Part 5

Lemprière stared at him swelling with rage; but the quaint smiling of the fool conquered him, and, instead of turning on his heel, he spread himself like a Colossus and looked down in grandeur. “And wherefore cry _David!_ and get quarrying?” he asked. “Come, what sense is there in thy words when I am wroth with yonder nobleman?”

“Oh, Nuncio, Nuncio, thou art a child of innocence and without history. The salt held not the bird for the net of thy anger, Nuncio; so it is meet that other ways be found. David the ancient put a stone in a sling, and Goliath laid him down like an egg in a nest--therefore, Nuncio, get thee to the quarry. Obligato, which is to say Leicester yonder, hath no tail--the devil cut it off and wears it himself. So let salt be damned, and go sling thy stone!”

Lemprière was good-humored again. He fumbled in his purse and brought forth a gold-piece. “Fool, thou hast spoken like a man born sensible and infinite. I understand thee like a book. Thou hast not folly, and thou shall not be answered as if thou wast a fool. But in terms of gold shalt thou have reply.” He put the gold-piece in the fool’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Why now, Nuncio,” answered the other, “it is clear that there is a fool at court, for is it not written that a fool and his money are soon parted? And this gold-piece is still hot with running ‘tween thee and me.”

Lemprière roared. “Why, then, for thy hit thou shalt have another gold-piece, gossip. But see”--his voice lowered--“know you where is my friend, Buonespoir the pirate? Know you where he is in durance?”

“As I know marrow in a bone I know where he hides, Nuncio; so come with me,” answered the fool.

“If De Carteret had but thy sense we could live at peace in Jersey,” rejoined Lemprière, and strode ponderously after the light-footed fool, who capered forth, singing:

“Come hither, O come hither, There’s a bride upon her bed; They have strewn her o’er with roses, There are roses ’neath her head: Life is love and tears and laughter, But the laughter it is dead-- Sing the way to the valley, to the valley!-- Hey, but the roses they are red!”

IX

The next day at noon, as her Majesty had advised the seigneur, De la Forêt was ushered into the presence. The Queen’s eye quickened as she saw him, and she remarked with secret pleasure the figure and bearing of this young captain of the Huguenots. She loved physical grace and prowess with a full heart. The day had almost passed when she would measure all men against Leicester in his favor; and he, knowing this clearly now, saw with haughty anxiety the gradual passing of his power, and clutched futilely at the vanishing substance. Thus it was that he now spent his strength in getting his way with the Queen in little things. She had been so long used to take his counsel--in some part wise and skilful that when she at length did without it or followed her own mind, it became a fever with him to let no chance pass for serving his own will by persuading her out of hers. This was why he had spent an hour the day before in sadly yet vaguely reproaching her for the slight she put upon him in the presence-chamber by her frown, and another in urging her to come to terms with Catherine dé Medici in this small affair--since the Frenchwoman had set her revengeful heart upon it--that larger matters might be settled to the gain of England. It was not so much that he had reason to destroy De la Forêt as that he saw that the Queen was disposed to deal friendly by him and protect him. He did not see the danger of rousing in the Queen the same unreasoning tenaciousness of will upon just such lesser things as might well be left to her advisers. In spite of which he almost succeeded, this very day, in regaining, for a time at least, the ground he had lost with her. He had never been so adroit, so brilliant, so witty, so insinuating; and he left her with the feeling that if he had his way concerning De la Forêt--a mere stubborn whim, with no fair reason behind it--his influence would be again securely set. The sense of crisis was on him.

On Michel de la Forêt entering the presence the Queen’s attention had become riveted. She felt in him a spirit of mastery yet of unselfish purpose. Here was one, she thought, who might well be in her household or leading a regiment of her troops. The clear, fresh face, curling hair, direct look, quiet energy, and air of nobility--this sort of man could only be begotten of a great cause; he were not possible in idle or prosperous times.

Elizabeth looked him up and down, then affected surprise. “Monsieur de la Forêt,” she said, “I do not recognize you in this attire”--glancing towards his dress.

De la Forêt bowed, and Elizabeth continued, looking at a paper in her hand: “You landed on our shores of Jersey in the robes of a priest of France. The passport for a priest of France was found upon your person when our officers in Jersey made search of you. Which is yourself--Michel de la Forêt, soldier, or a priest of France?”

De la Forêt replied, gravely, that he was a soldier and that the priestly dress had been but a disguise.

“In which papist attire, methinks, Michel de la Forêt, soldier and Huguenot, must have been ill at ease--the eagle with the vulture’s wing. What say you, monsieur?”

“That vulture’s wing hath carried me to a safe dove-cote, your gracious Majesty,” he answered, with a low obeisance.

“I’m none so sure of that, monsieur,” was Elizabeth’s answer, and she glanced quizzically at Leicester, who made a gesture of annoyance. “Our cousin, France, makes you to us a dark intriguer and conspirator, a dangerous weed in our good garden of England, a ‘troublous, treacherous violence’--such are you called, monsieur.”

“I am in your high Majesty’s power,” he answered, “to do with me as it seemeth best. If your Majesty wills it that I be returned to France, I pray you set me upon its coast as I came from it, a fugitive. Thence will I try to find my way to the army and the poor, stricken people of whom I was. I pray for that only, and not to be given to the red hand of the Medici.”

“Red hand--by my faith, but you are bold, monsieur!”

Leicester tapped his foot upon the floor impatiently, then caught the Queen’s eye and gave her a meaning look.

De la Forêt saw the look and knew his enemy, but he did not quail. “Bold only by your high Majesty’s faith, indeed,” he answered the Queen, with harmless guile.

Elizabeth smiled. She loved such nattering speech from a strong man. It touched a chord in her deeper than that under Leicester’s finger. Leicester’s impatience only made her more self-willed on the instant.

“You speak with the trumpet note, monsieur,” she said to De la Forêt. “We will prove you. You shall have a company in my Lord Leicester’s army here, and we will send you upon some service worthy of your fame.”

“I crave your Majesty’s pardon, but I cannot do it,” was De la Forêt’s instant reply. “I have sworn that I will lift my sword in one cause only, and to that I must stand. And more--the widow of my dead chief, Gabriel de Montgomery, is set down in this land unsheltered and alone. I have sworn to one who loves her, and for my dead chief’s sake, that I will serve her and be near her until better days be come and she may return in quietness to France. In exile we few stricken folk must stand together, your august Majesty.”

Elizabeth’s eye flashed up. She was impatient of refusal of her favor. She was also a woman, and that De la Forêt should flaunt his devotion to another woman was little to her liking. The woman in her, which had never been blessed with a noble love, was roused. The sourness of a childless, uncompanionable life was stronger for the moment than her strong mind and sense.

“Monsieur has sworn this, and monsieur has sworn that,” she said, petulantly--“and to one who loveth a lady, and for a cause--tut! tut! tut!--”

Suddenly a kind of intriguing laugh leaped into her eye, and she turned to Leicester and whispered in his ear. Leicester frowned, then smiled, and glanced up and down De la Forêt’s figure impertinently.

“See, Monsieur de la Forêt,” she added, “since you will not fight, you shall preach. A priest you came into my kingdom, and a priest you shall remain; but you shall preach good English doctrine and no Popish folly.”

De la Forêt started, then composed himself, and before he had time to reply Elizabeth continued:

“Partly for your own sake am I thus gracious, for as a preacher of the Word I have not need to give you up, according to agreement with our brother of France. As a rebel and conspirator I were bound to do so, unless you were an officer of my army. The Seigneur of Rozel has spoken for you, and the Comtesse de Montgomery has written a pleading letter. Also I have from another source a tearful prayer--the ink is scare dry upon it--which has been of service to you. But I myself have chosen this way of escape for you. Prove yourself worthy and all may be well--but prove yourself you shall. You have prepared your own brine, monsieur; in it you shall pickle.”

She smiled a sour smile, for she was piqued, and added: “Do you think I will have you here squiring of distressed dames save as a priest? You shall hence to Madame of Montgomery as her faithful chaplain, once I have heard you preach and know your doctrine.”

Leicester almost laughed outright in the young man’s face now, for he had no thought that De la Forêt would accept, and refusal meant the exile’s doom.

It seemed fantastic that this noble gentleman, this very type of the perfect soldier, with the brown face of a Romany and an athletic valor of body, should become a preacher even in necessity.

Elizabeth, seeing De la Forêt’s dumb amazement and anxiety, spoke up sharply: “Do this, or get you hence to the Medici, and Madame of Montgomery shall mourn her protector, and mademoiselle, your mistress of the vermilion cheek, shall have one lover the less, which, methinks, our Seigneur of Rozel would thank me for.”

De la Forêt started, his lips pressed firmly together in effort of restraint. There seemed little the Queen did not know concerning him, and reference to Angèle roused him to sharp solicitude.

“Well, well?” asked Elizabeth, impatiently, then made a motion to Leicester, and he, going to the door, bade some one to enter.

There stepped inside the Seigneur of Rozel, who made a lumbering obeisance, then got to his knees before the Queen.

“You have brought the lady safely--with her father?” she asked.

Lemprière, puzzled, looked inquiringly at the Queen, then replied, “Both are safe without, your infinite Majesty.”

De la Forêt’s face grew pale. He knew now for the first time that Angèle and her father were in England, and he looked Lemprière suspiciously in the eyes; but the swaggering seigneur met his look frankly, and bowed with ponderous and genial gravity.

Now De la Forêt spoke. “Your high Majesty,” said he, “if I may ask Mademoiselle Aubert one question in your presence--”

“Your answer now; the lady in due season,” interposed the Queen.

“She was betrothed to a soldier, she may resent a priest,” said De la Forêt, with a touch of humor, for he saw the better way was to take the matter with some outward ease.

Elizabeth smiled. “It is the custom of her sex to have a fondness for both,” she answered, with an acid smile. “But your answer?”

De la Forêt’s face became exceeding grave. Bowing his head, he said: “My sword has spoken freely for the cause; God forbid that my tongue should not speak also. I will do your Majesty’s behest.”

The jesting word that was upon the royal lips came not forth, for De la Forêt’s face was that of a man who had determined a great thing, and Elizabeth was one who had a heart for high deeds. “The man is brave indeed,” she said, under her breath, and, turning to the dumfounded seigneur, bade him bring in Mademoiselle Aubert.

A moment later, Angèle entered, came a few steps forward, made obeisance, and stood still. She showed no trepidation, but looked before her steadily. She knew not what was to be required of her--she was a stranger in a strange land; but persecution and exile had gone far to strengthen her spirit and greaten her composure.

Elizabeth gazed at the girl coldly and critically. To women she was not over-amiable; but as she looked at the young Huguenot maid, of this calm bearing, warm of color, clear of eye, and purposeful of face, something kindled in her. Most like it was that love for a cause which was more to be encouraged by her than any woman’s love for a man, which, as she grew older, inspired her with aversion, as talk of marriage brought cynical allusions to her lips.

“I have your letter and its protests and its pleadings. There were fine words and adjurations--are you so religious, then?” she asked, brusquely.

“I am a Huguenot, your noble Majesty,” answered the girl, as though that answered all.

“How is it, then, you are betrothed to a roistering soldier?” asked the Queen.

“Some must pray for Christ’s sake, and some must fight, your most Christian Majesty,” answered the girl.

“Some must do both,” rejoined the Queen, in a kinder voice, for the pure spirit of the girl worked upon her. “I am told that Monsieur de la Forêt fights fairly. If he can pray as well, methinks he shall have safety in our kingdom, and ye shall all have peace. On Trinity Sunday you shall preach in my chapel, Monsieur de la Forêt, and thereafter you shall know your fate.”

She rose. “My lord,” she said to Leicester, on whose face gloom had settled, “you will tell the Lord Chamberlain that Monsieur de la Forêt’s durance must be made comfortable in the west tower of my palace till chapel-going of Trinity Day. I will send him for his comfort and instruction some sermons of Latimer’s.”

She stepped down from the dais. “You will come with me, mistress,” she said to Angèle, and reached out her hand.

Angèle fell on her knees and kissed it, tears falling down her cheek, then rose and followed the Queen from the chamber. She greatly desired to look backward towards De la Forêt, but some good angel bade her not; she realized that to offend the Queen at this moment might ruin all; and Elizabeth herself was little like to offer chance for farewell and love-tokens.

So it was that, with bowed head, Angèle left the room with the Queen of England, leaving Lemprière and De la Forêt gazing at each other, the one bewildered, the other lost in painful reverie, and Leicester smiling maliciously at them both.

X

Every man, if you bring him to the right point, if you touch him in the corner where he is most sensitive, where he most lives, as it were; if you prick his nerves with a needle of suggestion where all his passions, ambitions, and sentiments are at white heat, will readily throw away the whole game of life in some mad act out of harmony with all he ever did. It matters little whether the needle prick him by accident or blunder or design, he will burst all bounds and establish again the old truth that each of us will prove himself a fool given perfect opportunity. Nor need the occasion of this revolution be a great one; the most trivial event may produce the great fire which burns up wisdom, prudence, and habit.

The Earl of Leicester, so long counted astute, clear-headed, and well governed, had been suddenly foisted out of balance, shaken from his imperious composure, tortured out of an assumed and persistent urbanity, by the presence in Greenwich Palace of a Huguenot exile of no seeming importance, save what the Medici grimly gave him by desiring his head. It appeared absurd that the great Leicester, whose nearness to the throne had made him the most feared, most notable, and, by virtue of his opportunities, the most dramatic figure in England, should have sleepless nights by reason of a fugitive like Michel de la Forêt. On the surface it was preposterous that he should see in the Queen’s offer of service to the refugee evidence that she was set to grant him special favors; it was equally absurd that her offer of safety to him on pledge of his turning preacher should seem proof that she meant to have him near her.

Elizabeth had left the presence-chamber without so much as a glance at him, though she had turned and looked graciously at the stranger. He had hastily followed her, and thereafter impatiently awaited a summons which never came, though he had sent a message that his hours were at her Majesty’s disposal. Waiting, he saw Angèle’s father escorted from the palace by a Gentleman Pensioner to a lodge in the park; he saw Michel de la Forêt taken to his apartments; he saw the Seigneur of Rozel walking in the palace grounds with such possession as though they were his own, self-content in every motion of his body.

Upon the instant the great earl was incensed out of all proportion to the affront of the seigneur’s existence. He suddenly hated Lemprière only less than he hated Michel de la Forêt. As he still waited irritably for a summons from Elizabeth, he brooded on every word and every look she had given him of late; he recalled her manner to him in the antechapel the day before, and the admiring look she cast on De la Forêt but now. He had seen more in it than mere approval of courage and the self-reliant bearing of a refugee of her own religion.

These were days when the soldier of fortune mounted to high places. He needed but to carry the banner of bravery and a busy sword, and his way to power was not hindered by poor estate. To be gently born was the one thing needful, and Michel de la Forêt was gently born; and he had still his sword, though he chose not to use it in Elizabeth’s service. My lord knew it might be easier for a stranger like De la Forêt, who came with no encumbrance, to mount to place in the struggles of the court, than for an Englishman, whose increasing and ever-bolder enemies were undermining on every hand, to hold his own.

He began to think upon ways and means to meet this sudden preference of the Queen, made sharply manifest, as he waited in the antechamber, by a summons to the refugee to enter the Queen’s apartments. When the refugee came forth again he wore a sword the Queen had sent him, and a packet of Latimer’s sermons were under his arm. Leicester was unaware that Elizabeth herself did not see De la Forêt when he was thus hastily called; but that her lady-in-waiting, the Duke’s Daughter, who figured so largely in the pictures Lemprière drew of his experiences at Greenwich Palace, brought forth the sermons and the sword, with this message from the Queen:

“The Queen says that it is but fair to the sword to be by Michel de la Forêt’s side when the sermons are in his hand, that his choice have every seeming of fairness. For her Majesty says it is still his choice between the Sword and the Book till Trinity Day.”

Leicester, however, only saw the sword at the side of the refugee and the gold-bound book under his arm as he came forth, and in a rage he left the palace and gloomily walked under the trees, denying himself to every one.

To seize De la Forêt, and send him to the Medici, and then rely on Elizabeth’s favor for his pardon, as he had done in the past? That might do, but the risk to England was too great. It would be like the Queen, if her temper was up, to demand from the Medici the return of De la Forêt, and war might ensue. Two women, with two nations behind them, were not to be played lightly against each other, trusting to their common-sense and humor.

As he walked among the trees, brooding with averted eyes, he was suddenly faced by the Seigneur of Rozel, who also was shaken from his discretion and the best interests of the two fugitives he was bound to protect by a late offence against his own dignity. A seed of rancor had been sown in his mind which had grown to a great size, and must presently burst into a dark flower of vengeance. He, Lemprière of Rozel, with three dove-cotes, the _perquage_, and the office of butler to the Queen, to be called a “farmer,” to be sneered at--it was not in the blood of man, not in the towering vanity of a Lemprière, to endure it at any price computable to mortal mind.

Thus there were in England on that day two fools (there are as many now), and one said:

“My Lord Leicester, I crave a word with you.”

“Crave on, good fellow,” responded Leicester, with a look of boredom, making to pass by.

“I am Lemprière, Lord of Rozel, my lord--”

“Ah yes, I took you for a farmer,” answered Leicester. “Instead of that, I believe you keep doves, and wear a jerkin that fits like a king’s. Dear Lord, so does greatness come with girth!”

“The king that gave me dove-cotes gave me honor, and ’tis not for the Earl of Leicester to belittle it.”

“What is your coat of arms?” said Leicester, with a faint smile, but in an assumed tone of natural interest.

“A swan upon a sea of azure, two stars above, and over all a sword with a wreath around its point,” answered Lemprière, simply, unsuspecting irony, and touched by Leicester’s flint where he was most like to flare up with vanity.

“Ah!” said Leicester. “And the motto?”

“Mea spes supra stellas--my hope is beyond the stars.”

“And the wreath--of parsley, I suppose?”

Now Lemprière understood, and he shook with fury as he roared:

“Yes, by God, and to be got at the point of the sword, to put on the heads of insolents like Lord Leicester!” His face was flaming, he was like a cock strutting upon a stable mound.

There fell a slight pause, and then Leicester said, “To-morrow at daylight, eh?”

“Now, my lord, now!”

“We have no seconds.”

“’Sblood! ’Tis not your way, my lord, to be stickling in detail of courtesy.”

“’Tis not the custom to draw swords in secret, Lemprière of Rozel. Also, my teeth are not on edge to fight you.”

Lemprière had already drawn his sword, and the look of his eyes was as that of a mad bull in a ring. “You won’t fight with me--you don’t think Rozel your equal?” His voice was high.

Leicester’s face took on a hard, cruel look. “We cannot fight among the ladies,” he said, quietly.

Lemprière followed his glance, and saw the Duke’s Daughter and another in the trees near by.

He hastily put up his sword. “When, my lord?” he asked.

“You will hear from me to-night,” was the answer, and Leicester went forward hastily to meet the ladies--they had news, no doubt.

Lemprière turned on his heel and walked quickly away among the trees towards the quarters where Buonespoir was in durance, which was little more severe than to keep him within the palace yard. There he found the fool and the pirate in whimsical converse. The fool had brought a letter of inquiry and warm greeting from Angèle to Buonespoir, who was laboriously inditing one in return. When Lemprière entered the pirate greeted him jovially.

“In the very pinch of time!” he said. “You have grammar and syntax and etiquette.”

“’Tis even so, Nuncio,” said the fool. “Here is needed prosody potential. Exhale!”

The three put their heads together above the paper.

XI

“I would know your story. How came you and yours to this pass? Where were you born? Of what degree are you? And this Michel de la Forêt, when came he to your feet--or you to his arms? I would know all. Begin where life began; end where you sit here at the feet of Elizabeth. This other cushion to your knees. There--now speak. We are alone.”