Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “So,” he said, very sinister, “you’ll not be warned.”

  “Nor will you,” I answered, no whit less sinister myself.

  It was broad daylight. A pale March sunshine was beating down upon the cobbled streets, and passers-by were plentiful. There was no fingering of hilts or talk of skewering on either side. Nor must I show any of the anger that was boiling in me. My face was too well known in Madrid streets, and a Secretary of State does not parade emotions to the rabble. So I walked stiff and dignified amain, that dog in step with me the while.

  “She will have told you what I have said to her,” he murmured.

  “And what she said to you. It was less than your deserts.”

  “Groom and lackey, eh?” said he. “And less than I deserve — a man of my estate. Oh, ho! Groom and lackey! Those are epithets to be washed out in blood and tears.”

  “You rant,” I said.

  “Or else to be paid for — handsomely.” His tone was sly — so sly that I answered nothing, for to answer a sly man is to assist him, and my business was to let him betray the cause of this slyness. Followed a spell of silence. Then, “Do you know,” said he, “that several of her relatives are thinking seriously of killing you?”

  “Many men have thought seriously of that — so seriously that they never attempted it. Antonio Perez is not easily murdered, Don Juan, as you may discover.”

  It was a boast that I may claim to have since justified.

  “Shall I tell you their names?” quoth he.

  “If you want to ruin them.”

  “Ha!” It was a short bark of a laugh. “You talk glibly of ruining — but then you talk to a groom and lackey.” The epithets rankled in his mind; they were poison to his blood, it seemed. It takes a woman to find words that burn and blister a man. “Yet groom and lackey that I am, I hold you both in the hollow of my hand. If I close that hand, it will be very bad for you, very bad for her. If, for instance, I were to tell King Philip that I have seen her in your arms—”

  “You dog!”

  “I have — I swear to God I have, with these two eyes — at least with one of them, applied to the keyhole half an hour ago. Her servants passed me in; a ducat or two well bestowed — you understand?”

  We had reached the door of my house. I paused and turned to him.

  “You will come in?” I invited.

  “As the wolf said to the lamb, eh? Well, why not?” And we went in.

  “You are well housed,” he commented, his greedy, envious eyes considering all the tokens of my wealth. “It were a pity to lose so much, I think. The King is at the Escurial, I am told.”

  He was. He had gone thither into retreat, that he might cleanse his pious, murky soul against the coming of Eastertide.

  “You would not, I am sure, compel me to undertake so tedious a journey,” said he.

  “Will you put off this slyness and be plain?” I bade him. “You have some bargain in your mind. Propound it.”

  He did, and left me aghast.

  “You have temporized long enough, Perez,” he began. “You have been hunting with the dogs and running with the stag. There must be an end to all that. Stand by me now, and I will make you greater than you are, greater than you could ever dream to be. Oppose me, betray me — for I am going to be very frank — and the King shall hear things from me that will mean your ruin and hers. You understand?”

  Then came his demands. First of all the command of the fortress of Mogro for himself. I must obtain him that at once. Secondly, I must see to it that Philip pledged himself to support Don John’s expedition against England and Elizabeth and to seat Don John upon the throne with Mary Stuart for his wife. These things must come about, and quickly, or I perished. Nor was that all. Indeed, no more than a beginning. He opened out the vista of his dreams, that having blackmailed me on the one hand, he might now bribe me on the other. Once England was theirs, he aimed at no less than a descent upon Spain itself. That was why he wanted Mogro to facilitate a landing at Santander. Thus, as the Christians had originally come down from the mountains of the Asturias to drive the Moors from the Peninsula, so should the forces of Don John descend again to reconquer it for himself.

  It was a madman’s fancy utterly — fruit of a brain that ambition had completely addled; and I do not believe that Don John had any part in it or even knowledge of it. Escovedo saw himself, perhaps, upon the throne of one or the other of the two kingdoms as Don John’s vice-regent — for himself and for me, if I stood by him, there was such power in store as no man ever dreamed of. If I refused, he would destroy me.

  “And if I go straight to the Escurial and lay this project before the King?” I asked him.

  He smiled.

  “You will force me to tell him that it is a lie invented to deliver you from a man who can destroy you by the knowledge he possesses, knowledge which I shall at once impart to Philip. Think what that will mean to you. Think,” he added very wickedly, “what it will mean to her.”

  As I am a Christian, I believe that had it been but the consideration of myself I would have flung him from my house upon the instant and bade him do his worst. But he was well advised to remind me of her. Whatever Philip’s punishment of me, it would be as nothing to his punishment of that long-suffering woman who had betrayed him. Oh, I assure you it is a very evil, ill judged thing to have a king for rival, particularly a fish-souled tyrant of King Philip’s kind.

  I was all limp with dread. I passed a hand across my brow, and found it chill and moist.

  “I am in your hands, Escovedo,” I confessed miserably.

  “Say, rather, that we are partners. Forget all else.” He was eager, joyous, believing all accomplished, such was his faith in my influence with Philip. “And now, Mogro for me, and England for Don John. About it with dispatch.”

  “The King is in retreat. We must wait some days.”

  “Till Easter, then.” And he held out his hand. I took it limply, thus clenching the bargain of infamy between us. What else was there for me. What, otherwise, was to become of Anne?

  Oh, I may have been self-seeking and made the most of my position, as was afterwards urged against me. I may have been extortionate and venal, and I may have taken regal bribes to expedite affairs. But always was I loyal and devoted to the King. Never once had I been bribed to aught that ran counter to his interests; never until now, when at a stroke I had sold my honour and pledged myself to this betrayal of my trust.

  Not in all Spain was there a more miserable man than I. All night I sat in the room where I was wont to work, and to my wife’s entreaties that I should take some rest I answered that the affairs of Spain compelled attention. And when morning found me haggard and distraught came a courier from Philip with a letter.

  “I have letters from Don John,” he wrote, “more insistent than ever in their tone. He demands the instant dispatch of money and Escovedo. I have been thinking, and this letter confirms my every fear. I have cause to apprehend some stroke that may disturb the public peace and ruin Don John himself if he is allowed to retain Escovedo any longer in his service. I am writing to Don John that I will see to it that Escovedo is promptly dispatched as he requests. Do you see him dispatched, then, in precise accordance with his deserts, and this at once, before the villain kills us.”

  My skin bristled as I read. Here was fatality itself at work. Philip was at his old fears — and, Heaven knows, he was not without justification of his intuitions, as I had learnt by now — that Escovedo meditated the most desperate measures. He was urging me again, as he had urged me before, and more than once, to dispatch this traitor whose restless existence so perpetually perturbed him. I was not deceived as to the meaning he set upon that word “dispatch.” I knew quite well the nature of the dispatch he bade me contrive.

  Conceive now my temptation. Escovedo dead, I should be safe, and Anne would be safe, and this without any such betrayal as was being forced upon me. And that death the King himself commanded a secret, royal execution,
such as his confessor Frey Diego de Chaves has since defended as an expedient measure within the royal prerogative. He had commanded it before quite unequivocally, but always I had stood between Escovedo and the sword. Was I to continue in that attitude? Could it humanly be expected of me in all the circumstances again to seek to deflect the royal wrath from that too daring head? I was, after all, only a man, subject to the temptations of the flesh, and there was a woman whom I loved better than my own salvation to whose peace and happiness that fellow Escovedo was become a menace.

  If he lived, and for as long as he lived, she and I were to be as slaves of his will, and I was to drag my honour and my loyalty through the foul kennels of his disordered ambitions. And the King my master was bidding me clearly see to it that he died immediately.

  I sat down and wrote at once, and the burden of my letter was: “Be more explicit, Sire. What manner of dispatch is it your will that Escovedo should be given?”

  On the morrow, which was Thursday of Holy Week, that note of mine was returned to me, and on the margin of it, in Philip’s own hand, Escovedo’s death-warrant. “I mean that it would be well to hasten the death of this rascal before some act of his should render it too late; for he never rests, nor will anything turn him from his usual ways. Do it, then, and do it quickly, before he kills us.”

  There was no more to be said. My instructions were clear and definite. Obedience alone remained. I went about it.

  Just as all my life I have been blessed with the staunchest friends, so have I, too, been blessed with the most faithful servants. And of these none was more faithful than my steward, Diego Martinez, unless, indeed, it be my equerry, Gil de Mesa, who to this day follows my evil fortunes. But Mesa at that time was as yet untried, whilst in Diego I knew that I had a man devoted to me heart and soul, a man who would allow himself to be torn limb from limb on the rack on my behalf.

  I placed the affair in Diego’s hands. I told him that I was acting under orders from the King, and that the thing at issue was the private execution of a dangerous traitor, who could not be brought to trial lest there he should impeach of complicity one whose birth and blood must be shielded from all scandal. I bade him get what men he required, and see the thing done with the least possible delay. And thereupon I instantly withdrew from Madrid and went to Alcala.

  Diego engaged five men to assist him in the task; these were a young officer named Enriquez, a lackey named Rubio, the two Aragonese — Mesa and Insausti — and another whose name was Bosque. He clearly meant to take no chances, but I incline to think that he overdid precaution, and employed more hands than were necessary for the job. However, the six of them lurked in waiting on three successive nights for Escovedo near his house in the little square of Santiago. At last, on the night of Easter Monday, March 31st, they caught him and dispatched him. He died almost before he realized himself beset, from a sword-thrust with which Insausti transfixed him. But there were at least half a dozen wounds in the body when it was found. Diego, I have said, was a man who made quite certain.

  No sooner was it done than they dispersed, whilst the lackey Rubio, instantly quitting Madrid, brought me news of the deed to Alcala, and the assurance that no arrests had been made. But there was a great ado in Madrid upon the morrow, as you may imagine, for it is no everyday occurrence to find a royal secretary murdered in the streets.

  The alcaldes set out upon a rigorous search, and they began by arresting and questioning all who attempted to leave the city. On the next day they harassed with their perquisitions all those who let lodgings. They were still at this work in the evening when I returned to Madrid, brought back — as it would seem — from my country rest by the news of this murder of my friend and colleague. I bore myself as I should have done had I no knowledge of how the thing had been contrived. That was a necessity as imperative as it was odious, and no part of it more odious than the visit of condolence I was forced to pay to the Escovedo family, which I found plunged in grief.

  From the very outset suspicion pointed its finger at me, although there were no visible traces to connect me with the deed. Rumour, however, was astir, and as I had powerful friends, so, too, I had the powerful enemies which envy must always be breeding for men in high places such as mine. Escovedo’s wife mistrusted me, though at first she seems equally to have suspected in this deed the hand of the Duke of Alva, who was hostile to Don John and all his creatures. Very soon, as a result of this, came the Court alcalde to visit and question me. His stated object was in the hope that I might give him information which would lead to the discovery of the assassin; but his real object, rendered apparent by the searching, insistent nature of his questions, was to lead me to incriminate myself. I presented a bold front. I pretended to see in this, perhaps, the work of the Flemish States. I deplored — that I might remind him of it — my absence from Madrid at the time.

  He was followed by another high official, who came in simulated friendship to warn me that certain rumours linking me with the deed were in circulation, in reality to trap me into some admission, to watch my countenance for some betraying sign.

  I endured it stoutly, but inwardly I was shaken, as I wrote to Philip, giving him full details of what had been said and what answers I had returned, what bitter draughts I had been forced to swallow.

  He wrote in reply: “I find that you answered very well. Continue to be prudent. They will tell you a thousand things, not for the sake of telling them, but in the hope of drawing something out of you. The bitter draughts you mention are inevitable. But use all the dissimulation and address of which you are capable.”

  We corresponded daily after that, and I told him of every step I took; how I kept my men about me, for fear that if they attempted to leave Madrid they would be arrested, and how, finally, I contrived their departure one by one, under conditions that placed them beyond all suspicion. Juan de Mesa set out for Aragon on a mission concerned with the administration of some property of the Princess of Eboli’s. Rubio, Insausti, and Enriquez were each given an ensign’s commission, bearing the King’s own signature, and ordered to join the armies in various parts of Italy; the first was sent to Milan, the second to Sicily, and the last to Naples. Bosque went back to Aragon. Thus all were placed beyond the reach of the active justice of Castile, all save myself — and the King, who wrote to me expressing his satisfaction that there had been no arrests.

  But rumour continued to give tongue, and the burden of its tale was that the murder had been my work, in complicity with the Princess of Eboli. How they came to drag her name into the affair I do not know. It may have been pure malice trading upon its knowledge of the relations between us. She may have lent colour to the charge by her own precipitancy in denying it. She announced indignantly that she was being accused, almost before this had come to pass, and as indignantly protested against the accusation, and threatened those who dared to voice it.

  The end of it all was that, a month later, the Escovedo family drew up a memorial for the consideration of the King, in which they laid the murder to my charge, and Philip consented to receive Don Pedro de Escovedo — the dead man’s son — and promised him that he would consider the memorial, and that he would deliver up to justice whomsoever he thought right. He was embarrassed by these demands of the Escovedos, my own danger, his duty as king, and his interests as an accomplice, or, rather, as the originator of the deed.

  The Escovedos were powerfully seconded by Vasquez, the Secretary of the Council, a member of Alva’s party, a secret enemy of my own, consumed by jealousy of my power, and no longer fearing to disclose himself and assail me since he believed himself possessed of the means of ruining me. He spoke darkly to the King of a woman concerned in this business, without yet daring to mention Anne by name, and urged him for the satisfaction of the State, where evil rumours were abroad, to order an inquiry that should reveal the truth of the affair.

  It was Philip himself who informed me of what had passed, sneering at the wildness of rumours that missed the truth s
o wildly, and when I evinced distress at my position, he sought to reassure me; he even wrote to me after I had left him: “As long as I live you have nothing to fear. Others may change, but I never change, as you should know who know me.”

  That was a letter that epitomized many others written me in those days to Madrid from the Escurial, whither he had returned. And those letters comforted me not only by their expressed assurances, but by the greater assurance implicit in them of the King’s good faith. I had by now a great mass of his notes dealing with the Escovedo business, in almost every one of which he betrayed his own share as the chief murderer, showing that I was no more than his dutiful instrument in that execution. With those letters in my power what need I ever fear? Not Philip himself would dare to betray me.

  But I went now in a new dread — the dread of being myself murdered. There were threats of it in the air. The Escovedo family and their partisans, who included all my enemies, and even some members of the Eboli family, who considered that I had sullied the honour of their name by my relations with Anne, talked openly of vengeance, so that I was driven to surround myself by armed attendants whenever now I went abroad.

  I appealed again to Philip to protect me. I even begged him to permit me to retire from my Ministerial office, that thus the clamant envy that inspired my persecution might be deprived of its incentive. Finally, I begged him to order me to stand my trial, that thus, since I was confident that no evidence could be produced against me, I should force an acquittal from the courts and lay the matter to rest for all time.

  “Go and see the President of Castile,” he bade me. “Tell him the causes that led to the death of Escovedo, and then let him talk to Don Pedro de Escovedo and to Vasquez, so as to induce them to desist.”

  I did as I was bidden, and when the president, who was the Bishop of Pati, had heard me, he sent for my two chief enemies.