The house of the wizard

Michaelmas had come and gone, and it was past the middle of October when a messenger came down post-haste from London. It was after supper, and there was revelry among the retainers and visitors at Mohun’s Ottery. In the great hall, however, there were but few; Sir William had only his favored guest, Master Raleigh, and besides these two were Lady Carew, her daughter, Mistress Cicely, and her niece. There were three sons, but none were home. Peter, who ran away to France, was even then with Sir John Wallop; that same Sir Peter who made the barns of Crediton smoke for the Lord Protector in after years. That evening the little company sat about the fire, the women working with their needles in a group at the left, and at the right sat Raleigh watching his host brew a posset. It was a matter of grave import to Carew, and he let no other hand mix the rare composition, but stood over it; a noble figure, a man in middle life, having a fine head and grizzled hair, with the keen, bright eye and strong jaw of a resourceful and stubborn nature. His rich dress of Flemish velvet, dark as the dregs of wine, his great lace ruff and heavy chain of gold, set off his person and made it the more striking in contrast to the darker, plainer garb of Raleigh. The guest watched his friend stir the beverage and smiled at his ardor.

“What secret lurks in it,” he said, “that you let no man brew it for you, Carew? I should scarce be willing to take the pains that you have this night, though I do heartily acknowledge you the king of posset makers.”

“If it be not worth the pains, it is not worth the drinking,” replied Sir William; “’tis like a fine child, it may not come into the world without some travail and a good leech. See you, friend Raleigh, there is a secret in stirring it aright and putting in the parts in due season. If the cream and almonds be not wisely boiled with the amber and musk, and if you heat not the sack before you put in the eggs, then is there confusion, worse than these late troubles have brought upon this realm, and caused much in the same way, too, by a domestic disagreement.”

Master Raleigh shook his head gravely at this, his mind slipping away from the posset as his next words betrayed.

“It will be happy for the realm if it prove but a domestic quarrel,” he said thoughtfully, “since the Act of the Succession there can be no doubt that there is much foreign meddling, and, I fear me, plots against the king’s majesty, made over seas, are foster-mothered here at Bugden; albeit, I do not greatly blame that noble lady that she will not yield. To her it must seem a sore and bewildering visitation of evil.”

“God help her!” cried Lady Carew; “she was a good wife to the king, and deserveth better at his hands.”

“Hush, madam!” retorted her lord, sternly; “a woman’s heart is more full of pity than of wisdom. It is not for us to dispute the matter; there is talk enough, and no little harm from it. The marriage hath been set aside, and let us hear no more of it while there is another queen and an infant princess.”

“Ay, it is an easy matter for a man to forget his wife for a pretty face,” replied the good dame, hotly; “this is a policy that men like, since it favoreth their own slips upon the road; but no good will come of it, I warrant.”

Raleigh laughed, looking from the husband to the wife; and even Sir William smiled, though a little grimly.

“The women are all alike,” he said; “there is a great cackling amongst them over this, and if the petticoats could set the kingdom in order, I doubt not one fair lady would hang as high as Haman.”

“I blame them not for their pity for one we know,” Raleigh answered quietly; “it seems, forsooth, a great wrong, yet would I not see the Lady Mary come to the throne to bring back the Bishop of Rome and the Spaniards. These last I loved not ever; albeit there is cause for mourning that we lose with them the Flanders trade. Yet my heart has not been in all these acts; the fall of Sir Thomas More was, in itself, grief enough to me, for I had much friendship for that virtuous gentleman.”

“Could it not have been averted?” asked Lady Carew, sadly; “he and Fisher both consented to swear to the Act of the Succession, with an exception, as I heard; could not this suffice?”

“Nay, madam,” Raleigh answered quietly, “since the very clauses they excepted to were those which did declare the king’s first marriage illegal, and his present one legal. Of what profit would it be to swear allegiance to the Princess Elizabeth and, in the same breath, to refuse her legitimacy? It may not be. We must have a settled succession; if the king have not male issue, I fear me there will be war in any case. Besides the Lady Mary and the troubles that my Lady Salisbury is like to hatch in the cause of the White Rose, there is the King of Scots, and verily no English stomach can digest him and not vomit.”

“Nay, forsooth!” exclaimed Sir William; “there shall be no Scotch dressing to an English pudding while there is a sword in Devonshire. If the king could but get a boy there might be an end in peace, but as it is, one girl child set up against another, and one-half the kingdom crying ‘Mary,’ the other ‘Elizabeth,’ and so blood and fire from Land’s End to the Tweed, and, eftsoons, the King of Scots!”

“Friend Carew, let not thy posset burn, for all that,” said Master Raleigh, smiling, for in his vexation Sir William had well nigh forgotten his brewing.

“’Tis ready,” Carew answered, taking it from the fire; “Cicely, wench, hast ground the amber and sugar for it?”

As he spoke, there was a great stir without, the sound of hurrying feet and voices. The group by the fire paused in their talk to listen, and looked down toward the door at the lower end. In a moment it was opened and an attendant came swiftly across the hall and addressed Sir William, who still stirred the posset while Mistress Cicely sprinkled the amber over it.

“A messenger from London, your worship,” the servant announced hurriedly, “and he craves leave to speak with you at once.”

“From whom?” asked Carew, shortly.

“My lord privy seal,” replied the man, in an awestricken tone.

Sir William’s face showed both surprise and anxiety, but his manner changed but little.

“Where have you got him?” he asked.

“Without, sir; shall I bring him here?”

“Nay, I will go to him,” Carew replied, after an instant of thought. “Raleigh, drink thou the sack, I will return again;” and he followed the servant from the hall.

Lady Carew glanced nervously across at her guest.

“May it be trouble?” she asked in an anxious voice.

Raleigh shook his head. “In these times we cannot know, madam,” he replied, “but I take it that Sir William stands well with the king’s highness and with Cromwell.”

“Ay, so we believe,” she said, speaking low, “but which of us can know how soon change may come? Wolsey, More, Fisher, the unhappy and gracious lady at Bugden! Why may not my good lord be caught also in the toils?”

A shadow crossed Raleigh’s face, but it was only for the moment; after it came his ready smile.

“Madam,” he said gently, “I know not how it may be, but I am sure that Sir William’s honest heart and clean hands are truly valued by the king’s grace; you know the saying is that ‘King Harry loves a man,’ and nowhere in this realm will he find a more valiant soldier or a more honest and God-fearing gentleman than your husband; albeit, Sir William may—from his own frankness—have made some enemies. A great-hearted man who dealeth honestly is like to have them, for there be many who do hate the odor of the truth.”

Lady Carew sighed. “It may be that my heart is over-anxious,” she said; “these be troubled times, and Sir William hath often told me that my outspoken sympathy with that good queen is like to bring him into evil straits.”

There was no more time for the good dame’s fears and misgivings, for at this moment Sir William returned, followed by a young man of fine bearing, whose rich attire was besprinkled with mud from hard riding.

“Madam, I bring you a welcome visitor,” Carew said briefly. “My wife and Master Raleigh, this is Master Simon Raby, the son of Lord Raby of Sussex.”

The young stranger made his obeisance with the easy grace of a courtier, drawing near to the group by the fire, and at Sir William’s invitation laying aside his cloak and disclosing a gallant figure. A tall man, broad-shouldered enough, yet graceful, with a fine, frank face, which had in it the pink and white color of a girl’s, but bold and brave enough to bear this dainty touch of nature. His hair was chestnut color, and his dark eyes were keen, but with a merry glance in them. He wore the rich dress of the court, his velvet doublet slashed with satin and edged with fur, Flanders lace upon his ruff, and in the side of his velvet cap were set three crimson feathers, clasped with a great jewel, while his velvet cloak was lined with crimson sarsenet. Certainly a figure for the two young girls to look at in some amazement, being little used to court gallants down in Devonshire; and while they viewed him, no doubt approvingly but in discreet silence, his eyes rested in some wonder and manifest admiration upon the glowing face of Mistress Betty. All the time, however, he talked with Master Raleigh, while Lady Carew and her husband spoke apart. Sir William held in his hand a letter, of which he evidently had much to say, and both he and his wife glanced frequently at the two young maidens by the fire. At last Carew turned abruptly to his niece.

“Betty,” he said, “what say you to a brief absence from home, that you may attend upon a great lady, who is in poor health and—unhappy, and so has need of your service?”

Mistress Betty looked up amazed, with a pretty deepening of the color in her cheeks, and it was noted that Master Raby listened to her answer with much attention.

“I am so happy here at Mohun’s Ottery, good uncle,” she said, “that I love not the thought of quitting it; yet so deep am I in your debt that it is for you to direct me as you will, and for me to obey with love and cheerfulness.”

Sir William smiled. “Wisely and modestly spoken, wench,” he said, “and I have so little wish to part with you that I would fain find an excuse to my lord privy seal, but there is none. Therefore prepare for the journey; to-morrow morning you will ride with me.”

Mistress Betty’s bright face paled a little and her eyes clouded. “Where go we, uncle?” she asked quickly.

“Of that you shall know hereafter,” he answered shortly, his own brow frowning slightly; “it is enough that you attend a noble lady by order of the privy seal.”

Mistress Betty bit her lips, casting down her eyes, a sudden chagrin in her manner. Young as she was, she had no love of orders that were unexplained, and Master Raby, seeing her expression, addressed her with a pleasant courtesy.

“I fear your service may be sad, mistress,” he said gravely, “but, happily for you, it is like to be a short one, if rumor saith the truth.”

“Is it so, indeed?” exclaimed Raleigh, a sorrowful surprise in his kindly face. “I heard it not, ere now;” for he understood the reference, although Betty did not.

“True enough, I fear me,” Raby answered, “although we know it not at Greenwich.”

“How goes it there?” asked Sir William, anxiously.

“Gay, marvellously gay,” his guest replied, “though the king’s grace has been troubled with the swelling in his leg again.”

At this Sir William shook his head.

“And no boy yet,” he said; “pray Heaven this realm may see a prince before his highness yields further to these troubles, and so leaves us with our swords at each other’s throats!”

“What other tidings?” asked Raleigh, eagerly.

“None of late importance,” Raby answered. “Fox has gone to talk to the Lutheran princes against the French intrigues; Master Latimer is made Bishop of Worcester; the parliament has passed the vagrant act, and the universities will pay no more tenths and first fruits; there has been a great mask at Greenwich and a wizard has come to London who promises to show the king his own successor, but his grace will none of him.”

“It may be that he dreads to inquire into so grave a matter,” suggested Lady Carew.

“I know not, madam,” answered Raby, smiling; “it is a much mooted question, even now that the little princess is proclaimed.”

“Ay, but we have had already enough of such fancies,” retorted Carew, stoutly; “we have not forgot the Oxford conjurer, nor the prophecy that he made whereby he declared that none of ‘the Cadwallader blood’ should reign long, and would even have raised an heir to Lancaster from the bloody field of Tewkesbury. All such matters be but the beginning of treason;” and the good baron turned to his posset in open disgust of the sorcerer’s arts.

Far other thoughts ran in the mind of his elder guest; Raleigh sat looking at the fire with much perplexity upon his face.

“Latimer a bishop!” he said, at last; “I do remember the time when they would have burnt him but for my lord cardinal; strange, too, that Wolsey’s hand should have plucked such a fagot from the fire. Verily, these are days when swift changes come upon this realm.”