The house of the wizard

In the gallery adjoining the apartments of the queen, Simon Raby waited for tidings of her condition, and also for a glimpse of Mistress Betty. Francis Bryan had been called away to attend upon the king. Henry had returned to Greenwich, but made no inquiry for his consort, for of late they had met only in public.

Raby walked alone in the lofty gallery, pacing to and fro, with his arms folded on his breast and his head bent in thought. He came of a brave race, and showed it in his gallant bearing and the fine expression of his face. Trained from boyhood for a soldier, as every English boy was in those days, he had seen service both in France and Ireland, and was esteemed a courageous and keen-witted officer, if somewhat reckless. Reared in a worldly school, he had led a gay and careless life; but there were too fine elements of manhood in him to be choked by the evil that in many natures, under such influences, shoots up more rapidly than the good. None of his family were living except his father, and death was soon to sever that last tie. Among all the beauties of the court who had won his fancy and even touched his heart, none had ever seemed so charming as the penniless orphan whom fate had made an attendant upon Queen Anne. His admiration kindled by the beauty of Betty’s face had swiftly grown into the proportions of a far deeper passion than he had ever known, and his generous nature, too, was touched by the peculiar hardships of her situation. For forgetting her lack of dower he deserved no great credit, since a man like Barton Henge could also be completely dazzled by the young girl’s personal loveliness.

As Raby walked there in the gallery, he gave no thought to his appointment with Henge; a duel was a matter of too common occurrence in his adventurous life to be of any particular moment. He was an expert swordsman, and his contempt for his adversary’s character was so great that he underrated his skill and regarded him as no very dangerous foe.

After the queen’s return, her shrieks were audible even in the place where Raby walked; but they were hushed at last, and in the stillness he heard the great clock of the palace striking twelve. He went to a casement, and throwing it open, looked out upon the night. The moon was setting and a few soft clouds drifted above it; below, the park was full of black shadows, and in the distance the hounds of the royal pack bayed in a melancholy monotone. The strange adventures of the evening might well have stirred hardier nerves, and Raby shared the superstitions of the times. The weird black and white outlines of the scene oppressed him; it seemed to him that a calamity hung over the palace, and the queen’s wild cries still rang in his ears. He closed the casement sharply and turned just as the door opened, and Mistress Carew came in alone. A glance at her pale face told him that something unusually painful had occurred.

“How fares the queen?” he asked eagerly.

“She sleeps at last,” Betty replied; “but she has been in a grievous state, crying and laughing like a mad woman, and would take no comfort. She told her fearful vision to Mistress Wyatt, and ’tis no wonder that she is so distressed;” and with an awed face and agitated voice she went on to tell Raby of the mirror and its dark revelations.

“I remember,” she said, in conclusion, “that he made this prophecy to Queen Catherine at Kimbolton, or something very like it; and when her maids would have upbraided this queen, she said that they would soon have cause to pity her and lament her case.”

“Some estrangement there is between the king’s grace and Queen Anne,” Raby answered in a low tone; “but I take it for a lovers’ quarrel, and no more. As for this vision, that wizard should be jailed for it. What need had he to so torment the unhappy lady? Doubtless he is of the party favoring the Lady Mary and would right gladly drive the queen to madness. Conspiracy is everywhere, and the death of Catherine has but discouraged it for a moment; the papists are openly discontent, and there is a great faction among the nobility, who hate my lord privy seal. We may be sure that this wizard is among the plotters, and had I any doubt of it, ’twould be removed by the appearance there of Henge, who, I believe, is up to the elbows in these treasons, albeit he hath yet the ear of Cromwell.”

A wave of color swept over Betty’s face at the mention of the obnoxious name.

“Master Raby,” she said, with embarrassment in her tone, “I have to thank you for coming to my aid this night, but I was most unhappy to provoke a quarrel between you and that man, who is unworthy of your notice.”

“And did you dream that I would stand by to see you annoyed by the rogue?” he answered lightly; “I would sooner break his neck.”

“And I would not grieve were it broken, sir,” she said, “though I would not rejoice to cause the death of any man, however vile. Master Raby, I pray you, let the matter go no further; there is no need for you to accept a challenge from a rogue.”

Willing to conceal the true state of affairs, Raby smiled.

“We will not speak of that which pains you, Mistress Carew,” he said cheerfully. “A flogging at Saint Paul’s Cross would better serve the knave than to meet a gentleman, albeit Henge is of noble blood.”

Mistress Betty gave him a searching glance. Accustomed to the clash of swords and to many a wild scene in Devon, she had but few feminine fears, yet her heart throbbed at the thought of a sword-thrust in the breast of this brave gentleman.

“You are going to fight him,” she said in a low voice, “and for me. Alas! I was both foolish and wicked to provoke the quarrel; sir, I pray you to forbear.”

Their eyes met, and she saw a light shining in Raby’s that a duller woman could have read. A sweet confusion made her stand blushing like a timid child.

“And if I draw not my sword in your quarrel, for whom shall I draw it?” he said in a softer tone. “Fear not, Mistress Carew, the rogue shall have a just chastisement; ’tis not worthy of a thought of yours, yet I rejoice to think that what I do is not a matter of indifference to you.”

Betty looked up bravely. “Sir,” she murmured, “I shall never forgive myself if you take hurt in my cause. I pray you let him go; ’twas you who were the aggressor, and there can be no dishonor in counting the matter too unworthy for your notice. For my sake, since I made the offence, I do beseech you leave the quarrel to oblivion.”

Raby took her hand and kissed it passionately. “For thy sake, mistress, I would do all save lose my honor,” he whispered tenderly.

Betty drew away her hand with a crimson face just as Mary Wyatt and Lady Rochford came from the queen’s room, and so interrupted the tender little scene.

“Master Raby, I pray you do me the courtesy to bear this missive to Sir Francis,” Mrs. Wyatt said in a weary voice; “and then I trust that we may all sleep sound till morning dawns, and so try to forget this agony.”

“Has the king come?” asked Lady Rochford; “they told me that his grace came late last night.”

“And so he did, madam,” Raby replied, as he took Mary Wyatt’s missive and, with a salutation which included all, although his eyes sought Betty’s, he left the gallery to do his errand.

“To bed, to bed!” said Lady Rochford, when the three women were alone; “I am well nigh faint for lack of sleep.”

As they walked together to their chambers, Betty turned thoughtfully to Mrs. Wyatt.

“Where was the king’s grace to-day?” she asked in a low voice.

“I know not,” retorted Mary Wyatt, in a bitter tone, “but doubtless with that trollop Seymour!”

Betty asked no more questions, but went to her own room and said a prayer for the protection of Simon Raby from the man she hated; and after tossing for a while upon her pillow, fell asleep at last, as the first light of the winter morning dawned in a gray sky.

A little later, when the sun was rising, its rays shining but faintly through the heavy mist that was hanging over the scene, making the tall trees of Greenwich Park loom like spectral giants through the folds of vapor, Simon Raby set out alone to keep his engagement with Sir Barton Henge. Armed only with his rapier and muffled in a heavy cloak, he walked leisurely away from the palace, and proceeded through the more lonely portions of the park toward the river. His depression of the night before had passed with the darkness; Queen Anne’s vision concerned him too little to disturb his thoughts longer. As he passed beyond the immediate vicinity of the palace, he quickened his steps. Even at that early hour there was the stir of a great establishment awakening; he met a company of cooks and scullions running toward the royal kitchens, and several messengers rode out post-haste, for the day’s errands began early.

The spot appointed for the meeting was on the outskirts of the park near the river, and took Raby through the loneliest places. The morning fog cut off his vision beyond a short circuit as he advanced under the trees, and after a while all sounds from the palace ceased to reach his ears. His path grew narrow as he came in sight of the river and was surrounded by a low thicket where the underbrush had not been cleared away. The beautiful face and dark eyes of Mistress Betty filled his mental vision, and he walked on, careless of possible danger from a treacherous foe; it was not in his nature to take any precaution for his own safety. He was scarce twenty yards from the trysting-place when there was a crackling of dead branches on either side of him, and two masked men sprang out upon him. Unprepared as he was for the onslaught, he was too bold a soldier to be disconcerted, and his sword flew from the scabbard. Being swift of foot and agile, he evaded the heavier of his two assailants, and getting his back against a tree, made a fair defence. But it was two to one, and he had small chance to escape, and saw it. In the desperate struggle which ensued, he had no time save to parry the blows which were aimed at his throat. Then, remembering that he was near the river and boats might be passing even then, he shouted twice for help even while he fought with the courage of despair. The black masks with holes, through which shone the eyes of his assailants, their silence and their determination began to work upon him, and the cold perspiration stood out on his face. But with marvellous firmness he beat back their swords, the gleaming points of which began to dazzle his eyes. Once more, though sore spent, he shouted, and now there was an answer, a cry from the direction of the river. At the sound of it the stouter of the two villains turned and fled into the thicket, evidently having no mind to encounter a reinforcement; but the other engaged Raby the more fiercely. However, it was now an equal struggle, and Simon was giving thrust for thrust when a party of strangers broke through the thicket from the river side and the mask received so sharp a blow on the back of his head that he fell prostrate. Looking across the body of his stricken assailant, Raby recognized with amazement the manly figure of Lady Crabtree, her farthingale looped high and displaying her huge boots, while a stout staff was clasped in the great fist that had dealt the blow. Behind her were a group of her attendants and some watermen, all gaping at the scene in wide-mouthed curiosity.

“What gear is this, Raby?” she demanded, and stirred the unconscious man with her foot.

“A small matter, madam,” responded Simon; “two villains would have murdered me.”

At this, the fallen man began to move; and Lady Crabtree, bending down, tore the mask from the handsome dark face.

“Henge!” she exclaimed; “a pretty business and a pretty rogue! Now have we a chance to deliver him to the provost. Here, fellows, lend your hands and put this gentleman murderer in the barge.”

“Stay, madam,” said Raby, “this is my quarrel; let the villain go. He hath forfeited all right to meet a gentleman upon equal terms, and if you drag him into court, he will but blow abroad a matter which concerns a noble lady. Let the brute run to his kennel. He comes to himself. Is this your way to fight, Sir Barton?”

Henge staggered to his feet with a muttered curse, and groped about for his sword.

Old Madam pointed to the path that led from the palace.

“Look you, Barton Henge,” she said; “here be men enough to lay you by the heels, and if you stir a finger, your throat will be slit, despite this gentleman who spares you. Go!—and swiftly, for my fingers itch to rap your pate again, you villain!”

“A curse upon you!” answered Henge, as he prepared to obey, having no alternative; “for once you have outwitted me, but the devil take me if you do it again!”

My lady laughed a shrill, discordant laugh.

“He hath you, friend,” she said; “go to the wizard’s house upon the Thames and worship him!”

Henge gave her a strange look and walked sullenly away without a reply.

“’Twas a chance thrust,” said Lady Crabtree, “but it hit—some deviltry is brewing in that hole, and I be not mistaken.”