The house of the wizard

In their gloomy rooms Queen Catherine and her maids sat working when Mistress Betty entered, rosy from her ride and the excitement of her adventure, which promised now to be of some interest. The queen, glancing up at her entrance, caught the glow in the new-comer’s face and smiled more pleasantly than usual.

“How wonderfully freedom and exercise affect young blood!” she said; “the wench is blooming as a Christmas rose. Come hither, my girl, and tell us of your ride; perchance it may seem like the recital of a chapter of wild adventures to us. Youth and hope see all things in a golden light; what knight rode at your bridle rein? what dragon was slain at your approach? Such faces as yours open new channels of chivalry in the hearts of men. Saw you not some marvel that may serve to cheer us in our solitude?”

“Nay, madam,” Betty replied, smiling, “I met with no such wonders; but I did see a wizard riding on a piebald horse.”

“A wizard on a piebald horse?” repeated Catherine; “’tis well, so you saw not Death riding on a white one, as they say my lord of Buckingham did once. How knew you the gentleman for a wizard? Did he carry the symbols of his trade displayed, or had he a terrible learned countenance that confounded all men at the view?”

“Your grace should see what a small, bandy-legged creature it is, much like a frog,” said Mistress Carew, “only that he wears russet instead of green, and has a smooth tongue, so that even now he wins the regard of Sir Edmund.”

“What, is he here?” exclaimed the queen, in surprise; “I knew not that Bedingfield would admit any one without the warrant of my lord privy seal; surely, Cromwell hath not sent a sorcerer to conjure me,” she added with an ironical laugh.

“Rode he a piebald horse?” asked Patience, the queen’s woman; “I think I cannot mistake the man.”

“A piebald horse, surely,” answered Betty Carew, “and he is clad in russet from top to toe; his cloak is of velvet, but his doublet, I think, was no more than sarsenet, and he wears one straight black feather in the front of his low hat. His eyes are bright—the brightest that I ever saw—and he has a pointed gray beard, after the fashion of the Spaniards. I noticed, too, that his eyebrows were arched up sharply, almost in a point, which gave him a strange look, like an owl.”

“’Tis Zachary Sanders,” exclaimed Patience. “Your highness does remember, surely; ’tis he who made the wonderful ring for my lord cardinal and sent the scroll of her horoscope to the Princess Mary.”

“I do seem to remember,” the queen said musingly, “but it is strange I do. Like a great sea, raging and terrible, the waters of Marah have overwhelmed me, sweeping on every side in a mighty torrent, carrying away all my strong friends and steadfast helpers. As the ocean, overflowing its borders, sweeps high upon the land, and when its tide recedes, carries away all the habitations that man has built upon the sand, and there is no remnant left thereof to tell the tale of the disaster, so the tide of my sorrow hath carried all things from my memory, stripping the beach of my mind and leaving only wreckage where once were lovely mansions of thought and fancy. Yet, as the saints bear witness, I did build my hope upon rock and looked steadfastly for its fulfilment. Alas, alas!” she added, tears shining in her eyes, “the tides have beaten on it, and only the sure anchor of my hope in heaven doth endure.”

“Nay, nay, madam,” her woman cried, “speak not so disconsolately; the emperor bears up your just quarrel, and the new pope has declared for your cause. Look rather at the good hope you have in the love your people bear you and your fair daughter, the Princess Mary.”

Catherine roused herself, her weakness had been but momentary, and she regained her composure almost as quickly as she had lost it.

“It is for the Princess Mary that I live,” she said quietly; “in my good daughter I have an assured comfort.”

“’Twas the horoscope of the princess that this wizard cast, who is now below,” her attendant said. “I should like to have your majesty see him; he would furnish much entertainment for an hour on such an evening as this.” The good woman was eager to change the drift of Catherine’s thoughts.

The queen smiled as she turned to Betty.

“What say you, maiden?” she asked; “would this marvellous little man divert my poor girls for an hour?”

“I cannot tell,” Betty answered soberly, for she was touched at the queen’s emotion—Catherine’s habitual coldness was repulsive, but in such moments of sorrow she was more attractive; “’tis certain that he furnished me with ten minutes of sharp entertainment this noon,” and she told them briefly of the wild gallop of the wizard and her own misadventure.

“We must see this fiery horseman, if Bedingfield will let us,” said the queen when she had heard the story; “see, my maids, how obedient I grow from force of habit! If her jailer wills it, the Queen of England would see a travelling wizard for an hour of wild diversion. Forsooth, ’twill cast in shadow the jousts at Greenwich in honor of the Marchioness of Pembroke! Go you, Mistress Carew, for you are in favor, and pray Sir Edmund to send this fortune-teller to us.”

Thus admonished, Betty went upon the errand with alacrity, glad to escape from the sadness that the queen’s mood had cast upon the scene, and moved, too, by a young girl’s curiosity which had been awakened by the reports of the wizard. She found Bedingfield still entertaining the small stranger, and preferred Catherine’s suit with some hesitation on account of his presence. Sir Edmund’s face clouded a little at the proposition and he stood a few moments staring moodily at the floor. Betty, standing at a short distance, observed the two with interested eyes. The wizard had fastened his gaze on his companion’s face as soon as Betty told her errand and watched him much as a cat watches a mouse, but there was no expression on his small and wizened countenance to indicate his feelings. He was sitting on a low settle, his short legs drawn under it and his chin resting in his hands; something in his gray hair and dull skin, his brown clothing and diminutive size, gave him the appearance of some hobgoblin of fairy lore. Bedingfield was manifestly puzzled; the queen’s request was simple and natural enough, and there seemed no reasonable excuse for denying it, yet Sir Edmund was uneasy. There was something about the wizard which indicated a keen wit and no ordinary energy of purpose, and Bedingfield knew that there were dealings with Rome and Spain,—dealings that Cromwell and the king desired to break off,—and here was a stranger who might be bent on mischief, yet there was no reasonable excuse to refuse him admittance to the queen’s presence. The fact that he had not petitioned for it was in his favor and Bedingfield knew well enough that the poor women in his charge were sadly in need of some small diversion. Catherine had done wisely to choose Betty Carew for her messenger; the wistful expression on the young girl’s fresh face went far toward prevailing with Sir Edmund. After a few moments of hesitation, he despatched one of his own gentlemen with the wizard, to conduct him to the queen and remain in attendance during the interview, at the same time bidding Betty go before to warn the little court that the request was granted.

Mistress Carew sped on her errand with the swift feet of youth, and before the wizard and his escort had reached the top of the stair, she had entered the queen’s room. As she lifted the curtain at the door, something in the scene within arrested her attention. Catherine sat more erect than usual, and her three maids were gathered about her talking in low tones; there was an animation in their looks so unusual that Betty thought in an instant that there was some new interest in the air, some scheme afoot. At the sight of her, however, the habitual expressions came back to their faces, and Catherine received her announcement with her usual manner.

“I have no royal robes to assume,” she said, in a tone of bitterness, “but truly there must be some state with which to hold our levee. Come, my girls, stand around me, arrange the log upon the hearth, move yonder fire-screen; the Queen of England will receive the wizard Sanders!”

“Madam, the jest is bitter,” replied Patience, sadly; “spare us—who so bemoan your case—the sharp edge of your wit, whereby the loss of your high estate is in no manner redeemed. You are still our gracious sovereign lady, and so would be were you an outcast from this realm which hath so uncharitably used you.”

“I thank you, wench,” Catherine replied, her face softening at the expression of her attendant’s devotion; “you teach the queen to bear herself more worthily. Ah, good Patience, you know not how deep the wound corrodes my lonely heart. Albeit a queen, and the daughter of a king, I am yet a woman, and a woman’s heart doth crave a little tenderness,—a little love,—a little shelter, or else, God wot, it starves!”

All her attendants drew nearer to her chair, and tears shone in their eyes; the touch of womanly weakness in the cold character of the injured princess appealed to them more sharply because of its contrast with her habitual austerity. Catherine pressed her handkerchief to her own eyes, and there was a painful silence, broken only by the sound of footsteps at the door and the voice of the usher announcing the entrance of the wizard. At this interruption the queen was herself in a moment, and received the visitor with her usual cold dignity.

The scene was a strange one; the fire was burning low on the hearth, but a bright glow shone from the bed of fiery embers in which the fallen log lay smouldering. The room, a large and gloomy one, was hung with dark tapestries, which increased the somber effect, and it was only imperfectly lighted by the narrow windows at the farther end. In her great chair by the chimney sat the queen clad in black, and her hair entirely concealed by her velvet cap. Around her were grouped her four ladies, Betty Carew alone blooming with youth and beauty in this sad place. Into this little company of women came now the small, strange figure of the man who called himself Zachary Sanders, the most famous wizard in the south of England. He still wore his russet cloak, fastened by a clasp and chain that had been loosened so the mantle hung behind, only kept from slipping off his shoulders by the chain. His jacket and doublet were of russet-colored sarsenet, and he wore no ornament but a curiously wrought silver serpent, which was secured below his collar and hung on his breast. Without his hat he was a far more notable person than with it, for he had a large and finely developed head, the sphere of the brain well arched and full and with no ugly slant of the forehead, and not too protuberant behind, but with a fine line from the nape of the neck to the crown. His owlish eyebrows and pointed gray beard and mustache gave a slightly sinister cast to his features, but his eyes were so remarkable, both for size and brilliancy, that all else sank into insignificance by contrast. He came forward with an ease that indicated a person accustomed to encountering people of all ranks in life, one who was as little likely to be amazed at magnificence as he would be touched by distress. He made a profound obeisance to the queen, and she held out her hand, prompted, perhaps, by the thought that she could not afford to lose a friend, however humble. He knelt on one knee and kissed it with an apparently sincere feeling of homage.

“I have heard of you many times, sir,” said Catherine, gravely, “and my women were eager to have some entertainment and instruction. Doubtless they would look curiously into the future, fancying great things in store. I pray you gratify their innocent desires, if you may; for my part, such prognostications are of little comfort. Having encountered so great disasters, I do dread to look beyond the hour; for me such dreams are done.”

“Yet it should not be so, your grace,” the wizard answered, regarding the queen earnestly; “your horoscope hath no such evil ending to it.”

“You flatter me, good Sanders,” she replied bitterly; “I am no longer young enough to be deceived by such follies. Here is a maid whose fortune should smile like her face,” she added, pointing to Mistress Betty, who stood near her; “your arts should weave a tale of love and happiness for youth and beauty.”

“I cast her horoscope this noon at the Blue Boar,” the wizard said, with a queer smile. “Venus was in fortunate conjunction with Mars when Mistress Carew was born.”

“Did you learn that by striking my horse, Master Sanders?” Betty retorted, with a mischievous glance from under her black lashes.

The astrologer looked at her with an immovable face.

“You are mistaken,” he said calmly; “I touched not the beast. It sometimes happens that these dumb creatures recognize a power more than human, and are so thrown into a convulsion of terror.”

“With your aid?” persisted the young girl, laughing incredulously, and even the queen smiled.

“My young mistress is inclined to jest,” Sanders remarked grimly, “and to make light of my art, but this will not be so when she talks to her affianced husband.”

“My affianced husband!” exclaimed Betty, with indignation; “you are much in error in good sooth, for I am not promised.”

The wizard looked at her and laughed, his brilliant eyes almost fascinating the young girl’s startled gaze.

“You were promised in your cradle, and a lovely mate you are like to get, Mistress Carew,” he answered quietly, with such a tone of certainty that Betty experienced a sharp sensation of apprehension.

“’Tis false!” she exclaimed passionately, her agitation so genuine that the queen interposed.

“Why fret the child, sir wizard?” Catherine said; “what warrant have you for this statement?”

Sanders turned to her with courteous respect, although his face showed a certain malicious enjoyment.

“We read these matters in the stars, madam,” he said gravely, “and they cannot mislead us. Mistress Carew is promised to a tall, dark man with a sword-cut across his left eyebrow; one day she will find that the astrologer has not lied.”

Seeing Betty’s angry alarm, Catherine turned the matter aside; she had the tact to avoid a scene which was becoming unpleasant.

“You claim that all your knowledge is from the stars, sir?” she asked indifferently, “and there is no human agency in the affair?”

“None, madam,” the wizard rejoined solemnly; “we read the destinies of men and women in the heavens, and the future even of this realm unrolls itself in that great scroll for the marvelling eye of the seer to read.”

The queen leaned back in her chair and shaded her eyes with her hand.

“The future of this realm!” she said in a low voice; “I pray the saints for it! I, who have never done England any good, would be sorry indeed to do it harm.”

“You need have no fear, madam,” the sage rejoined, speaking as low as she, so that the usher sent by Bedingfield, who was posted at the door, could not catch their words.

Catherine looked up quickly.

“You speak confidently,” she said; “why so?”

“Your grace does well to ask,” he answered gravely. “I have seen a vision, such an one as no man sees but once or twice in a lifetime, even though he is born to read the stars.”

“Speak on,” said the queen, as he paused.

The little circle by the fire had drawn close, all eager attention except Mistress Betty, who stood apart, angry and secretly alarmed, although she fought stoutly against the dread which beset her. At the queen’s admonition, the wizard drew nearer, and stood facing the hearth, the red glow of the embers casting a lurid light on his wizened figure and a fiery glint in his great eyes. He did not seem to see the others, but recited his tale like a man in a trance.

“’Twas night,” he said, “and I was in my laboratory studying the heavens. Mars was red as blood. Suddenly, before me, there was a wide ray of white light which constantly expanded, until I saw in it a marvellous flower-garden, a vast place, full of bloom and with great gates, on which were emblazoned the arms of England. Within, there was a tall white rose upon a single stem, and it shone lustrous. No one was in the garden, and without were the pope, the Emperor of the Germans, and the Queen of Hungary, while, closer to the gate, stood your grace’s champion, Reginald Pole. Presently I saw a woman walking through the garden dressed in cloth of gold, with a crown on her head, and on her robes the arms of England and Spain united. She came across the garden to the white rose, and it bowed down to her; she plucked it, holding it up and looking at Pole, and then I knew her. After that, she touched the gates with the white rose and they flew open, and those without came in and kissed her. When she kneeled to receive the pope’s blessing, I saw her face plainly; it was the Princess Mary.”

When he ceased speaking, Catherine covered her face with her hands; the superstition of the age and her blood stirred within a naturally strong woman. After a moment, she spoke almost in a whisper.

“And the king?” she said.

“Madam, you know the northern prophecy,” the wizard replied; “the decorate rose shall be slain in his mother’s womb,—which means the death of one who hath offended. And she”—the speaker lowered his voice so that it was scarcely more than a whisper—“she who hath wrought this woe, her horoscope doth show a sudden and a shameful death.”

“I pray it may be so!” exclaimed one of the queen’s women; “may a curse light on her—may—”

“Nay, curse her not,” interrupted Catherine, coldly; “the time is not far off when ye shall have great reason to pity her, yea, to commiserate her estate.”

“Ay,” replied the wizard, “an agony awaits her—a blood-red axe is in her destiny.”

This low-spoken conversation had irritated the attendant sent by Bedingfield, and conscious that to permit it to continue would be a transgression of his orders, he came forward now and reminded Sanders that he had exceeded the limit of his visit. The queen resented the interference, and turned as if to speak in anger; but, on second thought, repented her determination, only treating the matter with her accustomed scorn.

“Tell your master,” she said to the usher, “that the queen was so wonderfully entertained that she forgot her usual obedience to his orders and craves his pardon. Master Sanders, I thank you for your diverting discourse,” she added to the astrologer. “I am so poor I may not even reward my entertainment; but continue, sir, to read in the stars the salvation of this realm, and so find your reward.”

The wizard made his obeisance and turned to withdraw; as he did so, a tiny packet fell from under his cloak, and Mistress Betty noted that Patience set her foot upon it, making no effort to restore it to its owner. When he reached the door, Sanders turned for the last time toward the queen, and making a strange sign with his hands, bowed and withdrew.