Читать книгу The King's Minion - Рафаэль Сабатини - Страница 16

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King James in bedgown and slippers, his head swathed in a multi-coloured kerchief, sat on the edge of his great canopied bed, looking like Pantaloon in the comedy. His fingers tugged fretfully at his thin sandy beard. There was humidity about the corners of his bovine eyes, and a melancholy beyond the usual in their depths.

The Prince of Wales, tense with choler, strode restlessly to and fro in the royal bedchamber, talking briskly and vehemently. He was inveighing against Sir Robert Carr and Sir Robert's henchman, Mr. Thomas Overbury. Sir Robert, he complained, had ever been wanting in respect to him; but to-day his insolence had transcended all pardonable bounds. Mr. Overbury had been his accomplice in this, and thereafter Sir Robert had gone to unutterable length of audacity. He had grossly manhandled a gentleman of the Prince's following, and this within the very precincts of the palace. His highness seemed to imply by his tone that the locality magnified the offence into a sacrilege.

So long as the complaint had been concerned with Sir Robert's conduct, the King had sought to stem the vigour of his son's invective and to belittle the whole matter.

'Tush! Tush! Here's a garboil all about naught. The truth is ye can't abide Robin, which is but a sign of the lack of discernment I've remarked in you. That not liking him ye should have put yourself in his way as ye seem to have done, is a sign of your lack of prudence which I've similarly remarked. Being my son, I cannot refrain from marvelling at the general want of judgment in you, for which you have my profound commiseration.'

Whereafter he added with a touch of peremptoriness: 'Be off home to bed with you, a' God's name, and sleep yourself into better sense.'

Anger, however, had rendered the young man insubordinate. 'My tale is but half-told,' he had answered, and thereupon resumed his pacing and his stormy narrative.

The King groaned, and aloud inquired from his soul of his God what he had ever done to be plagued with such a son as this, who came demanding of him the impossible. For to punish Robin for a matter in which his majesty's heart told him Robin was not to blame was as unthinkable as it would be unkingly.

Then came the mention of Mr. Overbury and the gross insults to Sir James Elphinstone by which he had fanned the flames of discord. The King grew less disconsolate. A scapegoat might be found for Robin, and thus would his obstreperous son be satisfied. And than Mr. Overbury no scapegoat could have been preferable to his majesty, who had no love for the horse-faced carle.

King James assumed the mantle of Solomon, and the canopied bed became the judgment throne.

'On my soul, ye clutter my wits wi' your clatter and clavering. If you want justice of me, let me have a plain tale, so that I may pronounce upon it. How came Robin to lay hands upon Sir James?'

The Prince's tale—which we may suppose to represent his gentleman's report to him of what had passed—was that Sir James had been grossly insulted by Mr. Overbury with the object of provoking him to a duel.

'A duel!' The King was genuinely horror-striken. 'A duel, did ye say? I'll deal with Mr. Overbury. As God's my life, he shall learn to respect the laws I make. Get you gone and leave this in my hands. I'll deal with it before I sleep.'

The Prince, however, was far from satisfied. Mr. Overbury, he protested, was by no means the chief offender.

'Ye'll leave me to be the judge of that when I've sifted the matter, as sift it I will. God save us all! Are we to have duelling again? And here in my very court? Away! Away!'

He summoned his gentlemen-in-waiting and constrained his highness, still unsatisfied, to take his leave. Then he despatched Lord Haddington in quest of Sir Robert Carr.

The messenger found Sir Robert with Mr. Overbury in the severely furnished chamber which served them as a workroom. Here despite the lateness of the hour Mr. Overbury was still at those labours which were increasing almost daily in arduousness.

In a high-backed padded chair, at a vast oak table which served him for a writing pulpit, sat the favourite's secretary. He was entrenched on three sides, as it seemed, by a parapet of piled-up documents, and lighted in his labours by two clusters of candles in great silver branches.

Here were papers concerned with petitions of all kinds, with monopolies, benevolences, matters of poundage and tunnage, and foreign dispatches, all awaiting the immediate attention of one who virtually discharged the duties of a Secretary of State.

Mr. Overbury, in a wine-coloured bedgown, worn over shirt and breeches, sat quill in hand, making marginal notes upon an imposing document.

To receive his visitor, Sir Robert rose from the window-seat where he had been lounging at the open casement, for the night was hot as with the threat of thunder. A faint odour hung upon the air, vague to the nostrils of Lord Haddington, who was only slightly acquainted with tobacco.

Sir Robert, who had been on the point of going to bed, dissembled his reluctance at the summons. This reluctance was increased when his lordship told him significantly that the Prince had been with his father. By now the afternoon's scene in the tennis-court was the talk of all the court. Here, then, it seemed, was the battle which Mr. Overbury had predicted. Metaphorically, as he went, Sir Robert girded up his loins.

He found the King alone, awaiting him. His majesty no more desired witnesses for the scene with Carr than for that which had taken place with the Prince.

Enthroned once more upon the canopied bed, the skirts of his gown swathing his lean shanks, the King received the favourite with a countenance of unusual gravity. He laid before him the complaints of the Prince, alluded severely to the manhandling of Sir James Elphinstone, and was very hot upon the subject of Mr. Overbury and his endeavours to put a duel upon Sir James.

He would have, he announced, no brawlers about his court and no duellists within his kingdom, and not a day longer would he tolerate the presence of a man who set his known wishes at defiance. He was King, and he would be obeyed. He would so, by God's death! Breathing noisily, from rage and adenoids, he paused and gave Sir Robert at last a chance to answer him.

'Your majesty is not correctly informed of what took place.'

'How?' The King scowled upon him. 'Have you not heard that I had Prince Henry's word for all?'

'Prince Henry was not himself a witness of all. This matter of Tom Overbury, now, is at once true and false; but more false than true. Sir James was the brawler. He came to brawl with me. He was the duellist in this. He came to force a duel upon me—came back to do so after his highness had left us.'

'On you! He came to force a duel upon you, Robin?' Majesty was appalled. The current of the royal wrath was instantly diverted. 'Body o' me! What are ye saying?'

'It was so as to forestall him, so as to shield me from this fire-eater, that Tom got between us and offered himself as my deputy.'

The King's goggle-eyes were glaring at him. This mention of Overbury, this warm defence of him, once again changed the direction of the King's anger. His mounting tenderness was suddenly converted into suspicion.

'How came ye, then, to lay hands upon Sir James?'

Sir Robert told him. The King rolled his eyes as he listened. His answer, when it came, was indirect.

'Among ye, ye make a bear-pit of my palace. Ye provoke his highness into derogation from his royal dignity, and ye so anger him that he comes storming here to me, forgetting that, if I am his father, I am also his king. Say what ye will in defence of that rogue Overbury, if he had not used the words he used to Sir James Elphinstone, the affair might have been kept within the bounds of decency.'

'I have already informed your majesty ...'

'I ken well what ye've informed me. But my eyes are keen enough to see through words into the very heart of the matter, and to form opinions for myself. There's no way but one to end this, to restore peace and provide against repetitions of anything so unseemly. This fellow Overbury must go.'

Sir Robert stiffened, and the colour deepened in his face. He would have spoken, but the King stayed him, raising his hand and assuming a masterfulness of air and tone, such as he had never yet employed to his favourite.

'Not a word of protest, Robin. It's not a request ye've heard, but a command. A royal command. See it executed.'

Sir Robert used his wits briskly. He bowed, utter submission in every line of his stalwart, graceful figure, utter submission in his voice.

'I am your majesty's most loyal subject and most obedient servant. Mr. Overbury will have left Whitehall and your majesty's service by this time to-morrow.'

The King's face lighted with triumph, and remained so until Sir Robert added:

'Have I your majesty's leave to accompany him?'

'Accompany him? Accompany him! For God's sake tell me what you mean?'

'What I have said, Sire. My wish is to go with Mr. Overbury.'

'By God, you don't.'

'Your majesty may send me to the Tower for disobedience. But short of that I go with Mr. Overbury.'

The King stared his gloomy dismay and vexation into that resolute countenance. The royal lip began to tremble. The royal eyes grew lachrymose. Then rage exploded from him.

'Ye maun baith gang to the Deil!' he roared in broadest Scots, and slipped off the bed to stand shaking with passion.

Sir Robert bowed, and moved backwards towards the door.

The King's bellow arrested him. 'Where are ye going?'

'I understood your majesty to dismiss me.'

'You understood nothing of the kind. I vow ye desire to exasperate me. I warn you, Robin: I'll not be trifled with.' He shambled forward a little, and grew maudlin. 'I've been good to you, Robin; and this is an ill requital. Are you as ungrateful as the rest?'

'Sire, naught that you can do—not if you send me to the Tower, or even to the block—will quench my gratitude and love ...'

The King interrupted him, taking up the word. 'Love? You have no love for me. You're like the rest. All is make-believe, play-acting to gain your ends. Love joys in giving. You, like the others, seek only to take.'

'Sire, I have not deserved this. You are unjust.'

'Unjust, am I? In what am I unjust? Have you not proved yourself when you announced that you'll desert me for this rogue Overbury?'

'If I did less I should be a party to the cruel wrong that is being done this man, for having shown himself ready to risk his life for mine. That is all his offence, Sire. What a contemptible rogue should not I be if I did not insist upon sharing a punishment which I have brought upon him?'

'It remains that I count for naught.'

Sir Robert looked him straightly between the eyes. 'Could your majesty ever again trust or esteem me if I were so dead to honour and to obligations as to abandon that loyal man at such a moment?'

Again the King evaded the question. 'Obligations? And what of your obligations to me?'

'I have never been unmindful of them. To the best of my poor ability and strength I have served your majesty loyally and faithfully, ay, and unsparingly. My life, Sire, is yours. I would yield it up willingly in your service, as God's my witness.'

The appeal to tenderness, fervently uttered, played havoc with the royal emotions, ever vulnerable to such assaults.

'Robin! Robin!' He advanced upon the young man, holding out his hands, and brought them finally to rest on Sir Robert's shoulders. 'You mean that? For God's sake say that you mean it. For God's sake say that ye'll not forsake me; that ye'll not break my lonely old heart!'

Sir Robert smiled with the irradiating, irresistible tenderness of which he had the gift.

'In forsaking you, Sire, I should be breaking my own heart together with my fortunes. Yet ...'

'Say no more, Robin. Say no more, man.' The King's grip tightened on his shoulders. 'I believe you. You're true steel in a world of painted laths.'

He loosed his hold and went shambling away again, wiping his eyes. 'Henry'll be angry if I do naught. He'll no doubt come raging to me again with his hectorings and his insolences. But I'll bear it. For your sake, Robin lad, I'll bear it all.'

It was a capitulation which might have satisfied Sir Robert. But he did not yet choose to be satisfied. He knew the vacillations of the royal mind; knew that this might change again.

He did not desire, he announced, that the King should suffer griefs on his account. He did not deserve it, and, all things considered, he thought it would be better if the King dismissed him together with Mr. Overbury. As it was, he had too many enemies at court; there were so many great lords who treated him cavalierly, whose eminence placed them beyond the reach of his resentment.

He drove the King to frenzy by his determination. He was bidden to hold his clavering tongue. He was assured by a fond monarch, now utterly terrified of losing him, that he should be made as great a lord as any in the land, so that he should take precedence of any insolent gentleman who in the past might have presumed upon superior rank.

Then, finding that Sir Robert still wavered, the King had recourse to cajoleries and pettings, and finally made an abject surrender. Not only should Mr. Overbury remain, but he should receive the honour of knighthood and be raised to the dignity of a gentleman of the household. As for Sir Robert himself, he should have the castle of Rochester with the title of Viscount, besides the vacant Barony of Winwick in Northamptonshire; he should be invested with the Order of the Garter, become a member of the Privy Council and Keeper of Westminster Palace for life. Thus should men know the love and esteem in which he was held by his king, and they should honour him or it would be the worse for them.

On that, long after midnight, the King embraced and dismissed him, and went at last to bed exhausted by the emotions of the evening. Robin's determined championship of Mr. Overbury, reviewed in retrospect, fanned the King's singular and abnormal jealousy. The circumstance that he had been compelled to yield at all where Overbury was concerned, rendered that detestable fellow more detestable than ever in the royal eyes.

It is characteristic of weak, unstable natures to give generously under pressure, and, thereafter, hating their own weakness, to hate the recipient of the gifts.