Читать книгу The King's Minion - Рафаэль Сабатини - Страница 14

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King James observed signs which led him to suspect that he was not as deeply loved as he deserved to be for his great gifts of character and intellect. This from infancy had ever been his secret grievance. Loneliness had ever overwhelmed him, and in his desperate efforts to escape from it he had gone to odd lengths and strange shifts, himself lavishing affection and gifts with an utter lack of discrimination, in almost hysterical endeavours to purchase that which he could not inspire. He might at times delude himself that from this person or from that he was the recipient of the great blessing he sought so ardently. But he could not now blind himself to the fact that with the nation as a whole—noble and simple alike—he was being regarded without reverence.

There were various sound reasons for this which his majesty overlooked, persuaded as he was that all that he did must be right, since in absolutism it is an article of faith that a king can do no wrong.

His cousin, the Lady Arabella Stuart, was languishing in the Tower—where soon, as a result of this unjust confinement and her broken heart, she was to go mad and die—consigned thither by this superficially genial and good-humoured king, whose royal bowels were not to be touched by compassion in the case of any man or woman whom his pusillanimity could construe into a possible agent of danger to himself. All her offence lay in that with royal blood in her veins she had made a runagate marriage with William Seymour, whose blood, remotely, was also royal. King James, yielding to fantastic fears that his throne might be menaced by this unfortunate couple or by their offspring, practised upon them the dreadful pitilessness of the coward. The world of gentle and simple alike, being ever tender of lovers, looked on and muttered against the inhumanity of the King.

The project of a Spanish marriage for Prince Henry, upon which his majesty was said to have set his heart, was being censured openly or tacitly by the worthier part of the nobility, headed by the Prince of Wales himself, and by sound Protestants of all classes, who agreed with the Prince's assertion that two religions could not lie in one bed.

The King's desperate straits for money—the very servants of the household and officers of the Crown were clamouring now for wages which must somehow be paid—had constrained him to such measures as the sale of monopolies, which rendered him unpopular in the City; the levying of forced loans—so-called benevolences—which had offended the gentry who were concerned to provide them; whilst Puritans and Catholics were being ground down under the fines for recusancy now remorselessly enforced.

And now as a last and most desperate expedient came the sale of honours. King James had invented and instituted the order of baronets, membership of which was to be purchased for a little over a thousand pounds. This did little harm. The purchasers of the title were stamped by the very title itself. But when presently other patents of nobility were offered at prices on a rising scale, culminating in ten thousand pounds for an earldom, it was perceived that the hallmark of worth was to be acquired by the worthless and the stamp of nobility to be set upon the ignoble—the huckster, the haggler, the truckler—with ten thousand pounds to spend on spurious honours. This fired the indignation of that small section of the nobility which was not already out of conceit with his majesty upon other grounds.

Few, indeed, now were those who remained loyal, and these few were loyal to the office rather than to the man.

The contemplation of such a state of things reduced his majesty to tears. He wept easily, especially when swept by gusts of self-pity, and never so easily as over lack of response to the affection which flowed so generously from his loving nature.

Tearfully he unburdened himself to Sir Robert Carr. He inveighed, in terms which characteristically mingled piety with lewdness, against human ingratitude and the hardness of the heart of man, pointing out how fatherly had been his conduct towards the nation, how unfilial the nation's conduct towards himself. Working up from tears to anger, he finally announced in a passion that all of them 'maun gang to the Deil!' and gave his attention entirely to the pursuit of venery.

But even here new sorrows awaited him.

He hunted at Richmond. The weather was fine and warm, the country air invigorating, and he was at the pastime dearest to his heart. Finding himself attended by a vast concourse of members of his lately disgruntled court, his spirits rose. Things could not be so bad as in his depressions he had imagined. He did not perceive that it was not himself who had attracted so noble an assembly, but Prince Henry, whose attendance he had commanded.

Booted and spurred, in the suit of Lincoln green which he affected on these occasions, a little feather in his hat and a hunting-horn slung at his side in place of the detested sword, his majesty followed the hounds on a horse of which it might be said that it carried him rather than that he rode it. Sir Robert Carr, Montgomery, and Haddington kept close to him as a body-guard; the huntsmen hung on the flanks; the Court trailed after them.

At the end of a hard chase, on the edge of the forest near the river, a stag was pulled down by hounds as it was making for the water, and the jubilant monarch, who felt the achievement to be entirely his own, blew a mort over the carcase.

Followed, under the shade of the oaks, a generous collation, with abundance of wine and much gaiety, in which the easy-going King, having completely recovered his usual spirits, set the example. He was almost gallant towards the few ladies who had shared the chase, and gave particular attention to the Countess of Essex, all in green like himself, who had accompanied her cousin, the Earl of Arundel. The King made merry upon the absence abroad of her ladyship's husband and on the subject of the reception awaiting him on his return. His majesty's pleasantries, which were a little questionable, brought a frown to the brows of Prince Henry. With difficulty his highness curbed the annoyance aroused in him, and no sooner was the collation ended than he rose and begged his father's leave to depart with those who had accompanied him. He explained that as he was returning to Saint James's, he was at the mercy of the tide. He would ride to Kew where the wherries waited, and there leave the horses in the charge of the grooms.

His majesty, who by now was coming to regard the heir to the throne as the most troublesome of his subjects, gave leave readily enough to him and his company. Not until they were actually departing did he realise what this meant to him and why the concourse that day had been so numerous and brilliant. Only a small group of courtiers, apart from the huntsmen and servants, remained with the King. The main body trailed off in the wake of the Prince.

King James observed this departure in goggle-eyed dismay, all the joviality gone out of him. Seated on a cushion, his back propped against an oak, he seemed to sag together like an empty bag. A tear ran down his cheek.

'God's sake!' he muttered. 'Will he bury me alive?' He fetched a ponderous sigh. 'The Lord's will be done!'

Sir Robert offered him wine. He thrust the offer aside. 'No, no. I've drunk deep enough this day; and of a bitter cup, God knows. Help me up, Robin; and let's be going.'

As they came by an avenue in the forest, in the neighbourhood of Sheen, Sir Robert thrust forward to the side of Lady Essex, who with her cousin Arundel was of those who rode back with the King to the Palace at Richmond where Elizabeth had breathed her last. He chose a moment when she was alone, riding two or three lengths in advance of her cousin, who was deep in talk with the sprightly Lady Hay.

She looked round to see who came, and went first white, then red, upon perceiving the identity of the green-clad gallant drawing level with her. She contrived to smile a greeting to him, and even to utter one, with a boldness that almost surprised herself.

'You compassionate my solitude, sir.'

'No need for that since it is of your own seeking; besides which I find you in the best of company: your own. My fear was to intrude.'

'Then we are both at fault in our surmises, Sir Robert.'

'I am honoured, madam, that you should have borne my name in your remembrance.'

'You were supposing my memory infirm?'

'Rather myself scarce worth remembering by one for a place in whose recollection there are many suitors.'

'Here's gallantry in the garb of modesty, I think.' There was a hint of wistfulness in her playful tone, as if she could have desired the gallantry to be sincere.

'Am I different in that from others?'

'Alas! no.'

'Is it matter for a sigh?'

'That you should be cast in the common mould of courtiers? Is it not?'

'Madam, I'll cast myself in any mould you favour if you will designate it.'

'You might find that of sincerity becoming.'

'So I might if I knew the precise fashion of it. I was bred up in courts, my lady.'

'Were you so?' She turned her head to look at him. The surprise in tone and glance provoked a smile in him, a radiant smile displaying strong white teeth behind the auburn beard.

'What else had you supposed?' he wondered. 'Am I so loutish a gouk as to make the thing incredible?'

'It is that Prince Henry said ...' She checked, realising her indiscretion.

'Ah! Prince Henry!' He sighed in his turn, but with mock solemnity. 'He'll have represented me as a swineherd, so as to commend me to your regard. You may have observed that he does not love me. But is it matter for wonder? Here you behold a house divided against itself; and to serve the King is to offend his highness. I am conscious of no other offence.'

She made him no answer. Child though she might be in years, yet she was woman enough to know that another cause of offence existed, provided, however unwillingly, by herself.

They rode some little way in silence. The head of the cavalcade had spurred ahead. Keeping pace with it at first, they presently slackened rein when they perceived that the remainder of the company advanced more leisurely. Thus they came to find themselves almost alone among the sunshine-dappled shadows of the forest. It lent a sense of intimacy to their companionship, of which the Countess was intensely conscious. At last Sir Robert spoke.

'Your ladyship came, I think, in the Prince's train?'

Her answer supplied a slight amendment. 'At the bidding of my cousin Tom, to behold a stag-hunt for the first time.'

'Yet you did not choose to return with his highness.'

'Why, no; since Tom remains.'

'That need not have hindered your ladyship from following your inclinations.'

'You assume too much, Sir Robert.' She was a little on her dignity all at once. 'I am following them. I am a Howard, and loyalty is our tradition.'

Sir Robert smiled as he thought of one or two Howards who had lost their heads through departing from that same tradition. That, however, was irrelevant.

'Loyalty, madam, is a duty. I spoke of inclinations.'

'Inclinations?' The spirit of mischief smiled in bright eyes. 'A woman's duty when performed must be taken to display her inclinations.'

Thus she evaded him, and left unanswered the question that was in his mind.

Soon it was to arise again; for the Prince's hostility to him, which had been covert hitherto, seemed now to seek occasions for open expression. Its next came a week later in the tennis-court at Whitehall. Sir Robert and Mr. Overbury had matched themselves against my Lord Montgomery and Sir Henry Trenchard, a gentleman of the Prince's household.

The Lord Chamberlain's quarters overlooked the court, and at one of its open windows appeared now, attracted by the game, a group of ladies which included the Lord Chamberlain's wife and her daughter.

Victory fell easily to Sir Robert's side. As it was being achieved, Prince Henry sauntered into the little gallery above the court, attended by some gentlemen of his following. Perceiving Lady Essex at the window, his highness was prompted to seize the opportunity which the tennis-court afforded him of serving two purposes at once: to display his prowess to her ladyship, and to put down this upstart who seemed to have found some favour in her eyes.

It is distressing to present a youth of such fine parts, normally so amiable, gifted, and accomplished, in these scenes of pettiness into which an unrequited passion thrust him. His very inexperience in dalliance but served further to betray him.

He came forward now with all the assurance of his athletic skill, for in all bodily exercises he was of an unusual address. He had trained his muscles against fatigue by long and arduous walking. He was an expert with the long bow, the art of which he strove to keep alive; and he was always ready to match himself against any man at tennis, at tossing the caber, at riding at the ring or any other feat of horsemanship.

'Sir Robert, they tell me you are accounted a doughty opponent at tennis. Will you make a match with me?'

If the invitation surprised Sir Robert, the haughty, unfriendly tone of it left him no doubt that it was not from love of the game that he was challenged. Since it was not to be shirked, he bowed submissively.

'Your highness's servant.'

The Prince threw off jerkin and doublet, bound his auburn hair in a white kerchief, and, being lightly shod, was ready.

He derived an advantage from his freshness in opposing one who was scarcely rested from the game. But the advantage was not sufficient for his needs. Sir Robert, sound in wind and limb, more mature of body, and of a natural strength which was more than a match for the Prince's cultivated vigour, combined with the endowments of nature an expertness at the game which was probably unrivalled. Tardily the Prince learned the lesson that it is prudent first to ascertain the strength of him you propose to challenge. Not that he was yet suffering defeat. But—and this was even more galling—he was being made gradually to perceive that whether he suffered it or not would be entirely as his adversary elected. Point by point Sir Robert kept level with him, playing easily, without exertion, and making it clear to the onlookers that he found here no need to call out his reserves.

As the Prince's suspicion grew that Sir Robert toyed with him, he put it to the test by deliberate slackness, and found Sir Robert still avoiding the advantage. Finally the Prince took the point which gave him the lead, and in a moment, without effort, Sir Robert was level with him again. His highness, deeply mortified, lost control of himself. He walked furiously forward, without attempting to take the last ball his opponent had driven. His face was white.

'I'll play no more, sir.'

Sir Robert looked at him a moment with raised brows. Then he bowed. 'As your highness pleases.'

The Prince confronted him, his glance so menacing that instinctively the gentlemen who were present drew nearer.

'You do not ask, sir, why I break off.'

'I am not so presumptuous as to probe the reasons of a prince.'

'Then you may have them without probing. You are too much the courtier even when you play at tennis.'

Sir Robert smiled a little as he bowed again. 'No less at least, I trust, than I am now.'

The Prince blinked and frowned a moment over his meaning; then, perceiving it, he loosed the full tide of his anger.

'You insolent dog!' He swung aloft his racket, to strike.

With a cry of 'Sir! Sir!' Mr. Overbury slipped in and caught his wrist. He gripped it as firmly as he dared, but not so firmly as to prevent his highness from instantly wrenching it free. The intervention, however, gave him time to recover from his momentary fury.

'Why do you hinder, sir? I desired to test the extent of Sir Robert's courtiership.'

'A blow, your highness, is no test from one whose rank makes him secure from its return.'

The Prince stared wide-eyed amazement at the long, pale, masterful countenance. Slowly the colour came to suffuse his young face from chin to brow.

'What do you mean, sirrah?'

'To serve your highness.' And he explained: 'The racket would have hurt Sir Robert's head less than your own honour.'

The Prince looked round at his gentlemen, all of whom were grave as mutes. He laughed on a hard short note. 'I am at school again, it seems. I am being tutored in tennis and in honour.' Abruptly he flung down his racket. 'Come, sirs,' he commanded shortly, and stalked off to the little gallery, to resume his garments. Thence he presently departed, all following him save only Sir Robert and Mr. Overbury.

'We remain upon the field, it seems,' said Sir Robert, smiling grimly.

'With all the honours, saving perhaps the honours of war,' said Mr. Overbury. 'If we survive I'll add a chapter to my "Characters" and entitle it "The Prince."'

'If we survive?'

Mr. Overbury shrugged. 'This was the skirmish. The battle is to follow. And unless I've little skill at guessing, it will be fought in his majesty's closet.'

'Bah!' Sir Robert was contemptuous. 'Let the boy bear his tales. The King's none so fond at present.'

'It depends upon how he presents his story. Between us we've singed the divine quality of royalty.'

Sir Robert shrugged, and turned away to get his doublet. As he went he raised his eyes to the window occupied by the ladies. A kerchief fluttered a greeting to him; bright eyes smiled mischievous commendation upon him. He bowed, his hand upon his heart.

'Poetic!' said Mr. Overbury. 'Most poetic! You receive the tribute which was all the prize his highness sought. Have you observed, Robin, that in this world things never happen as the foolish and presumptuous plan them?'

The ladies were withdrawing from the window. Perhaps my Lady Suffolk accounted her daughter excessively imprudent.

Mr. Overbury sighed pensively. 'A sweet child, that daughter of the House of Howard. I could write sonnets to her if I thought his highness would buy them against his need: something in the manner of Mr. Shakespeare, who is a master of the Italian measure.'

'Why, thou venal rogue, is not the lady a sufficient inspiration?'

Mr. Overbury was helping him into his doublet. 'Inspiration, yes: but there's the translation of it in labour. With a golden rod I could strike Castalian springs from any rock. But soft! Here comes an ambassador of wrath, or I'm mistaken.'

It was Sir James Elphinstone, one of the Prince's gentlemen, and the knight who once had been dispossessed of his lodging in the palace to make room for the favourite, a matter which he had never forgotten or forgiven. He bore down upon them truculently, his right hand twirling his mostachios, his left on the pommel of his sword, thrusting it horizontally behind him.

He came to a halt before the Scot. 'Sir Robert,' quoth he, 'certain words fell here a moment since.'

Mr. Overbury slipped neatly between them. 'You're right, Sir James. And the best of them fell from me, as commonly happens when I'm of the company. I've an uncommon gift of words in prose or verse, and it's a gift entirely at your service. Peace, Robin! The gentleman's concern is with words and me; and I'm here to give him both—or as much of them as he can stomach.'

Tall Sir James, his eyes level with Mr. Overbury's, scowled darkly. 'Sir, I have no affair with you.'

'If I thought that were true, I could soon mend it.' Thus Mr. Overbury on a light note of badinage. 'But I'll demonstrate your error. You are come, I take it, as the deputy of his highness.'

'You are correct so far.'

'I am correct however far. I make a habit of it.'

Here Sir Robert sought again to elbow him aside. But he would not budge. 'Let be, Robin. D'ye not perceive this is an affair between deputies? I as your deputy will meet his highness's deputy, or jackal, or bully swordsman, or roaring boy, or gutter-blood, or whatever else he accounts himself.'

'Sir,' roared Sir James, 'you are insufferably offensive.'

'I told you I have an uncommon gift of words.'

Sir James was out of countenance before this frigid mockery. He could but storm.

'By God, sir, d'ye rally me?'

'What then, Sir James? What then? Will you skewer my vitals and devour me whole? I exist to do your pleasure whatever it may be.'

Sir James's furious eye measured him from head to foot. Sir James recovered some of his wits and employed them.

'I have said that my affair is not with you, but with the fellow who skulks behind you.'

After that Sir Robert was not to be restrained. 'Skulks!' he roared, and 'Fellow!' He put forth his strength, and thrust Mr. Overbury aside. The next moment Sir James was rolling in the dust, knocked over by a blow from the infuriated Scot.

He gathered himself up, dissembling his hurt, grinning his rage and satisfaction. Though at some cost to his person, dignity, and apparel, he had, he considered, accomplished the mission on which he came. 'By God, you shall meet me for this.'

'Meet you? Meet you!' Sir Robert, tense and athletic, snorted scornfully. 'I'll beat your bones to a jelly when you please; and that's the only way I'll meet you. I do not fight with jackals.'

Mr. Overbury laughed. 'Did I not tell you so? Lord! Sir James, had you listened to me you might have saved your pains; ay, and your breeches.'

Sir James, white-faced and glowering upon Sir Robert, had no ears for the taunt.

'This ends not here,' he said. 'Nor thus. Be sure of that.' He paused. Then, very minatory, he repeated: 'Be sure of that.' Since he could think of nothing else to add, he departed abruptly.

Sir Robert watched him go. Then he took up his hat. He looked at Mr. Overbury, who was solemn.

'Again we remain upon the field, Tom,' he laughed.

Mr. Overbury shook his head bodefully. 'It's but another skirmish. The battle is still to come. Let your Te Deum wait until it's over.'