The house of the wizard

It was evening and it was strangely quiet at Greenwich Palace. The king was again absent, and the queen kept her state alone. The gay rufflers of the court were gathered in other quarters, however, for that day Anne had but few of her own maids about her. Grooms and lackeys crowded the outer corridors, but the lofty apartments of the queen were well nigh empty. It was reported that she was indisposed, but this was rather an excuse for the seclusion she desired. She sat in a great room hung with rich-hued tapestries, a fire blazing on the hearth and a hundred tapers burning; its brilliance, warmth, the delicate perfume in the air being a strange contrast to those rooms at Kimbolton where a queen had died. Anne Boleyn herself was clad in white and silver brocade, a cape of Flemish lace upon her shoulders, strings of pearls about that slender throat, and on her head a coif of crimson velvet edged with pearls, a great diamond set in the front and shining on her brow like a star. But for her pallor and the haggard look about her eyes, she was as beautiful as she was in her days of triumph as the Marchioness of Pembroke. She sat in the center of the room, and at her feet, upon a crimson cushion, was Mrs. Wyatt. About these two were gathered three other attendants, Lady Rochford, the queen’s sister-in-law, Mistress Gaynsford, and Betty Carew; Betty herself as lovely as the queen, dressed in pale blue with a chain of dull gold about her neck, given her by Anne. There were no others, and the talk was free of all restraint, the queen’s easy intercourse with her own people and her carelessness of speech afterwards feeding the fire when scandal was busy with her fair fame.

Her favorite, Mary Wyatt, was recounting her adventures in seeking some one to cast her horoscope, and Anne, diverted by the story, encouraged her with eager attention. It was a charming scene, these five handsome women in their gay apparel, in that lofty chamber where the flames of so many tapers made a luster that expelled all gloom, and only the pale face of the queen told the story of the secret trouble, the growing estrangement between her and the king. She let her jewelled hand rest caressingly on Mistress Wyatt’s shoulder while she talked.

“How ended it, Mary?” she asked indulgently; “you make a long tale before you come to the pith of the matter, yet we know your horoscope was cast—and happily, as I think it should be, albeit you are a naughty rogue.”

“Madam, I found a wizard truly,” Mrs. Wyatt answered, soberly enough; “indeed, a king of wizards, though a little man.”

At these words Betty started uneasily; she hated the mention of a wizard since the prophecy of the scar.

“Little in measure, sweetheart, but great in power, doubtless,” said the queen.

“Your grace would find him a marvellous strange character,” Mrs. Wyatt answered; “when I sat and looked at him and heard him tell me the most secret thoughts of mine own heart, verily, my blood ran cold.”

“Were thy secret thoughts so evil, Mary?” asked Anne, archly.

“It mattered not what they were, my queen,” Mary Wyatt said; “it was his manner of telling them, and his fearful eyes which burnt into my brain.”

“The girl is frightened,” said the queen, laughing; “for shame. I thought you a brave heart.”

“Madam, I am no coward, as ye know,” her attendant answered with spirit; “but the man is gruesome, and he has tales and prophecies that are marvellous to hear.”

“What is he like?” asked Anne, curiously.

“He is short and bandy-legged, and has a countenance like a wolf’s, with great black eyes that burn like fire.”

“’Tis Sanders,” said Betty Carew; “Zachary Sanders, the great wizard.”

The queen turned quickly toward her.

“Where didst thou see him?” she asked.

Mistress Betty hesitated, casting a doubtful glance at the others.

“Speak,” said Anne, impatiently; “here all are friends.”

“I saw him at Kimbolton, madam,” Betty answered softly, blushing at Mrs. Wyatt’s reproachful glance.

“Ah, a partisan of the princess dowager,” exclaimed Lady Rochford, with contempt; “you chose poor company, Mistress Wyatt, and a poor adviser.”

“A man does not carry his politics upon his face,” said Mary Wyatt, indignantly, “anymore than his heart upon his sleeve.”

“Hush!” said the queen, “it does not matter. Mistress Carew, how came he to Kimbolton, and wherefore?”

Betty briefly related the accidental encounter at the Blue Boar and the exploit of the piebald horse.

“Saw he the queen—I mean, the princess?” Anne asked quickly.

“Ay, your grace,” Betty replied; “I was sent to Sir Edmund to crave his attendance in our private rooms.”

“A ruse!” exclaimed the queen at once; “the rogue lashed your horse to gain some notice from Bedingfield. How thick are some brains not to see such manœuvers! But it only interests me more in the man. Where does he live, Mary? what manner of house has he?”

Mrs. Wyatt, abashed at her unfortunate blunder in bringing up Queen Catherine’s affairs, was more reluctant to answer.

“’Tis a gloomy place in London,” she said, “and would little interest your highness.”

“But it does interest me, madam,” Anne exclaimed, with a touch of imperious temper; “I will know all that you do.”

“Having said so much, Wyatt, there is no hurt in saying all,” remarked Lady Rochford, scornfully.

Mary Wyatt cast a glance of anger and dislike at the woman whom she deeply distrusted, believing her untrue to the queen, but she obeyed Anne’s behest and told the rest without further demur.

“The house is in London,” she said calmly, “and we came to it by the water-gate, over the which is set a great image of an owl. The building is very old; ’tis said that William Rufus built it, but I know not; it is dark and tall and narrow, for there have been two stories added to the original two, and these upper ones are graduated, being like two blocks set on the house, the highest being the least, and the roof is pointed like the houses that I saw at Antwerp. From the outside, it seems as full of windows as a sieve is full of holes, and none are even, but within ’tis dark as a sepulcher. The door we came to, which faces the river, is small and very strong, having three cross-bars of iron to stay the wood, and on it are the signs of the zodiac, and above it the head of a serpent. The house, they say, hath five doors, albeit you may find but three with the naked eye; but verily there should be one opening downward for the convenience of Satan. When you are admitted there are stairs to climb up, up, to the third story, the first of the two little ones. Here there are three rooms all draped, and here he receives you. Above only his favored clients go; that upper story is his observatory, from whence he says he reads the heavens and casts your horoscope. Many gruesome things he has there, a treasury of horrors. But truly, madam, the man is marvellous and reads the mind as he doth an open scroll.”

“I will see this marvel,” said the queen, with sudden animation; “I will go to this house—unknown—and have my horoscope cast.”

“Oh, madam, I beseech you not!” cried Mrs. Wyatt, her face paling with some apprehension which she dared not tell; “if you must see him, have him here, as becomes you, but not there—not there!”

“Tush, Mary!” cried the queen, her whim taking possession of her, “you are a fool! ’Twill be a mask worth playing. Right glad should I be to be merry for one hour; we will go now—at once!”

“Madam, madam, ’tis too late!” exclaimed Lady Rochford; “the king’s grace will be ill pleased.”

Anne drew herself up with flashing eyes.

“Who gave you charge of me, my Lady Rochford?” she said bitterly; “am I the queen or you?”

Her sister-in-law winced and drew back, but she bit her lip in passionate anger at the rebuke.

“Have your way, madam,” she said coldly; “we are but your servants.”

The queen turned her back upon her with a gesture of disdain.

“Mary,” she said to Mrs. Wyatt, “go you and get me a mask and a sober mantle and hood; and you, Mistress Carew, call hither some gentlemen we can trust to escort us; we shall need but two stout serving men beside.”

“Madam, who shall I summon?” Betty asked, and then added with a slight hesitation, “Master Simon Raby?”

The queen smiled archly, bringing a blush to Betty’s cheek.

“Ay, my girl,” she said; “Master Raby and my cousin, Sir Francis Bryan.”

Despite the anger of Lady Rochford and the evident reluctance of Mrs. Wyatt, the little party was soon organized, Anne Boleyn directing all things with feverish gayety, as if she snatched at any prospect of entertainment in her hour of melancholy. She was masked and muffled until all her splendid dress was hidden and there seemed no possibility of recognition. Then she made each maid of honor assume an equal disguise, and escorted by Raby, Bryan and two of the palace yeomen, she set out in a private barge upon the river. It was yet early in the evening, and the moon was shining with a light that cast a whiteness on the landscape. The voyage up the river was swift and uneventful, although the queen pretended to anticipate an encounter with the royal barge, as the king might be on his way to Greenwich. However, they passed but few craft, and came at last to the water-gate of the strange house upon the Thames. As Mrs. Wyatt had described it, there it stood with its two upper stories in tiers, and its many windows like bandaged eyes, for every shutter was up and not a ray of light shone anywhere; the moon shining upon the opposite side made the face toward the river black as night. The little party found the wicket at the water-stairs unfastened and, after some curious glances at the imperfectly outlined owl above it, the visitors passed on across the garden, Mistress Wyatt showing them the door, which was hard to find in the niches of the wall. Raby struck a resounding summons on it with the hilt of his sword, waking echoes within the house, but there was no response. The wind from the water was keen and the place so forbidding that the queen began to shiver under her mantle.

“’Tis cold,” she murmured; “I should have worn my partlet of sable skins and my muffy. Knock louder, Master Raby; the fleshy ears of wizards are ever deaf, I take it.”

The summons was repeated with more clamor than before, but still no sound within.

“Mary, thy bandy-legged sage is dead, or gone to visit the black man,” said the queen, impatiently. “The place smells like a grave; ’tis an ill-favored house. Bryan, bring the two knaves from the water-gate and force the door; I will not have this rogue bar out the Queen of England.”

As she spoke, the door opened suddenly and silently, revealing a dimly lighted, seemingly endless stairway, but there was no human being in sight.