The house of the wizard

It was an hour before noon and the gates of Greenwich palace stood open. A crowd of attendants and gentlemen ushers were assembled in the anterooms, and the royal guards lined the halls. The king and queen were holding a levee, and, as usual, there was a great concourse of people, and the river was dotted with barges, wherries and all sorts of water-craft.

Sir William Carew had just landed at the water-stairs, opposite the main entrance, and was helping his niece to alight from the boat. They were accompanied by Simon Raby, and all three were dressed in the elaborate fashion of the court. Sir William’s suit was of richer hue and finer velvet than that which he had worn upon the road; his cloak was shorter and more gayly lined, while his ruffles were of the finest lace. The younger man was even more richly attired in maroon velvet, heavily embroidered, and slashed with gold-colored satin; and he had a face and figure that would scarcely pass unnoticed in any garb. But neither he nor Sir William had fully realized the beauty of their young companion until they saw her, no longer clad in mourning, but wearing a rich gown that her uncle had provided for the occasion. It was of gray velvet, with a yoke of rose-colored satin edged with fur, the inner sleeves being of the same tint, as well as the facings of the flowing ones, which came to the elbow. The gray velvet skirt was looped up on one side, showing a farthingale of pink satin trimmed with lace. The colors and the richness of the costume suited well her glowing complexion and dark hair, and she made a charming picture. As they passed through the crowded anterooms, she attracted universal attention, but moved on unconscious of it. The painful contrast between the splendor of these lofty rooms and the dreary ones at Kimbolton struck her generous mind with its full force. Here she saw gay courtiers, beautiful women, and all the magnificence of a court, and she had just come from the presence of death. Young though she was, she had too strong a character to be moved to forgetfulness by the brilliance of the change. Catherine had not won her affection, but she had inspired her with a feeling of profound sympathy. There was another shadow also on the mood of Mistress Betty; the wizard’s strange statement had haunted her secret thoughts ever since it was made, and the sight of the scarred stranger at the tavern disquieted her. Again and again she told herself it was but folly, yet she could not put it from her mind; and she was strangely depressed as she walked beside her uncle through the crowd of courtiers, who gave place only to gaze again at the lovely face and erect form of the young girl. Behind her came Master Raby, secretly admiring her and comparing her fresh beauty with the charms of the gay dames who smiled at him as he passed. At the entrance to the presence-chamber, they were halted by the usher; but only for a moment, a few words from Carew gaining them admittance. The room opened into the gallery with great folding-doors, and through these the little party passed and found themselves in a lofty apartment beyond. To Betty, the splendid gayety of the scene was almost bewildering, and she paused a moment on the threshold, looking about her with perfect unconsciousness of the attention that she immediately attracted. The appearance of so beautiful a young woman standing almost alone in the doorway created in a moment a little sensation.

The room was crowded with lords and gentlemen, peers and peeresses; the glitter of gold, the sheen of satin and brocade, the sparkle of jewels, made a scene of varied beauty. Here were handsome men and the loveliest of England’s women; on one side stood the stately figure of a prelate, on the other some foreign ambassador; here was a gay court gallant, yonder a reverend sage. Not far from the door stood the king surrounded by his favored nobles. He was, at this time, growing very stout, but still retained much of the fine appearance of his earlier manhood. His dress of velvet and brocade was rich with gold embroidery and his breast sparkled with jewels. His great size and the natural majesty of his bearing made him an imposing figure, but he possessed a frank and cordial address which won him many friends, even in those days of treason and discontent. Beyond him, almost in the center of the room, was Queen Anne Boleyn.

Mistress Betty had but one thought, and that was of this queen; and as soon as she had made her curtsy to the king, she passed on to greet Anne, with feelings of mingled curiosity and resentment for the sake of the dead Catherine. Anne Boleyn was standing in the midst of her ladies, and yellow was the prevailing color of their costumes. The queen, a young and beautiful woman, appeared as lovely as ever even in that hour of unwomanly triumph. The perfect oval of her face, the brilliance of her eyes and the beauty of her complexion had made her the star of Catherine’s court, and she was still lovely, although it seemed to many that she looked both ill and disturbed. She was dressed in yellow brocade with a train of cloth of gold trimmed with ermine, a coronet of jewels resting on her flowing curls, for she wore her hair frequently falling loose over her shoulders. She knew that Betty Carew had been in attendance at Kimbolton, and received her coldly, although with courtesy, as if she was at once displeased at the thought of her late service, and willing to win her to her own cause.

The presentation was over in a few moments and Betty was led out of the royal circle by her uncle, who conducted her to the other side of the room. He took her to a group by one of the windows, and Betty found that he was introducing her to some stranger before she had yet put the queen from her thoughts.

“My Lady Crabtree,” he said, “this is the niece of whom I wrote you. Will you take so great a charge, albeit not an uncomely one?”

“Thou art a fool, William,” retorted a sharp voice, “to bring the wench hither.”

Betty Carew looked up in amazement and saw an old woman standing by her uncle; a woman, but one with so manly an air that the young girl was not a little amused. Lady Crabtree was tall and broad-shouldered, with a large waist and a flat chest, being one of those women whose figures are flattened out, with a great width from side to side. She had a masculine face with a large, hooked nose and keen black eyes; the face of a woman who had inherited not only her father’s traits of character, but his full set of features, even to the strong, broad teeth. Her snow-white hair was put back under a large and ugly headdress, and her garments, though rich, were neither stylish nor elegant; and though an old woman, it was apparent that she would have been more at ease in doublet and hose than in a farthingale. She was regarding Betty with a shrewd but not unkindly glance, which seemed to comprehend not only the girl’s great beauty, but also her present frame of mind.

“What is thy name, child?” this singular person asked; “Carew, I know, forsooth, but it must have a handle to it.”

“My name is Betty Carew,” the young girl answered, smiling, “and I trust I may not make my uncle sorry for bringing me to Greenwich.”

“If you do not, Mistress Betty, it will not be the fault of your face,” retorted Lady Crabtree, calmly. “What say you, Mistress Wyatt, is not my cousin Carew a fool to bring such wares to such a market?”

At this, Betty’s face flushed crimson, and she raised her head haughtily, but before she could speak, a richly gowned gentlewoman, who stood beside her new acquaintance, replied.

“Nay, Lady Crabtree,” she said, smiling, “Sir William has shown his usual discretion and kindness to bring his niece to see the world, and I am sure that so discreet a maid will take no harm from the contact.”

“You are a liar, Wyatt,” the old woman retorted, laughing; “that is why I love you. To know how to lie gracefully, and at the right moment, is one of the most charming accomplishments and one of the rarest, albeit lying is more frequent than dying. There is the substance of a couplet for one of the court singers; I was born a poet, but am like to die unknown for such. Well, William,” she added, turning again to Carew, “this wench is to be my charge, then?”

“Ay, if you will have her, madam,” he answered; “for a while, at least. They want her at court, and I can scarcely make her a charge of any one more fit to guard her than my Lady Crabtree.”

“I am a dragon then, William,” the old woman said, with her queer smile, which was not mirthful; “so be it. I will take care that no wolf shall chew up this lamb. She shall have good watching, though I think the wench is no fool.”

“Madam,” said Betty, coldly, “I come here only at my uncle’s will; I would rather, and it pleased him, stay at Mohun’s Ottery.”

“It would please me well enough, fair niece,” Carew answered gravely, “but there be others, and I would fain do my duty by you and them. Therefore you will stay with my good cousin, Lady Crabtree, until I see fit to take you home.”

Mistress Betty bit her lip. This settled the matter for her, but it wounded her pride to be a dependent on her uncle’s bounty and be tossed about at his will. Nor did her new guardian attract her. However, she could only submit to fate, and she was compelled to remain standing by Lady Crabtree while Sir William mingled with the company, where he found many acquaintances.

“Do not take it to heart, wench,” the old woman remarked, her shrewd eyes detecting Betty’s sensations; “you will love this place too well erelong to leave it. ’Tis no spot for any girl to mope in, and you are not of the moping kind, I think. Dost know any of the great people here to-day?”

“None but the king and queen,” Betty replied, turning her eyes upon the gay scene, which was almost bewildering to one who had lived the retired life that she had.

“Poor child! ’tis dull to know so little of the great folk here,” said Mrs. Wyatt, who still stood by Lady Crabtree; “yonder is my lord of Canterbury, and beside him, Master Latimer, whom the queen has made Bishop of Worcester. Ay, the queen,” she repeated, in reply to Betty’s questioning glance; “he was her grace’s chaplain, and she so wrought upon the king that he is a bishop; and because he spoke hard truth to her. And that goodly youth to the left there is his grace of Richmond.”

“Ay, and ’tis a pity that the king can get no other son so fair,” said Lady Crabtree, sharply; “’tis a punishment.”

“How can you tell what may happen in a short while?” retorted Mrs. Wyatt, with emphasis.

“No boy,” said the old woman, calmly; “if we have much more ill luck, ’twill be the King of Scots.”

“They will nab thee as a traitor yet, if thy tongue wags so free, my lady,” said Mrs. Wyatt, with a startled glance about her; but her odd companion only laughed grimly.

“Look there, Mistress Betty,” she added in a moment; “’tis our relative, the master of horse, Nicholas Carew, and yonder is his grace of Exeter and that pretty boy, Courtenay. What would you say, Mistress Wyatt, if I prophesied that he would be a king of England?”

“Hold your tongue, madam, or surely you will lose your ears,” replied Mrs. Wyatt, but smiled at her companion’s manner.

“They can but roast me at the best, as they did the poor folks from Holland who held such queer notions, which were doubtless no better or sounder for the cooking,” returned Lady Crabtree, laughing harshly. “Look you, Wyatt, they would have treated Latimer as they did these Anabaptists, and now he is a bishop. Presently they will make me a duchess for my sound policy.”

Mrs. Wyatt, however, did not heed her; she was looking eagerly at a group across the room.

“There is Jane Seymour,” she said quickly, “and she is radiant to-day.”

“And will be more so presently,” remarked the old woman, calmly; “my lord of Canterbury can make this matter straight, and the Bishop of Rome will nail no bull upon the doors of Flemish churches.”

“I pray you speak less idly, madam,” Mrs. Wyatt said, offended; “I love the queen’s grace, as you know.”

“And so do I,” exclaimed Lady Crabtree; and then aside to Betty, “Mistress Wyatt is a fool, my girl; yonder beauty, Jane Seymour, is like to be a queen, and I mistake not. Mercy on us! can you look for such faithfulness in the king’s grace when other men be weather-cocks?”

As she spoke, there was a movement in the group near by; it separated, and the stranger of the inn came up to where Betty and her strange chaperon were standing. He bowed low over Lady Crabtree’s hand, speaking a few words to her in an undertone.

“’Tis my cousin’s niece,” the old woman replied in her outspoken way. “Mistress Betty Carew, here is a gentleman who craves to be presented to you: Sir Barton Henge.”

Although the tall stranger turned to her with a smile upon his handsome dark face, Betty felt an instinctive repulsion. As she made him a curtsy in response to his profound bow, she looked up, and saw behind him Simon Raby. In an instant relief and welcome leaped into her eyes, and Henge seeing it, turned sharply to confront the other man, and both looked defiance at each other.

“Sir, you jostled me,” Henge said haughtily.

“You crowded in my way,” replied Raby, with disdain; “give place, I am a friend of this lady’s!”

“Find room as you may,” retorted Henge, sharply; “I will not budge an inch.”

“Until I make you,” said Raby, coldly. “You choose a strange place for a brawl, sir, but ’tis worthy of you.”

“Upon my word, this is fine talk in the king’s presence!” exclaimed old Lady Crabtree, laughing bitterly; “have done, I will have none of this! ’Tis too soon to quarrel for a child’s pretty face. Master Raby, conduct my ward out of this crowded spot; and you, Sir Barton, stay with me; I would speak with you.”

Passing Henge with a cold look of contempt, Simon Raby took Betty away across the room, and then the strange old woman turned upon her companion, who stood scowling.

“Look you, Sir Barton,” she said in her hard tone of command; “I know you well and I will have no sword-thrusts with yonder boy.”

“That young rake—” began Henge, fiercely.

“And what are you, sir?” she exclaimed, and laughed so harshly that even he winced a little. “Listen to me, Henge; this beauty—this young Mistress Carew—is penniless, and will have none of my wealth either. You want no such lady love as this, and need make no wry faces about it. If you behave as becomes your birth and station, you may even come and go at pleasure in my house, where, I think, you would come if you could. But hark ye, Barton; if I catch you at any of your devil tricks, I’ll have your ears off. Nay, scowl not, man; an old woman like me has naught to fear from you, and I know too much for you to brave me. Ah, I thought I saw you wince. Farewell, sir; here comes his grace of Suffolk, and ’twould kill me if I could not ask him to weep with me for the princess dowager; ’tis evident his grief sets well upon his stomach;” and she turned to greet the nobleman with a grim smile of enjoyment in the prospect.

Meanwhile Sir Barton Henge stood discomfited, staring across the room at Betty and her cavalier with a face of fury. A man of violent temper, his first impulse was to engage in an open brawl, but his better judgment told him that an attempt to chastise Raby for his insolence would only end in his own arrest in the king’s presence. So he was forced to content himself with the reflection that when a better opportunity presented itself, he would make good use of it.

Across the room Master Raby had forgotten him in looking at the fair face of Mistress Betty, for ’tis love that makes the world go round.