarrels less than most.”

“Ay,” retorted Sir William, with a grim smile, “he would not quarrel openly, but keep a knife for your back at midnight; I would give him short shrift if he were mine.”

“Verily, I must look for another knave,” Raby answered, still laughing. “I shall scarce ride in comfort after this with the fellow at my heels.”

“Take my word for it,” Carew returned; “I have been magistrate and provost and chief executioner—as it would seem—here in Devon, for all things are shifted on my shoulders, and it is such-looking rogues as that one who keep the hangman from forgetting his trade.”

“Your uncle is a hard judge, Mistress Carew,” Raby remarked; “I should not wish to stand trial at his hands unless, perchance, he liked my face. Here is my poor groom, Thaxter, already doomed to hang for his.”

“To speak truth, he has an evil countenance, Master Raby,” she answered quietly, but with a smiling glance at her uncle.

“You are prejudiced by Sir William,” Raby declared. “I am willing to wager that the poor fellow is as honest as many with a fair exterior.”

“I will take the wager, Raby,” Carew remarked calmly, “and you will be the loser, therefore make it not too heavy on your purse.”

“Fifty pounds, and I do not fear to lose,” the other cried, still much diverted by the matter.

“I am that much a gainer,” Sir William said, “but I will pray you not to test the affair at the moment by making him our guide. I am not willing to trust my neck and Betty’s to his mercies.”

“Mistress Carew shall take no risks,” Raby replied; “you and I will settle the wager when we are not in so fair company. Indeed, I trust that we shall make this journey safely and with expedition, since my lord privy seal was urgent that the matter should be speedily accomplished.”

“Will they be ready for our reception? Has yonder lady been notified, or is this the act of Cromwell only?” Carew asked gravely.

Raby shook his head. “I know not,” he answered. “I am but the bearer of certain instructions, but I fear that the—that her grace is little consulted in the affair.”

Carew did not reply, but seemed to muse over some grave subject, for his face became almost stern in its repose; and Raby, seeing his preoccupation, took his place at Mistress Betty’s bridle, guiding her horse and talking lightly and pleasantly of those matters that he thought would amuse his young companion. He had been but lately at the court, and told her of the jousts at Greenwich, when the knights tilted before Queen Anne Boleyn.

“It was a beautiful sight,” he said; “they wore white velvet, embroidered in silver, and the lists were surrounded by the gayest ladies of the court; there was a sheen of gold brocade, and jewels; it was a scene worth seeing, and ’twill be remembered long by those who saw it.”

“And the queen?” Betty asked, with a little hesitation, “is the queen as beautiful as they say?”

“She was thought to be the most beautiful woman at court when she was Marchioness of Pembroke,” Raby answered; “and she is still fair to look upon, though I do think that there are others more lovely. I doubt not she would call it treason did she hear me say it,” he added, smiling.

“I should like to see her,” Mistress Carew said thoughtfully.

“You have no need to seek so far to find a fairer face,” Raby answered, with the gallantry of a courtier.

And so they rode on, talking in a friendly way until they seemed no longer strangers, and were but little interrupted by Sir William, who was wrapped in his own thoughts, which were apparently not altogether pleasant ones. Thus the three made the journey together, and still Betty knew nothing of her destination, though she marvelled more and more as the way lengthened, and they stopped at first one tavern and then another. But in those days young girls were little considered and were expected to submit, with implicit obedience, to the guidance of their elders. More than once Betty thought that she was likely to come to her journey’s end without knowing her errand, but it was not to be so. The last day of her travels brought her enlightenment. Toward evening, when they were riding along at an even gait and had just passed through a small village, Master Raby fell back, leaving uncle and niece alone, as though he gave them opportunity for a last talk together, and Sir William, almost at once, availed himself of it.

“Fair niece,” he said, “you are truly a jewel among women, for you have not yet asked me a question. Did your aunt tell you whither you were bound?”

“Nay, uncle,” Mistress Betty answered quietly, “but I remember my cause for gratitude and am willing to do your bidding, though I should like to know where we are going.”

Carew smiled. “There spoke the woman,” he said, “yet I fear you will be little pleased; it is no lively errand for a girl. We are riding to Kimbolton, where they have but lately taken the princess dowager.”

“What, sir, do I go to the queen?” cried Betty, in amazement.

“Mind thy tongue, young mistress,” Carew said sharply; “not queen, but princess dowager.”

“You mean Queen Catherine, uncle,” Betty retorted, some excitement in her voice; “I cannot think of her as less than the queen.”

“Then must you learn to speedily,” Sir William said, “for you are sent down to Kimbolton by my lord privy seal, and you must not transgress the king’s commandment in this matter, whereby we are bidden to hold this lady as only the widow of Prince Arthur.”

“I cannot see how that may be,” the young girl cried; “she was surely the king’s wife, and there be many who declare that there is no divorcement.”

“But ye are not of them, wench,” her uncle said sternly; “his grace of Canterbury hath declared the king’s first marriage null, and we have naught to do with the opinions of the Bishop of Rome, albeit this lady clings to his judgment and will none of the king’s.”

“Uncle, do you believe that she is fairly used?” asked Mistress Betty, with the fearful honesty of youth; “think you they had a right to treat the daughter of a king with such contumely?”

“’Tis not for you to ask, or for me to answer, niece,” Sir William answered sharply; “it is done, and the Act of the Succession hath set aside the Lady Mary. Mind, therefore, that you fall into no error in these matters, but do your duty, leaving these questions to the bishops and the king’s grace.”

“But wherefore do they send me thither?” she asked, her voice betraying her discontent; “what need is there for me?”

“Now listen well to me, Betty,” her uncle said sternly; “you are young to be sent on such an errand. The princess has been surrounded only with her own creatures, there has been some plotting, and my lord privy seal would have one woman there who, being not of it, will be a check upon them; and he sent to me, because he puts some confidence in me, and was recommended, too, by our kinsman, the master of horse, Sir Nicholas Carew.”

For a moment there was silence, and then Betty spoke with passionate feeling.

“See you not, uncle, that they would make a spy of me?” she cried; “how can you bear that this should be? Surely you are too honorable to see your niece sent to watch and betray a noble and an injured princess!”

“Hark ye, fair niece!” said Sir William, in a low tone, “I am not without sympathy for yonder great lady; she has been hardly used, though it is my peril to say so, and if you go not to her, my lord privy seal will surely send another who may, being tempted, work some deep mischief to her. See ye not how grievously an enemy might hurt her?”

“I see, I see,” Betty answered, “yet I can never play the part of a spy!”

“Nor did I ask you, wench,” Carew answered grimly. “I would wring your neck with my own hand, thought I you were so mean a traitress. But remember that you owe allegiance to the king’s grace and you cannot break it without as great dishonor. Let not soft words prevail with you. It is commonly reported that this poor lady is plotting mischief with the Emperor of Germany and the Bishop of Rome. Not that I greatly blame her, Heaven knows, but it is a damnable treason against this realm and is like to pull us all by the pates if it succeeds. Meddle not with it, bear no secret messages, open no barred doors, steal no keys, though the lack of them may lay a royal head upon the block. Remember your allegiance, do your duty and leave the rest to wiser brains than yours.”

“That will I promise to do right cheerfully,” Betty answered, “but never could I betray a woman in so sad a case.”

“It is well,” Sir William said soberly; “do your duty and mind well your tongue, for it may be that there will be some who would right willingly set a snare for you to bring you to disaster and work my downfall. I know not how close an eye Cromwell hath upon me, nor how he means to try me withal. He is a cat who plays with many mice, and his trap is the Tower.”

“Hast thou then so many enemies, uncle?” Betty asked, in some wonder.

“Enough and to spare, fair niece,” he answered; “and there is much malice in a court: it crawleth, like the serpent, on its belly, and there is war between it and the seed of woman, for it ever stings the heel of him who would live honestly. It was such malice that pulled down my lord cardinal. But enough; you know your duty, and yonder is Kimbolton.”

CHAPTER IV
THE QUEEN AT KIMBOLTON

The shadows of evening were gathering fast when the little party halted at the gates of Kimbolton. There was much parley, and the royal warrant was produced before the visitors were admitted, the delay and formality impressing Betty with the feeling of entering a prison; and she followed her uncle reluctantly across the courtyard, where a few torches flared in the gloom. No womanish qualms, however, oppressed Carew, and he walked boldly forward, leaving Raby to attend upon his niece, an office which the younger man eagerly accepted; indeed, he had already won the good opinion of Mistress Betty by his courtly gallantry upon the road. Bred in the country and under unfortunate auspices, she was little accustomed to the attendance of a courtier, and she noted young Master Raby’s courtesy and graceful tact with some secret admiration, though she held her head high and was, as usual, chary of her smiles, perhaps, because—like every beauty—she knew their value. Unfavorably impressed both with the place and with the lack of state and hospitality, she shrank back a little, and so it was that she and her cavalier were late in entering the hall, and found Sir William already in deep converse with the castellan, Sir Edmund Bedingfield. Neither of these worthies heeded the young people, scarcely noting their entrance, but stood talking and perusing a letter, no doubt the instructions of my lord privy seal. Mistress Betty and Raby drew near to the fire in the great chimney, a pile of logs of such length that one end might burn while the other was cold, but giving little warmth, for the opening above was of such huge dimensions that gusts of cold air came down with greater alacrity than the sparks and smoke went up. There was a lack of due attendance, a cheerless and gloomy aspect that increased the young girl’s unfavorable impression, and she shivered a little, bending over the fire and holding out her hands to the blaze.

“A dull place,” said Simon Raby, in a low tone; “a dull place for an uncrowned queen.”

“Poor lady!” murmured Betty, forgetful of her uncle’s recent instructions, “’tis enough to break her heart.”

“I never knew her,” Raby answered. “I was away in France with Sir John Wallop until the queen that now is was crowned, but they do tell me that this lady is too strong and resolute a woman to greatly mourn the loss of state or earthly glory; but ’tis awful to consign a princess to so mean a case as this.”

Betty, remembering now the commands that were laid upon her, turned the subject without an open expression of her own feeling on this point.

“You were in France?” she said; “’tis there my cousin Peter is; he ran away, you know, and coming to Paris, was taken into the household of Sir John Wallop.”

“I know him,” her companion answered, smiling; “a gay and fiery gallant, who is like to make a brave record for Mohun’s Ottery.”

At this moment they were interrupted by Bedingfield, who, turning from Sir William, for the first time cast a glance in Betty’s direction.

“Is this the maid?” he asked.

“Come hither, niece,” Carew said, “and make your curtsy to Sir Edmund; you are now committed to his charge to be introduced to the princess dowager.”

“Who is little likely to be pleased thereat,” remarked Bedingfield, with a frankness which yet farther chilled Betty’s heart. “I bid you welcome, mistress,” he added dryly; “it is a sorry place for a young maid at best, and of late her highness has been ailing and in no plight to crave gay attendance.”

“Discourage her no more, Bedingfield,” Sir William remarked; “the wench is sufficiently cast down at the prospect, without your croaking talk.”

“It mends not a matter to dress it in gay colors,” Bedingfield retorted briefly. “Come, young mistress, follow me to the princess; there is no place to bestow you until I know her wishes, and ’tis best to cut a long matter short.”

“I would make some changes in my garments,” Mistress Betty said quietly, “before I go to—to her grace.”

“There is no need,” Sir Edmund replied, with evident impatience to have an unpleasant task accomplished; “you may lay aside your cloak in the antechamber while I learn her highness’s wishes in the matter, and so end it.”

Without more words, he turned to the staircase and began the ascent, and after one glance at her uncle to ascertain his wishes, Betty followed with a heavy heart. She was not without a little thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing this unhappy queen, and there was, too, all a young girl’s curiosity and eagerness for adventure, but she dreaded a cold reception, knowing so well how unwelcome she was likely to be, sent, as she was, by one whom the poor woman must regard as her greatest enemy. So in a tumult of contrary emotions Mistress Betty walked down the gloomy, ill-lighted corridor, behind the castellan, mentally contrasting this dull place with Mohun’s Ottery. They were not to gain admittance without some parley; the queen allowed no intercourse with the royal officers stationed about her by the king. She lived among her own people, and Bedingfield had to crave permission to speak with her. Finally, a page admitted them into a small anteroom, where Betty was told to wait and lay aside her mantle. There was a closed door opposite to the one at which they had entered, and from behind it came the sound of voices engaged in conversation, which was hushed as Bedingfield opened the door and passed through. Betty knew that he was going into the presence of the queen, and she stood listening with anxiety. She heard a woman’s voice address him at once; the cold dignity of the tone and the slightly foreign accent made her sure of the identity of the speaker.

“What tidings, Sir Edmund?” she asked; “my maids tell me there is a stir below, and truly we long for any change; ay, almost welcome evil rather than the dull monotony of suspense.”

“No news, madam,” replied Bedingfield; “only a messenger from my lord privy seal and—”

“Alack, alack!” cried Catherine, hastily, “I did not speak sooth; news from that quarter is ill news indeed. If it had been from the king’s highness—but that comes no more to me.”

“In a way it is, madam,” Sir Edmund answered; “the king’s grace hath sent another maid to attend upon your highness.”

“Another maid!” the queen exclaimed, in a tone of irony; “you mock me, sir; ’tis not possible that so great state is allowed the Queen of England? Four maids! Such a train will be a grievous charge upon you.”

“Nay, madam, I do beseech you, lay not the blame of your poor attendance upon me,” Bedingfield said, with some feeling; “I may not exceed my orders.”

“Your orders,” said the queen, bitterly; “who gave them to you, man, but that tailor’s son, mine enemy?”

“Nay, madam; you do wrong my lord privy seal,” Bedingfield returned; “he is but the mouthpiece of the king’s grace.”

“It may be, and it should not be,” Catherine said sadly; “yet the time may come when even Cromwell will regret it. I do remember that my lord cardinal wrought against me to his own downfall, and died loving me, as I believe, better than his creature, who still wears a paper crown.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Bedingfield spoke abruptly.

“I would know your highness’s pleasure in regard to the maid who waits without.”

“The maid!—what maid?” exclaimed Catherine, as if awakened from a dream; “oh, ay, I do remember! Why, send her to me, sir; I fear her not, even though she be a spy of my lord privy seal. If she has a woman’s heart, doubtless it will be moved to see her queen brought to so low estate; and if she has no heart, then will I rejoice that mine enemies may have a true report of how chastely and honorably the Queen of England bears herself under the deepest injury that a woman and a wife can suffer.”

“Do I understand that your grace will see the maid to-night?” Bedingfield asked dryly.

“When it be your pleasure, sir,” the queen answered coldly; “a prisoner hath no choice.”

“Nay, madam,” Bedingfield began haughtily, “I—”

“Send her, sir,” exclaimed the queen, sharply; “I would see her now! I am weary, and words mend not my case; let us so end the matter.”

“As you will, madam,” the castellan replied; “I do but my duty.”

“I doubt it not, good Bedingfield,” she answered with sad courtesy, “but I have known duty more graciously done. Howbeit, send me the maid; I would see what sort of a creature my Lord Cromwell sends to watch his queen.”

“Your grace mistakes the matter,” Sir Edmund said awkwardly; “this is a well-bred maiden, the niece of a gallant gentleman of Devon, Sir William Carew.”

“Carew?” repeated the queen, thoughtfully. “I should know the name, kindred of the master of horse, as I remember, and he is truly a noble soldier. Fate and Cromwell are propitious; I looked for worse. Let there be no more delay, sir; my heart fluttereth at the thought of four female attendants,” she added, with a touch of irony.

Having overheard all this talk, so little calculated to allay her misgivings, Betty waited for Bedingfield’s summons with increased agitation. When he came to the door and beckoned to her to advance, she did so with great reluctance; although never a timid girl, she felt deeply embarrassed as she entered the room beyond, and found herself in the presence of Catherine of Arragon. Her eyes dazzled by the greater illumination, she was, at first, only conscious that she stood in a large room where there was a bright fire burning on the hearth, and before it several figures. She made her curtsy almost mechanically, and it was a moment before she collected her thoughts, and then she found that the queen was addressing her.

“I bid you welcome, maiden,” Catherine said not unkindly. “Sir Edmund tells me that you are sent by my lord privy seal, whereby I know you to be chosen rather to his liking than my own comfort; but God forbid that I should misjudge so young a heart as thine! What is your name?”

“Betty Carew,” was the answer, in a low tone, “the daughter of Sir Thomas Carew of Devon.”

“Thomas Carew,” repeated the queen, with sudden recollection. “Your mother was the daughter of Lord Penrith; I knew her well, and I do now recall that she commended her child to my care, when I was little able to care for any one; a falling tree doth crush the flower at its root. Blessed Virgin, how strange is destiny! That very child sent down to watch her royal mistress!”

Catherine spoke in a low tone, more to herself than to those about her, and sat for a few moments lost in revery. She was seated in a great chair before the hearth, and there was much calm dignity and sadness in her whole aspect, but she was both unlovely and unattractive; a stout woman with a pale, large-featured face which ill health and trouble had aged before her time. Her expression was austere, and there were traces of deep sorrow and anxiety in the furrows that already marked her brow and the deep purple shadows under her dark eyes. Her gown was of black velvet, with large, flowing sleeves over small, straight ones, which had lace ruffles over the hands. On her head was a high, crownlike, five-cornered cap edged with jewels, two pieces falling down from it over the ears, and at the back was fastened the Spanish mantilla, its graceful folds draping her shoulders and showing her face in strong relief against the black background. Behind her chair were grouped three ladies-in-waiting, and all bent curious glances on the young stranger. Mistress Betty’s blooming youth and brilliantly colored beauty had never shown to a more dazzling advantage than it did by contrast now, and Catherine herself, looking up from her revery, observed it and smiled sadly.

“Alas!” she said, “poor maid, this place is like to be no better than a tomb to one so young, albeit safer for your soul’s grace now than Greenwich. I have no entertainment, no masks, no dances to break the cold monotony. You may pray here, weep here, die here, but verily, you will have no revelry. If you but remember to be a woman, and bear a woman’s heart in your breast, as did your mother, you will find me no unkind mistress to you, though, God knows, an impoverished one. Wilt serve me on such terms as these?”

“Madam, I will do my duty, and I can no more,” Betty answered in a low tone, divided between her pity and her uncle’s instructions.

The queen smiled ironically. “Well tutored in her ‘duty,’ doubtless,” she said, turning to her maids; “a cautious answer, aptly mouthed. But, pshaw! I grow a weak woman to be angered with a baby. The wench is tired, I know; these men take no thought for a woman’s strength, and doubtless she has ridden long and far. Take her away and find some place to bestow her, and to-morrow we will give some employment to her. Can you sing, Mistress Carew?” she added to Betty.

“I can both sing and play upon the harp, madam,” the young girl answered gravely, for Catherine’s words offended her, even though she felt the justice of the queen’s suspicions.

“A musician,” said Catherine, more graciously; “now am I reconciled. Like Saul, my soul finds consolation in music; it seems my lord privy seal would send me a female David! Well, well, leave me, maiden; I am weary, and I would not have you think your queen a sour and uncharitable woman with no lenient word for youth. Go eat and sleep, and to-morrow we will be merry.”

CHAPTER V
THE GENTLEMAN IN THE RUSSET CLOAK

Queen Catherine’s prediction that life at Kimbolton would be gloomy for a young girl, seemed likely to be fulfilled. Happily, for Mistress Betty’s comfort, she had already undergone such discipline in both poverty and solitude that she was better fitted to endure restraint and depressing surroundings than others of her years. Sir William Carew and Master Raby bade her farewell the morning after her arrival, and from that time she encountered no very friendly treatment, except from Sir Edmund Bedingfield. The queen was never unkind, but she looked upon Betty with suspicion, and a settled conviction existed in her mind that the young girl was a spy of my lord privy seal, while her three attendants, all women who were devoted to her person, resented still more intensely the presence of the new lady-in-waiting. At the same time, Betty’s youth, beauty, and many attractions won upon them, in spite of themselves, and they could not be harsh or malicious to so charming a creature. After the first week or two they relaxed a little in their manner toward her, and gradually she won her own place in the little household, though she was never trusted in any confidential matter; and often, at her approach, conversation was hushed or writing materials put aside, and an artificial manner assumed, as before a stranger. Intensely as Betty resented the distrust and coldness, she was not without a feeling of thankfulness that her sympathies would never be appealed to, that they seemed to have no wish to work upon her for any of their secret purposes. That there was much scheming she could not doubt from many little indications, and from occasional passages in the conversation, she learned that Catherine was still industriously employed in appealing both to the Emperor Charles and to the new pope. To all these matters Betty tried to close her eyes and ears, and indeed it seemed to her that it could not last long; it required no very observant eye to see that the queen was suffering from some malady even more dangerous than grief and mortification. There were many days when the royal sufferer never left her bed, and at such times she seemed to find genuine consolation in Betty’s harp and her clear, sweet voice. The young girl, moved by deep pity for the injured queen, was ever ready to give her the comfort of her music, and so, little by little, she gained a place in Catherine’s regard, though herself chilled and sometimes repulsed by the coldness and suspicious austerity of the Castilian princess. Just, virtuous, and religious, Catherine did not also possess the attraction of sweet and gracious manners, and her natural austerity had been increased by the usage she had received in England. She was devout in the observance of her religion, rising at five o’clock in the morning for prayers, and fasting with rigid exactness. Beneath her robes she had always worn the habit of a nun of the order of Saint Francis, and she held the vanities of the world in contempt, even while she contended for her earthly honors. Heavily oppressed by her sorrows and deeply distressed for the future of her daughter, the unhappy queen had neither leisure nor inclination to win the affection of the young attendant so unceremoniously thrust upon her. So it was that Mistress Betty stood as one apart, and watched the sad little drama to its close without feeling herself one of the actors.

Catherine held a little court each day, unless her health prevented it, many visitors coming and going at Kimbolton in spite of the surveillance of the royal officers. Although he feared her influence, the king had never isolated her; he either respected her too much, or hesitated because of the popular feeling in her favor, and the attitude of the foreign princes. She was in the hands of the officers of the crown, but they dared not treat her as a prisoner, and the sympathy of a large portion of the kingdom showed itself, more or less openly, in many ways. Yet life at Kimbolton was gloomy enough, and the queen being almost constantly indisposed, her maids had small opportunities for out-of-door exercises and none for sports. Their greatest entertainment was to embroider in the evenings, gathered about the invalid’s chair, or to play cards,—a game in which the queen sometimes joined, though it was whispered among her women that she had hated the sight of a card since she had played with Anne Boleyn at Greenwich. Although Betty felt herself an object of indifference to the little circle, she was more noticed and commented upon than she was aware. The fresh beauty of the young girl was often the subject of conversation, when her back was turned; even the queen observing it and speaking of Betty’s many charms.

“A fair face,” she said to her attendants, “and a soft voice; ’tis a pity if both are false.”

“I cannot think so, madam,” one of the older women replied; “the child has a candid eye and an upright conduct that denies all secret dealings.”

“It should be so,” Catherine remarked sadly. “I knew her mother, a very honest woman, but she is long dead, and how shall we know how they bring up our children? Alas! when I think of the Princess Mary, my heart bleeds. I, too, am led to think well of this little maid, yet I never knew my lord privy seal to send a lamb into my fold to comfort me withal.”

“It may be he has mistaken his choice, madam,” her woman answered; “there be more people for your grace than against you; yea, more than half this kingdom.”

“It may be,” the queen replied; “I will so believe it. Truly, I hate to look with suspicion on so fair a face, yet I know one fair face that hideth a false heart. But all women are not harlots, thanks be to the Virgin! This young girl tells me she has never been to court, never seen a joust, never joined the gay revellers at a mask. Doubtless her uncle will take her presently to curtsy to that woman whom they call the queen, the true queen being not dead, albeit like to die. Mistress Carew will make a fair figure at the court, fairer than many, say you not so, Patience?”

“Ay, gracious Queen,” Patience answered, eagerly catching the drift of her royal mistress’s thoughts, “I know none fairer; she is so tall and straight and withal so beautifully moulded. Not lean and long, but round and supple; and her skin is dazzling when the color comes, while those brown eyes of hers are two shining lights, and she has a mouth like Cupid’s bow.”

“Truly, you have drawn a picture that might delight a lover,” Catherine said, smiling; “the court is a dangerous place to show such charms. What think you, my girls, is she not fairer than one Anne?”

“A hundred times,” they answered gladly, ever willing to humor their unhappy mistress.

For a moment the queen did not reply; she sat looking before her with an ironical smile playing about her lips.

“’Tis a pity to mew up such a beauty at Kimbolton,” she said at last. “Ah, if we could but get my lord privy seal to take her to the court, then might we see if the star that shineth there is fixed, or but trembles to its fall. Alas!” she continued, after a moment, rousing herself from her mood, “how captivity and misfortune sour the temper! My thoughts were most unworthy and unqueenly. I may well let that poor creature rush to her certain doom unmolested by any ill-will of mine; a crown so ravished must press with thorns upon the wearer’s brow.”

Unconscious both of their admiration and their talk of her, Mistress Betty went her way among them, the gloomy experience telling in a manner upon her life and character, teaching her alike to repress her natural feelings and to endure suspicion without openly expressing her indignation. The last was no easy matter, for she had a high temper and a passionate resentment of injustice. Her only comfort was the privilege she enjoyed of long rides with Sir Edmund Bedingfield. Knowing her uncle, and trusting her where he would not have dared to trust the queen’s older attendants, he gave her more license. Finding that she rode well and loved to be on a fine horse’s back, having inherited her father’s appreciation of a good animal, Bedingfield permitted her to accompany his party when he made excursions in the neighborhood. And so it was that, by a chance, Mistress Carew made the acquaintance of a person who was to play no unimportant part in her life. Accompanied by her woman and two stout grooms, she had been out with Sir Edmund upon an errand in the country near Kimbolton. Returning at noonday, they drew rein at the Inn of the Sign of the Blue Boar, where Bedingfield and his two male attendants dismounted and went into the tavern, Sir Edmund for some information, and the two men for liquor. Betty and her woman waited without, and as they were detained a little while, there was ample opportunity to look about them. It being noonday, the courtyard of the Blue Boar was full of horses, tied and awaiting their masters, who were eating and drinking within. A few idle grooms lounged near the stables, waiting to earn a guerdon from a new arrival, and in the window of the kitchen leaned two or three rosy-faced maids gazing out at the scene. Betty’s horse, a restive creature, stood out upon the road at the gate, and being occupied with her own thoughts, she let the reins lie slack upon his neck, although she knew his spirit. Suddenly there was the sound of a horse’s hoofs upon the road behind her, coming at a gallop, and she turned her head to observe the new arrival. As she did so, a piebald horse with a darkly cloaked rider on his back came dashing past her. She had no time for observation; her own animal plunged so wildly that she nearly lost her seat, and kept it only by virtue of her early training. So strange was the encounter that she was almost certain that the new-comer cut her horse with his whip as he passed. How it was, she could not tell, except that her gallant black was off at a gallop, and she could scarcely have curbed him but for the interference of the rider of the piebald steed. He dashed along the road, riding across her path, and with wonderful dexterity caught her bridle rein, halting the runaway. Coming thus to a standstill, some twenty yards from the inn, Betty found herself face to face with the stranger, while behind them there was a great commotion, all the visitors at the tavern having run out to witness what they expected would be an accident. Intensely angry and with scarlet cheeks, Mistress Betty gazed haughtily at the cause of her misadventure. The rider of the piebald was a man far below average size, thin and wiry, with a small, dark face, grizzled hair and mustaches, and eyes of such keenness and so intensely black that they startled the observer, saving their owner from any charge of insignificance. Insignificant he was not, in spite of his small stature and his plain garments, which were russet in color from his high riding-boots to his cloak, which he wore after the fashion of the Spaniards. Encountering now Mistress Carew’s indignant gaze, he took off his hat with elaborate courtesy and congratulated her on her safety as if he were unconscious of having had any part in the matter.

“It was fortunate that I came at the moment, fair mistress,” he said; and she noticed that he had a singular but not unpleasant voice. “You are riding too spirited an animal for a lady; let me recommend a gentler one to Sir Edmund.”

Betty started at the mention of Bedingfield’s name, but recollecting how well he was known in the neighborhood of Kimbolton, she thought it but folly to be surprised that the stranger knew to whose party she belonged.

“I thank you, sir,” she said, a little curtly; “the horse has never acted so before unless switched, and, indeed, I do not think he would have run had you ridden at a more moderate pace.”

“I grieve to think myself the cause of your discomfort, madam,” the stranger replied, but with an amused smile. “Jack Kotch and I never go slow,” he added, turning his horse, and, to her annoyance, keeping at Betty’s rein as she went toward the inn.

“It is ill judged to run a horse so close to one standing as mine was,” she said, still too angry to let the matter pass.

“It is, and I crave your pardon,” the other rejoined cheerfully; “another time I will bring my horse to a walk, Mistress Carew.”

Betty looked up amazed at hearing her own name, and encountered the stranger’s wonderful eyes with a gleam of amusement in them.

Bedingfield, who had mounted in the interval, now rode up, and the little adventure had to be explained to him. He, seeing only ready courage and dexterity in the conduct of the new-comer, was cordial in his thanks, and even permitted this strange person to ride back with the party toward Kimbolton. This seemed to be the opportunity that the little man desired, and he was soon engaged in earnest conversation with Sir Edmund. So entertaining did he make himself that Bedingfield, to Betty’s surprise, invited him to come in to rest when they reached the castle. Usually, all visitors underwent a severe scrutiny on account of the presence of the queen, but this stranger seemed to have overcome the castellan’s scruples and the piebald horse was led to the stables, while the rider, smaller than ever now he was dismounted, followed Sir Edmund into the hall. Betty’s mind still rankling with the belief that her horse had been cut with the whip of the piebald’s master, and her curiosity piqued by the little man’s appearance, she asked the woman with her if she had ever seen him before. They were going up the stairs from the hall, Sir Edmund and his guest standing by the table below, and at the question the woman, a servant at Kimbolton, drew nearer and plucked her dress with nervous fingers.

“Hist, mistress!” she exclaimed in a low tone, “his ears are long. I have seen him but once before, but I know him full well; it is the famous wizard.”

“A wizard! that little bandy-legged man a wizard?” Betty cried, amazed.

“Hush!” said the woman, her dull face full of fear, “he reads your thoughts, he sees visions. ’Tis said that he did see, in a dream, Richard Rouse put the poison in my lord of Rochester’s bran meal at Lambeth Marsh, and that he had warned Richard, seven years before, that he would be boiled alive at Smithfield, as he was. I would not offend that little gentleman in the russet cloak for a kingdom; no, not I! They do say that his piebald horse was a good bay, until he waved a striped wand over him, at which the horse sneezed three times and eftsoons came out white with three bay spots upon him. ’Tis my belief that this same wizard is allied with Satan, and so think many honest folk. Avoid him, mistress, and you love your life!”

CHAPTER VI
THE WIZARD’S VISIT

In their gloomy rooms Queen Catherine and her maids sat working when Mistress Betty entered, rosy from her ride and the excitement of her adventure, which promised now to be of some interest. The queen, glancing up at her entrance, caught the glow in the new-comer’s face and smiled more pleasantly than usual.

“How wonderfully freedom and exercise affect young blood!” she said; “the wench is blooming as a Christmas rose. Come hither, my girl, and tell us of your ride; perchance it may seem like the recital of a chapter of wild adventures to us. Youth and hope see all things in a golden light; what knight rode at your bridle rein? what dragon was slain at your approach? Such faces as yours open new channels of chivalry in the hearts of men. Saw you not some marvel that may serve to cheer us in our solitude?”

“Nay, madam,” Betty replied, smiling, “I met with no such wonders; but I did see a wizard riding on a piebald horse.”

“A wizard on a piebald horse?” repeated Catherine; “’tis well, so you saw not Death riding on a white one, as they say my lord of Buckingham did once. How knew you the gentleman for a wizard? Did he carry the symbols of his trade displayed, or had he a terrible learned countenance that confounded all men at the view?”

“Your grace should see what a small, bandy-legged creature it is, much like a frog,” said Mistress Carew, “only that he wears russet instead of green, and has a smooth tongue, so that even now he wins the regard of Sir Edmund.”

“What, is he here?” exclaimed the queen, in surprise; “I knew not that Bedingfield would admit any one without the warrant of my lord privy seal; surely, Cromwell hath not sent a sorcerer to conjure me,” she added with an ironical laugh.

“Rode he a piebald horse?” asked Patience, the queen’s woman; “I think I cannot mistake the man.”

“A piebald horse, surely,” answered Betty Carew, “and he is clad in russet from top to toe; his cloak is of velvet, but his doublet, I think, was no more than sarsenet, and he wears one straight black feather in the front of his low hat. His eyes are bright—the brightest that I ever saw—and he has a pointed gray beard, after the fashion of the Spaniards. I noticed, too, that his eyebrows were arched up sharply, almost in a point, which gave him a strange look, like an owl.”

“’Tis Zachary Sanders,” exclaimed Patience. “Your highness does remember, surely; ’tis he who made the wonderful ring for my lord cardinal and sent the scroll of her horoscope to the Princess Mary.”

“I do seem to remember,” the queen said musingly, “but it is strange I do. Like a great sea, raging and terrible, the waters of Marah have overwhelmed me, sweeping on every side in a mighty torrent, carrying away all my strong friends and steadfast helpers. As the ocean, overflowing its borders, sweeps high upon the land, and when its tide recedes, carries away all the habitations that man has built upon the sand, and there is no remnant left thereof to tell the tale of the disaster, so the tide of my sorrow hath carried all things from my memory, stripping the beach of my mind and leaving only wreckage where once were lovely mansions of thought and fancy. Yet, as the saints bear witness, I did build my hope upon rock and looked steadfastly for its fulfilment. Alas, alas!” she added, tears shining in her eyes, “the tides have beaten on it, and only the sure anchor of my hope in heaven doth endure.”

“Nay, nay, madam,” her woman cried, “speak not so disconsolately; the emperor bears up your just quarrel, and the new pope has declared for your cause. Look rather at the good hope you have in the love your people bear you and your fair daughter, the Princess Mary.”

Catherine roused herself, her weakness had been but momentary, and she regained her composure almost as quickly as she had lost it.

“It is for the Princess Mary that I live,” she said quietly; “in my good daughter I have an assured comfort.”

“’Twas the horoscope of the princess that this wizard cast, who is now below,” her attendant said. “I should like to have your majesty see him; he would furnish much entertainment for an hour on such an evening as this.” The good woman was eager to change the drift of Catherine’s thoughts.

The queen smiled as she turned to Betty.

“What say you, maiden?” she asked; “would this marvellous little man divert my poor girls for an hour?”

“I cannot tell,” Betty answered soberly, for she was touched at the queen’s emotion—Catherine’s habitual coldness was repulsive, but in such moments of sorrow she was more attractive; “’tis certain that he furnished me with ten minutes of sharp entertainment this noon,” and she told them briefly of the wild gallop of the wizard and her own misadventure.

“We must see this fiery horseman, if Bedingfield will let us,” said the queen when she had heard the story; “see, my maids, how obedient I grow from force of habit! If her jailer wills it, the Queen of England would see a travelling wizard for an hour of wild diversion. Forsooth, ’twill cast in shadow the jousts at Greenwich in honor of the Marchioness of Pembroke! Go you, Mistress Carew, for you are in favor, and pray Sir Edmund to send this fortune-teller to us.”

Thus admonished, Betty went upon the errand with alacrity, glad to escape from the sadness that the queen’s mood had cast upon the scene, and moved, too, by a young girl’s curiosity which had been awakened by the reports of the wizard. She found Bedingfield still entertaining the small stranger, and preferred Catherine’s suit with some hesitation on account of his presence. Sir Edmund’s face clouded a little at the proposition and he stood a few moments staring moodily at the floor. Betty, standing at a short distance, observed the two with interested eyes. The wizard had fastened his gaze on his companion’s face as soon as Betty told her errand and watched him much as a cat watches a mouse, but there was no expression on his small and wizened countenance to indicate his feelings. He was sitting on a low settle, his short legs drawn under it and his chin resting in his hands; something in his gray hair and dull skin, his brown clothing and diminutive size, gave him the appearance of some hobgoblin of fairy lore. Bedingfield was manifestly puzzled; the queen’s request was simple and natural enough, and there seemed no reasonable excuse for denying it, yet Sir Edmund was uneasy. There was something about the wizard which indicated a keen wit and no ordinary energy of purpose, and Bedingfield knew that there were dealings with Rome and Spain,—dealings that Cromwell and the king desired to break off,—and here was a stranger who might be bent on mischief, yet there was no reasonable excuse to refuse him admittance to the queen’s presence. The fact that he had not petitioned for it was in his favor and Bedingfield knew well enough that the poor women in his charge were sadly in need of some small diversion. Catherine had done wisely to choose Betty Carew for her messenger; the wistful expression on the young girl’s fresh face went far toward prevailing with Sir Edmund. After a few moments of hesitation, he despatched one of his own gentlemen with the wizard, to conduct him to the queen and remain in attendance during the interview, at the same time bidding Betty go before to warn the little court that the request was granted.

Mistress Carew sped on her errand with the swift feet of youth, and before the wizard and his escort had reached the top of the stair, she had entered the queen’s room. As she lifted the curtain at the door, something in the scene within arrested her attention. Catherine sat more erect than usual, and her three maids were gathered about her talking in low tones; there was an animation in their looks so unusual that Betty thought in an instant that there was some new interest in the air, some scheme afoot. At the sight of her, however, the habitual expressions came back to their faces, and Catherine received her announcement with her usual manner.

“I have no royal robes to assume,” she said, in a tone of bitterness, “but truly there must be some state with which to hold our levee. Come, my girls, stand around me, arrange the log upon the hearth, move yonder fire-screen; the Queen of England will receive the wizard Sanders!”

“Madam, the jest is bitter,” replied Patience, sadly; “spare us—who so bemoan your case—the sharp edge of your wit, whereby the loss of your high estate is in no manner redeemed. You are still our gracious sovereign lady, and so would be were you an outcast from this realm which hath so uncharitably used you.”

“I thank you, wench,” Catherine replied, her face softening at the expression of her attendant’s devotion; “you teach the queen to bear herself more worthily. Ah, good Patience, you know not how deep the wound corrodes my lonely heart. Albeit a queen, and the daughter of a king, I am yet a woman, and a woman’s heart doth crave a little tenderness,—a little love,—a little shelter, or else, God wot, it starves!”

All her attendants drew nearer to her chair, and tears shone in their eyes; the touch of womanly weakness in the cold character of the injured princess appealed to them more sharply because of its contrast with her habitual austerity. Catherine pressed her handkerchief to her own eyes, and there was a painful silence, broken only by the sound of footsteps at the door and the voice of the usher announcing the entrance of the wizard. At this interruption the queen was herself in a moment, and received the visitor with her usual cold dignity.

The scene was a strange one; the fire was burning low on the hearth, but a bright glow shone from the bed of fiery embers in which the fallen log lay smouldering. The room, a large and gloomy one, was hung with dark tapestries, which increased the somber effect, and it was only imperfectly lighted by the narrow windows at the farther end. In her great chair by the chimney sat the queen clad in black, and her hair entirely concealed by her velvet cap. Around her were grouped her four ladies, Betty Carew alone blooming with youth and beauty in this sad place. Into this little company of women came now the small, strange figure of the man who called himself Zachary Sanders, the most famous wizard in the south of England. He still wore his russet cloak, fastened by a clasp and chain that had been loosened so the mantle hung behind, only kept from slipping off his shoulders by the chain. His jacket and doublet were of russet-colored sarsenet, and he wore no ornament but a curiously wrought silver serpent, which was secured below his collar and hung on his breast. Without his hat he was a far more notable person than with it, for he had a large and finely developed head, the sphere of the brain well arched and full and with no ugly slant of the forehead, and not too protuberant behind, but with a fine line from the nape of the neck to the crown. His owlish eyebrows and pointed gray beard and mustache gave a slightly sinister cast to his features, but his eyes were so remarkable, both for size and brilliancy, that all else sank into insignificance by contrast. He came forward with an ease that indicated a person accustomed to encountering people of all ranks in life, one who was as little likely to be amazed at magnificence as he would be touched by distress. He made a profound obeisance to the queen, and she held out her hand, prompted, perhaps, by the thought that she could not afford to lose a friend, however humble. He knelt on one knee and kissed it with an apparently sincere feeling of homage.

“I have heard of you many times, sir,” said Catherine, gravely, “and my women were eager to have some entertainment and instruction. Doubtless they would look curiously into the future, fancying great things in store. I pray you gratify their innocent desires, if you may; for my part, such prognostications are of little comfort. Having encountered so great disasters, I do dread to look beyond the hour; for me such dreams are done.”

“Yet it should not be so, your grace,” the wizard answered, regarding the queen earnestly; “your horoscope hath no such evil ending to it.”

“You flatter me, good Sanders,” she replied bitterly; “I am no longer young enough to be deceived by such follies. Here is a maid whose fortune should smile like her face,” she added, pointing to Mistress Betty, who stood near her; “your arts should weave a tale of love and happiness for youth and beauty.”

“I cast her horoscope this noon at the Blue Boar,” the wizard said, with a queer smile. “Venus was in fortunate conjunction with Mars when Mistress Carew was born.”

“Did you learn that by striking my horse, Master Sanders?” Betty retorted, with a mischievous glance from under her black lashes.

The astrologer looked at her with an immovable face.

“You are mistaken,” he said calmly; “I touched not the beast. It sometimes happens that these dumb creatures recognize a power more than human, and are so thrown into a convulsion of terror.”

“With your aid?” persisted the young girl, laughing incredulously, and even the queen smiled.

“My young mistress is inclined to jest,” Sanders remarked grimly, “and to make light of my art, but this will not be so when she talks to her affianced husband.”

“My affianced husband!” exclaimed Betty, with indignation; “you are much in error in good sooth, for I am not promised.”

The wizard looked at her and laughed, his brilliant eyes almost fascinating the young girl’s startled gaze.

“You were promised in your cradle, and a lovely mate you are like to get, Mistress Carew,” he answered quietly, with such a tone of certainty that Betty experienced a sharp sensation of apprehension.

“’Tis false!” she exclaimed passionately, her agitation so genuine that the queen interposed.

“Why fret the child, sir wizard?” Catherine said; “what warrant have you for this statement?”

Sanders turned to her with courteous respect, although his face showed a certain malicious enjoyment.

“We read these matters in the stars, madam,” he said gravely, “and they cannot mislead us. Mistress Carew is promised to a tall, dark man with a sword-cut across his left eyebrow; one day she will find that the astrologer has not lied.”

Seeing Betty’s angry alarm, Catherine turned the matter aside; she had the tact to avoid a scene which was becoming unpleasant.

“You claim that all your knowledge is from the stars, sir?” she asked indifferently, “and there is no human agency in the affair?”

“None, madam,” the wizard rejoined solemnly; “we read the destinies of men and women in the heavens, and the future even of this realm unrolls itself in that great scroll for the marvelling eye of the seer to read.”

The queen leaned back in her chair and shaded her eyes with her hand.

“The future of this realm!” she said in a low voice; “I pray the saints for it! I, who have never done England any good, would be sorry indeed to do it harm.”

“You need have no fear, madam,” the sage rejoined, speaking as low as she, so that the usher sent by Bedingfield, who was posted at the door, could not catch their words.

Catherine looked up quickly.

“You speak confidently,” she said; “why so?”

“Your grace does well to ask,” he answered gravely. “I have seen a vision, such an one as no man sees but once or twice in a lifetime, even though he is born to read the stars.”

“Speak on,” said the queen, as he paused.

The little circle by the fire had drawn close, all eager attention except Mistress Betty, who stood apart, angry and secretly alarmed, although she fought stoutly against the dread which beset her. At the queen’s admonition, the wizard drew nearer, and stood facing the hearth, the red glow of the embers casting a lurid light on his wizened figure and a fiery glint in his great eyes. He did not seem to see the others, but recited his tale like a man in a trance.

“’Twas night,” he said, “and I was in my laboratory studying the heavens. Mars was red as blood. Suddenly, before me, there was a wide ray of white light which constantly expanded, until I saw in it a marvellous flower-garden, a vast place, full of bloom and with great gates, on which were emblazoned the arms of England. Within, there was a tall white rose upon a single stem, and it shone lustrous. No one was in the garden, and without were the pope, the Emperor of the Germans, and the Queen of Hungary, while, closer to the gate, stood your grace’s champion, Reginald Pole. Presently I saw a woman walking through the garden dressed in cloth of gold, with a crown on her head, and on her robes the arms of England and Spain united. She came across the garden to the white rose, and it bowed down to her; she plucked it, holding it up and looking at Pole, and then I knew her. After that, she touched the gates with the white rose and they flew open, and those without came in and kissed her. When she kneeled to receive the pope’s blessing, I saw her face plainly; it was the Princess Mary.”

When he ceased speaking, Catherine covered her face with her hands; the superstition of the age and her blood stirred within a naturally strong woman. After a moment, she spoke almost in a whisper.

“And the king?” she said.

“Madam, you know the northern prophecy,” the wizard replied; “the decorate rose shall be slain in his mother’s womb,—which means the death of one who hath offended. And she”—the speaker lowered his voice so that it was scarcely more than a whisper—“she who hath wrought this woe, her horoscope doth show a sudden and a shameful death.”

“I pray it may be so!” exclaimed one of the queen’s women; “may a curse light on her—may—”

“Nay, curse her not,” interrupted Catherine, coldly; “the time is not far off when ye shall have great reason to pity her, yea, to commiserate her estate.”

“Ay,” replied the wizard, “an agony awaits her—a blood-red axe is in her destiny.”

This low-spoken conversation had irritated the attendant sent by Bedingfield, and conscious that to permit it to continue would be a transgression of his orders, he came forward now and reminded Sanders that he had exceeded the limit of his visit. The queen resented the interference, and turned as if to speak in anger; but, on second thought, repented her determination, only treating the matter with her accustomed scorn.

“Tell your master,” she said to the usher, “that the queen was so wonderfully entertained that she forgot her usual obedience to his orders and craves his pardon. Master Sanders, I thank you for your diverting discourse,” she added to the astrologer. “I am so poor I may not even reward my entertainment; but continue, sir, to read in the stars the salvation of this realm, and so find your reward.”

The wizard made his obeisance and turned to withdraw; as he did so, a tiny packet fell from under his cloak, and Mistress Betty noted that Patience set her foot upon it, making no effort to restore it to its owner. When he reached the door, Sanders turned for the last time toward the queen, and making a strange sign with his hands, bowed and withdrew.

CHAPTER VII
MISTRESS CAREW’S ALLEGIANCE

It was dusk; the shadows were folding thickly about the gloomy walls of Kimbolton. In the queen’s drawing-room Betty Carew sat alone, a solitary taper burning on the table beside her, while she mechanically turned the leaves of the illuminated missal, her thoughts being far away. The queen had been ill for some days; she was able to sit up, but kept her own chamber. Below, in the apartments of Bedingfield, were two gentlemen from the privy council, and with them, as Betty knew, the Marquis of Exeter. Something had happened; what, the young girl scarcely divined. The three visitors had arrived almost at daybreak, and at noon there had been a stormy interview in Catherine’s room, from which Mistress Carew was excluded. After it was over, the queen was in more distress than Betty had ever seen her; she even wept, and called passionately for her daughter,—an unusual outbreak, followed by a season of exhaustion. She was reported now to be asleep, her three favorite attendants watching her, while the youngest of all sat like an outcast and a spy in the outer room. There had been much secret dealing of late, Betty knew, and she felt that they were careful to shut her out, ever suspicious of her motives. That day, she had heard Exeter remonstrate with Bedingfield on the mean state of the household and on the queen’s poor attendance; and Sir Edmund replied that he must even obey his orders, and that as for state, he had no money, and the council allowed none to support the princess dowager.

“Poor lady!” Exeter said, “there is little need of all this watch and ward; if I be not mistaken, there cometh soon a guest which no bars shall keep out and no privy council examine.”

“Ay, so it looks,” Bedingfield replied, “and yet I know not; she hath been ailing long, but seems to fight her malady as steadfastly as she did the divorce.”

“A gallant heart,” my lord of Exeter replied, “but she will die. Her eye looks it and her dull and yellowish hue betrays it. ’Tis no place here either to stir the laggard blood in her veins; she is a Spaniard, and this sharp weather suits her as little as our northern temperaments. The end of a great sorrow draweth nigh.”

So spoke the marquis, and Betty, hearing him, felt a chill at her heart. The gloomy life had weighed upon her, and she fell often into meditations which were full of dim foreboding. The wizard’s tale had stolen into her brain and found a lodgment there, and she dreaded something, what she knew not. Youth is fanciful, and sees either a flood of sunshine on the path or a thick cloud. While the shadows without lengthened into night, Betty sat alone; and then there was a soft footfall behind her, and Patience came to summon her to the queen. Something in the woman’s face betrayed that the call was unusual, and Mistress Carew was yet more surprised when she found herself alone with Catherine, who sat propped up in her chair, a rosary in her hands and her black mantilla shading her features even more than usual. The lights were so arranged that her face was in the gloom, and it was impossible to see her expression.

“My visitors are still below, as I hear, Mistress Betty,” she said quietly, “and I would ask you to do an errand for me. Here is a little packet which, I pray you, give my lord of Exeter from the queen. These gentlemen will look askance at my own poor maids, but you, my child, are in favor with the powers that be.”

Betty stood a moment irresolute, her heart beating high. The hour had come for her to show herself worthy of her uncle’s confidence. She could not deceive herself about the packet; it was the same which the wizard had let fall a few weeks before. She was silent, her eyes downcast.

“What ails you, mistress?” cried the queen, sharply; “have you no tongue to answer me?”

“Madam,” replied Betty, her tone faltering ever so slightly, “I may not disobey my instructions.”

“Your instructions!” repeated Catherine, sternly; “from whom—and when?”

Mistress Betty’s cheek was scarlet. How could she speak the truth to this injured woman, although the truth was not to her own discredit? Her embarrassment carried conviction to the queen’s mind, and she was passionately incensed.

“So!” she said, in her coldest and most sarcastic tone, “the dove was but the serpent in disguise. For shame! How could one so young, so seeming innocent, become a tool in the hands of villains? Had you no woman’s heart that you could spy upon and betray a woman—and she your queen? My God! the very babes and sucklings are utterly corrupted, vile traitors and heretics!”

“Madam,” Betty cried, with deep resentment, “you do me bitter wrong! I am no spy, nor would my uncle have sent me to fill so foul an office. I cannot—nay, I will not carry secret missives against my instructions! That would be as deep a treason to this realm as it would be to you did I purpose to betray you.”

“You say ‘I will not’ to your queen?” exclaimed Catherine, harshly; “the saints bear witness that the time was when so saucy a tongue would have been treason. It is well to make fine protests, wench, but ’twill be long ere you find one so foolish as to credit them.”