The house of the wizard

When Sir William’s barge stopped at the water-stairs at Greenwich Palace, Master Raby came down to meet Mistress Betty and her uncle. It was an accident, yet his pleasure at the encounter was so evident that Carew smiled; the beauty of that face was doing mischief in more than one case, he thought, and was amused to note that here his high-tempered niece showed only gentle courtesy.

“Sets the wind in that quarter?” Sir William said to himself; “then, verily, Henge is like to have a very pretty quarrel on his hands, for here is a young sprig who can handle a sword as well as he.”

Meanwhile, unconscious of the thoughts running through Carew’s brain, Mistress Betty and her escort walked a little in advance, engaged in conversation. Half-way to the palace gates, some acquaintances stayed Sir William’s progress, and the two, coming alone to the entrance, stood waiting for him. They were undisturbed; the king was at Whitehall, and but few loungers showed themselves about the palace. In spite of his pleasant greeting, there was some constraint in Raby’s manner, and now that the opportunity presented itself, he turned abruptly to his companion, a flush mounting to his face as he addressed her.

“Mistress Carew,” he said, with some hesitation, “’tis said that you are plighted to Sir Barton Henge.”

Betty started, her face flushing more deeply than his.

“Who tells these tales?” she exclaimed.

“They are but idle tales, then?” he asked quickly. “I could scarce credit them, knowing that you knew him not that night at the inn.”

She looked at him with perplexity in her eyes. What could she do, she thought, and how defend herself against her enemy? Truth alone could help her, even while it wounded her, and she was brave enough to see it.

“Master Raby,” she said, with a soft falter in her voice that her uncle would not have recognized, “there is a contract, made when I was a baby; not even my uncle knew of it. Upon the strength of that, Sir Barton must have set these rumors afloat; there is naught else.”

Her companion’s face fell at her words.

“A contract?” he said slowly; “and Sir William wishes it fulfilled, doubtless, and you, Mistress Carew?”

“Sir, I will never wed him,” she said firmly, holding her head proudly.

There was a joyful flash in Raby’s eyes which brought a softer blush to Betty’s cheek.

“’Twould be a sacrifice to make angels weep!” he said in a low tone, his radiant glance making her eyes seek the ground; “the man is a knave to claim it against your will.”

“’Tis prophesied that I will wed a man so scarred,” she said, in a troubled voice, for superstition had stirred in her heart ever since she first saw Sir Barton’s brow.

Simon Raby laughed as he took her hand, which offered but a poor resistance.

“Mistress Carew,” he whispered, “may not another man be so scarred? Truly, there are many who would bear a greater cut for thy sake.”

A roguish smile curved Betty’s lips, but she averted her face.

“But I like not the scar, sir,” she said demurely.

“Then I swear that thou shalt not wed a scarred face,” Raby answered; and he kissed the embroidered glove that she had left between his fingers, having slipped her hand out of it.

“My uncle says a dowerless maid is not soon wedded, sir,” she retorted, with a flash of pride in her brown eyes; “the scarred and battered remnants are for the portionless, I take it.”

This sudden outburst took Master Raby by surprise. Unconscious of the wound in the young girl’s heart, he could not understand the bitterness of her tone. But he had a frank and generous nature, and it kindled in quick sympathy for the beautiful orphan.

“Mistress Carew,” he said gently, “there are some who need no richer dower than the one which nature gave at birth, and which outshines all others.”

Ashamed of her sudden outbreak, she turned away and looked to see her uncle coming toward them. Before he reached them, Raby spoke again.

“I know not your uncle’s mind, fair mistress,” he said gravely, “but if this man Henge in aught offend you, I pray you remember that one sword is ever at your service, and one arm ever ready to defend your cause.”

The young girl looked up at the fine, frank face and kindling eyes, and her heart throbbed in her breast.

“I thank you,” she faltered, and the flush on his face shone in hers like the rising sun; “sir, I thank you with all my heart, and I am your debtor.”

“Nay,” he answered softly, “I shall be yours, and you let me serve you.”

And Sir William, coming up, found them blushing like two children, and smiled to himself, wondering not a little how this tangled skein would unravel. But he made no sign, only carrying Mistress Betty away to install her in her new post before he went on to his home in Devon, where there was need of his presence at all times.

The royal household at Greenwich was under a cloud. The queen’s illness had disturbed the tranquillity of the new year, and there were whispers that the king was estranged by the loss of his boy, born dead on the 29th of January. Anne had made a slow recovery and had withdrawn herself from the festivities of the court; she chose to be much alone, and wandered in secluded corners of Greenwich Park, often unattended, save by her little dogs. It was an inauspicious time for Mistress Betty to receive an appointment in the household, but she was kindly welcomed by the queen’s other attendants, and took up her new duties with a lighter heart since she had talked with Simon Raby. The young girl, who had been a dependent in her uncle’s house, now found herself a person of some consequence. Each maid of honor was permitted a tirewoman and a little spaniel to attend her, and Betty had a liberal breakfast-table, served with a chine of beef, a manchet and a chet loaf, besides a flagon of beer in which there were no hops. But all the maids of honor dined at mess, and chickens, pigeons, and rabbits were served, as well as beef and manchets and much wine, according to the custom of the time. Their hours of attendance on the queen were ordered by rule, and for the first few days Betty was unnoticed by Anne, and found opportunity to make acquaintance with those about her, and more than once saw Raby, who was at Greenwich as an equerry of the queen.

The freedom of her life at Mohun’s Ottery and Wildrick made the more confining office of maid of honor irksome, and the young girl took every opportunity to walk out into the park. She loved best the early morning hours, when few were stirring outside the palace, and she found her best amusement in these solitary strolls. It was thus, one morning, that she came upon the queen, also alone. Mistress Carew was returning from her walk, and entered the quadrangle court, where the morning sunlight was shining with little power. She was startled by the sight of the queen, sitting on a stone bench a little way before her. Anne Boleyn was alone, and sat watching her little dogs, who were playing in front of her, tossing a ball between them, snapping and barking in the abandonment of canine joy. The queen was dressed in red damask, a deep cape of black velvet edged with fur hanging over her shoulders, and on her head a five-cornered black velvet hood trimmed with pearls. So absorbed was she in thought that she did not at first notice the presence of her maid of honor, and Betty had time to note the changes made by illness in her face, and she thought, too, that she had been weeping. Unwilling to disturb her revery, the young girl made an effort to pass her unnoticed; but Anne, hearing the rustle of her skirts, looked up. For a moment there was no recognition in her eyes, and then she remembered the beautiful face.

“’Tis Mistress Carew,” she said, in her soft voice; “come hither, I would speak with thee.”

Surprised, but pleased by the queen’s gentle manner, Betty drew near and stood in an attitude of quiet attention. Anne sat looking at her sadly, and so long that she became embarrassed, and the color mantled richly in her cheeks.

“You are marvellously lovely,” said the queen, at last; “yet I, who once so prized my own beauty, have begun to think it of little value, and that the price we pay for its exaltation is too great. Tread carefully, my maid, else it will bring you only misery.”

“I have been taught to place small value on it, your grace,” Betty answered soberly, “I was fortunate in my schooling.”

“Alas!” said Anne, “I would it had been so with me; but I was bred in France and, save for good Master Latimer, there have been few to tell the truth to me.”

She paused, and her eyes rested thoughtfully upon the ground, and Betty stood uncertain whether to withdraw or remain, and for a few moments there was an uneasy silence. Then the queen looked up again.

“Mistress Carew,” she said abruptly, “you were at Kimbolton?”

Betty flushed with surprise.

“Only for a little while, madam,” she said.

“Were you chosen by—” she hesitated and then added clearly, “by the late queen?”

“No,” replied Betty, quietly, “I know not the manner of my selection. One winter night Master Raby came down to Mohun’s Ottery with letters from my lord privy seal, and in the morning my uncle took me to Kimbolton.”

“Ah, my lord privy seal was then over-zealous in my cause, albeit now he cools,” said Anne, thoughtfully; “doubtless you were sent in the room of one she would have chosen, had she had any choice. Alack!” she added in a strange voice, “’tis little more than a month since I rejoiced at her passing away and believed myself at last the Queen of England; but now—great heaven! how like a quicksand is the heart of man, and swallows up all things that touch it! Maiden, I have heard the stories of Catherine’s death—were they true?”

“Ay, madam,” said Betty, firmly; “she died like a Christian, and royally—like a queen; albeit the first estate is higher than the last.”

“And I was sorry that she made so good an end,” said Anne Boleyn, musingly; “and yet she never harmed me, even when I held her high place against her. I knew her; she was an austere woman and unlovely, yet, as you said, a Christian. My girl,” she added, turning suddenly to Betty, “which would you love, her or me?”

Mistress Carew stood blushing, tongue-tied, for in her heart she had ever condemned this fair woman; but now, under the spell of her glance and voice, her resolution faltered. Anne, accustomed to reading the faces of those about her, read at a glance the trouble in the young girl’s heart.

“I see,” she said, rising, and laying her hand on Betty’s arm. “Give me your help, wench, to the house, for I am not strong in heart or body. You loved the virtue of that dead queen, and you have seen me rejoice at her fall. Yet bethink you, Mistress Carew, how mighty was my temptation; and I was young and had been bred in that gay court beyond the seas. Judge not too sharply, lest you be in like case; for you have a beauty as great as mine in my first youth. My heart is heavy; I would have some about me to love Queen Anne Boleyn. I charge you, mistress, to think less of the dead and more of the living queen, who bears in her breast a sorrow and alas, has failed to bring a prince to England!”