Joshua was anxiously awaiting his master’s return, and heaved a large sigh of relief upon seeing him come in, Sir Nicholas flung himself into a chair. “God’s Death, what a court!” he said. Then he began to laugh. “What a king! what a graven king! If one had but whispered El Beauvallet in his ear! Only to see him start!”
“God forbid!” said Joshua devoutly. “Hey, but this likes me not at all!” He looked anxiously. “How long do we remain, master?”
“Who knows? What a tale for Drake! God send I win through to tell it him!”
“God send so indeed, sir,” said Joshua glumly.
“Comfort you, knave: in three short weeks the Venture will cruise off that smuggling port we wot of, and every night she will creep in towards the coast, and watch for my signal.”
“What use if you be clapped up?” said Joshua rather tartly.
“I shall win free, don’t doubt it. Hearken, my man, a moment! This plot grows thicker still, and there are pitfalls. If I should fall into one. …” He paused, and sniffed at his pomander, eyes narrowed and meditative. “Ay. If I be taken, Joshua, remove on the instant from this place, with all my traps. Go look for an obscure tavern against our needs. I shall then know where to find you. When you hear of my death—or if I come not inside ten days—make all speed to that port, and signal with a lantern after dark, as you know how. That’s in case of need. Trust yet awhile in Beauvallet’s luck. Go now, and nose me out the house of Don Diaz de Losa. I visit there this evening. If you can get news of Don Manuel de Rada, call me your debtor.”
“A plague on all women!” Joshua said. But he said it on the other side of the door.
Don Diaz de Losa’s apartments were crowded when Beauvallet arrived that evening. There was dicing going forward in one room, where a great many young caballeros were gathered, but the function seemed to have more the nature of a cold reception. Magnificent gentlemen strolled from group to group; there were ladies amongst them, not so discreet as had been the ladies of Spain in a bygone age. Serving men in the de Losa livery, each one bearing his master’s cognizance offered refreshments on heavy silver trays to the guests. There was wine in glasses of Venetian ware: Valdepeñas from Morena, red wine of Vinaroz and Benicarlo; Manzanilla, lightest of sherris-wines from San Lucar. With these went sweetmeats and fruit: Asturian pomegranates and grapes from Malaga, but other refreshment there was none. To an English taste this might seem meagre, to be sure, in the face of so much ostentatious display. Don Diaz’s house had carpets to tread upon, chairs lined with cut velvet, candelabras of wrought silver, a Toledo clock of rare design, hangings of silk and tapestry, but it did not seem to be the Spanish custom to entertain guests with banquets, as would have been done in kindlier England.
There was an oppressive grandeur over all, as though each man, were mindful of his high degree, and the canons of polite behaviour. No voice was raised lightheartedly; all talk was measured and punctilious, so that Beauvallet’s laugh sounded strangely in this sedate gathering, and men turned their heads to see whence came the carefree sound.
It had been provoked by a gentleman from Andalusia, to whom Don Diaz had made the Chevalier known. This Southerner had a gaiety lacking in the grave Castilians, or the proud Aragonese, and had cracked some joke for the Chevalier’s delectation. They stood chatting easily enough, so easily that Don Juan was moved to congratulate the Chevalier on the excellence of his Spanish. No doubt the señor had been in Spain before, or had at least Spanish friends?
Beauvallet owned to a Spanish friend, and said that this one had enjoyed the acquaintance of Don Manuel de Rada y Sylva. Had he the name aright?
“Ah, the late Governor of Santiago!” Don Juan said, and shook his head.
The golden pomander was held to the Chevalier’s nose. Over it his eyes were watchful. “I had thought to present myself to him,” Beauvallet said.
“You have not heard, señor: Don Manuel is dead these three months. A strange tale!”
“Dead!” Beauvallet said. “How is that?”
“The West Indian climate, señor. Treacherous! ah, but treacherous! But there was more to it: a tale to take one’s breath away!”
“But let me hear it, señor, of your kindness!”
The Southerner spread out his hands. “Have you in France heard of a certain English pirate? One named El Beauvallet?”
“Assuredly!” Sir Nicholas’ eyes danced. “Who has not heard of him? The Scourge of Spain I have heard him called. Am I right?”
“Very right, señor. Alas! They say the man uses witchcraft.” Don Juan crossed himself, and was swiftly imitated. Sir Nicholas’ black lashes hid the laughter in his downcast eyes. When he raised them again they were grave, if you could discount the merriness that must always lurk at the back of them. Don Juan, absorbed in his tale, did not notice it. “He sacked and sank the ship that bore Don Manuel home, and—you will scarce credit it—took Don Manuel and his daughter aboard his own vessel.”
“So!” Beauvallet raised politely surprised eyebrows. “But wherefor?”
“Who shall say, señor? A mad whim one would suppose, for one can hardly credit such a man with chivalrous intent. They say he is mad, who have had traffic with him. But he had the effrontery, señor, to put into a port of Spain, and there to set Don Manuel ashore!”
“You astonish me, señor,” said
