II

Doña Dominica was escorted below decks, and led to a fair cabin which she guessed to be the home of Master Dangerfield, hurriedly evicted. She was left there alone, while Master Dangerfield took her father on to yet another cabin. She took stock of her surroundings, and was pleased to approve. There were mellow walls, oak-panelled, a cushioned seat under the porthole, a table with carved legs, a joint-stool, a fine Flanders chest, a cupboard against the bulkhead, and the bunk.

There was presently a discreet scratching on the door. She bade enter, and a small man with an inquisitive nose and very bravely curling mustachios insinuated his head into the room. Doña Dominica regarded him in silence. A pair of shrewd grey eyes smiled deprecatingly. “Permit that I bring your chests, señora,” said the newcomer in perfect Spanish. “Also your ladyship’s woman.”

“Maria!” called out Dominica joyfully.

The door was opened further to admit a plump creature who flew to her, and sobbed, and laughed. “Señorita! They have not harmed you!” She fell to patting Dominica’s hands, and kissing them.

“But where were you all this time?” Dominica asked.

“They locked me in the cabin, señorita! Miguel de Vasso it was! Serve him right that he took a grievous knock on the head! But you?”

“I am safe,” Dominica answered. “But what will happen to us I know not. The world’s upside down, I believe.”

The man with the mustachios came into the room and revealed a spare figure garbed in sober brown fustian. “Have no fear, señora,” said this worthy cheerfully. “You sail upon the Venture, and we do not harm women. Faith of an Englishman!”

“Who are you?” Dominica asked.

“I,” said the thin man, puffing out his chest, “am no less a person, señora, than Sir Nicholas Beauvallet’s own familiar servant, Joshua Dimmock, at your orders. Ho, there! bring on the baggage!” This was addressed to someone without. In a moment two younkers appeared laden, and dumped down their burdens upon the floor. They lingered, gaping at the lady, but Joshua waved his hands at them. “Hence, get hence, numskulls!” He hustled them out, and shut the door upon them. “Please you, noble lady, I will dispose.” He looked upon the mountain of baggage, laid a finger to his nose, skipped to the cupboard, and flung it open. The raiment of Master Dangerfield was exposed to Maria’s titters. Joshua swooped, came away with an armful of doublets and hose, and cast them into the alleyway outside the cabin. “Ho there! Avoid me these trappings!” he commanded, and the two women heard footsteps coming quickly in obedience to the summons. Joshua returned to the cupboard and swept it bare, flung out the boots and the pantoffles that stood ranged upon its floor, and stepped back to observe with pride the barrenness of his creating. “So!” The chest caught his eye; he went to it in a rush, lifted the lid, and clicked his tongue in impatience. He seemed to dive into it head first.

Dominica sat down on the cushioned seat to watch the surprising gyrations of Master Dimmock. Maria knelt by her, clasping a hand still in both of hers, and giggled under her breath. An indignant voice was uplifted in the alleyway. “Who cast them here? That coystrill! Dimmock, Joshua Dimmock, may the black vomit seize you! Master Dangerfield’s fine Venice hosen to lie in the dust! Come out, ye skinny rogue!”

Joshua emerged from the chest with an armful of shirts and netherstocks. The door was rudely opened; Master Dangerfield’s servant sought to make a hasty entrance, but was met on the threshold by Joshua, who thrust the pile of linen into his arms, and drove him out. “Avoid them! Avoid, fool! The noble lady hath this cabin. By the General’s orders, mark you! Hold your peace, wastrel! The Venice hose! What’s that to me? Make order there! Pick up that handruff, that boot, those stocks! There are more shirts to come. Await me!” He came back, spread his hands, and shrugged expressive shoulders. “Heed naught, señora. A hapless fool. Master Dangerfield’s man. We shall have all in order presently.”

“I should not wish to turn Master Dangerfield from his cabin,” Dominica said. “Is there none other might house me?”

“Most noble lady! Waste no moment’s thought upon it!” Joshua said, shocked. “Master Dangerfield, forsooth! A likely gentleman, I allow, but a mere lad from the nursery. This mountain of raiment! Ho, the young men! all alike! I dare swear a full score of shirts. Sir Nicholas himself owns not so many.” He threw the rest of Master Dangerfield’s wardrobe out of the cabin, and shut the door smartly upon the protests of Master Dangerfield’s man.

Dominica watched the disposal of her baggage about the room. “I must suppose you a man of worth,” she said, gently satirical.

“You may say so, indeed, señora. I am the servant of Sir Nicholas. I have the ear. I am obeyed. Thus it is to be the lackey of a great man, lady,” Joshua answered complacently.

“Oh, is this Sir Nicholas a great man by your reckoning?”

“None greater, lady,” said Joshua promptly. “I have served him these fifteen years, and seen none to equal him. And I have been about the world, mark you! Ay, we have done some junketting to and fro. I allow you Sir Francis Drake to be a man well enough, but lacking in some small matters wherein we have the advantage of him. His birth, for example, will not rank with ours. By no means! Raleigh? Pshaw! he lacks our ready wit: we laugh in his sour countenance! Howard? A fig for him! I say no more, and leave you to judge. That popinjay, Leicester? Bah! A man of no weight. We, and we alone have never failed in our undertakings. And why, you ask? Very simply, señora: we reck not! The Queen’s grace said it with her own august lips. ‘God’s death,’ quoth she⁠—her favourite oath, mark you!⁠—‘God’s Death, Sir Nicholas, you should take Reck Not to be your watchword!’ With reason, most gracious lady! Certain, we reck not. We bite our glove in challenge to whomsoever ye will. We take what we will: Beauvallet’s way!”

Maria sniffed, and cocked up her pert nose. Joshua looked severely. “Mark it, mistress! I speak for both: we reck not.”

“He is a bold man,” Dominica said, half to herself.

Joshua beamed upon her. “You speak sooth, señora. Bold! Ay, a very panther. We laugh at fear. That’s for lesser men. I shall uncord these bundles, gracious lady, so it please you.”

“What is he? What is his birth?” Dominica asked. “Is he base or noble?”

Joshua bent a frown of some dignity upon her. “Would I serve one who was of base birth, señora? No! We are very nobly born. The knighthood was not needed to mark our degree. An honour granted upon our return from Drake’s voyage round the world. I allow it to have been due, but we needed it not. Sir Nicholas stands heir to a barony, no less!”

“So!” said Dominica with interest.

“Ay, and indeed. He is own brother to Lord Beauvallet. A solid man, señora, lacking our wits, maybe, but a comfortable wise lord. He looks askance at all this trafficking upon the high seas.” Joshua forgot for a moment his role of admiring and faithful servant. “Well he may! Rolling up and down the world, never at rest⁠—it is not fit! We are no longer boys to delight in harebrained schemes and chancy ventures. But what would you? A madness is in us; we must always be up and about, nosing out danger.” He rolled up the cords he had untied. “I leave you, señora, Ha! we cast off!” He hopped to the porthole, and peered out. “In good time: that hulk is done. I go now to see the noble señor safely housed. By your leave, señora!”

“Where is my father?” Dominica asked.

“Hard by, señora. You may rap on this bulkhead, and he will hear. Mistress⁠—” he looked austerely at Maria⁠—“see to the noble lady!”

“Impudence!” Maria cried. But the door had shut behind Joshua Dimmock.

“An oddity,” said Dominica. “Well⁠—like master, like man.” She went to the port, and stood on tiptoe to look out. The waves were hissing round the sides of the Venture. “I cannot see our ship. That man said she was done.” She came away from the port. “And so here we are, upon an English ship, and in an enemy’s power. What shall come of it, I wonder?” She did not seem to be disturbed.

“Let them dare to touch you!” Maria said, arms akimbo. “I am not locked in my cabin twice, señorita!” She abandoned the fierce attitude, and began to unpack my lady’s baggage. She shook out a gown of stiff crimson brocade, and sighed over it. “Alas, the broidered taffety that I had in my mind for you to wear this night!” she lamented.

Dominica smiled secretly. “I will wear it,” she said.

Maria stared. “Your finest gown to be wasted on a party of English pirates! Now if it were Don Juan⁠—”

Dominica was impatient suddenly. “Don Juan! A fool! A beaten braggart! He strutted, and swore he would sink this ship to the bottom of the sea, and take the great Beauvallet a prisoner to Spain! I hate a man to be beaten! Lay out the gown, girl. I will wear it, and the rubies too.”

“Never say so, señorita!” cried Maria in genuine horror. “I have your jewels safe hid in my bosom. They would tear them from your neck!”

“The rubies!” Dominica repeated. “We are here as the guests of El Beauvallet, and I vow we will play the part right royally!”

There was a soft scratching on the door, and Don Manuel came in. “Well, my child?” he said, and looked around him with approval.

Doña Dominica waved her hand. “As you see, señor, I am very well. And you?”

He nodded, and came to sit beside her. “They house us snugly enough. There is a strange creature giving orders to my man at this moment. He says he is El Beauvallet’s lackey. I do not understand these English servants, and the license they have. The creature talks without pause.” He drew his gown about his knees. “We labour with the unexpected,” he complained, and looked gravely at his daughter. “The commander bids us to supper. We shall not forget, Dominica, that we sail as guests upon this ship.”

“No,” said Dominica doubtfully.

“We shall use Sir Nicholas with courtesy,” added Don Manuel.

“Yes, señor,” said Dominica, more doubtfully still.

An hour later Joshua came once more to her door. Supper awaited her, he said, and bowed her down the alleyway to the stateroom. She went regally, and rubies glowed on her bosom. The dull red of her stiff gown made her skin appear the whiter; she carried a fan of feathers in her hand, and had a wired ruff of lace sewn over with jewels behind her head.

The stateroom was low-pitched, lit by two lamps hung on chains from the thick beams above. On the bulkhead opposite the door arms were emblazoned, arms crossed with the bar sinister, and with a scroll round the base, bearing the legend Sans Peur. A table was spread in the middle of the room, and there were high-backed chairs of Spanish make set round it. Beside one of these was standing Master Dangerfield, point-de-vice in a bombasted doublet of grograine, and the famous Venice hosen. He bowed and blushed when he saw Dominica, and was eager to set a chair for her.

She had no quarrel with Dangerfield; she smiled upon him, enslaved him straightway, and sat her down at the table, unconcernedly fanning herself.

There was a cheerful voice uplifted without, a strong masculine voice that had a ringing quality. One might always know when Sir Nicholas Beauvallet approached.

He came in, apparently cracking some jest, escorting Don Manuel.

Dominica surveyed him through her lashes. Even in dinted armour, with his hair damp with sweat, and his hands grimed with powder he had appeared to her personable. She saw him now transformed.

He wore a purple doublet, slashed and paned, with great sleeves slit to show stitched linen beneath. A high collar clipped his throat about, and had a little starched ruff atop. Over it jutted his beard: none of your spade beards, this, but a rare stiletto, black as his close hair. He affected the round French hosen, puffed about the thighs, and the netherstocks known in England as Lord Leicester’s, since only a man with as good a leg as his might reasonably wear them. There were rosettes upon his shoon, and knotted garters, rich with silver lace, below his knees. Starched handruffs were turned back from his wrists; he wore a jewel on one long finger, and about his neck a golden chain with a scented pomander hanging from it.

He entered, and his quick glance took in Dominica at the table. He swept her a bow, and showed his even white teeth in a smile that was boyish and swift, and curiously infectious. “Well, met, señora! Has my rogue seen to your comfort? A chair for Don Manuel, Diccon!” The room seemed to be full of Sir Nicholas Beauvallet, a forceful presence.

“I am ashamed to have stolen Señor Dangerfield’s cabin from him,” Dominica said, with a pretty smile bestowed upon Richard.

He stammered a disclaimer. It was an honour, a privilege. Dominica, choosing to ignore Beauvallet at the head of the table, pursued a halting conversation with Dangerfield, exerting herself to captivate. No difficult task this: the lad looked with eyes of shy admiration already.

“A strange, whimsical fellow ordered everything, señor,” she said. “I cry pardon: it was not I threw your traps out on to the alleyway! I hope the master was not so incensed as was the man?”

Dangerfield smiled. “Ay, that would be Joshua, señora. My man’s a fool, a dolt. He is greatly enraged against Joshua. You must understand, señora, that Joshua is an original. I dare say he boasted to you of Sir Nicholas’ exploits⁠—always coupling himself with his master?”

Dominica had nothing to say to this. Dangerfield plodded on. “It is his way, but I believe he is the only one of our company who takes it upon himself to censure his master. To the world he says that Sir Nicholas is second only to God; to Sir Nicholas’ self he says⁠—” he broke off, and turned a laughing, quizzical look on his chief.

Sir Nicholas turned his head; Dominica had not thought that he was attending. “Ah, to Sir Nicholas’ self he says what Sir Nicholas’ dignity will not permit him to repeat,” said Beauvallet, smiling. He turned back to Don Manuel, who had broken off in the middle of a sentence.

“Your servant did not seem to hold him in so great esteem as he holds himself, señor,” said Dominica.

“Ah, no, señora, but then he threw my clothes out into the alley.”

“I doubt it was dusty,” Dominica said demurely.

“Do not let Sir Nicholas hear you say that, señora,” Dangerfield answered gaily.

By a half smile that was certainly not conjured up by her father’s conversation Dominica saw that Sir Nicholas was still attending.

Meat was set before the lady, breast of mutton served with a sauce flavoured with saffron. There was a pasty beside, and a compost of quinces. She fell to, and continued to talk to Master Dangerfield.

Don Manuel tried more than once to catch his daughter’s eye, but he failed, and was forced to pursue his conversation with Sir Nicholas. “You have a well-found vessel, señor,” he remarked courteously.

“My own, señor.” Beauvallet picked up a flagon of wine. “I have here an Alicante wine, señor, or a Burgundy, if you should prefer it. Or there is Rhenish. Say but the word!”

“You are too good, señor. The Alicante wine, I thank you.” He observed that his cup was of Moorish ware, much used in Spain, and raised his brows at it. Delicately he forbore comment.

“You remark my cups, señor?” said Beauvallet, lacking a like delicacy. “They come out of Andalusia.” He saw a slight stiffening on the part of his guest, and his eyes twinkled. “Nay, nay señor, they never were upon a Spanish galleon. I bought them upon my travels, years ago.”

He threw Don Manuel into some discomfort. Don Manuel made haste to turn the subject. “You know my country, señor?”

“Why yes, a little,” Beauvallet acknowledged. He looked at Dominica’s averted face. “May I give you wine, señora?”

So rapt in conversation with Dangerfield was the lady that it seemed she did not hear. Beauvallet watched her a moment in some amusement, then turned to Don Manuel. “Do you suppose, señor, that your daughter will take wine from my hands?”

“Dominica, you are addressed!” Don Manuel said sharply.

She gave an admirable start, and turned. “Señor?” She encountered Beauvallet’s eyes, brimful with laughter. “Your pardon, señor?” He held out a cup in his long fingers. She took it from him, and turned it in her hand. “Ah, did this come from the Santa Maria?” she asked, mighty innocent.

Don Manuel blushed for his daughter’s manners, and made a deprecatory sound. But Beauvallet’s shoulders shook. “I had these quite honestly, señora.”

Dominica appeared surprised.

Supper wore on its way. Don Manuel, shocked at the perversity of his daughter in bestowing all her attention on Dangerfield, began to talk to the young man himself, and successfully ousted Dominica from the conversation. She bit her lip with vexation, and became absorbed in the contemplation of a dish of marchpane. At her left hand Beauvallet lay back in his chair, and played idly with his pomander. Dominica stole a sidelong glance at him, found his eyes upon her, wickedly teasing under the down-dropped lids, and flushed hotly. She began to nibble at a piece of marchpane.

Sir Nicholas let fall his pomander, and sat straight in his chair. His hand went to his belt; he drew his dagger from the sheath. It was a rich piece, with a hilt of wrought gold and a thin, flashing blade. He leaned forward, and presented the hilt to the lady. “I make you a present of it, señora,” he said in a humble voice.

Dominica flung up her head at that, and tried to push the dagger away. “I do not want it.”

“Oh, but surely!”

“You are pleased to mock me, señor. I have no need of your dagger.”

“But you would like so much to kill me,” Sir Nicholas said softly.

Dominica looked at him indignantly. He was abominable, and to make matters the more insupportable he had a smile that set a poor maid’s heart in a flutter. “You laugh at me. Take your fill of it, señor: I shall not heed your sneers,” she said.

“I?” Beauvallet said, and shot out a hand to grasp her wrist. “Now look me boldly in the face and tell me if I sneer at you!”

Dominica looked instead toward her father, but he had turned his shoulder, and was descanting to Master Dangerfield upon the works of Livy.

“Come!” insisted the tormentor. “What, afraid?”

Stung, she looked up. Defiance gleamed in her eyes. Sir Nicholas kept his steadily upon her, raised her hand to his lips, kissed it fleetingly, and held it still. “You will know me better one day,” he said.

“I’ve no ambition for it,” Dominica answered, but without truth.

“Have you not? Have you not indeed?” His fingers tightened about her wrist; there was a brilliant look of inquiry before he let her go. It disturbed her oddly; the man had no right to such bright, challenging eyes.

A silence fell between them. Don Manuel, absorbed in his topic, had passed on to the poet Horace, and was inflicting quotations upon Master Dangerfield.

“What came to Don Juan, señor?” asked Dominica, finding the silence oppressive.

“I suppose him to be steering for the island of your name, señora,” Sir Nicholas replied, and cracked a nut between finger and thumb. The problems besetting Don Juan seemed to hold no interest for him.

“And Señor Cruzada? And the rest?”

“I did not send him alone, señora,” said Beauvallet, one eyebrow lifting humorously. “I suppose Señor Cruzada, whomsoever he may be, to be of his company.”

The lady selected another fragment of marchpane from the dish, and refused an offer of Hippocras to drink with it. She looked pensive. “You give quarter then, you English?”

“God’s Life, did you suppose otherwise?”

“I did not know, señor. They tell strange tales of you in the Indies.”

“It seems so indeed.” He looked amused. “Am I said to burn, torture, and slay, señora?”

She met his gaze gravely. “You are a hardy man, señor. There are those who say you use witchcraft.”

He flung back his head and laughed out at that. Don Manuel was startled, and broke off in the middle of a line, to the relief of Master Dangerfield, a-nod over his wine. “The only craft I use is seacraft, señora,” Beauvallet said. “I wear no charms, but I was born, so they tell me, when Venus and Jupiter were in conjunction. A happy omen! All honour to them!” He raised his cup to these planets, and drank to them.

“Alchemy is a snare, as also astrology,” said Don Manuel sternly. “I regard the tenets of Paracelsus as pernicious, señor, but I believe they are much studied and thought of in England. A creed both absurd and heretical! Why, I have heard a man doubt but that his neighbour was born under the sign of Sagittarius for no better reason than that he had a ruddy cheek, or a chestnut beard. Likewise you will meet those who will not stir beyond their doors without they have a piece of coral about them, or a sapphire to give them courage, or some other such toys, fit only for children or infidels. Then you will hear talk of the sky’s division into Houses, this one governing such-and-such a thing, and that some other. A silly conceit, obtaining credulity of the foolish.” Thus Don Manuel disposed of Paracelsus, very summarily.