The house of the wizard

Queen Catherine’s prediction that life at Kimbolton would be gloomy for a young girl, seemed likely to be fulfilled. Happily, for Mistress Betty’s comfort, she had already undergone such discipline in both poverty and solitude that she was better fitted to endure restraint and depressing surroundings than others of her years. Sir William Carew and Master Raby bade her farewell the morning after her arrival, and from that time she encountered no very friendly treatment, except from Sir Edmund Bedingfield. The queen was never unkind, but she looked upon Betty with suspicion, and a settled conviction existed in her mind that the young girl was a spy of my lord privy seal, while her three attendants, all women who were devoted to her person, resented still more intensely the presence of the new lady-in-waiting. At the same time, Betty’s youth, beauty, and many attractions won upon them, in spite of themselves, and they could not be harsh or malicious to so charming a creature. After the first week or two they relaxed a little in their manner toward her, and gradually she won her own place in the little household, though she was never trusted in any confidential matter; and often, at her approach, conversation was hushed or writing materials put aside, and an artificial manner assumed, as before a stranger. Intensely as Betty resented the distrust and coldness, she was not without a feeling of thankfulness that her sympathies would never be appealed to, that they seemed to have no wish to work upon her for any of their secret purposes. That there was much scheming she could not doubt from many little indications, and from occasional passages in the conversation, she learned that Catherine was still industriously employed in appealing both to the Emperor Charles and to the new pope. To all these matters Betty tried to close her eyes and ears, and indeed it seemed to her that it could not last long; it required no very observant eye to see that the queen was suffering from some malady even more dangerous than grief and mortification. There were many days when the royal sufferer never left her bed, and at such times she seemed to find genuine consolation in Betty’s harp and her clear, sweet voice. The young girl, moved by deep pity for the injured queen, was ever ready to give her the comfort of her music, and so, little by little, she gained a place in Catherine’s regard, though herself chilled and sometimes repulsed by the coldness and suspicious austerity of the Castilian princess. Just, virtuous, and religious, Catherine did not also possess the attraction of sweet and gracious manners, and her natural austerity had been increased by the usage she had received in England. She was devout in the observance of her religion, rising at five o’clock in the morning for prayers, and fasting with rigid exactness. Beneath her robes she had always worn the habit of a nun of the order of Saint Francis, and she held the vanities of the world in contempt, even while she contended for her earthly honors. Heavily oppressed by her sorrows and deeply distressed for the future of her daughter, the unhappy queen had neither leisure nor inclination to win the affection of the young attendant so unceremoniously thrust upon her. So it was that Mistress Betty stood as one apart, and watched the sad little drama to its close without feeling herself one of the actors.

Catherine held a little court each day, unless her health prevented it, many visitors coming and going at Kimbolton in spite of the surveillance of the royal officers. Although he feared her influence, the king had never isolated her; he either respected her too much, or hesitated because of the popular feeling in her favor, and the attitude of the foreign princes. She was in the hands of the officers of the crown, but they dared not treat her as a prisoner, and the sympathy of a large portion of the kingdom showed itself, more or less openly, in many ways. Yet life at Kimbolton was gloomy enough, and the queen being almost constantly indisposed, her maids had small opportunities for out-of-door exercises and none for sports. Their greatest entertainment was to embroider in the evenings, gathered about the invalid’s chair, or to play cards,—a game in which the queen sometimes joined, though it was whispered among her women that she had hated the sight of a card since she had played with Anne Boleyn at Greenwich. Although Betty felt herself an object of indifference to the little circle, she was more noticed and commented upon than she was aware. The fresh beauty of the young girl was often the subject of conversation, when her back was turned; even the queen observing it and speaking of Betty’s many charms.

“A fair face,” she said to her attendants, “and a soft voice; ’tis a pity if both are false.”

“I cannot think so, madam,” one of the older women replied; “the child has a candid eye and an upright conduct that denies all secret dealings.”

“It should be so,” Catherine remarked sadly. “I knew her mother, a very honest woman, but she is long dead, and how shall we know how they bring up our children? Alas! when I think of the Princess Mary, my heart bleeds. I, too, am led to think well of this little maid, yet I never knew my lord privy seal to send a lamb into my fold to comfort me withal.”

“It may be he has mistaken his choice, madam,” her woman answered; “there be more people for your grace than against you; yea, more than half this kingdom.”

“It may be,” the queen replied; “I will so believe it. Truly, I hate to look with suspicion on so fair a face, yet I know one fair face that hideth a false heart. But all women are not harlots, thanks be to the Virgin! This young girl tells me she has never been to court, never seen a joust, never joined the gay revellers at a mask. Doubtless her uncle will take her presently to curtsy to that woman whom they call the queen, the true queen being not dead, albeit like to die. Mistress Carew will make a fair figure at the court, fairer than many, say you not so, Patience?”

“Ay, gracious Queen,” Patience answered, eagerly catching the drift of her royal mistress’s thoughts, “I know none fairer; she is so tall and straight and withal so beautifully moulded. Not lean and long, but round and supple; and her skin is dazzling when the color comes, while those brown eyes of hers are two shining lights, and she has a mouth like Cupid’s bow.”

“Truly, you have drawn a picture that might delight a lover,” Catherine said, smiling; “the court is a dangerous place to show such charms. What think you, my girls, is she not fairer than one Anne?”

“A hundred times,” they answered gladly, ever willing to humor their unhappy mistress.

For a moment the queen did not reply; she sat looking before her with an ironical smile playing about her lips.

“’Tis a pity to mew up such a beauty at Kimbolton,” she said at last. “Ah, if we could but get my lord privy seal to take her to the court, then might we see if the star that shineth there is fixed, or but trembles to its fall. Alas!” she continued, after a moment, rousing herself from her mood, “how captivity and misfortune sour the temper! My thoughts were most unworthy and unqueenly. I may well let that poor creature rush to her certain doom unmolested by any ill-will of mine; a crown so ravished must press with thorns upon the wearer’s brow.”

Unconscious both of their admiration and their talk of her, Mistress Betty went her way among them, the gloomy experience telling in a manner upon her life and character, teaching her alike to repress her natural feelings and to endure suspicion without openly expressing her indignation. The last was no easy matter, for she had a high temper and a passionate resentment of injustice. Her only comfort was the privilege she enjoyed of long rides with Sir Edmund Bedingfield. Knowing her uncle, and trusting her where he would not have dared to trust the queen’s older attendants, he gave her more license. Finding that she rode well and loved to be on a fine horse’s back, having inherited her father’s appreciation of a good animal, Bedingfield permitted her to accompany his party when he made excursions in the neighborhood. And so it was that, by a chance, Mistress Carew made the acquaintance of a person who was to play no unimportant part in her life. Accompanied by her woman and two stout grooms, she had been out with Sir Edmund upon an errand in the country near Kimbolton. Returning at noonday, they drew rein at the Inn of the Sign of the Blue Boar, where Bedingfield and his two male attendants dismounted and went into the tavern, Sir Edmund for some information, and the two men for liquor. Betty and her woman waited without, and as they were detained a little while, there was ample opportunity to look about them. It being noonday, the courtyard of the Blue Boar was full of horses, tied and awaiting their masters, who were eating and drinking within. A few idle grooms lounged near the stables, waiting to earn a guerdon from a new arrival, and in the window of the kitchen leaned two or three rosy-faced maids gazing out at the scene. Betty’s horse, a restive creature, stood out upon the road at the gate, and being occupied with her own thoughts, she let the reins lie slack upon his neck, although she knew his spirit. Suddenly there was the sound of a horse’s hoofs upon the road behind her, coming at a gallop, and she turned her head to observe the new arrival. As she did so, a piebald horse with a darkly cloaked rider on his back came dashing past her. She had no time for observation; her own animal plunged so wildly that she nearly lost her seat, and kept it only by virtue of her early training. So strange was the encounter that she was almost certain that the new-comer cut her horse with his whip as he passed. How it was, she could not tell, except that her gallant black was off at a gallop, and she could scarcely have curbed him but for the interference of the rider of the piebald steed. He dashed along the road, riding across her path, and with wonderful dexterity caught her bridle rein, halting the runaway. Coming thus to a standstill, some twenty yards from the inn, Betty found herself face to face with the stranger, while behind them there was a great commotion, all the visitors at the tavern having run out to witness what they expected would be an accident. Intensely angry and with scarlet cheeks, Mistress Betty gazed haughtily at the cause of her misadventure. The rider of the piebald was a man far below average size, thin and wiry, with a small, dark face, grizzled hair and mustaches, and eyes of such keenness and so intensely black that they startled the observer, saving their owner from any charge of insignificance. Insignificant he was not, in spite of his small stature and his plain garments, which were russet in color from his high riding-boots to his cloak, which he wore after the fashion of the Spaniards. Encountering now Mistress Carew’s indignant gaze, he took off his hat with elaborate courtesy and congratulated her on her safety as if he were unconscious of having had any part in the matter.

“It was fortunate that I came at the moment, fair mistress,” he said; and she noticed that he had a singular but not unpleasant voice. “You are riding too spirited an animal for a lady; let me recommend a gentler one to Sir Edmund.”

Betty started at the mention of Bedingfield’s name, but recollecting how well he was known in the neighborhood of Kimbolton, she thought it but folly to be surprised that the stranger knew to whose party she belonged.

“I thank you, sir,” she said, a little curtly; “the horse has never acted so before unless switched, and, indeed, I do not think he would have run had you ridden at a more moderate pace.”

“I grieve to think myself the cause of your discomfort, madam,” the stranger replied, but with an amused smile. “Jack Kotch and I never go slow,” he added, turning his horse, and, to her annoyance, keeping at Betty’s rein as she went toward the inn.

“It is ill judged to run a horse so close to one standing as mine was,” she said, still too angry to let the matter pass.

“It is, and I crave your pardon,” the other rejoined cheerfully; “another time I will bring my horse to a walk, Mistress Carew.”

Betty looked up amazed at hearing her own name, and encountered the stranger’s wonderful eyes with a gleam of amusement in them.

Bedingfield, who had mounted in the interval, now rode up, and the little adventure had to be explained to him. He, seeing only ready courage and dexterity in the conduct of the new-comer, was cordial in his thanks, and even permitted this strange person to ride back with the party toward Kimbolton. This seemed to be the opportunity that the little man desired, and he was soon engaged in earnest conversation with Sir Edmund. So entertaining did he make himself that Bedingfield, to Betty’s surprise, invited him to come in to rest when they reached the castle. Usually, all visitors underwent a severe scrutiny on account of the presence of the queen, but this stranger seemed to have overcome the castellan’s scruples and the piebald horse was led to the stables, while the rider, smaller than ever now he was dismounted, followed Sir Edmund into the hall. Betty’s mind still rankling with the belief that her horse had been cut with the whip of the piebald’s master, and her curiosity piqued by the little man’s appearance, she asked the woman with her if she had ever seen him before. They were going up the stairs from the hall, Sir Edmund and his guest standing by the table below, and at the question the woman, a servant at Kimbolton, drew nearer and plucked her dress with nervous fingers.

“Hist, mistress!” she exclaimed in a low tone, “his ears are long. I have seen him but once before, but I know him full well; it is the famous wizard.”

“A wizard! that little bandy-legged man a wizard?” Betty cried, amazed.

“Hush!” said the woman, her dull face full of fear, “he reads your thoughts, he sees visions. ’Tis said that he did see, in a dream, Richard Rouse put the poison in my lord of Rochester’s bran meal at Lambeth Marsh, and that he had warned Richard, seven years before, that he would be boiled alive at Smithfield, as he was. I would not offend that little gentleman in the russet cloak for a kingdom; no, not I! They do say that his piebald horse was a good bay, until he waved a striped wand over him, at which the horse sneezed three times and eftsoons came out white with three bay spots upon him. ’Tis my belief that this same wizard is allied with Satan, and so think many honest folk. Avoid him, mistress, and you love your life!”