Beauvallet (11 page)

The host, who knew him well, accorded him a deferential welcome, and bustled about to prepare a chamber for his honour. Sir Francis lay at the inn indeed, but was gone forth that morning, mine host knew not where. But there was a dinner bespoke for eleven o’clock, and Master Hawkins would be there – nay, not Master John, but his brother – and Sir William Cavendish, so mine host believed, with some others.

‘Lay a place for me, Wadloe,’ Sir Nicholas said, and went out in search of Sir Francis, or any other friend who might chance to be abroad.

Paul's Walk was the likeliest place to find Sir Francis; he would be sure to go there to learn what news might be current. Sir Nicholas strode off westwards through the crowded streets, came in good time to the great cathedral, and ran with the clank of spurred heels up the steps.

Merchants and money changers no longer congregated in the church, as they had done only twenty years ago, but Paul's Walk was still the meeting ground for every court gallant who wished to show himself abroad. If a man desired to see a friend, or hear the latest news, to Paul's Walk he must go, where he would be bound to meet, sooner or later, most of the notables of town.

Beauvallet came up with a score of young gallants, exchanging Court gossip. His glance swept over these; he clove a way through them, and looked keenly round. Over the heads of two foppish gentlemen who eyed him with disfavour, he saw a bluff, square-set man, with a fierce golden beard, and long
grey eyes set slightly slanting in a broad face. This man stood with feet planted wide, and arms akimbo, talking to an elderly gentleman in a long cloak. He wore a peascod doublet, hugely bombasted, and a jewel in one ear.

Sir Nicholas pushed through the crowd, and raised his hand in greeting. The square man saw; his narrow eyes opened wider; he waved, and came to meet Beauvallet through the press. ‘What, my Nick!’ he rumbled. His voice had some strength, as if he were accustomed to make himself heard above wind and cannon-shot. ‘Why, my bully!’ He grasped Beauvallet's hand, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Whence do ye spring? God's light, I am glad to see you, lad!’

Some heads were turned. A gentleman pushed forward, saying: ‘Beauvallet, as I live! Save you, Nicholas!’

Beauvallet greeted this friend, and others who drew near. With Drake's hand on his shoulder he stood bandying idle talk some little while, answering eager questions. But soon Drake bore him off, and they walked back together towards the Devil Tavern.

‘What news?’ Drake said. ‘I had word of you in the Main, ruffling still. What chance?’

‘Good,’ Sir Nicholas answered, and recounted briefly some of his adventures.

Drake nodded. ‘No mishaps?’

‘Some few deaths, no more. Perinat came out from Santiago to teach me a lesson.’ He chuckled, and flung out a hand on which a single ruby ring glowed. ‘Oho! I took that from Perinat for dear remembrance's sake.’

Drake laughed, and pressed his arm. ‘Proud bantam! What else?’

‘A galleon bound for Vigo laden with silks and spices, and some gold. More of that anon. Tell your tale.’

Drake had Virginian news, being but just returned from the little colony. He had brought back the colonists, and had much to tell. Talk ran freely, and footsteps lagged. It was after eleven
when they reached the Devil, and in an upper room were gathered some half a dozen guests awaiting their host.

Drake rolled in with an arm flung across Beauvallet's shoulders. ‘Cry you pardon!’ he said. ‘Look what I bring!’

There was some little stir, a cry of ‘Mad Nicholas, by God!’ and a babel of welcome.

There was Frobisher, ready with a quiet greeting; Master William Hawkins, solid, frieze-clad man; young Richard, his nephew, standing beside Cavendish, a courtier among the sea-dogs; Master John Davys, rugged man, and a scattering of others, most of them known to Sir Nicholas. The rafters rang soon with wild tales tossed to and fro, laughter, and the clink of tankards. Drake sat fatherly at the head of his table, and had Sir Nicholas upon his right hand, Frobisher on his left. Frobisher bent his brows at Beauvallet, and said: ‘I heard of your coming; there were some men of yours met some of mine at the Gallant Howard. Fine doings! I am advised you sail with women aboard. How now, Beauvallet?’

Drake cocked a wise eyebrow in Beauvallet's direction; young Cavendish looked as though he would like to hear more, yet hardly liked to raise his voice in this august gathering.

‘True enough,’ Sir Nicholas said lightly.

‘Rare work for a sailor,’ Frobisher said ironically. ‘A new cantrip, I doubt?’

‘You’re jealous, Martin,’ Drake cut in with a deep laugh. ‘What's the reason, Nick?’

‘Simple enough,’ Beauvallet said, and told it, very briefly.

Drake dipped a sop in his wine, and looked sideways a moment. Frobisher said grimly: ‘Beauvallet looks for romance upon the high seas, and makes his fine gesture. I would not sail with you, Beauvallet, for a thousand pound.’

‘No stomach for it, Frobisher?’ Sir Nicholas said sweetly.

‘None, beshrew me. What fresh devilment this voyage?’

‘Some fine prizes,’ Drake said. ‘And a ring from Perinat – for remembrance's sake, Nick, eh?’

‘I am a plain man,’ Frobisher remarked. ‘Too plain for such doings. Drake and you, Drake and you!’ He shook his head over them.

Master Davys let a sudden laugh at this, and began at once to speak of a mooted expedition in search of the North-West passage he so fervently believed in. ‘Ay, you’re a mad runagate, Nick, but there's a place for you with me if you care to venture forth.’

At that there broke out a general discussion, some ribaldry, and a gentle twitting of Master Davys’ earnestness.

Cavendish, listening bright-eyed to all this discourse, ventured a word here and there, and presently spoke of his own plans. He had three ships fitting out for a West Indian expedition, and was agog to follow brave examples set him. Sir Nicholas wished him God-speed, and drank success to his venture. He found the grave, considering grey eyes of young Richard Hawkins upon him. He threw him a gay word, and young Richard blushed, and laughed.

‘This babe sails with you, Drake?’ Sir Nicholas said. ‘Well-a-day! I left him scarce out of his swaddling-bands!’

‘Ay, ay,’ Drake said. ‘All alike, these Hawkins – born to the sea. Did you have speech with old Master Hawkins at Plymouth?’

‘Long speech, over a tankard of rare beer. I hear the great John grows greater still, Richard.’

‘My father talks of war with Spain,’ Richard said. ‘He says Walsingham looks keenly for it.’

‘A cup to the happy day!’ Beauvallet said.

Frobisher struck in to inquire of Beauvallet's plans; Master Davys, aroused from a dish of eels, struck the table with his clenched fist, and loudly bade Beauvallet sail with him to the North-West passage.

Beauvallet turned it off with a laugh, and gave Frobisher an evasive answer. Drake looked sideways again.

But it was not until much later, when these two sat alone in the empty room, over a fire of sea-coal, that Drake put his question. Then he puffed at his long pipe, and stretched his massive legs out before him, and looked up at Beauvallet out of his narrow, all-seeing eyes. ‘What devilment, Nick? Let me have it.’

Beauvallet brought his quick gaze up from the red heart of the fire, and looked challengingly. ‘Why must I needs have devilment in mind?’

Drake pointed the stem of his pipe. ‘I know you, Nick, d’ye see? You’ve not given me the full sum of it, but Martin jumped your fine secret for you.’

So he had it then, in a few graphic words. It made his jaw drop a little, but it made him twinkle too. ‘Pretty, very pretty!’ he said. ‘But what now?’

‘I shall go to Spain to fetch her,’ answered Sir Nicholas, in much the same tone as he would have said he would go to Westminster.

At that Drake let out a mighty echoing laugh. ‘God amend all!’ He sobered suddenly, and leaning forward took Beauvallet's arm in a strong hold. ‘Look you, Nick, ha’ done. Art too good a man to be lost.’

The gleaming blue eyes met those long grey ones for an instant. ‘Do you think I shall be lost then?’

Drake twisted his beard upwards, and chewed the end of it. ‘Well, you’re human.’ His shoulders began to shake again. ‘Ho, pull me Philip's long nose, Nick, if ye see his Satanic Majesty! You would come safe out of hell, I dare swear. But how to come into Spain? Your smuggling port?’

‘Nay, I had thought of it, but it's to court exposure. I must have papers to show at need. The plague is on it we have no ambassador in Madrid today.’

‘English papers would never serve,’ Drake said. ‘You’re frustrated at the very outset. Go to, put the folly aside.’

‘Not I, by God! I shall try my fortune with my French kinsmen.’

‘God's Death, have you any?’

‘A-many. One in particular would be glad to serve me for old times sake, I believe. The Marquis de Belrémy, with whom I travelled many leagues on the Continent, years ago. Ay, and we saw some scrapes together, God wot!’ He laughed softly, remembering. ‘If he can put me in the way to get French papers, well. If not – I shall still find a way.’

Drake puffed in silence for a moment. ‘And a licence to travel over seas, Master Madman. Letters of Marque won’t serve for this emprise. It's in my mind the Queen may have other plans for you than to lose you in a harebrained venture to Spain.’

‘Trust me to get a licence. If the Queen will not, think you Walsingham would be so nice?’

Drake pulled a grimace. ‘Ay, marry, we know he’d be glad enough to send a spy into Spain. Beshrew your heart, Nick, it's madness! Do you hold your life of so mean account?’

‘Nay, but it's charmed. Yourself said so, Drake. Where lies the Court?’

‘At Westminster.’

‘Then I’m for Westminster tomorrow,’ said Sir Nicholas.

He came to the palace in the forenoon of the next day, very bravely tricked out in a slashed doublet, scented with musk, and his beard fresh trimmed. He had a cloak of the Burgundian cut aswirl from his shoulders, and caught up carelessly over one arm. It was not difficult to gain access to the palace, especially for Sir Nicholas Beauvallet, who was known to be a favourite with the Queen's Grace. She had always a soft corner in her heart for a handsome dare-devil.

Sir Nicholas reached, without difficulty, one of the Long Galleries to which he had been directed. Some of the Queen's
ladies were gathered here, and many of the court gallants. He learned that the Queen was closeted with the French Ambassador, Sir Francis Walsingham and Sir James Crofts in attendance. This he had from the Vice-Chancellor, Sir Christopher Hatton, strutting in the gallery. Hatton gave him a cool, polite greeting, and two fingers to do what he willed with. Beauvallet let them fall soon enough, and fell into talk with the elegant and grave Raleigh, also waiting for her Grace to come into the gallery. Sir Christopher rolled a fiery eye, and seemed to withdraw the hem of his garment from Raleigh's vicinity. At that Sir Nicholas grinned openly. Sir Christopher's jealousies seemed to him absurd.

He had to wait perhaps half an hour, but he employed his time pleasantly enough, and very soon drew a shocked titter from one of the Maids of Honour, who rated him for a bold, saucy fellow. This he certainly was.

There came a stir at the far end of the gallery; a curtain was held back, and four people came slowly into the gallery. First of these was the Queen, a thin lady of no more than middle-height, but mounted on very high heels. A huge ruff, spangled with gems, rose behind her head, which was of fiery colour, much crimped and curled, and elaborately dressed with jewelled combs, and the like. Still more monstrous loomed her farthingale, and her sleeves were puffed out from her arms, and sewn over with jewels. She was dazzling to behold, arrayed in the richest stuffs, glinting with precious stones. She drew all eyes, but she would still have done so had she been dressed in the simplest fustian. Her face might have been a mask for the paint that covered it, but her eyes were very much alive: strange, dark eyes, not large, but very bright, and oddly piercing.

A little behind her, his hand upon the curtain, De Mauvissière bent his stately head to listen deferentially to some word she had flung at him over her shoulder. Behind him Sir Francis
Walsingham was folding a scrap of paper, which anon he handed to Crofts, frowning in the background. Sir Francis’ unfath omable, rather sad eyes, seemed to embrace everyone in the gallery. They rested thoughtfully on Beauvallet for a moment, but he made no sign.

De Mauvissière bent to kiss the Queen's hand. She was tapping her foot, and her eyes snapped dangerously. Her ladies, being familiar with the signs, knew some misgivings.

De Mauvissière went out backwards, bowing; the Queen nodded, and still tapped with one foot. She was out of temper, flashed an angry glance at her two ministers, and hunched a pettish shoulder.

Walsingham crooked a long finger. His royal mistress must be diverted: not Hatton, not Raleigh, whom she might see every day, would serve. Sir Nicholas Beauvallet was come in a good hour.

‘God's Death!’ swore her Grace. ‘It seems I am right well entreated!’

There was a quick step; a gentleman was on his knee before her, and dared to look up, twinkling, into her face.

‘God's Death!’ swore her Grace again, hugely delighted. ‘Beauvallet!’

Well, he had her hand to kiss, got a rap over the knuckles from her fan, and was bidden rise up. The storm had passed over; her Grace was happily diverted. Walsingham might hide a quiet smile in his beard; Sir James Crofts could banish his worried frown.

‘Ha, rogue!’ said her Grace, showing teeth a little discoloured in a smile of great good-humour. ‘So you return again!’

‘As a needle to the magnet, madam,’ Sir Nicholas said promptly.

She leaned on his arm, and took a few steps with him down the gallery. ‘What news do ye bring me of my good cousin of Spain?’

‘Alack, madam, to my sure knowledge he hath lost three good ships: a carrack, and two tall galleons.’

Her bright eyes looked sidelong at him. ‘So! So! To whom fell they a prey?’

‘To a rogue, madam. One named Beauvallet.’

She burst out laughing. ‘I swear I love thee well, my merry ruffler!’ She beckoned up Walsingham, and gave him the news. ‘What must we do with him, Sir Francis?’ she demanded. ‘Ask of me, my rogue, and ye shall have.’ She awaited his answer without misgiving for well she knew that he was in need of naught, but was come instead to enrich her coffers.