Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Good lack!” broke out Sir Oliver. “Who asks your sanction or Sir John’s? By God’s grace your sister will grow to be a woman soon and mistress of herself. I am in no desperate haste to get me wed, and by nature — as you may be observing — I am a wondrous patient man. I’ll even wait,” And he pulled at his pipe.

  “Waiting cannot avail you in this, Sir Oliver. ’Tis best you should understand. We are resolved, Sir John and I.”

  “Are you so? God’s light. Send Sir John to me to tell me of his resolves and I’ll tell him something of mine. Tell him from me, Master Godolphin, that if he will trouble to come as far as Penarrow I’ll do by him what the hangman should have done long since. I’ll crop his pimpish ears for him, by this hand!”

  “Meanwhile,” said Master Godolphin whettingly, “will you not essay your rover’s prowess upon me?”

  “You?” quoth Sir Oliver, and looked him over with good-humoured contempt. “I’m no butcher of fledgelings, my lad. Besides, you are your sister’s brother, and ’tis no aim of mine to increase the obstacles already in my path.” Then his tone changed. He leaned across the table. “Come, now, Peter. What is at the root of all this matter? Can we not compose such differences as you conceive exist? Out with them. ’Tis no matter for Sir John. He’s a curmudgeon who signifies not a finger’s snap. But you, ’tis different. You are her brother. Out with your plaints, then. Let us be frank and friendly.”

  “Friendly?” The other sneered again. “Our fathers set us an example in that.”

  “Does it matter what our fathers did? More shame to them if, being neighbours, they could not be friends. Shall we follow so deplorable an example?”

  “You’ll not impute that the fault lay with my father,” cried the other, with a show of ready anger.

  “I impute nothing, lad. I cry shame upon them both.”

  “‘Swounds!” swore Master Peter. “Do you malign the dead?”

  “If I do, I malign them both. But I do not. I no more than condemn a fault that both must acknowledge could they return to life.”

  “Then, Sir, confine your condemnings to your own father with whom no man of honour could have lived at peace....”

  “Softly, softly, good Sir....”

  “There’s no call to go softly. Ralph Tressilian was a dishonour, a scandal to the countryside. Not a hamlet between here and Truro, or between here and Helston, but swarms with big Tressilian noses like your own, in memory of your debauched parent.”

  Sir Oliver’s eyes grew narrower: he smiled. “I wonder how you came by your own nose?” he wondered.

  Master Godolphin got to his feet in a passion, and his chair crashed over behind him. “Sir,” he blazed, “you insult my mother’s memory!”

  Sir Oliver laughed. “I make a little free with it, perhaps, in return for your pleasantries on the score of my father.”

  Master Godolphin pondered him in speechless anger, then swayed by his passion he leaned across the board, raised his long cane and struck Sir Oliver sharply on the shoulder.

  That done, he strode off magnificently towards the door. Half-way thither he paused.

  “I shall expect your friends and the length of your sword,” said he.

  Sir Oliver laughed again. “I don’t think I shall trouble to send them,” said he.

  Master Godolphin wheeled, fully to face him again. “How? You will take a blow?”

  Sir Oliver shrugged. “None saw it given,” said he.

  “But I shall publish it abroad that I have caned you.”

  “You’ll publish yourself a liar if you do; for none will believe you.” Then he changed his tone yet again. “Come, Peter, we are behaving unworthily. As for the blow, I confess that I deserved it. A man’s mother is more sacred than his father. So we may cry quits on that score. Can we not cry quits on all else? What can it profit us to perpetuate a foolish quarrel that sprang up between our fathers?”

  “There is more than that between us,” answered Master Godolphin. “I’ll not have my sister wed a pirate.”

  “A pirate? God’s light! I am glad there’s none to hear you for since her grace has knighted me for my doings upon the seas, your words go very near to treason. Surely, lad, what the Queen approves, Master Peter Godolphin may approve and even your mentor Sir John Killigrew. You’ve been listening to him. ’Twas he sent you hither.”

  “I am no man’s lackey,” answered the other hotly, resenting the imputation — and resenting it the more because of the truth in it.

  “To call me a pirate is to say a foolish thing. Hawkins with whom I sailed has also received the accolade, and who dubs us pirates insults the Queen herself. Apart from that, which, as you see, is a very empty charge, what else have you against me? I am, I hope, as good as any other here in Cornwall; Rosamund honours me with her affection and I am rich and shall be richer still ere the wedding bells are heard.”

  “Rich with the fruit of thieving upon the seas, rich with the treasures of scuttled ships and the price of slaves captured in Africa and sold to the plantations, rich as the vampire is glutted — with the blood of dead men.”

  “Does Sir John say that?” asked Sir Oliver, in a soft deadly voice.

  “I say it.”

  “I heard you; but I am asking where you learnt that pretty lesson. Is Sir John your preceptor? He is, he is. No need to tell me. I’ll deal with him. Meanwhile let me disclose to you the pure and disinterested source of Sir John’s rancour. You shall see what an upright and honest gentleman is Sir John, who was your father’s friend and has been your guardian.”

  “I’ll not listen to what you say of him.”

  “Nay, but you shall, in return for having made me listen to what he says of me. Sir John desires to obtain a licence to build at the mouth of the Fal. He hopes to see a town spring up above the haven there under the shadow of his own Manor of Arwenack. He represents himself as nobly disinterested and all concerned for the prosperity of the country, and he neglects to mention that the land is his own and that it is his own prosperity and that of his family which he is concerned to foster. We met in London by a fortunate chance whilst Sir John was about this business at the Court. Now it happens that I, too, have interests in Truro and Penryn; but, unlike Sir John, I am honest in the matter, and proclaim it. If any growth should take place about Smithick it follows from its more advantageous situation that Truro and Penryn must suffer, and that suits me as little as the other matter would suit Sir John. I told him so, for I can be blunt, and I told the Queen in the form of a counter-petition to Sir John’s.” He shrugged. “The moment was propitious to me. I was one of the seamen who had helped to conquer the unconquerable Armada of King Philip. I was therefore not to be denied, and Sir John was sent home as empty-handed as he went to Court. D’ye marvel that he hates me? Knowing him for what he is, d’ye marvel that he dubs me pirate and worse? ’Tis natural enough so to misrepresent my doings upon the sea, since it is those doings have afforded me the power to hurt his profit. He has chosen the weapons of calumny for this combat, but those weapons are not mine, as I shall show him this very day. If you do not credit what I say, come with me and be present at the little talk I hope to have with that curmudgeon.”

  “You forget,” said Master Godolphin, “that I, too, have interests in the neighbourhood of Smithick, and that you are hurting those.”

  “Soho!” crowed Sir Oliver. “Now at last the sun of truth peeps forth from all this cloud of righteous indignation at my bad Tressilian blood and pirate’s ways! You, too, are but a trafficker. Now see what a fool I am to have believed you sincere, and to have stood here in talk with you as with an honest man.” His voice swelled and his lip curled in a contempt that struck the other like a blow. “I swear I had not wasted breath with you had I known you for so mean and pitiful a fellow.”

  “These words....” began Master Godolphin, drawing himself up very stiffly.

  “Are a deal less than your deserts,” cut in the other, and he raised his voice to call— “Nick.”r />
  “You shall answer to them,” snapped his visitor.

  “I am answering now,” was the stern answer. “To come here and prate to me of my dead father’s dissoluteness and of an ancient quarrel between him and yours, to bleat of my trumped-up course of piracy and my own ways of life as a just cause why I may not wed your sister whilst the real consideration in your mind, the real spur to your hostility is not more than the matter of some few paltry pounds a year that I hinder you from pocketing. A God’s name get you gone.”

  Nick entered at that moment.

  “You shall hear from me again, Sir Oliver,” said the other, white with anger. “You shall account to me for these words.”

  “I do not fight with... with hucksters,” flashed Sir Oliver.

  “D’ye dare call me that?”

  “Indeed, ’tis to discredit an honourable class, I confess it. Nick, the door for Master Godolphin.”

  CHAPTER II. ROSAMUND

  Anon, after his visitor had departed, Sir Oliver grew calm again. Then being able in his calm to consider his position, he became angry anew at the very thought of the rage in which he had been, a rage which had so mastered him that he had erected additional obstacles to the already considerable ones that stood between Rosamund and himself. In full blast, his anger swung round and took Sir John Killigrew for its objective. He would settle with him at once. He would so, by Heaven’s light!

  He bellowed for Nick and his boots.

  “Where is Master Lionel? he asked when the boots had been fetched.

  “He be just ridden in, Sir Oliver.”

  “Bid him hither.”

  Promptly, in answer to that summons, came Sir Oliver’s half-brother — a slender lad favouring his mother the dissolute Ralph Tressilian’s second wife. He was as unlike Sir Oliver in body as in soul. He was comely in a very gentle, almost womanish way; his complexion was fair and delicate, his hair golden, and his eyes of a deep blue. He had a very charming stripling grace — for he was but in his twenty-first year — and he dressed with all the care of a Court-gallant.

  “Has that whelp Godolphin been to visit you?” he asked as he entered.

  “Aye,” growled Sir Oliver. “He came to tell me some things and to hear some others in return.”

  “Ha. I passed him just beyond the gates, and he was deaf to my greeting. ’Tis a most cursed insufferable pup.”

  “Art a judge of men, Lal.” Sir Oliver stood up booted. “I am for Arwenack to exchange a compliment or two with Sir John.”

  His tight-pressed lips and resolute air supplemented his words so well that Lionel clutched his arm.

  “You’re not... you’re not...?”

  “I am.” And affectionately, as if to soothe the lad’s obvious alarm, he patted his brother’s shoulder. “Sir John,” he explained, “talks too much. ’Tis a fault that wants correcting. I go to teach him the virtue of silence.”

  “There will be trouble, Oliver.”

  “So there will — for him. If a man must be saying of me that I am a pirate, a slave-dealer, a murderer, and Heaven knows what else, he must be ready for the consequences. But you are late, Lal. Where have you been?”

  “I rode as far as Malpas.”

  “As far as Malpas?” Sir Oliver’s eyes narrowed, as was the trick with him. “I hear it whispered what magnet draws you thither,” he said. “Be wary, boy. You go too much to Malpas.”

  “How?” quoth Lionel a trifle coldly.

  “I mean that you are your father’s son. Remember it, and strive not to follow in his ways lest they bring you to his own end. I have just been reminded of these predilections of his by good Master Peter. Go not over often to Malpas, I say. No more.” But the arm which he flung about his younger brother’s shoulders and the warmth of his embrace made resentment of his warning quite impossible.

  When he was gone, Lionel sat him down to dine, with Nick to wait on him. He ate but little, and never addressed the old servant in the course of that brief repast. He was very pensive. In thought he followed his brother on that avenging visit of his to Arwenack. Killigrew was no babe, but man of his hands, a soldier and a seaman. If any harm should come to Oliver...He trembled at the thought; and then almost despite him his mind ran on to calculate the consequences to himself. His fortune would be in a very different case, he refected. In a sort of horror, he sought to put so detestable a reflection from his mind; but it returned insistently. It would not be denied. It forced him to a consideration of his own circumstances.

  All that he had he owed to his brother’s bounty. That dissolute father of theirs had died as such men commonly die, leaving behind him heavily encumbered estates and many debts; the very house of Penarrow was mortgaged, and the moneys raised on it had been drunk, or gambled, or spent on one or another of Ralph Tressilian’s many lights o’ love. Then Oliver had sold some little property near Helston, inherited from his mother; he had sunk the money into a venture upon the Spanish Main. He had fitted out and manned a ship, and had sailed with Hawkins upon one of those ventures, which Sir John Killigrew was perfectly entitled to account pirate raids. He had returned with enough plunder in specie and gems to disencumber the Tressilian patrimony. He had sailed again and returned still wealthier. And meanwhile, Lionel had remained at home taking his ease. He loved his ease. His nature was inherently indolent, and he had the wasteful extravagant tastes that usually go with indolence. He was not born to toil and struggle, and none had sought to correct the shortcomings of his character in that respect. Sometimes he wondered what the future might hold for him should Oliver come to marry. He feared his life might not be as easy as it was at present. But he did not seriously fear. It was not in his nature — it never is in the natures of such men — to give any excess of consideration to the future. When his thoughts did turn to it in momentary uneasiness, he would abruptly dismiss them with the reflection that when all was said Oliver loved him, and Oliver would never fail to provide adequately for all his wants.

  In this undoubtedly he was fully justified. Oliver was more parent than brother to him. When their father had been brought home to die from the wound dealt him by an outraged husband — and a shocking spectacle that sinner’s death had been with its hasty terrified repentance — he had entrusted Lionel to his elder brother’s care. At the time Oliver was seventeen and Lionel twelve. But Oliver had seemed by so many years older than his age, that the twice-widowed Ralph Tressilian had come to depend upon this steady, resolute, and masterful child of his first marriage. It was into his ear that the dying man had poured the wretched tale of his repentance for the life he had lived and the state in which he was leaving his affairs with such scant provision for his sons. For Oliver he had no fear. It was as if with the prescience that comes to men in his pass he had perceived that Oliver was of those who must prevail, a man born to make the world his oyster. His anxieties were all for Lionel, whom he also judged with that same penetrating insight vouchsafed a man in his last hours. Hence his piteous recommendation of him to Oliver, and Oliver’s ready promise to be father, mother, and brother to the youngster.

  All this was in Lionel’s mind as he sat musing there, and again he struggled with that hideous insistent thought that if things should go ill with his brother at Arwenack, there would be great profit to himself; that these things he now enjoyed upon another’s bounty he would then enjoy in his own right. A devil seemed to mock him with the whispered sneer that were Oliver to die his own grief would not be long-lived. Then in revolt against that voice of an egoism so loathsome that in his better moments it inspired even himself with horror, he bethought him of Oliver’s unvarying, unwavering affection; he pondered all the loving care and kindness that through these years past Oliver had ever showered upon him; and he cursed the rottenness of a mind that could even admit such thoughts as those which he had been entertaining. So wrought upon was he by the welter of his emotions, by that fierce strife between his conscience and his egotism, that he came abruptly to his feet, a cry upon his lips.
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br />   “Vade retro, Sathanas!”

  Old Nicholas, looking up abruptly, saw the lad’s face, waxen, his brow bedewed with sweat.

  “Master Lionel! Master Lionel!” he cried, his small bright eyes concernedly scanning his young master’s face. “What be amiss?”

  Lionel mopped his brow. “Sir Oliver has gone to Arwenack upon a punitive business,” said he.

  “An’ what be that, zur?” quoth Nicholas.

  “He has gone to punish Sir John for having maligned him.”

  A grin spread upon the weather-beaten countenance of Nicholas.

  “Be that so? Marry, ‘twere time. Sir John he be over long i’ th’ tongue.”

  Lionel stood amazed at the man’s easy confidence and supreme assurance of how his master must acquit himself.

  “You... you have no fear, Nicholas....” He did not add of what. But the servant understood, and his grin grew broader still.

  “Fear? Lackaday! I bain’t afeeard for Sir Oliver, and doan’t ee be afeeard. Sir Oliver’ll be home to sup with a sharp-set appetite— ’tis the only difference fighting ever made to he.”

  The servant was justified of his confidence by the events, though through a slight error of judgment Sir Oliver did not quite accomplish all that promised and intended. In anger, and when he deemed that he had been affronted, he was — as his chronicler never wearies of insisting, and as you shall judge before the end of this tale is reached — of a tigerish ruthlessness. He rode to Arwenack fully resolved to kill his calumniator. Nothing less would satisfy him. Arrived at that fine embattled castle of the Killigrews which commanded the entrance to the estuary of the Fal, and from whose crenels the country might be surveyed as far as the Lizard, fifteen miles away, he found Peter Godolphin there before him; and because of Peter’s presence Sir Oliver was more deliberate and formal in his accusation of Sir John than he had intended. He desired, in accusing Sir John, also to clear himself in the eyes of Rosamund’s brother, to make the latter realize how entirely odious were the calumnies which Sir John had permitted himself, and how basely prompted.