The house of the wizard

In the strange house upon the Thames, the wizard entertained a guest in a small, dark room upon the lower floor. There was a low chimney in the corner, and on the hearth some logs were burning; over it was swung a kettle, the steam issuing from its iron lips proclaiming, by its unsavory odor, some tea of herbs. On the table in the center of the room were two sealed packets, one large, the other small, and near this table sat the wizard and his friend, Sir Barton Henge. The outer shutters being closed, there was no light in the place except the red glare of the fire which flickered on the faces of these two, and cast their shadows magnified upon the wall behind. A strange couple, strangely fitted for mischief.

“Anne Boleyn is sentenced,” Henge said moodily; “my lord of Northumberland was carried fainting from the court.”

“Let the drab die!” retorted the wizard, with indifference; “as for Percy, he is a fool. In spite of all, he is firm for the king and Cromwell; there are others whom we will get. Yet this woman’s death will go far to heal the differences between this realm and Rome; the pope but fears the emperor, and the emperor’s aunt is now avenged. Happily, however, the visitation of the monasteries sets ill on the stomachs of the common folk.”

“How like a spider you are!” said Henge, watching him. “Sitting here, you weave and weave until one fly and then another is caught in the meshes of your web, and then you gloat over the victim’s struggles.”

“As you will gloat,” remarked the astrologer, “when your victim is caught in the snare that you are setting.”

His dark companion started and looked at him uneasily. Even in his bold heart there lurked a secret dread of this dwarfish creature’s power; the shining eyes, the keen, fox-like face were full of cunning, wit, relentless purpose, and Henge knew it.

“What hints are these?” he said roughly. “I am not a man to plot as you do; I am no schemer, but an open foe.”

The wizard laughed unpleasantly, lifting his brows with a look of incredulity.

“An open foe?” he remarked placidly; “so, so, ’twas open in the park that morning, but wherefore the masks, Sir Barton?”

Henge sprang up with a curse.

“You spying devil!” he cried; “how came you there?”

At this the little man laughed long and loud, rocking to and fro on his stool, tears of merriment gathering in his eyes, while his fellow conspirator stood staring at him like a wild beast at bay.

“I was not there,” he said at last, wiping his eyes, but shaking still with laughter,—“I was not there, or I might have engaged my Lady Crabtree; an equal match we would have made. Sit down, my son, ’tis no time for such quarrels; I know too much, too much!”

Henge stared at him, his hand fondly fingering his sword.

“Ay, curse you!” he said, between his teeth; “you know too much, but so do I, Sir Wizard!”

“Only that which would cost you your head long before it harmed a hair of mine,” the little man replied calmly, while he rose and stirred the beverage in the kettle.

“What devil’s broth is that?” Henge cried, turning away in disgust; “it stinks like some filthy gruel brewed for death.”

“Nay,” said the wizard, smiling, “’tis not poison; thought you to see me boiled like Richard Rouse? When this is thoroughly compounded, the smell of it stealing in a man’s brain will make him forgetful for a space; ’twill be useful to you, and the cost is trifling for the purpose, a hundred guineas.”

Henge shuddered. “I have no use for it,” he said hoarsely, “while I have a sword or a knife. Keep your devil messes for your richer clients.”

Suddenly there was a deep boom, and the house shook, the windows rattled.

The wizard took from the table a wine-glass which stood filled, and raised it in the air.

“My Lady Anne, once Queen of England, your health!” he said, and drank it.

Henge watched him with a look of dread.

“’Tis the signal that she is beheaded,” he said with a ghastly face; “why drink the health of a dead woman?”

The little man grinned. “Why not?” he asked. “I may the sooner conjure her to speak to thee.”

“The fiend take thy conjuring and thy visions!” exclaimed Henge, uneasily; “keep them to frighten petticoats.”

Sanders chuckled maliciously. “You have a great scorn of petticoats since a woman rapped your pate,” he said.

“Curse you!” cried Sir Barton; “because you have me in your power, would you insult me? Did you send for me to-day for this sole purpose, your amusement?”

“Nay,” retorted the wizard, calmly, “you came for your instructions. Yonder lie the packets,—one to carry to our friends in Yorkshire, where, my lord privy seal having so roughly handled the jury, they are ripe for us; the other packet, being on your person, may be found, if need be, ’tis but a bluff.”

“A likely errand,” said Henge, bitterly, “when Cromwell’s spies are thick as harvest gnats. Verily, I thank you, Sir Wizard, but I made no such bargain.”

Sanders put out his hands with a deprecating gesture.

“As you will,” he said grimly; “there are others, and doubtless if your visit to the Lady Mary was known—”

Henge sat staring at the packets; in his mind had flashed a scheme so devilish that he was fascinated. For the moment, even the wizard’s covert threats fell on deaf ears; suddenly the possibility of vengeance, on a larger scale than he had dreamed, intoxicated his brain. The scheme was born full grown; he had but to execute it.

“I will take the packets,” he said, wetting his dry lips with his tongue; “I did but jest.”

The wizard regarded him uneasily; something in the sudden change of manner displeased him, yet he knew the man to be too deeply committed for retreat.

“You have a pleasant way of jesting,” he remarked dryly, “a gentle playfulness. What is your haste?”

Sir Barton had risen and gathered up the packets.

“The fumes of your vile drug intoxicate me,” Henge said curtly; “I must breathe in the open air or choke.”

The wizard smiled and gazed fondly at his kettle.

“’Tis useful stuff,” he replied, “most useful.”

Sir Barton took up his cloak and sword, eager to be off.

“Some day you will fall into your own caldron,” he remarked; “but I tell you, Sanders, that I will not be there too.”

The little man rubbed his hands, laughing wickedly.

“How can you know? ’Twould be a warm meeting,” he said, and stood still laughing when Henge closed the door upon him.

At Deptford, on that fair nineteenth of May, the household at Wildrick waited for tidings. In the warm sunshine they stood upon the terrace facing the river,—old Madam, Sir William Carew, Betty, and Lord Raby.

“There was some confession to my lord of Canterbury,” Carew said, walking to and fro and looking curiously at the river; “’tis hoped that a bill of divorcement may save the sentence.”

“If she be guilty, she deserves the sentence,” remarked Lady Crabtree, sternly; “if she be innocent, she should stand acquitted. She was tried by her peers.”

“I would it were not a woman,” Sir William said uneasily. “I like not the death on the block of a woman and a queen.”

“Would you rather burn her?” asked old Madam, coolly. “I know not why a woman, being wrong, should be less punished than a man, or more so. Men are quick enough to break a woman’s heart, but over-squeamish about breaking her neck.”

“Yonder comes your messenger,” Lord Raby said, pointing to the river, where a wherry had stopped at the water-gate and a manservant in Lady Crabtree’s livery was seen disembarking.

The messenger came up the terrace, and pausing in front of the group who waited so eagerly for tidings, he lifted his cap.

“The Lady Anne Boleyn died on the Tower green at noon to-day,” he said in a monotonous tone; “the king’s grace will wed to-morrow the worshipful lady, Jane Seymour. Parliament will meet to pass a new Act of Succession.”

There was a silence; Betty turned and went weeping into the house. Simon Raby played nervously with his sword. Sir William looked about him with a stern face.

“He is the King of England,” he said with stubborn loyalty, raising his hat. “God save the king’s grace and give the realm a prince!”

“Ay,” retorted my Lady Crabtree, bitterly, “and God pity his wives!”