XV

Joshua Dimmock, prowling in the shadows outside the Casa Noveli, saw enough, and more than enough to set him fingering his dagger. Certain, it itched to be out, but “Yarely, my man, yarely,” Joshua cautioned himself. “One man at large is better than two caged.”

It was his habit to lurk near whatever house Sir Nicholas stayed in. He was laughed at for his pains, but laid a finger to his nose. “I look for trouble,” quoth Joshua Dimmock. “I don’t wait to have it brought to my notice.”

It seemed he had good reason. The gentleman who went running out to fetch in the ginetes from the barracks hard by little knew how nearly he ran on death. The dagger was out, a wicked blade, long and razor-edged; Joshua, guessing from the sound of turmoil within what evil fate had chanced, guessed also this flying gentleman’s errand. To stab him where the neck joined the shoulder would be easy enough. Ay, and then what? Joshua put up his dagger, snatched so instinctively from its sheath. No way to get Sir Nicholas off, that.

He bethought him that he had maybe let his mind jump at conclusions; drew further into the shadows, and waited. He saw the ginetes come; they passed so close he might have touched one. They went into the house, and came out again soon with Sir Nicholas Beauvallet in their midst.

“Ay, I beagled it out well enough,” Joshua muttered. “Now what?” He saw Sir Nicholas walking briskly between his guards, heard him say something to the lieutenant, and laugh. “He goes fleering to death!” groaned Joshua. “Mocker, mocker! Will you not look your fate in the face and know yourself sped at last? But this is to tax idle circumstance.” He pulled himself together. “Up, mother-wit! No time for mourning, this.” He peered towards the open door of the house, where two lackeys stood talking excitedly together. “I see the first step of my way. Now to sound these hildings.” He withdrew a little way, came out from the shadow of the wall, and went towards the Casa Noveli at a brisk trot. “What’s here?” he cried out. “Guards at your place! Who was’t? Strange doings!” He became the epitome of curiosity, and got his answer.

“Madre de Dios!” one of the lackeys said. “They say it is the pirate, El Beauvallet!”

“Jesu!” Joshua fell back, and crossed himself. “That fine gentleman? Do you make a jest of me? How should such a thing be, pray you?”

The first man shook his head hopelessly; it was his companion who answered, as he prepared to go indoors. “Why, there’s Admiral Perinat within, foaming like a mad dog.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “He it was cried out on the Chevalier.”

Joshua wanted no more. The lackeys went in, remembering their duties; Joshua went speeding towards the Puerta del Sol.

He was in time; no guards had come yet to the Rising Sun to ransack his master’s baggage. He slipped in at the back entrance, waited for a cook-maid’s back to be turned, and so got him upstairs unseen.

He did swift work there. Doublets, hose, boots, shirts were flung from the chest by the window, some of them stowed away pell-mell into a pack, the rest left to lie on the floor.

“Here we play the knavish servant,” Joshua encouraged himself. “What it is to have a head on one’s shoulders!” He found Sir Nicholas’ strongbox, and forced it open with the point of his dagger. “Ay, thus it goes. We take the money, and some few papers we may need, and leave the box to tell of our thieving. Ha, what’s this?” He unfolded the Chevalier de Guise’s pass. “Softly, Joshua, that should be found, for I think we have no more need of it, and it may very easily help Sir Nicholas. We must be supposed to have searched in vain for it.” He looked round him, saw a loose mandilion he had pulled out of the cupboard, and caught it up. “In the pocket, I believe. Lie there then, and I hope they may find you.” He tucked the pass into an inner pocket, and hung the coat up at the back of the cupboard. “Ay, we sought it, and found it not. It may serve you yet, master.” He came away from the cupboard. “Cheerly, Joshua! all will be well yet. Now to stow these clothes away.” He packed as much of Sir Nicholas’ raiment as he could carry with him, hid the jewels about his own person, and nipped out to get such of his own traps as he should need. Still there came no sound of guards approaching to seize Beauvallet’s papers. Joshua spied from the window, listened, heard only the voice of a tapster below, and drew in again to finish his work. Two neat bundles stood ready upon the floor, but this did not seem to be enough for Joshua Dimmock. He went to work to create more havoc, and succeeded very fairly. A small chest he had emptied he chose to lock, and then break open. He tossed an old doublet into it, a pair of stocks, a riding boot. “Ay, that is the way it goes. The naughty knave to rifle his master’s chest! Master, you may live to thank God you have me for your servant yet.” He stood back, and surveyed the litter. “A rare gallimaufry, by my faith! What more? God’s light! The sword!” He slapped his forehead, and darted to unearth the weapon from the depths of the cupboard in the wall. Out it came, that blade from the hand of Ferrara, delicate, flexible, with straight quillons, and a knuckle-bow of two shell shapes, chased with gold. “My bite is sure!” quoth Joshua. “I warrant me!”

Downstairs the inn was quiet, for it was late into the evening now. Joshua might have got away with none to see his flight, but chose instead to stumble into the sleepy tapster. He executed a well-feigned start, and let fly a French oath. “Sangdieu!” A ducat was pressed into the tapster’s hand. “You do not see me,” said Joshua. “Eh?”

“I see you very plainly,” said the tapster, agape.

“That is not how it runs. Look you!” He took the tapster’s ear between finger and thumb, and whispered. “Word’s brought my master’s clapped up. Do you take me now? Well, he will be free soon enough, I suppose, but I’ll not be here to see it.” He looked slyly. “There’s a little farm in Picardy, and a rare wench to be won⁠—if a man had the means.” He patted the moneybags slung about his waist; indeed he fairly staggered under the weight of them. “I don’t let opportunity slip, Mother of God!”

The tapster was bemused. He twisted his ear free. “What’s this? Your master clapped up?”

“Some idle talk of his being El Beauvallet. Ho-ho, a very likely tale! Think I, it’s some enemy has put this on him, for he’s known the length and breadth of France for a Guise. But these are not matters for me. I’m for the Frontier, and a good riddance to a bad master!”

The tapster was left to blink after him. He shook his head, making nothing of all this mysterious talk, and yawned, and wondered what o’clock it might be. Joshua got clear away while he was still wondering.

There was one other who was concerned in this capture, one who had also a part to play, and was warily mindful of it. The party at Noveli’s house broke up swiftly, but not before many guests had crowded round Doña Dominica to hear what she might have to say.

In her heart was despair, for the hawk was snared, but she could still do what she might to aid him. Courage mounted; she set to fanning herself, and forced her pale lips into a smile of incredulity. “Señors, I have no more to say than what I have said. If this man is El Beauvallet he is changed indeed since last I saw him, I grant you a like colouring, but for the rest⁠—Madre de Dios, if you but knew the pirate, and had heard his abominable Spanish!” She tinkled a laugh, became aware of her aunt close beside her, and turned. “Well, señora, your poor Chevalier is fallen upon an evil hour indeed!” She sank her voice. “Perinat⁠—” She looked significantly, and touched her forehead. “Ever since he lost his ship he has been⁠—strange in the head on this one subject.” She nodded wisely.

Don Diego made as if to speak, but his mother interposed. “I have not been so entertained for many a long day,” she said. “I am for my bed now. I suppose we shall hear more of this in the morning. Come, my dear. Do you follow us, Don Diego?”

He waved them away; he had still much to say, and was burning to say it. “Presently, señora. Do not wait upon my coming.”

Doña Beatrice led her niece to make her curtsey to their hostess.

There was a battle to be fought now, harder than the skirmish that had just passed, Dominica knew well. As they jolted homewards in the bumping coach Don Rodriguez was left to talk as he pleased. Doña Beatrice lay back against the cushions, and allowed him to run on. He exclaimed, wondered, surmised to his fidgetty heart’s content, and his niece put in a word where she might.

They reached the Casa Carvalho. Doña Beatrice went with her niece up the stairs, and followed her to her chamber. Dominica had herself well in hand. Now for the battle! now for the setting up of wits against wits!

Doña Beatrice sank down into a chair by the window. “So that is it!” she said, amused. “What a daring lover you have, my dear! Yes, I was hoodwinked. I must be getting old.” She shook her head over it.

“Heaven, señora, are you too besotted then?” asked Dominica scornfully.

“Make no mistake, my dear,” said Doña Beatrice placidly, “I wish him all success. Diego was in a rare taking, was he not. Yes, many of them there had a fine scare tonight. Cry Brava, El Beauvallet! But I think I will have you away into the country.” She smiled. “A very charming romance, my dear. A pity it can come to naught.”

Dominica pressed her hands to her temples. “You make my head to reel!” she complained. “I love a pirate? God save you, señora, what next will you put on me?”

Doña Beatrice nodded. “Very well played, my dear. You have more head than I gave you credit for. But you need not be so careful now. I have no wish to see your hero perish. No, none whatsoever, I assure you. I have nothing but respect for a man of such daring. I wonder how he contrived to come by those papers of his? It would make a rare tale, I do not doubt. Alack, I am not like to hear it.” She sighed. “But for you, my child⁠—you must be got away with all speed.”

“Why must I?” Dominica blinked at her. “Am I in peril, señora, because your infamous son accuses me of having a pirate for my lover?”

“Yes, was it not foolish of him? Madness!” agreed her aunt. “He has no head. Enough, one would say, to bring the familiars of the Inquisition to our house tomorrow. That, my dear, is one reason why you should be got away, and swiftly wed. We shall give the lie to suspicion of heresy against you. No doubt, if his papers are in order, as I daresay they may be, El Beauvallet will be set at large. Faith, a man who would take his life in his hand right to the heart of Spain might even contrive to snatch you from under my nose! Well, child, all honour to him if he can compass it, but you shall not expect me to lend him my aid.”

“If his papers are in order,” Dominica pointed out, “he will stand proved to be the man he says he is, so what fear?”

“Ah, but I too have brain. I see much now that⁠—I confess⁠—was hidden from me before.” She smoothed the heavy silk of her dress. She was still smiling, still imperturbable. “Such a personable man⁠—to be a pirate. I do not blame you at all, my dear. You made rare work of it aboard that ship, did you not? It is all most enlivening. For you I admit a pang or two. It will pass, and you will remember that you have had more romance than comes to most women in this weary world. But we shall leave Madrid. Certainly we shall leave Madrid.”

“As you please, señora, but you give me no good reasons.”

Doña Beatrice picked up her fan. “I will give you one you may perceive to be good, child. If you stay here you may haply be examined. Now I do not want that.”

“I am very willing, aunt. I can but say what I have said.”

“King Philip, and the Holy Inquisition,” said her aunt gently, “are not nice in their methods of obtaining information. Enough harm has been done already without you becoming suspected to be a heretic.” She rose, and went with her languid step to the door. “We will have you safe married, my dear, and think out some tale against our need. As I see it, my child, you cannot better serve this bold lover of yours than to give the lie in such a way to those who suspect you and him.”

The attack was renewed again next day, by Don Diego now, curbing his anger. He pressed marriage on his cousin, hinted his father might intercede for El Beauvallet, besought her to wed him at once, and trust to his good offices to help Beauvallet.

These were blundering tactics; Dominica curled her lip at them and him. Well she knew that once his identity was proved no power under the sun could save Beauvallet. The Holy Inquisition would step in and claim him; it was not necessary for Don Diego to tell her that she would see her lover burned at the stake. She knew it, had faced the horror squarely, and would not now change colour. Desperate need lent her courage, and agility of mind. She never hesitated, never blanched, could still laugh her scorn. “This is very kind, cousin!” she said tauntingly. “And if the unfortunate gentleman were indeed El Beauvallet and beloved of me no doubt I should avail myself of your offer.” Oh, but her tongue had a sting in it still! She watched him flush, and bite his lip. She curtseyed. “But I have no interest in the Chevalier de Guise, good my cousin, and I doubt he does not stand in need of my help.”

He took her wrist and shook it. “You think you hoodwink me? You think I do not know that fellow for what he is? Well, you shall see him burn!”

She smiled disdainfully. “Shall I so? I think it is you, my cousin, who will know yourself for a fool before many days are out. Loose my wrist. You will get nothing by this usage.”

He left her, sought out his mother. He was in a fret, biting his nails; he flew out upon her coolness, and was urgent with her to have the girl away at once.

Doña Beatrice regarded him blandly. She seemed amused by his agitation, and set her finger at the root of it. “One would say, my dear Diego, that you went in considerable fear of this Englishman.”

“I do not fear any man, señora, but this devil⁠—” He crossed himself. “There’s witchcraft at work! You have not talked with Perinat. He tells me⁠—in league with the devil, señora! What, could he have come otherwise into Spain, or sunk so many good ships of ours? We know El Draque to employ evil arts, and this man was trained under him.”

“Witchcraft?” said Doña Beatrice. Her shoulders shook. “I wonder if his arts will bring him off from that prison?”

“You speak very lightly, señora. You cannot appreciate the dangers of our situation. While that man is alive, and my cousin still a maid, we may not know a moment’s peace! At any time he might even be released! Have you thought of that? Perinat has little credit; his word may not serve against the fiend’s papers. What, are we to have him loose amongst us, and you’ll sit smiling?”

“I was never more in smiling humour,” she remarked. “To see you so disturbed, my son! I owe the pirate a debt of gratitude, it seems. And you were within an ace of biting your glove in his face!”

“And would do so still!” he said sharply. “Make no mistake, señora, if he and I stand up together with a sword apiece I shall know what to do. If I fear aught it is his wiles, his devilish cunning! A man may not fight against witchcraft. Horrible sin! Deadly danger!” Again he crossed himself.

“Do you look to see him waft off Dominica in a cloud of smoke?” she inquired. “I find you ridiculous, Don Diego.”

“Maybe, maybe. It is easy to sit contemptuous, señora, but you have had no dealings with the man.”

“I have had some pretty traffic with him. He is a very bold rogue, and I had ever a fondness for such men. Moreover”⁠—her fan waved rhythmically⁠—“I like the merry look he has. A proper man, when all is said. I shall be sorry if I hear he comes not off.”

“You will be sorry!” he ejaculated. “Oh, señora, will you lead my cousin to him, and say ‘God bless you, pirate, take my niece?’ ”

“You are a fool to ask me,” said his mother composedly. “I daresay I am as much his enemy as you are, but I have this gift, my son, that I can respect my foes. You may conjure up what nightmares of witchcraft you please; I shall not be in a heat for that. I am sure the man would laugh if he could hear you.”

He pounced on that. “Yes, señora, yes! And will you tell me that it is not Satan who prompts him to laugh? Will you tell me that a mere man laughs as this warlock does when he faces death, and sees the dead all about him? Perinat could tell a tale!”

“I make no doubt he could,” agreed Doña Beatrice. “I pray I may not have to hear him. I would stake my life all the magic this man uses is the magic of courage, and the arts you and others such as you have endowed him with. He takes a galleon: witchcraft! you cry. He sacks a town: more witchcraft! He comes into Spain on an errand of romance: foulest witchcraft of all! swear you. Well, I will tell you what I think, and I believe I am not a fool. He is English, therefore a little mad; he is a lover, therefore reckless. If he laughs it is because he is of those sort of men who will laugh though they die for it. There is all his magic.” She yawned. “I dare say he will laugh as he goes to the stake, as I fear he will go. You fatigue me, Don Diego, and put me out of all patience with myself that I bore a fool.”

“Very well, señora,” he said hotly, “It’s very well! But will you take my cousin into the country?”

“Certainly,” she said.

“At once, señora, with what speed you can make!”

She raised her eyelids momentarily. “I shall leave Madrid for Vasconosa on Tuesday, as we have concerted, my son.”

“Folly!” he cried, and took a turn about the room.

She lay back upon the daybed, completely at her ease. “Do you think so?” she said mildly. “Maybe I see more clearly. All Madrid knows that I leave for Vasconosa on Tuesday. What do you suppose Madrid would think if I was off in a sudden start? There is only one thing that can make me put forward my departure, and that is the coming of Tobar. Pray you go harry your father with these fears and spare me.” She shut her eyes as though she would go off into a doze.

He checked, pondered it, and said grudgingly: “I had not thought of that.”

“No,” she said, not troubling to open her eyes. “You lack the habit of thought, I believe. I wish you would leave me; you disturb my siesta to no purpose that I can see.”

“I pray you may not be disturbed by anything more disastrous than my presence, señora!” he said. “You choose to sneer and think yourself wiser than us all, but I will tell you this!⁠—I shall warn my father if that devil escapes from his prison he must send the King’s men hotfoot after him to Vasconosa!”

“By all means,” agreed the lady. “Go and warn him at once.”