It was unlocked. He went in cautiously, and found himself in an empty bedchamber, poorly furnished, and with one small cresset lamp burning over the mantelpiece. It was probably some tirewoman’s chamber, he thought. He closed the door softly behind him, and went to the window. It stood open, looking on to the garden. Sir Nicholas swung one leg over the sill, feeling for a foothold. The wistaria brushed his leg; he found a branch, swung the other leg over, caught at the thick tendrils, and went sliding, scrambling down to the balcony immediately below, upon the first storey. The wistaria tore away from the wall, but he reached to safety. He had one leg over the balcony rail, one hand feeling for a hold on the creeper, when there came a noise to make him draw back quickly.
The door leading into the garden from the hall below was flung open; there was the flare of a torch, and a voice said clearly: “Two of you keep guard lest he try to escape this way.”
Without a moment’s hesitation Sir Nicholas slipped in at the open window behind him.
The curtains were slightly parted, and a soft light shone through. Sir Nicholas, keeping against the dark background of the curtain, peeped in. The room was empty; Sir Nicholas went in and pulled the curtains to behind him.
“God’s Life!” he muttered ruefully. “Where am I now?”
He stood in a large bedchamber, which was furnished in a massive style, with a great four-posted bed hung with curtains of velvet, a chest of inlay work, a table, chairs, and a hanging cupboard against the wall. There was a door opposite the window and even as Sir Nicholas went towards it footsteps sounded outside, and a hand was laid on the latch. Sir Nicholas drew swiftly back to the bed and slipped behind the heavy curtains.
The door opened; someone came in with a quick step, went to the table, and pulled a drawer out in it. There was a rustle of paper; Sir Nicholas parted the curtain and saw a man standing with his back to him, hurriedly turning over papers in the drawer. He was cloaked, and wore a large capotain hat with a drooping plume in it. At his side, hitching up the long folds of the cloak, hung a rapier.
Inch by inch, catlike, Sir Nicholas came towards him. A board creaked suddenly under his foot; the cloaked man turned sharply, and as he turned Beauvallet’s fist shot out. The man fell without a sound, and Sir Nicholas saw that he had knocked out no less a personage than Don Cristobal de Porres, Governor of the Guards.
“God save the mark, my noble gaoler!” said Sir Nicholas, and stepped over Porres’ prostrate form to the door. He shut it, cast a quick glance at the limp figure, and went to the bed. With one eye watchfully upon the Governor he slit the fine brocade coverlet into strips with his dagger, and came back to kneel beside the still form.
“Nay, but I am sorry for this, my poor friend,” he said, and stuffed one of his strips into Don Cristobal’s slack mouth. Another, torn across was tied hastily round to keep the rude gag in place. He unclasped the cloak from about Don Cristobal’s neck, and the gleaming collar of the Golden Fleece met his eyes. Off it came; Sir Nicholas gave a tiny chuckle. “My dear friend,” said he, “I believe this may stand me in very good stead. You shall not grudge it me.” He fastened the collar round his own neck, unbuckled the baldrick that held the Governor’s rapier, and neatly bound the unfortunate man’s ankles and wrists. As he tied the last knot Don Cristobal stirred, and opened his eyes. They fell on Beauvallet, seemed bewildered at first, and then as full consciousness returned, furious.
“I know, I know,” said Sir Nicholas. “I am sorry for it, señor, but you will admit I am hard-pressed.” His eyes twinkled. “A churlish return for all your kindness, Don Cristobal, and I would not have had you think El Beauvallet so ungrateful a dog.” He saw the look of consternation leap into the Governor’s face, and laughed. “Oh yes, señor, I am El Beauvallet.” As he spoke he was buckling the rich baldrick about his waist. “Señor, I must stow you away. Keep my sword in exchange for this of yours; it is a rare blade, and you may say with truth that you were the only man who ever took aught from Nick Beauvallet against his will. Now, señor, if you please.” He had opened the door of the cupboard, and now he bundled Don Cristobal into it, and shut the door upon him. He picked up the cloak, fastened it about his shoulders, and disposed its ample folds about his person. The Governor’s lace handkerchief and long cane lay on the floor; Sir Nicholas gathered them up, set the broad-brimmed hat well over his eyes, thanked God for a beard and a pair of mustachios very like Don Cristobal’s, and walked to the door. As he laid his hand on the latch there was a scratching on one of the panels, and a man’s voice called: “Señor, the coach waits.”
“In a very good hour!” thought Sir Nicholas. “God send I may brazen this out. I thank my luck that the light is behind me. Forward, El Beauvallet!” He opened the door, and went calmly out into the passage.
A servant stood there; Sir Nicholas could not see his features plainly in the dim light of the passage, and hoped that his own were as well hid. He closed the door behind him, and motioned the servant to go before. The man bowed, and went ahead at once.
Along the passage they walked to the stairs at the end. The servant stood aside there for Sir Nicholas to pass.
