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There are several portraits extant of Robert d’Esclade, fifth Duke of Wessex, notably the one by Antonio Moro in the Pitti Gallery at Florence.

But in the somewhat stiff portraiture of that epoch it is perhaps a little difficult to trace the real image, the inner individuality of one of the most interesting personalities at the Court of Mary Tudor.

There is, however, a miniature of him, attributed to Holbein, and certainly drawn by the hand of a great master, which renders with greater truth and loving accuracy the peculiar charm made up of half-indolent nonchalance, gracious condescension, and haughty reserve which characterized the Duke of Wessex.

So justly styled His Grace!

The reserve was so little apparent. The hauteur only came to the surface in response to unwelcome familiarity. But the debonair indolence was always there, the lazy droop of the lids, the nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, when grave matters were discussed, and also that obvious fastidiousness—a love of everything that was beautiful, from a fine horse, down to a piece of delicate lace—which annoyed the more sedate-minded courtiers of the Queen.

And with it all that wonderful virility and vigour, that joy of life and delight in gaiety and laughter which lent to the grave face at times a spark of almost boyish exuberance; that mad, merry, proud insouciance, which throughout his life made him meet every danger—aye! every sorrow and disgrace—with the same bright smile on his lips.

Scheyfne, in his letters to the emperor, Charles V, says of the Duke of Wessex that he was insufferably conceited—“il est tres orgueilleux de sa beauté personelle, laquelle certes est plus que médiocre.”

Noailles, too, speaks of him as “moult fatueux et vaniteux de sa personne.”

But it was hardly likely that these foreign delegates, each bent upon their own schemes, would look with favour upon His Grace. His only merit in their eyes was that same characteristic indolence of his, which caused a man of his great wealth and boundless influence to abstain from politics.

Certes no one could accuse him of intriguing for his own political advancement. Mary Tudor’s own avowed penchant for him was so well known, that he had but to say the word and the crown of England would be his, to share with the Queen.

Yet since the death of Edward VI he had not been seen at Court. Small wonder, therefore, that at sight of the Duke all four men seemed amazed.

“His Grace of Wessex!” they ejaculated in one breath.

But already Lord Everingham had put up his sword and gone to Wessex with hands outstretched.

“Wessex!” he said with unmistakable delight. “By Our Lady, this is a joyful surprise!”

The other two Englishmen also shook the Duke warmly by the hand.

“I did not know you were in England, my lord,” said the one.

“Right glad are we to welcome you back,” added the other.

“Well, Harry, my friend,” quoth the Duke gaily, “methinks you and I are not to be spiked after all.”

Harry Plantagenet, however, was looking doubtfully at the young Spaniard, who had remained somewhat in the background, regarding the first effusions of his friends with a certain ill-concealed impatience. With almost human intelligence the dog seemed to understand that here was a person who was inimical to his master, and in his faithful eyes there came that unmistakable furtive look and blink, with which dogs invariably show their mistrust and dislike.

But Don Miguel de Suarez was above all a diplomatist. Capricious and fond of adventure, not over-scrupulous as to the choice of his pleasures, yet he never allowed his dearest whim to interfere with political necessities.

A few seconds’ quick reflection soon made it clear to him that a quarrel with the Duke of Wessex would, at this juncture, greatly endanger his own popularity at the English Court, and thereby minimize his chances of carrying through the negotiations entrusted to him by King Philip of Spain.

Under the leadership of His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno he certainly hoped to bring about the marriage of Philip with the Queen of England.

He knew perfectly well that he and his eminent colleague were opposed in this design by the entire ultra-English faction here, and also that this faction was composed of practically the whole of the nobility and chivalry of the realm.

The Duke of Wessex was the pride and hope of this party, for Courtenay, weak and effeminate, had lost all his partisans. What more natural than that the most distinguished, most brilliant of Queen Mary’s subjects should share her throne with her?

All this and more passed swiftly through Don Miguel’s active brain. Therefore, as soon as there was a lull in the joyful welcome accorded to the Duke by his friends, he too stepped forward, having with vigorous self-will curbed his unruly temper and forced his full, sensuous lips to a smile. He had realized the expediency of, at any rate, outward amiability.

“A great name, my lord,” he said, bowing with grave ceremony to Wessex, “and one familiar to me already, though I have not yet been honoured by seeing you at Court.”

The Duke eyed him for the space of two brief seconds, whilst just the faintest touch of superciliousness seemed to be lurking somewhere at the back of his neck. But he returned the Spaniard’s bow with equal ceremony. Then he placed his hand on the head of his dog.

“Nay, sir,” he said, “my friend here bears a prouder name than mine. Harry Plantagenet, make your bow to the envoy of His Most Catholic Majesty. I call him Plantagenet, sir, after our King Harry V, who drove back the French at Agincourt. Nay, your pardon; this scarce interests you. You were not born then, and Spain was not yet a kingdom.”

He spoke lightly, and none but Everingham’s devoted ears caught the slight tone of impertinence which underlay the bland, seemingly empty speech.

Don Miguel himself was determined to keep urbane.

“A beautiful creature, indeed,” he said suavely; “but you, milor Duke, do you return to Hampton Court with us this night?”

“Oh!” replied Wessex, “among so many brilliant diplomatists from Spain there’s scarce room for a mere idler like myself.”

“Yet we diplomatists are hoping to pit our poor wits against Your Grace’s,” added Don Miguel pointedly.

“Against those of my friends perhaps, my lord,” rejoined the Duke drily. “Mine own are incorrigibly idle.”

Don Miguel, as was his wont, did not pursue the subject any further. He was trying to read the refined, distinctly haughty countenance, which was smiling down at him so pleasantly just now, and taking mental stock of this antagonist, whom rumour had described to him and to his chief as the only serious obstacle to the proposed Spanish alliance.

He saw before him a man in the full pride of youth and manhood, tall and well knit, and wearing with easy grace the elaborate slashes and puffs, trunks and silk hose, which present fashion had decreed.

The Spaniard’s keen and critical eye took in every detail of this interesting personality: the short, light brown hair worn close to the head, the fair moustache and delicately refined hands, the richness of the doublet, the priceless value of the lace at throat and wrist.

“A fop and an idler!” he murmured mentally.

Then he thought of the Queen of England. No longer young, with but little taste in ornament and dress, and certes quite unversed in all those wiles, which might have drawn this brilliant butterfly into her net.

The Spaniard longed to see these two together. The presence of this formidable adversary gave additional zest to the game he was playing on the political chess-board.

An unwilling courtier! A love-sick Queen! Carramba! it was interesting.

“When do you return to the Palace, my lord?” Everingham was asking of the Duke.

“To-night,” replied the latter, “by our gracious Liege Lady’s own command.”

“To-night then?”

“Without fail. Harry Plantagenet and I will present our humble respects to Her Majesty.”

“’Tis au revoir then, Your Grace,” quoth Don Miguel. “We meet again to-night.”

“At your service, my lord Marquis.”

Still smiling amicably the Spaniard took his leave, soon followed by two of his companions. Lord Everingham too was about to depart, but he felt Wessex’ detaining hand on his arm.

“That unpleasant-looking Spaniard? . . .” queried the Duke.

“Don Miguel, Marquis de Suarez,” replied Everingham, “envoy of His Majesty, the King of Spain.”

“Aye, I knew all that. I was merely reflecting that if he happen to be a specimen of our Liege Lady’s Court, meseems I were a fool to go back to it.”

“Come back to it with me now,” urged his friend earnestly.

“Not till to-night. Do not grudge me these few last hours of freedom. By Our Lady! I meant to consult the famous witch, like a sober burgher out on a holiday. But in the name of all the saints in the calendar let us forget there are such things as Spaniards at the English Court just now.”

He laughed, a half weary, wholly pleasant laugh, as, followed by his dog, he led his friend in the opposite direction to that in which Don Miguel had rapidly walked away.