The Fortunes of Lal Faversham

by Rafael Sabatini

  In surly tones, Jackson bade me rise and go with him, and I, thinking that another day had dawned and that at length he was come to lead me to execution, sat up and drew on my boots. Then rising—for I had lain down fully dressed—I professed myself ready. We quitted the cell and proceeded along a corridor and down a flight of steps, and by a doorway we emerged into a courtyard. The sky was black overhead; so black that turning to Jackson I asked him what o’clock it was, and received the answer that it wanted an hour to midnight.

  A moment later we were in the street—alone, and this following upon those words of his begot in my mind a suspicion and a hope.

  “What doth this mean, Master Jackson?” I asked. “Whither go we?”

  “Thou shalt learn presently.”

  We turned the corner of a street, and in the gloom I discerned the outline of a horse, and a human figure that suddenly advanced toward us.

  “Kate!” I cried, springing forward. “Is it you again, little friend? Have you moved the stony heart of this Puritan to gain my liberty?”

  “It may be that my prayers have had some little weight with him. To him it is, however, that your thanks are due for your liberty. He is saving your life at the peril of his own.”

  “Zounds, Master Jackson,” quoth I, holding out my hand. “I crave your pardon by the injustice that in my thoughts I have done you. My thanks—”

  “I seek them not,” he broke in churlishly. “The hour grows late, Master Faversham, and your journey is a long one. Yonder stands your horse. Mount and begone, and see that you tarry not.”

  Amazed by so strange a mixture of churlishness and generosity, I made shift to follow his advice. I bade farewell to little Kate, and left her, in memory of one she had served and in earnest of the gratitude that should ever fill my heart, a little ring—the only trinket that I had about me.

  Following their directions, I rode through Newbury streets, until of a sudden a voice hailed me:

  “Master Faversham, in God’s name go no farther until you have heard me.” It was the voice of Tony—a servant at the Knoll Farm, and a Papist. Therefore, one who out of his hatred for Roundheads was my friend. His earnest accents, and the strange fact that he should lie in wait for me, commanded a hearing and so I bade him speak.

  He besought me to accompany him to a hostelry whose landlord was his friend, and nothing loath, since a stirrup cup would be right welcome, I fell in with his proposal. He roused the host of the Black Horse Inn, and bade my nag be cared for.

  In deep amazement, I followed the lad to a room of the hostelry.

  “Forgive my freedom, Mr. Faversham,” he began, “but know you the price that is being paid for your liberty?”

  “Price, fellow?” I echoed.

  “Aye, sir—price,” he repeated. And forthwith he told me that, which but for the witless fool I was, I should have suspected. He told me that to purchase my liberty Mistress Kate had consented to become the wife of Jackson. The colonel had offered to save my life, naming his price, and this she had consented to pay. The governor of Newbury gaol stood for some reason in awe of him, and consented to close his eyes whilst the thing was done. The gaoler he had bribed with fifty pounds, and they had removed me from my cell half an hour before the time appointed for the execution, substituting a poor wretch lying also under sentence of death. Him Jackson had hanged in the presence of the two troopers Cromwell had left him and they, duped by drowsiness, sloth, and the gray half light of dawn, had suspected naught. To Cromwell, Jackson had sent by one of them the message that Lionel Faversham had suffered death.

  Tony had overheard the bargain driven by Jackson, and the details that I have set down, and had determined to frustrate his plans if possible. With what mingled emotions I listened to him!

  “Leave me, good Tony,” I exclaimed. “I swear to you by my honor that Mistress Kate shall not be sacrificed. I hold Master Jackson in the hollow of my hand.”

  I lay at the Black Horse that night, and next morning I rode out of Newbury betimes, and followed the Kennet for half a mile or so in the direction of Colonel Jackson’s house. But I was spared the trouble of going there to seek him, for of a sudden a turn of the road brought me face to face with the Roundhead himself, riding in the opposite direction. He changed countenance upon beholding me.

  “Art mad, Master Faversham,” he gasped, “that I find you here when you should be far on your way to the coast?”

  “I am not riding to the coast at present,” I answered coldly. “Whither I turn my horse’s head depends upon yourself, for unless I find you reasonable, and docile as a godly man should be, London is my destination.”

  “London!”

  “Aye, man, London—Whitehall. Nay, stare not so. I shall but go to tell your ruby-nosed lord protector that the godly son of Israel, Colonel Jackson, is a perjured liar, who whilst sending him word that he had hanged the malignant Faversham for attempting his august life, did, in fact, let that godless follower of Charles Stuart go free.”

  Very white was Colonel Jackson’s face, and very baleful his eye. “Is it thus thou repayest me for the gift of thy life?”

  “You looked for payment of another sort, and in another quarter, eh? As for this life of mine, I scorn the gift at your hands, and had I known the price that was being paid you, I had refused to quit Newbury gaol.”

  “What is the price to thee? What is the wench to thee?”

  “One who befriended me in my hour of need. No more than that—but less than that shall she be to you, for, as God lives, Master Jackson, either you swear to me upon the Book to forego the payment you had exacted, and to press your hateful suit no further, or I go straight to Whitehall. You have reckoned for once without your host, Master Jackson. Come make your choice.”

  “I have no choice to make,” he answered passionately. “I will not choose. Dismount, sir, and let us end this matter.”

  “Right willingly,” I cried, “since to die will please you better.”

  And so it befell that we faced each other in a meadow by the wayside.

  His onslaught was ponderous as a charge of cavalry, and as clumsy.

  At the third disengage I slipped his guard, and got my point into him in the region of his heart. For a second he writhed, then fell in a heap—stone dead.

  I lingered not, but wiping my blade straightway got to horse again and rode off. At a crossroads, half a mile away, I came upon Tony.

  “You have seen the colonel?” he asked.

  “Aye, I have seen him, Tony.”

  “What says he?”

  “At present naught—unless he be quoting Holy Writ to the devil.”

  “You have—”

  “He would have it so,” I deprecated. “We fought in the meadow yonder, where you’ll find his carrion if you have a mind to.”

  The lad shuddered and for a second he was silent. Then:

  “You’ll go to the Knoll, sir?”

  “I think not, Tony. ’Tis best I should get hence without delay. You’ll tell Mistress Kate that she need no longer pay the noble price she offered for my life—a price too high by far for a thing so worthless. Fare you well, Tony.”

  I wrung his hand, leaving ten caroluses in his grasp. Then, driving deep my spurs, I rode on.

  THE CHANCELLOR’S DAUGHTER

  London wore still a festive air. Men rejoiced and drank deep, and “the King” was their toast.

  For nine long years had I possessed my soul in patience, waiting in exile for such a time as this; yet now that it was come, for me at least it was come too late.

  Beset by a grief so poignant that methought I must die of it, sat I in my chamber overlooking King Street. The heart in my breast seemed paralyzed and frozen, and in my hands I held a letter, a ring and a lock of hair.

  My Margaret was dead, that letter told me. A last pitiable farewell it was from the sweet mistress who for nine years had awaited my return and the Restoration that should mend my fortunes. The ring was one that long ago I had sent to her fr
om France. The lock of hair was cut from her beloved head in the last hour of life.

  Loyal and true to her had I been through that long exile. Jubilantly had I set foot again with Charles upon English soil—my troubles done, methought, and Margaret to be mine at last. And then but a week or so thereafter, when on the point of setting out for Scotland to claim the reward of my long waiting. the inexorable fates had smitten me this cruel blow.

  Of the season that followed—when again I sought the company of men—I think with loathing. Headlong I plunged into the wildest excesses of that licentious court.

  And thus time and debauchery assuaged my pains, or rather was it that my heart grew numb, and the blood in my veins was turned to gall, for this I know—that when I had ceased to mourn I had also ceased to care for aught that life could give, enduring it with bitter mockery and mimicked mirth.

  Yet for all my callousness, it was not without a pang that I heard from the King, one morning, the proposal that I should wed.

  “Your follies, Lal, transcend all bounds,” said he, “and we must curb them with the silken bonds of matrimony.”

  “Sire, I beseech you—” I began.

  “There is no cause for that. Already I have thought to your circumstances, and I have found a wife for you. She is not ill-favored, and much courted, a maid of honor to my sister, and what she may lack in beauty she makes up for in endowments.”

  “But, sire—”

  “Have patience, Lal,” he laughed, “and you shall learn her name.” He took my arm affectionately and drew me into the embrasure of a window that overlooked the river. “Now, sir, what say you to my Lord Chancellor’s daughter—Mistress Hyde?”

  I slowly shook my head.

  “Sire, I do not wish to wed.”

  “Zounds, Sir Lionel!” he exclaimed, a scowl upon his dark face. “You try my patience. Is aught amiss with the lady, or is there some other one whom you prefer?”

  “Neither, sire. Yet, an’ it please your Majesty, I will not wed.”

  “But it doth not please me,” was the testy answer, and I marveled that he should insist thus hotly. “There is no reason in this obstinacy, Sir Lionel. Come, you will think of it, at least!”

  “I will think of it since you bid me, Sire.”

  “Words, words!” he returned, the frown gathering again. “Let me see you no more until your mind is shaped to my desires—until such a season you are excused your duties near me.”

  He left me with those words, which plainly told me that I could either wed Anne Hyde or take myself away from Whitehall. Of such a quality is kingly justice and royal gratitude!

  For a day or two I pondered o’er the matter, keeping it a secret not even shared with Roger Marston—of the Duke of York’s household—whom during our exile in France I had grown to love as a brother. The King’s petulance and insistence were matter for no little wonder in me, albeit to-day I understand this clearly enough.

  In the end I determined that sooner than again become a wanderer I would fulfill his wishes. I sought an audience, and told him of my decision, whereat he appeared vastly overjoyed, and bade me set about my wooing.

  That very day I came by chance upon Mistress Hyde in the Privy Gardens. A tall, queenly woman was she, not perchance beautiful, yet with an eye and air that were capable of much. I greeted her courteously and was received with a coldness that argued she already knew me for her suitor. Awhile I paced beside her, and talked of this and that, stupidly enough in all conscience, until at length she stopped in her walk to face me with the question:

  “Sir Lionel, know you no better art of wooing than this?”

  “I see, madame, that you are informed of the honor to which I aspire,” I answered, clumsily.

  “Aye, sir, and to which you will aspire in vain.”

  “Madame,” I blurted out, “you relieve me vastly.”

  Her glance of astonishment was a thing I could have laughed at.

  “I do not apprehend you, Sir Lionel,” said she at length. “But it signifies little. I have been told to look for your addresses, and that you had gained the King’s consent to woo me. I will be frank and save you trouble, sir, by telling you that I love another.”

  “Mistress Anne, I am rejoiced to hear it,” I answered, bowing with a touch of mockery. “Do but grant me leave to carry your words to his Majesty, or do yourself tell him that which you have just told me, and believe me that Lal Faversham will ever after be your grateful friend.”

  “I do not understand,” she confessed.

  “Why, madame, great though the honor be, I do not wish to marry you save inasmuch as I wish to obey his Majesty at whose bidding am I come a-wooing. But I can now say to him: Mistress Hyde will have none of me, she loves another—and thus the matter ends. Give you good-day, madame. I go to the King.”

  “’Twere injudicious to tell his Majesty what hath passed betwixt us. You may tell him that your suit prospers none too well, but that you have hope.”

  “You give me hope? Madame, ’tis to plunge me into despair.”

  She echoed my laugh. but without mirth, and her glance was not nice, which, after all, is not strange, for albeit a woman loves you not and tells you so, ’tis in her eyes no cause why you should not pine for love of her.

  Thus we parted—she to resume her walk, I to carry her lie to the King. It gave him pleasure, and ere three days were sped it was noised about the Court that Lal Faversham wooed the Lord Chancellor’s daughter, and that his Majesty looked favorably upon the business. On every hand, men spoke to me of it; some openly, and some by hints, till presently I grew sick to death of the very name of Hyde.

  One night—a week perchance after the day when first I had presented myself to Mistress Hyde—I sat alone in my lodging at Whitehall, when I was visited by Roger Marston. He was just returned from Devonshire, and the sight of him gave me no little pleasure, for I had grown to dearly love the merry-hearted knave.

  ’Twas a hot night of early July, and I sat taking the air at my window when he entered. I had not called for lights so that I missed the expression of his face, but his tone warned me that something was amiss, for instead of its wonted merry note, it rang harsh and petulant. Scarce had he greeted me when:

  “What’s this I hear, Lal, of your betrothal with Mistress Hyde?” he asked.

  “May the devil tan every Hyde that ever bore the name!” I burst out. “If you love me. Roger, you’ll talk of some thing else.”

  “It is not true, then?”

  “Yes, crush me, but it is. True as perdition, and that’s the rub! I am bidden by the King to marry Mistress Hyde or get me out of Whitehall. A week ago I cared not a fig for Mistress Hyde; to-day I hate her as much as I hated the Kirk Commission in the old days.”

  “And she?” he asked, eagerly.

  “Oh, she—she loves another. A man as good and noble as I am dissolute— those are her very words.”

  “She loves another! Oh, Lal, tell me all.”

  “Blood and wounds, sir,” I gasped, “are you the other one? Oddslife, I should ne’er have guessed it from her description of you.”

  I told him all that had passed, and albeit it relieved him to find that he had not in me a rival whom the lady favored, yet was he sorely troubled by the King’s attitude.

  “I care not if it blight my fortunes Lal,” he cried, impetuously, “but Mistress Hyde I’ll strive for though a dozen kings oppose me!”

  I called for lights, and far into the night we sat talking of Anne Hyde.

  Before many days were passed he had given the whole Court cause to talk of her, coupling her name with his, and mine, whose rival he was thought to have become.

  The King spoke of the matter to me, and bade me look to my laurels. I answered him with a laugh, that my mind was easy since Mistress Hyde and I understood each other perfectly—which was in all conscience true enough.

  That evening had a surprise in store for me. I had left the King’s apartments and was going by way of the Privy Gard
ens to my lodging, when of a sudden a woman’s cry greeted me from the opposite end of the Stone Gallery upon which I had just entered. It was followed by a quick patter of feet, and the rustle of a gown, and a moment later a lady was in my arms, in a state of monstrous agitation. It was Mistress Hyde.

  “Sir Lionel,” she cried, recognizing me and clinging to me for protection. “Mr. Marston hath taken leave of his senses.”

  Not five paces away stood Roger, who had followed her—his young face flushed and angry.

  “If I have gone mad, madame, the fault is yours,” he cried passionately. “Am I a toy or a buffoon that you should use me so? Aye, cling to your protector—to your lover,” he added, anger blinding him to all sense of fitness and to all reason. “Cling to your lover, madame, and laugh together at the poor fool you have made a mock of. But there is a proverb touching him who laughs last. As God lives, madame, I will have a reckoning, and if you find the payment heavy, Mistress Hyde, remember that heavy also is the debt.”

  “Who dares to threaten Mistress Hyde?” came a loud voice behind us.

  “Who presumes to ask Roger Marston what he dare?” was the lad’s proud answer, and he boldly eyed the three men who came up, for all that I doubt not he had recognized the voice of the Duke of York.

  “Doth a gentleman of my household speak to me of presumption?”

  For a moment Roger’s face wore an odd look that made me tremble for him. Then, mastering himself betimes he bowed.

  “Your royal highness sees perchance something of my condition,” he said, in a low voice that still shook with passion. “At another time, if you will permit me, I will explain.”

  “That explanation, sir, I shall demand to-morrow,” was the cold rejoinder. “Mistress Hyde, permit me to reconduct you.”

  He moved away with her, followed at a respectful distance by the two gentlemen who attended him. At length I made shift to follow them, but before I had gone two paces Roger was at my elbow.

  “A word with you, sir,” he exclaimed, so loud that the duke’s attendants heard him and paused to listen.