The secretary bowed in his turn, and held out his hand. “I will deliver them to his Majesty, señor.”
At that Beauvallet raised his black brows delicately. Maybe he thought it more in the part, maybe it was the audacity of the man, or a mere curiosity to see this far-famed Philip, but he said gently: “My orders, señor, are to deliver these letters into his Majesty’s own hands.”
The secretary bowed again. “All goes very well,” thought Beauvallet, watching him like a lynx, in spite of his careless demeanour.
“Follow me, señor, if you please,” said the secretary, and led the way up the stairs to a long gallery above.
Down a labyrinth of corridors they seemed to walk, until they came to a curtained doorway. Beauvallet went through into a severely furnished chamber, and was left there to wait again.
More martyrdoms hung on the walls. Sir Nicholas grimaced at them, and deplored his Catholic Majesty’s taste. Another half-hour passed; King Philip was in no hurry, it seemed. Sir Nicholas looked out of the window on to a paved court, and yawned from time to time.
Back came the secretary at last. “His Majesty will receive you, señor,” he said, and gave back the Chevalier’s credentials into his keeping. “This way, if you please.” He held back the curtain for Beauvallet to pass out, and led him across the corridor to double doors. These opened at his scratch upon the solid panels; Sir Nicholas found himself in an antechamber where two men sat writing at a table, and two guards stood beside the doors. He followed the secretary across the room to a curtained archway; the curtain was swung back by a guard there, and the secretary went through. “The Chevalier de Guise, sire,” he said, bowing very low, and drew back a little against the wall.
Sir Nicholas came coolly in, paused a moment as the curtain fell back into place behind him, and in one swift glance noted the contents of this bare, cell-like apartment. There was little enough to note. A chest, an escritoire, a priest by the window, a table in the middle of the room, and behind it, seated in a high-backed chair with arms, with his foot upon a velvet stool, a pallid man with sparse yellow locks, flecked with grey; and a yellow beard, scant as his meagre thatch; and hooded eyes, sombre and vulturine under the puckered lids.
Sir Nicholas sank gracefully down on to his knee; the plumes in his hat swept the ground before him. “God’s my life!” was his irrepressible thought. “The two of us in one small room, and he does not know it!”
“The Chevalier de Guise,” repeated Philip in a slow, harsh voice. “We bid you welcome, señor.”
But there was no kindliness in the expressionless tone, nor any life in those dull eyes. “There would be less kindliness if he knew how he bade Nick Beauvallet welcome,” thought Sir Nicholas, as he rose to his feet.
Philip, sitting so still in his chair, seemed to study him for a moment. It was tense, that moment, fraught with peril. Sir Nicholas stood calmly under the scrutiny; they were not to know how ready to be out was the sword at his side. The moment passed. “You have letters for us,” said the slow voice.
Beauvallet brought the silken packet out from the breast of his doublet, came to the table, knelt again, and so offered it.
The King’s hand touched his as he took the packet; the fingers felt cold and slightly damp. He gave the packet to the secretary, and made a movement to Beauvallet to rise. “Your first visit to Spain, señor?”
“My first, sire.”
Philip inclined his head. The secretary had slit the silken wrapper, and now spread crackling sheets before his master. Philip’s eyes travelled slowly over the first page, but never changed in their lacklustre expression. “I see you are cousin to the Duc de Guise, señor,” he remarked, and pushed the sheets away from him on the table’s polished surface. “We will look over these matters, and have an answer for you in a week or so.” Haste was a word not in his Majesty’s vocabulary. He spoke to the secretary. “Vasquez, if Don Diaz de Losa is in the palace you will send to fetch him.” He brought his gaze back to Beauvallet. “Don Diaz will look to your entertainment, señor. Your lodging?”
Beauvallet gave the name of his inn. Philip seemed to consider it. “Yes, it is best,” he said. “You are not here officially.”
“I give out, sire, that I am travelling for my pleasure.”
“That is well,” said Philip. “You will contrive to pass the time pleasantly, I trust. Madrid has much to show.”
“I have promised myself a ride out to see the great Escorial, sire,” said Sir Nicholas, assuming reverential tones.
Some spark of life entered Philip’s eyes, enthusiasm into his dead voice. He began to talk of his vast palace, nearing its completion, he said. He talked as one absorbed in his theme, as in a holy matter, and was still talking when Matteo de Vasquez came back into the room. He was accompanied by a stately gentleman of middle years, dressed very magnificently, in contrast to the black-garbed King.
The brief enthusiasm left Philip. He presented Don Diaz de Losa, and consigned the Chevalier to his care. In the wake of this nobleman Beauvallet bowed himself out of the King’s cabinet.
It seemed that Don Diaz was in the King’s confidence, for he asked none but the most trivial questions. He had a grave Castilian courtesy, and begged that the Chevalier would call on him for any needs he might have. He escorted him through the corridors to a gallery, where a fair sprinkling of gentlemen were gathered, and presented him punctiliously to all who were present. The Chevalier was a gentleman from the French Court, travelling
