It was set upon the chest. Beauvallet slowly wiped his sword, and returned it to its scabbard. He drew forth the packet from his breast, and slit open the silk with his dagger. Crackling sheets of paper were inside. Beauvallet bent towards the lamp. His eyes ran over the first sheet frowningly, and came to rest on the signature. A short exclamation broke from him, and he pulled the lantern nearer yet. He held a letter from the Guise to King Philip in his hand, but the bulk of it was writ in cipher.
Joshua, inquisitively hovering at hand, ventured a question. “What is it, master? Doth the writing give his name, perchance?”
Beauvallet was looking now at a fair-inscribed pass. “It seems, my Joshua,” he said, “that I have slain a scion of the house of Guise.”
“God mend my soul!” quoth Joshua. “Shall it serve, master? Shall we turn it to good account?”
“Since these purport to be papers writ to his Catholic Majesty it seems we may turn it to very good account,” Sir Nicholas said, poring over the first paper again. “Now, I have some knowledge of ciphers, as I believe. …” He looked up. “Get you to bed, rogue, get you to bed!”
An hour later Joshua, waking as he turned on his bed, saw Sir Nicholas seated still by the chest, with a soaked cloth bound about a head which Joshua judged had good cause to ache, and his brows close-knit over the papers. Joshua closed his eyes again, and sank back into slumber.
He woke again to broad daylight. Sir Nicholas lay asleep in the big bed; there was no sign of the papers. Joshua dressed softly, and stole away downstairs. He found there a perplexed landlord who was loud in abuse of the young gentleman who had stolen away in the night without paying his shot. Joshua’s casual interest in this was well acted. He asked the proper questions, exclaimed piously at such behaviour, and thought privately of the night’s work.
In a little while the voice of Sir Nicholas was heard, calling for his man. Joshua skipped upstairs with a tray bearing his master’s breakfast.
Sir Nicholas was wide awake, and as brisk as though he had not sat up through the night puzzling over a cipher. His eyes were bright and unclouded; only a damp cloth on the floor bore witness of the night’s labours.
Joshua set down the tray, and shook out a clean shirt for Sir Nicholas. “Look you, master, there is a deal of pother below, on account of we-know-what. Where is the man gone? why is he gone? I do not presume to answer, me, but I consider it meet we should make all speed over the Frontier.”
“Just as soon as I have broken my fast,” said Beauvallet. “See that door well-shut. Now, rogue, give ear a minute.” He drank some wine, and broke off a piece of rye bread. “I am become overnight the Chevalier Claude de Guise, do ye mark me?”
“Well, master. I said we might turn all to good account.”
“The best. I don’t fathom all these papers, and one is sealed fast. But enough to serve, I judge. Matters too high for you, but ye may know that we travel henceforth as a secret messenger from the Guise to King Philip. Hey, but I have meat for Walsingham in this!” He stretched, and reached out a hand for his shirt. “A great venture, rogue—the greatest I have been on.”
“Like to end in nasty wise,” Joshua grumbled. “Secret messengers, forsooth! Ay, we shall be so secret there’s none will hear of us again.”
“An ill jest. This as mad a quest as I have ever known. Does your courage fail? Turn back then, you have still time.”
Joshua threw out his chest. “Ho, pretty speaking! I follow to the end. Moreover, it has been foretold that I shall die in my bed. What have I to fear?”
“On then,” said Sir Nicholas, and laughed. “On, and reck not!”
IX
It was an easy matter to cross the Frontier, armed with the Chevalier de Guise’s credentials. From as much of the despatch to Philip as he could read, or was not sealed, Beauvallet had learned that the youthful Frenchman was some sort of a cousin to the Duc de Guise, and it seemed probable from so particular a mention of him that he had not been employed on an errand into Spain before. Beauvallet did not doubt that he could brave out the imposture, but he knew that he carried his life in his hand. One evil chance, one Frenchman in Madrid to whom the Chevalier was known, and he might expect to find himself sped. The knowledge made him set his horse caracolling on the road, never so keenly enjoying life as when he stood in danger of losing it. He tossed his sword up in the air, and caught it deftly as it fell. The sunlight glinted all along the shimmering blade. Between eight crowns the name Andrea Ferrara was inscribed, and beneath it a pungent motto:—My bite is sure
. “A sword and my wits against all Spain!” sang out Beauvallet, and whistled a catch between his teeth. Then he fell to thinking of her whom he went to seek, and the leagues passed uncounted.
There was time enough for meditation during these long days upon the road, for it took them close on two weeks to come within sight of Madrid, a white town perched on a spur above a vast plateau, looking north over many windy leagues to the Guadarrama Mountains, and south to the grand chain that
