Читать книгу In Mary's Reign - Baroness Orczy - Страница 7

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In the meanwhile the two gallants were returning from their visit to the witch’s tent.

As they came down the steps more than one voice among the passers-by inquired eagerly—

“What fortune, sirs?”

“In truth she hath strange powers,” was the somewhat guarded response.

The two men strolled up to a neighbouring wine-vendor and ordered some wine. They had thrown their cloaks aside and removed their masks, for the air was close. The rich, slashed doublets, thus fully displayed, the fine lace at throat and wrist, the silken hose and chased daggers, all betokened the high quality and wealth of the wearers.

Neither of them seemed much above thirty years of age; each had the air of a man in the prime of life, and in the full enjoyment of all the good things which the world can give.

But in their actual appearance they presented a marked contrast.

The one tall and broad-shouldered, florid of complexion, and somewhat reddish about the hair and small pointed beard; the other short, slender, and alert, with keen, restless eyes, and with sensuous lips for ever curled in a smile of thinly veiled sarcasm.

Though outwardly on most familiar terms together, there was distinctly apparent between the two men an air of reserve, and even of decided, if perhaps friendly, antagonism.

“Well, milor Everingham,” said the Spaniard after a while, “what say you to our adventure?”

“I say first and foremost, my lord,” replied Everingham with studied gallantry, “that my prophecy proved correct—the mysterious necromancer was no proof against Spanish wiles; she unveiled at a smile from Don Miguel, Marquis de Suarez, the envoy of His Most Catholic Majesty.”

“Nay,” rejoined Don Miguel, affecting not to notice the slight tone of sarcasm in his friend’s pleasant voice, “I scarce caught a glimpse of the wench’s face. The tent was so dark and her movements so swift.”

There was a moment’s silence. Lord Everingham seemed lost in meditation.

“You are thoughtful, milor,” remarked Don Miguel. “Have the genii of the moon conquered your own usually lively spirits?”

“Nay, I was thinking of the curious resemblance,” mused Everingham.

“A resemblance?—to whom?”

“As you say, the tent was dark and the wench’s movements swift, yet I could see that, though coarsely clad and ill-kempt, that witch, whom they call Mirrab, is the very physical counterpart of the new Court beauty, the Lady Ursula Glynde.”

“The fiancée of the Duke of Wessex!” exclaimed the Spaniard. “Impossible!”

“Nay, my lord,” rejoined Everingham pointedly, “she scarce can be called His Grace’s fiancée as yet. They were children in their cradles when her father plighted their troth.”

The Spaniard made no immediate reply. With an affected, effeminate gesture he was gently stroking his long, black moustache. Everingham, on the other hand, was eyeing him keenly, with a certain look of defiance and challenge, and in a moment the antagonism between the two men appeared more marked than before.

“But gossip has it,” said the Marquis at last, with assumed nonchalance, “that Lady Ursula’s father—the Earl of Truro, was it not?—swore upon his honour and on his deathbed that she should wed the Duke of Wessex, whenever he claimed her hand, or live her life in a convent. Nay, I but repeat the rumour which has reached me,” he added lightly; “put me right if I am in error, my lord. I am but a stranger, and have not yet had the honour of meeting His Grace.”

“Bah!” said Everingham impatiently, “His Grace is in no humour to wed, nor do the Earl of Truro’s deathbed vows bind him in any way.”

He took up his bumper, and looking long and thoughtfully into it, he said with slow emphasis—

“If the Duke of Wessex be inclined to marry, believe me, my lord Marquis, that it shall be none other than the Queen of England! Whom may God bless and protect,” he added, reverently lifting his plumed hat with one hand, whilst with the other he held the bumper to his lips and tossed down the full measure of wine at one draught.

“Amen to that,” responded Don Miguel with the same easy nonchalance.

He too drained his bumper to the dregs; then he said quietly—

“But that is where we differ, milor. His Eminence the Cardinal de Moreno and myself both hope that the Queen of England will wed our master King Philip of Spain.”

Everingham seemed as if he would reply. But with a certain effort he checked the impatient words which had risen to his lips. Englishmen had only just begun to learn the tricks and wiles of Spanish diplomacy, the smiles which hide antagonisms, the suave words which disguise impulsive thoughts.

Lord Everingham had not wholly assimilated the lesson. He had frowned impatiently when the question of the marriage of his queen had been broached by the foreigner. It was a matter which roused the temper of every loyal Englishman just then; they would not see Mary Tudor wedded to a stranger. England was beginning to feel her own independence; her children would not see her under another yoke.

Mary, in spite of her Spanish mother, was English to the backbone. Tudor-like, she had proved her grit and her pluck when opposing factions tried to wrest her crown from her. She was Harry’s daughter. Her loyal subjects were proud of her and proud of her descent, and many of them had sworn that none but an English husband should share her throne with her.

With the same sarcastic smile still lurking round his full lips the Spaniard had watched his friend closely the while. He knew full well what was going on behind that florid countenance, knew the antagonism which the proposed Spanish marriage was rousing just then in the hearts and minds of Englishmen of all classes.

But he certainly did not care to talk over such momentous questions at a country fair, with the eyes and mouths of hundreds of yokels gaping astonishment at him.

As far as he was concerned the half-amicable discussion was closed. He and his friend had agreed to differ. According to Spanish ideas, divergence in political opinions need not interfere with pleasant camaraderie.

With a genuine desire, therefore, to change the subject of conversation, Don Miguel rose from his seat and idly scanned the passing crowd.

“Carramba!” he ejaculated suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Our two masks,” whispered the Spaniard. “What say you, milor, shall we resume our interrupted adventure and abandon the tiresome field of politics for the more easy paths of gallantry?”

And without waiting for his friend’s reply, eager, impetuous, fond of intrigues and mysteries, the young man darted through the crowd in the direction where his keen eyes had spied a couple of hooded figures, thickly veiled, who were obviously trying to pass unperceived.

Everingham followed closely on the young Spaniard’s footsteps. But the sun had already sunk low down in the west. Outlines and silhouettes had become indistinct and elusive. By the time the Marquis de Suarez and his English friend had elbowed their way through the throng the two mysterious figures had once more disappeared.