Beauvallet · Chapter 9 (2/2)

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 Sir Nicholas. “I suppose he bore off the daughter to England, this famous freebooter?”

“One might have expected it, but no. Doña Dominica took no hurt, though her father died soon after his landing. She is under the guardianship of her good aunt, Doña Beatrice de Carvalho.”

“Thank you for that information,” thought Sir Nicholas, and made a mental note of the name. Aloud he said: “But this is a wonder that you recount, señor! To escape unhurt from the clutches of so desperate a villain as this Beauvallet!” His shoulders shook ever so slightly.

A gentleman standing close to them turned his head and looked keenly. He bowed to Don Juan, and again to the Chevalier. “Your pardon, señor, but you spoke a certain name. Has that freebooter been taken at last?”

Don Juan made the introduction, but it was Beauvallet who answered. “Nay, nay, señor! Surely he bears a charmed life? I have heard men say so.”

“As to that, we shall see, señor,” said the newcomer. “You have set eyes on him, maybe?”

“I have seen him, yes,” Sir Nicholas answered. The long fingers that swung his pomander gently to and fro never quivered. “In Paris, where he sometimes visits.”

Don Juan displayed a lively curiosity. “Is it so indeed? And is he as mad as they say? They tell us, who have had dealings with him, that he is a man with black hair who laughs.”

White teeth gleamed for a moment. “Yes, he laughs, señor,” said Sir Nicholas. A chuckle came, they little knew how audacious. “I dare swear if he stood in this room surrounded by his enemies at this moment, he would still laugh. It is a habit with him.”

“One hardly credits it, señor,” the stately gentleman replied. “There would very soon be an end to his laughter.” He bowed slightly, and passed on.

Don Diaz came up at that moment, and laid his hand on Beauvallet’s arm. “I have been searching for you, Chevalier. I would present you to a countryman of yours: your ambassador, M. de Lauvinière.”

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Beauvallet betray how unwelcome this courtesy was to him. Danger crouched before him; he went smiling towards it: Beauvallet’s way!

Don Diaz led him across the room, and spoke in a soft undertone. “It is judged best, señor, that no secret should be made of your visit to Madrid. M. de Lauvinière might then suspect. I need not warn you to be on your guard with him. There he stands, near the door.”

The Frenchman was a man with grey hair and a hook nose. His eyes were deep-set, and he looked piercingly. Upon Don Diaz’s presentation of the Chevalier he bowed, and looked with a keenness that probed deep. “A cousin of the Duc de Guise?” he said. “I do not think.⁠ ⁠…” He frowned a little, and his eyes never wavered from Beauvallet’s face. “But I claim the very slightest acquaintance with the Guises.”

Therein lay a certain safeguard, thought Beauvallet. It was not to be expected that a member of the Court party would be on terms of friendship with the great Guise family.

“I am a distant cousin of the Duc’s, monsieur,” said Sir Nicholas.

“So?” De Lauvinière looked still more searchingly. “Of what branch of the family, monsieur, if one may ask?”

It would not do to hesitate. “Of the junior branch, monsieur. The Duc is my cousin in the second degree.”

“I have heard of you, monsieur,” the ambassador said. “I had thought you a younger man. Do you make a long stay in Madrid?”

“Why no, monsieur, I believe not. I have a desire to visit Sevilla and Toledo.”

“Ah yes, you should certainly journey south,” nodded de Lauvinière.

A lady came up on the arm of her husband to claim his attention. Beauvallet drew back thankfully. Had he been vouchsafed a glimpse of a postscript added to de Lauvinière’s letter home, and despatched upon the morrow, it might have shaken his nerve.

“I should be glad,” wrote his excellency, “if you would discover what age man is the Chevalier Claude de Guise, cousin to the present Duc. Let me have what news you can hear of him, in especial of what like he is, of what height, and of what lineaments. Your assured friend, Henri de Lauvinière.”