The house of the wizard

The shadows of evening were gathering fast when the little party halted at the gates of Kimbolton. There was much parley, and the royal warrant was produced before the visitors were admitted, the delay and formality impressing Betty with the feeling of entering a prison; and she followed her uncle reluctantly across the courtyard, where a few torches flared in the gloom. No womanish qualms, however, oppressed Carew, and he walked boldly forward, leaving Raby to attend upon his niece, an office which the younger man eagerly accepted; indeed, he had already won the good opinion of Mistress Betty by his courtly gallantry upon the road. Bred in the country and under unfortunate auspices, she was little accustomed to the attendance of a courtier, and she noted young Master Raby’s courtesy and graceful tact with some secret admiration, though she held her head high and was, as usual, chary of her smiles, perhaps, because—like every beauty—she knew their value. Unfavorably impressed both with the place and with the lack of state and hospitality, she shrank back a little, and so it was that she and her cavalier were late in entering the hall, and found Sir William already in deep converse with the castellan, Sir Edmund Bedingfield. Neither of these worthies heeded the young people, scarcely noting their entrance, but stood talking and perusing a letter, no doubt the instructions of my lord privy seal. Mistress Betty and Raby drew near to the fire in the great chimney, a pile of logs of such length that one end might burn while the other was cold, but giving little warmth, for the opening above was of such huge dimensions that gusts of cold air came down with greater alacrity than the sparks and smoke went up. There was a lack of due attendance, a cheerless and gloomy aspect that increased the young girl’s unfavorable impression, and she shivered a little, bending over the fire and holding out her hands to the blaze.

“A dull place,” said Simon Raby, in a low tone; “a dull place for an uncrowned queen.”

“Poor lady!” murmured Betty, forgetful of her uncle’s recent instructions, “’tis enough to break her heart.”

“I never knew her,” Raby answered. “I was away in France with Sir John Wallop until the queen that now is was crowned, but they do tell me that this lady is too strong and resolute a woman to greatly mourn the loss of state or earthly glory; but ’tis awful to consign a princess to so mean a case as this.”

Betty, remembering now the commands that were laid upon her, turned the subject without an open expression of her own feeling on this point.

“You were in France?” she said; “’tis there my cousin Peter is; he ran away, you know, and coming to Paris, was taken into the household of Sir John Wallop.”

“I know him,” her companion answered, smiling; “a gay and fiery gallant, who is like to make a brave record for Mohun’s Ottery.”

At this moment they were interrupted by Bedingfield, who, turning from Sir William, for the first time cast a glance in Betty’s direction.

“Is this the maid?” he asked.

“Come hither, niece,” Carew said, “and make your curtsy to Sir Edmund; you are now committed to his charge to be introduced to the princess dowager.”

“Who is little likely to be pleased thereat,” remarked Bedingfield, with a frankness which yet farther chilled Betty’s heart. “I bid you welcome, mistress,” he added dryly; “it is a sorry place for a young maid at best, and of late her highness has been ailing and in no plight to crave gay attendance.”

“Discourage her no more, Bedingfield,” Sir William remarked; “the wench is sufficiently cast down at the prospect, without your croaking talk.”

“It mends not a matter to dress it in gay colors,” Bedingfield retorted briefly. “Come, young mistress, follow me to the princess; there is no place to bestow you until I know her wishes, and ’tis best to cut a long matter short.”

“I would make some changes in my garments,” Mistress Betty said quietly, “before I go to—to her grace.”

“There is no need,” Sir Edmund replied, with evident impatience to have an unpleasant task accomplished; “you may lay aside your cloak in the antechamber while I learn her highness’s wishes in the matter, and so end it.”

Without more words, he turned to the staircase and began the ascent, and after one glance at her uncle to ascertain his wishes, Betty followed with a heavy heart. She was not without a little thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing this unhappy queen, and there was, too, all a young girl’s curiosity and eagerness for adventure, but she dreaded a cold reception, knowing so well how unwelcome she was likely to be, sent, as she was, by one whom the poor woman must regard as her greatest enemy. So in a tumult of contrary emotions Mistress Betty walked down the gloomy, ill-lighted corridor, behind the castellan, mentally contrasting this dull place with Mohun’s Ottery. They were not to gain admittance without some parley; the queen allowed no intercourse with the royal officers stationed about her by the king. She lived among her own people, and Bedingfield had to crave permission to speak with her. Finally, a page admitted them into a small anteroom, where Betty was told to wait and lay aside her mantle. There was a closed door opposite to the one at which they had entered, and from behind it came the sound of voices engaged in conversation, which was hushed as Bedingfield opened the door and passed through. Betty knew that he was going into the presence of the queen, and she stood listening with anxiety. She heard a woman’s voice address him at once; the cold dignity of the tone and the slightly foreign accent made her sure of the identity of the speaker.

“What tidings, Sir Edmund?” she asked; “my maids tell me there is a stir below, and truly we long for any change; ay, almost welcome evil rather than the dull monotony of suspense.”

“No news, madam,” replied Bedingfield; “only a messenger from my lord privy seal and—”

“Alack, alack!” cried Catherine, hastily, “I did not speak sooth; news from that quarter is ill news indeed. If it had been from the king’s highness—but that comes no more to me.”

“In a way it is, madam,” Sir Edmund answered; “the king’s grace hath sent another maid to attend upon your highness.”

“Another maid!” the queen exclaimed, in a tone of irony; “you mock me, sir; ’tis not possible that so great state is allowed the Queen of England? Four maids! Such a train will be a grievous charge upon you.”

“Nay, madam, I do beseech you, lay not the blame of your poor attendance upon me,” Bedingfield said, with some feeling; “I may not exceed my orders.”

“Your orders,” said the queen, bitterly; “who gave them to you, man, but that tailor’s son, mine enemy?”

“Nay, madam; you do wrong my lord privy seal,” Bedingfield returned; “he is but the mouthpiece of the king’s grace.”

“It may be, and it should not be,” Catherine said sadly; “yet the time may come when even Cromwell will regret it. I do remember that my lord cardinal wrought against me to his own downfall, and died loving me, as I believe, better than his creature, who still wears a paper crown.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Bedingfield spoke abruptly.

“I would know your highness’s pleasure in regard to the maid who waits without.”

“The maid!—what maid?” exclaimed Catherine, as if awakened from a dream; “oh, ay, I do remember! Why, send her to me, sir; I fear her not, even though she be a spy of my lord privy seal. If she has a woman’s heart, doubtless it will be moved to see her queen brought to so low estate; and if she has no heart, then will I rejoice that mine enemies may have a true report of how chastely and honorably the Queen of England bears herself under the deepest injury that a woman and a wife can suffer.”

“Do I understand that your grace will see the maid to-night?” Bedingfield asked dryly.

“When it be your pleasure, sir,” the queen answered coldly; “a prisoner hath no choice.”

“Nay, madam,” Bedingfield began haughtily, “I—”

“Send her, sir,” exclaimed the queen, sharply; “I would see her now! I am weary, and words mend not my case; let us so end the matter.”

“As you will, madam,” the castellan replied; “I do but my duty.”

“I doubt it not, good Bedingfield,” she answered with sad courtesy, “but I have known duty more graciously done. Howbeit, send me the maid; I would see what sort of a creature my Lord Cromwell sends to watch his queen.”

“Your grace mistakes the matter,” Sir Edmund said awkwardly; “this is a well-bred maiden, the niece of a gallant gentleman of Devon, Sir William Carew.”

“Carew?” repeated the queen, thoughtfully. “I should know the name, kindred of the master of horse, as I remember, and he is truly a noble soldier. Fate and Cromwell are propitious; I looked for worse. Let there be no more delay, sir; my heart fluttereth at the thought of four female attendants,” she added, with a touch of irony.

Having overheard all this talk, so little calculated to allay her misgivings, Betty waited for Bedingfield’s summons with increased agitation. When he came to the door and beckoned to her to advance, she did so with great reluctance; although never a timid girl, she felt deeply embarrassed as she entered the room beyond, and found herself in the presence of Catherine of Arragon. Her eyes dazzled by the greater illumination, she was, at first, only conscious that she stood in a large room where there was a bright fire burning on the hearth, and before it several figures. She made her curtsy almost mechanically, and it was a moment before she collected her thoughts, and then she found that the queen was addressing her.

“I bid you welcome, maiden,” Catherine said not unkindly. “Sir Edmund tells me that you are sent by my lord privy seal, whereby I know you to be chosen rather to his liking than my own comfort; but God forbid that I should misjudge so young a heart as thine! What is your name?”

“Betty Carew,” was the answer, in a low tone, “the daughter of Sir Thomas Carew of Devon.”

“Thomas Carew,” repeated the queen, with sudden recollection. “Your mother was the daughter of Lord Penrith; I knew her well, and I do now recall that she commended her child to my care, when I was little able to care for any one; a falling tree doth crush the flower at its root. Blessed Virgin, how strange is destiny! That very child sent down to watch her royal mistress!”

Catherine spoke in a low tone, more to herself than to those about her, and sat for a few moments lost in revery. She was seated in a great chair before the hearth, and there was much calm dignity and sadness in her whole aspect, but she was both unlovely and unattractive; a stout woman with a pale, large-featured face which ill health and trouble had aged before her time. Her expression was austere, and there were traces of deep sorrow and anxiety in the furrows that already marked her brow and the deep purple shadows under her dark eyes. Her gown was of black velvet, with large, flowing sleeves over small, straight ones, which had lace ruffles over the hands. On her head was a high, crownlike, five-cornered cap edged with jewels, two pieces falling down from it over the ears, and at the back was fastened the Spanish mantilla, its graceful folds draping her shoulders and showing her face in strong relief against the black background. Behind her chair were grouped three ladies-in-waiting, and all bent curious glances on the young stranger. Mistress Betty’s blooming youth and brilliantly colored beauty had never shown to a more dazzling advantage than it did by contrast now, and Catherine herself, looking up from her revery, observed it and smiled sadly.

“Alas!” she said, “poor maid, this place is like to be no better than a tomb to one so young, albeit safer for your soul’s grace now than Greenwich. I have no entertainment, no masks, no dances to break the cold monotony. You may pray here, weep here, die here, but verily, you will have no revelry. If you but remember to be a woman, and bear a woman’s heart in your breast, as did your mother, you will find me no unkind mistress to you, though, God knows, an impoverished one. Wilt serve me on such terms as these?”

“Madam, I will do my duty, and I can no more,” Betty answered in a low tone, divided between her pity and her uncle’s instructions.

The queen smiled ironically. “Well tutored in her ‘duty,’ doubtless,” she said, turning to her maids; “a cautious answer, aptly mouthed. But, pshaw! I grow a weak woman to be angered with a baby. The wench is tired, I know; these men take no thought for a woman’s strength, and doubtless she has ridden long and far. Take her away and find some place to bestow her, and to-morrow we will give some employment to her. Can you sing, Mistress Carew?” she added to Betty.

“I can both sing and play upon the harp, madam,” the young girl answered gravely, for Catherine’s words offended her, even though she felt the justice of the queen’s suspicions.

“A musician,” said Catherine, more graciously; “now am I reconciled. Like Saul, my soul finds consolation in music; it seems my lord privy seal would send me a female David! Well, well, leave me, maiden; I am weary, and I would not have you think your queen a sour and uncharitable woman with no lenient word for youth. Go eat and sleep, and to-morrow we will be merry.”