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’ unfathomable, 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.
“Two boons, madam, I crave on my knees.”
“God’s Son! This is churlish-sounding, by my faith! Name ’em then.”
“The first is that your Grace will accept of a New Year’s gift I am come so tardily to offer—a trifle of rubies, no more. The second is that your Grace will give me leave to travel into France for a space.”
That did not please her so well. She frowned over it, and would know more. “I vow I’ll give you a place about the Court,” she said.
It was his turn to frown. Your true courtier would have smiled, and murmured his eternal devotion. This Mad Nicholas must needs twitch his black brows together, and give a quick unmannerly shake of his head.
“By God, you’re a saucy knave!” her Grace said stridently. But she sounded more amused than angered. “What’s this? You’ll none?”
“Give me leave to travel awhile, madam,” begged Sir Nicholas.
“I’m minded to box your ears, sirrah!” said her Grace.
“Oh, madam, forgive a tongue unused to speak softly! I had rather serve you with the strong arm abroad than lie idle at your Court.”
“Well! well! That’s prettily spoken, eh, Walsingham? But I don’t need your strong arm in France. Nay, I grant no licence to you. Be plain with me, sirrah!” She saw his blue eyes dancing, and struck him lightly on the arm with her fan. “Ha, you laugh? God’s Death, you are a daring rogue! Let me hear it. Speak, Beauvallet: the Queen listens.”
“Madam, I’ll not deceive you.” Beauvallet dropped to his knee. “Give me leave to go into Spain awhile.”
This startling request fell into an amazed silence. Then her Grace burst out again into her loud laugh, and those at the far end of the gallery envied Mad Nicholas who could so amuse the Queen. “A jest! An idle jest!” the Queen rapped out. But her piercing gaze was intent upon him. “Wherefor, then?”
“Madam, to perform a vow. Grant me so small a boon.”
“Grant you leave to throw away your life? What shall that profit me? Do you hear this, Walsingham? Is the man mad in good sooth, think you?”
Walsingham was stroking his beard. He too watched Sir Nicholas, but there was no reading what was in his mind. “Sir Nicholas might haply bring news out of Spain,” he said slowly.
The Queen turned an impatient shoulder. “Oh, get some other to do your spies’ work, sir! Well, and if I grant this boon, Sir Nicholas? What then?”
“Why, madam, only tell me what you would have me bring you out of Spain?”
Maybe the swift rejoinder pleased her; maybe she was curious to know what he would do. She said gaily:—“Marry, the best that Spain holds, sir. Mind you that!”
Then Walsingham spoke in his soft, cold voice, leading the talk away from this request. Beauvallet was content to have it so. The Queen gave neither yea nor nay, but Sir Francis Walsingham would certainly give a licence to Sir Nicholas Beauvallet for the good intelligence he saw might come of it.
VIII
It was over three months later that Sir Nicholas Beauvallet went riding southwards from Paris towards the Spanish border. There had been some necessary delay at home: treasure to be bestowed at the Queen’s pleasure, and his own affairs to look to. He had also to visit his sister in Worcestershire, and she would not soon let him go. He made a merry month of it there,
