The house of the wizard

Under a gray sky and over moors, brown with the frost, rode Mistress Betty Carew upon her first journey into the great world. She and her uncle were escorted by Master Raby and a few stout retainers, all being well armed, for travellers encountered some perils upon those lonely roads. The young girl, going out upon an unknown errand and feeling herself almost a stranger even to Sir William, spoke but little, her mind being full of many thoughts and fancies. She had as yet no intuition of her destination, and marvelled not a little at the peremptory summons coming to one so little known as she was. Happily for her, she had been bred up in the school of misfortune and had profited by its early and sharp lessons. Naturally imperious in temper, she had learned to submit to the inevitable, and accepted this sudden and unwelcome change as part of her uncertain destiny, knowing that her poverty and dependence made her a plaything in the hands of fate. She had learned also in that early school to be a close observer of men and women, and was not unskilful in reading character, although so young. Therefore she smiled a little when she heard her uncle’s sharp comment on Simon Raby’s groom.

“What hangdog knave is that thou hast there, Raby?” Sir William asked, when they were leaving an inn where they had stopped for a few moments.

“You mean not my groom surely, Sir William?” said Raby, smiling; “an honest fellow, who has served me two years or more.”

“I marvel that he stayed so long out of gaol,” Carew answered dryly; “a crop-eared villain, who will hang some day at Tyburn.”

The younger man laughed gayly. “A sorry prophecy, sir,” he said lightly; “the man has served me faithfully, as far as I know, and seems free enough of bad habits,—drinks less, thieves less, and quarrels less than most.”

“Ay,” retorted Sir William, with a grim smile, “he would not quarrel openly, but keep a knife for your back at midnight; I would give him short shrift if he were mine.”

“Verily, I must look for another knave,” Raby answered, still laughing. “I shall scarce ride in comfort after this with the fellow at my heels.”

“Take my word for it,” Carew returned; “I have been magistrate and provost and chief executioner—as it would seem—here in Devon, for all things are shifted on my shoulders, and it is such-looking rogues as that one who keep the hangman from forgetting his trade.”

“Your uncle is a hard judge, Mistress Carew,” Raby remarked; “I should not wish to stand trial at his hands unless, perchance, he liked my face. Here is my poor groom, Thaxter, already doomed to hang for his.”

“To speak truth, he has an evil countenance, Master Raby,” she answered quietly, but with a smiling glance at her uncle.

“You are prejudiced by Sir William,” Raby declared. “I am willing to wager that the poor fellow is as honest as many with a fair exterior.”

“I will take the wager, Raby,” Carew remarked calmly, “and you will be the loser, therefore make it not too heavy on your purse.”

“Fifty pounds, and I do not fear to lose,” the other cried, still much diverted by the matter.

“I am that much a gainer,” Sir William said, “but I will pray you not to test the affair at the moment by making him our guide. I am not willing to trust my neck and Betty’s to his mercies.”

“Mistress Carew shall take no risks,” Raby replied; “you and I will settle the wager when we are not in so fair company. Indeed, I trust that we shall make this journey safely and with expedition, since my lord privy seal was urgent that the matter should be speedily accomplished.”

“Will they be ready for our reception? Has yonder lady been notified, or is this the act of Cromwell only?” Carew asked gravely.

Raby shook his head. “I know not,” he answered. “I am but the bearer of certain instructions, but I fear that the—that her grace is little consulted in the affair.”

Carew did not reply, but seemed to muse over some grave subject, for his face became almost stern in its repose; and Raby, seeing his preoccupation, took his place at Mistress Betty’s bridle, guiding her horse and talking lightly and pleasantly of those matters that he thought would amuse his young companion. He had been but lately at the court, and told her of the jousts at Greenwich, when the knights tilted before Queen Anne Boleyn.

“It was a beautiful sight,” he said; “they wore white velvet, embroidered in silver, and the lists were surrounded by the gayest ladies of the court; there was a sheen of gold brocade, and jewels; it was a scene worth seeing, and ’twill be remembered long by those who saw it.”

“And the queen?” Betty asked, with a little hesitation, “is the queen as beautiful as they say?”

“She was thought to be the most beautiful woman at court when she was Marchioness of Pembroke,” Raby answered; “and she is still fair to look upon, though I do think that there are others more lovely. I doubt not she would call it treason did she hear me say it,” he added, smiling.

“I should like to see her,” Mistress Carew said thoughtfully.

“You have no need to seek so far to find a fairer face,” Raby answered, with the gallantry of a courtier.

And so they rode on, talking in a friendly way until they seemed no longer strangers, and were but little interrupted by Sir William, who was wrapped in his own thoughts, which were apparently not altogether pleasant ones. Thus the three made the journey together, and still Betty knew nothing of her destination, though she marvelled more and more as the way lengthened, and they stopped at first one tavern and then another. But in those days young girls were little considered and were expected to submit, with implicit obedience, to the guidance of their elders. More than once Betty thought that she was likely to come to her journey’s end without knowing her errand, but it was not to be so. The last day of her travels brought her enlightenment. Toward evening, when they were riding along at an even gait and had just passed through a small village, Master Raby fell back, leaving uncle and niece alone, as though he gave them opportunity for a last talk together, and Sir William, almost at once, availed himself of it.

“Fair niece,” he said, “you are truly a jewel among women, for you have not yet asked me a question. Did your aunt tell you whither you were bound?”

“Nay, uncle,” Mistress Betty answered quietly, “but I remember my cause for gratitude and am willing to do your bidding, though I should like to know where we are going.”

Carew smiled. “There spoke the woman,” he said, “yet I fear you will be little pleased; it is no lively errand for a girl. We are riding to Kimbolton, where they have but lately taken the princess dowager.”

“What, sir, do I go to the queen?” cried Betty, in amazement.

“Mind thy tongue, young mistress,” Carew said sharply; “not queen, but princess dowager.”

“You mean Queen Catherine, uncle,” Betty retorted, some excitement in her voice; “I cannot think of her as less than the queen.”

“Then must you learn to speedily,” Sir William said, “for you are sent down to Kimbolton by my lord privy seal, and you must not transgress the king’s commandment in this matter, whereby we are bidden to hold this lady as only the widow of Prince Arthur.”

“I cannot see how that may be,” the young girl cried; “she was surely the king’s wife, and there be many who declare that there is no divorcement.”

“But ye are not of them, wench,” her uncle said sternly; “his grace of Canterbury hath declared the king’s first marriage null, and we have naught to do with the opinions of the Bishop of Rome, albeit this lady clings to his judgment and will none of the king’s.”

“Uncle, do you believe that she is fairly used?” asked Mistress Betty, with the fearful honesty of youth; “think you they had a right to treat the daughter of a king with such contumely?”

“’Tis not for you to ask, or for me to answer, niece,” Sir William answered sharply; “it is done, and the Act of the Succession hath set aside the Lady Mary. Mind, therefore, that you fall into no error in these matters, but do your duty, leaving these questions to the bishops and the king’s grace.”

“But wherefore do they send me thither?” she asked, her voice betraying her discontent; “what need is there for me?”

“Now listen well to me, Betty,” her uncle said sternly; “you are young to be sent on such an errand. The princess has been surrounded only with her own creatures, there has been some plotting, and my lord privy seal would have one woman there who, being not of it, will be a check upon them; and he sent to me, because he puts some confidence in me, and was recommended, too, by our kinsman, the master of horse, Sir Nicholas Carew.”

For a moment there was silence, and then Betty spoke with passionate feeling.

“See you not, uncle, that they would make a spy of me?” she cried; “how can you bear that this should be? Surely you are too honorable to see your niece sent to watch and betray a noble and an injured princess!”

“Hark ye, fair niece!” said Sir William, in a low tone, “I am not without sympathy for yonder great lady; she has been hardly used, though it is my peril to say so, and if you go not to her, my lord privy seal will surely send another who may, being tempted, work some deep mischief to her. See ye not how grievously an enemy might hurt her?”

“I see, I see,” Betty answered, “yet I can never play the part of a spy!”

“Nor did I ask you, wench,” Carew answered grimly. “I would wring your neck with my own hand, thought I you were so mean a traitress. But remember that you owe allegiance to the king’s grace and you cannot break it without as great dishonor. Let not soft words prevail with you. It is commonly reported that this poor lady is plotting mischief with the Emperor of Germany and the Bishop of Rome. Not that I greatly blame her, Heaven knows, but it is a damnable treason against this realm and is like to pull us all by the pates if it succeeds. Meddle not with it, bear no secret messages, open no barred doors, steal no keys, though the lack of them may lay a royal head upon the block. Remember your allegiance, do your duty and leave the rest to wiser brains than yours.”

“That will I promise to do right cheerfully,” Betty answered, “but never could I betray a woman in so sad a case.”

“It is well,” Sir William said soberly; “do your duty and mind well your tongue, for it may be that there will be some who would right willingly set a snare for you to bring you to disaster and work my downfall. I know not how close an eye Cromwell hath upon me, nor how he means to try me withal. He is a cat who plays with many mice, and his trap is the Tower.”

“Hast thou then so many enemies, uncle?” Betty asked, in some wonder.

“Enough and to spare, fair niece,” he answered; “and there is much malice in a court: it crawleth, like the serpent, on its belly, and there is war between it and the seed of woman, for it ever stings the heel of him who would live honestly. It was such malice that pulled down my lord cardinal. But enough; you know your duty, and yonder is Kimbolton.”