Beauvallet

by Georgette Heyer

  The mirror showed a tempestuous lady, wrath in her face; her hair dishevelled under the French hood, her habit dusty and disordered. Dominica poured water into the basin, and bathed her face and her hands, slowly, abstractedly. A cake of soap was to hand, delicately scented, a towel. She stood rubbing her fingers dry, and looking at her reflection in the mirror, thinking, thinking.

  An hour later, Don Diego scratched on the panel of the door. A cool voice bade him enter; he found his cousin seated by the window, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of maidenly resignation. But he knew her too well to suppose her resigned; it did not need the steely flash of her eyes as she raised them to tell him that his cousin was prepared to give battle.

  He bowed to her. ‘Dearest cousin, supper awaits you. May I lead you down?’

  She rose at once, and came to the door; she even allowed him to take her hand. They went in silence down the stairs and across the hall to a smaller parlour, panelled with mulberry wood. Covers were laid upon a draw-table; Luis stood deferentially waiting behind one of the chairs. She was handed to it, and sat down with what composure she could muster. The curtains had been drawn to shut out the fading daylight, and a cluster of candles on the table lit the room. Outside the silence of the country seemed to enfold the house. Dominica felt very alone, and had to fight down a rising wave of panic.

  ‘Rude fare, dear cousin, I fear me, but you will forgive it. Luis is an unaccustomed cook.’

  She inclined her head. The food was well enough; she supposed this was Don Diego's way of telling her that there was no one but herself and him and Luis in the house. Superfluous information, she thought.

  He poured wine into her glass. ‘Will you take some of this wine of Alicante, cousin?’

  She looked up quickly, puzzled and searching. The words were oddly familiar, stirred a chord of memory. Her mind flew back; she stared at Don Diego, but she saw instead a laughing face, with eyes of deep wind-swept blue…

  ‘Do you suppose, señor, that your daughter will take wine from my hands?’…

  A tremor shook her. Her eyes shut for a moment, as though to hold the brief vision. She opened them again, and the Venture's stateroom slid back into the past. ‘I thank you, cousin,’ she said quietly, and picked up the cup with a steady hand.

  She ate sparingly, drank less, and answered in monosyllables Don Diego's easy flow of talk. Sweetmeats were at last set on the table, and some ripe pomegranates from the south. Luis withdrew, and they were alone.

  She pushed back her chair a little way from the table, and turned her gaze towards Don Diego. ‘Cousin, I await your explanation.’

  He lifted his cup in a silent toast. ‘It is contained in the one short phrase, my dear. I love you.’

  ‘You have an odd way of showing me, señor, that you – love me. May I not rather suppose that you love my possessions?’

  He frowned at that; he had not his mother's frankness. ‘They are as nothing beside your charms, Dominica.’

  ‘I fear you flatter me, cousin.’

  He leaned towards her, stretched a pleading hand across the table. ‘Let us not bandy idle words to and fro, Dominica. Believe I am mad for you!’

  ‘It does not strain my credence to believe you mad, señor.’

  ‘I am mad, yes, but for love of you. No, let me speak! You do me wrong when you think me anxious only to possess your wealth. I do not deny that was my first thought. But I did not know you then; you had not cast your divine spell over me. I would wed you were you penniless.’ He saw that she was about to break in on this, and hurried on. ‘There seemed to be no way but this. I took the straight, swift road to my desires. You shall not blame me for that. You are angry now, outraged; I see your eyes flame. Think but a little and you will pity me, understand my seeming madness!’

  ‘I might pity your folly, señor, but pity will not work on me to wed with you,’ she said.

  ‘Dominica!’ He tried to take her hand, but it was swiftly withdrawn. ‘I should be loth to use force. You shall learn to love me, even if you hate me now. Put this English pirate out of your head –’

  ‘Oh, God's mercy, señor, still harping on that fairy tale?’ she exclaimed. ‘You put me out of all patience!’

  ‘He is sped,’ he insisted. ‘There is no escape for such as he. Set him aside; forget him.’

  She looked at him now, almost sternly. ‘Señor cousin, you talk without meaning, but if the Chevalier de Guise were my lover, and he El Beauvallet, I would be faithful to him though he died and I faced death because of him.’

  An ugly look leaped into his eyes. ‘You speak very strongly, cousin. There are some things harder to face than death.’

  This was coming to grips at last. Battle was joined, and she was glad to have it so. Anything were better than his love-making. ‘Cousin,’ she said, clenching her hand on the table. ‘I am no milk and water maid for your ravishing. I tell you again that there is no power under heaven will make me marry you.’

  He leaned back in his chair, nonchalant, keenly watching her. ‘Bethink you of your fair name, Dominica,’ he said gently.

  ‘I care nothing for it.’

  ‘No?’ He smiled. ‘Brave words, but you have not thought on it yet, sweet cousin. You show me no mercy, no kindness. Should I then show you any?’

  ‘I make no doubt you would not,’ she said swiftly. ‘But if you think to wring consent to marriage out of me by such means, you are mistaken, and have not my measure.’

  He lifted the wine-cup to his lips, sipped, and held it still, his elbow on the arm of his chair. ‘I can ruin you, my dear,’ he said. ‘If you go from here unwed you can never show your face abroad again.’

  ‘Do you not think, señor, that if I had to choose between marriage with such as you and a cloister I would not choose the cloister?’

  It was plain that he had not thought of that. He set the cup down with a snap, staring at her from under suddenly frowning brows. After a moment he hitched up his shoulder in the way he had, and gave a short laugh. ‘Idle words!’

  ‘Try me, and you will see, señor.’

  He poured more wine, but he did not drink. ‘You think I do not know what heretical notions you hide,’ he taunted her.

  She kept her countenance. ‘All that is past. I am a true daughter of the Church, nor could you prove me other. The Church would receive me, and my wealth too, be you very sure.’

  ‘You do not know what you say.’ He drank deep, and set the cup down. ‘This is to work on me, no more.’

  ‘You live in a fool's paradise, cousin. There are no lengths to which I would not go for the purpose of frustrating your foul designs. Why, what does the world hold for me that I should cling to it? I am alone, amongst enemies, for such you and my aunt have shown yourselves to be.’

  ‘There is El Beauvallet,’ he said, and looked intently to see whether she would change colour.

  She cast up her eyes, but answered patiently. ‘I humour your whims, cousin. If the Chevalier de Guise were El Beauvallet, and my lover, what would be left to me now but a cloister?’

  He sneered at that. ‘Oh, methought he could burst all bars and bolts, this famous pirate!’

  ‘I suppose you thought so indeed, cousin, since you fled Madrid in such haste,’ she said tartly.

  He showed his teeth a moment. ‘Do you imagine these holiday terms serve you, señorita? I would be gentle with you, but you drive me to harsh measures. You are besotted; you do not know in how dire a state you stand. The hour grows late already, my cousin, and there is only Luis in the house. I warrant you he will not hear a cry for help.’

  She was afraid, desperately afraid, but no sign of it appeared in her face. ‘You will let your desires ride you to your own undoing, cousin. Work your will on me: you will lose my substance.’

  He sprang up. ‘By God, woman, you are shameless!’ he said violently. ‘Is this the bold spirit the New World breeds? Do you hold your honour of so small account? Out on you, I say!’

  ‘Do yo
u then hold my honour in so great account?’ she asked contemptuously. ‘Was it your care for it induced you to bear me off today?’

  He began to walk up and down the room, kicking a joint-stool out of his way. She sat still, watching him, and courage soared high. He was irresolute. She knew herself to be the stronger of the two; she could hold him off for a while yet.

  His thoughts raced; he shot a quick look at her as he passed in his impatient stride. She was sitting straight in her chair, hedged about by a flaming barrier of resolve. She was strung up; events had marched too swiftly to allow her girl's imagination to sap her courage. In a dim way he realised this. Stealing yet another look at her rigid face, and the dark eyes that burned in it, he could picture her very clearly following out her threat. He had her in his power; he could work his will on her, but some instinct told him that she was in too exalted a mood to capitulate.

  He was honestly shocked by the attitude she chose to take up. It had been unforeseen; it took him so much by surprise that he was thrown out of his stride. She sat like a goddess, fearless and invincible. So much he could see.

  He went on with his pacing, biting his finger-nails now, as he always did when he was put out. He knew something of women; he had had dealings with a-many and a-many, but this girl was out of his ken.

  He reflected. Her uplifted mood could not last; she was no goddess, but a girl strung up to a pitch of abnormal excitement that would die. He made up his mind to wait, to allow anticipation to wear down her courage.

  He came to a halt opposite her. ‘We will see how you feel in the morning, my cousin,’ he said. ‘Let the night bring sager counsel. You are over-wrought, and I would not hurry you, nor do I wish to constrain you by force. But mark me well! Tomorrow night, if I have not your promise to wed with me, you will not find me so gentle. If you will not have me with the Church's holy tie you shall have me without it. You have a night and a day to make up your mind whether you will be wife or mistress, but one or the other you shall be. That I swear!’

  Some of the tension went out of her. She let her eyes fall that he might not see the relief in them. Much might happen in a night and a day; there was hope still.

  She rose. ‘Then I desire to retire to my chamber, señor, with your good leave,’ she said.

  Twenty-two

  OF THAT MAD RIDE THROUGH SPAIN JOSHUA NEVER afterwards spoke without a shake of the head, and a gesture of incredulity. ‘You ask me how we compassed it?’ says he. ‘I will tell you very simply, I do not know. We were out of Madrid featly enough, none saying us nay. Why should they? My master wore the collar of the Golden Fleece about his neck, a fine gaudy thing, to rank with our Garter, so I believe. That weighed with them, I warrant you. If any speered after us, why, we were on the King's business, and you may believe we tarried not to see how they stomached that.

  ‘We rode through that first night without drawing rein. I thanked Jupiter – a very potent planet in my affairs – that there was some faint moonlight, else had we been shent. Past some town – you would not know it, and nor did I – clouds came up, and we were left to flounder among the ruts and the boulders. As I remember, we lost the road twice between that stage and the next. I was near to breaking my head against low-hanging tree-branches, lost, then bogged in some swamp. “How fares your honour?” sings I out into the darkness. “Merrily, merrily!” calls Sir Nicholas back to me. What can be done with such a mad-wag? We were casting about to find the road, stumbling here, foundering there, with all Spain hunting us to the rearward. But “Merrily, merrily!” quoth Sir Nicholas, and I doubt he thought so. Did he lose the road? What matter for that? Trust him to nose out the north; it was enough. The dawn came up, and a sharp wind with it, enough to cut one in two. I was never more glad of the daylight. We struck the road – God's light, there was little enough to choose between it and the open country! – pushed on, the horses nigh done. My nag went lame: small blame to him. We fetched up at the next stage, walking the last league. You may be sure we had put a-many between us and Madrid.

  ‘My head was a-nod, and my eyes full of dust. What matter for that? “How fares your honour?” – “Excellent well,” quotha, as though he were upon a day's hunting. Ay, and a hunt it was, and he the hart. Yet I do not deny he hunted too, a quarry of his own, and maybe gave more thought to that than to the hounds behind him. So did not I, but I own myself to be a very meacock creature, besides which the salt fell towards me in an unlucky spill at that inn, and such a happening cannot be regarded as fortunate. For all that I kept a good heart. There was a certain prophesy made concerning me which led me to suppose I was not destined to die upon a gallows, or at the stake. Moreover, if you go upon a venture with Mad Nicholas you had best leave fear behind you.

  ‘We stayed but to break our fast at the stage. Maybe they looked curiously at the inn. As I remember, there was a weasel-beaked fellow mighty sprag to beagle out our business. He made little by that. We ate but a running-banquet there; no sleep for us yet, by your leave. A mouthful snatched, a cup or two of wine to slake our throats, and away we went again. I remember I bestrode a leathern-mouthed Almaine – a devil to ride, but a devil to go. Sir Nicholas had a Barb under him, a fine fleet beast, but mine would have gone for double the distance. Let that pass. We went at full stretch, no rest for man or beast. Thus it is to go abroad on Sir Nicholas’ affairs. But I do not complain. “God save you, sir!” cry I, and I was reeling in the saddle. “Will you ride till Doomsday?” We drew rein then, at the next stage. “We have a fair start of them,” says my master, stretching up his arms. “I’m for bed.” I warrant you I dropped where I stood, and so slept.

  ‘It was all of a piece. We suffered a check here, an ill-chance there. At one stage there were no nags to be had. We wasted a matter of six hours: precious time if you are hunted men. But Sir Nicholas carried all off with a high hand. I shivered to hear him, but it served, it served. He had not been master of a ship's crew for naught, do you see? We took what horses we would, scattered the ducats here and there. Did a man refuse to sell? A murrain on the fellow! if he would not sell in all honesty he must be robbed. To speak sooth, when it was thus shown him he would, in the general way, sell. Our need? Why, we went upon the King's business. Did they ask for proof? We waved a folded paper in their silly faces. (It was an inventory of some shirts and other matters sent to the washerwoman, I believe, but they were not to know that.) It sufficed. Our errand? Why there was a dangerous pirate let loose, a very fiend in human shape. Who was this one? Ho, who but El Beauvallet himself ! What a stir was there! We were off whiles the dizzards chattered over it.

  ‘We suffered a bad check somewhere south of Burgos. There was not a horse to be had that was not full of wind-galls, or past cure of the staggers. We lay up at an inn – a very noisome hole it was, but we took little account of that. It was there we came near to our undoing, but it passed, it passed. There came the sound of a horse ridden hard. I could see the watchful look in my master's eye; he bore a fidgetting sword in his scabbard those few minutes, nor was my dagger restful in its sheath. A man went by our inn in a cloud of dust. When it cleared he was away, but I know the look of a soldier, do you see? He was rocking in the saddle: well he might if he had overtaken us! For we had not gone at a jog-trot, as you may imagine. He was not on our track. Nay, nay, unless I am mistaken he was bound for the Frontier. We might have stood in his path and mowed at him: he would have paid no heed. All his orders were to stop the Frontier pass. For that matter I believe we might have declared ourselves all along the way, and had better service. The common folk make a hobgoblin of my master, and fear him like the plague – the grandees not far otherwise, from all I could observe.

  ‘Well, we made it in seven days, and might have made it in less, I believe, but for that check south of Burgos. Odds lifelings, but I was glad to leave the post road behind us at Burgos, and strike north-west to Vasconosa. It was to shake off the hounds, you understand, for those that went not to the Frontier would make Santander, as we ju
dged, and that lay to the east of us. A wild, mad journey, and a miracle that we came off, say I!’

  Miracle or not, they did indeed come to Vasconosa at dusk upon the seventh day. There was some sort of an inn there, but little else in the village but a few hovels, and the Great House.

  Joshua did good work there while Sir Nicholas washed the travel-stains from his person, and changed his dress. He was trimming his beard when Joshua came up to his room. Joshua came strutting, and looked wisely.

  ‘We have beagled out some few matters, so please you, master. The Great House we have seen, and I learn the family came in late last night. Nothing's to be heard of them yet. We may easily come at the house; there are a dozen ways through the gardens, and no guards save at the gatehouse, and the stables. Naught to fear, they think. Why no, if they had not El Beauvallet stalking them.’

  ‘What of our road?’ interrupted Sir Nicholas, combing his beard to a point. ‘Could you discover the way?’

  ‘Never fear me, master. There will be some ’cross country work to be done yet, over the hills, but we may go on a fair track, so I understand, as far as Villanova. You ask me how I might find this out without betraying matters not for the tapster's ears? Very simply, sir. I am loud in my complaints that there is no road but the one in these parts. In the south, say I, we are better served. That put our dawcock on his mettle, I warrant you. “Ho!” says he, “I’d have you know there is the road that runs to join the post-road a matter of ten miles to the east of the Great House, and another which runs past the hunting-lodge in the forest to Villanova.”’

  ‘We found Villanova on the map,’ said Sir Nicholas. ‘What is this hunting-lodge?’

  ‘Be sure I asked, master. It need not concern us, being no more than a summer-house than yon popinjay, Diego, uses for his sports. More sports than you might think, master, I dare swear. It lies a matter of five miles from here, and the track comes out not a hundred yards from this inn. I have conned it. Now it seems to me, master, if you are to steal your lady away, I had best have the horses tethered in the spinney hard by the Great House, and so make that track as speedily as may be possible.’ He saw that Sir Nicholas had put on a clean ruff, and plucked a poking-stick from out his doublet. ‘So please you, sir, we will poke out the folds of the ruff a little. Will you have me procure a third horse with a lady's saddle?’