Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  He paused a moment to choose his words, what time she stared intently into the face that gleamed white in the surrounding gloom.

  “When that poor ailing spirit is at rest.” And he added: “It will be soon.”

  “Thou hast said the same aforetime, Robin. Yet it has not so fallen out.”

  “She has clung to life beyond what could have been believed of her condition,” he explained, unconscious of any sinister ambiguity. “But the end, I know, is very near — a matter but of days.”

  “Of days!” she shivered, and moved forward to the edge of the terrace, he keeping step beside her. Then she stood awhile in silence, looking down at the dark oily surge of water. “You loved her once, Robin?” she asked, in a queer, unnatural voice.

  “I never loved but once,” answered that perfect courtier.

  “Yet you married her — men say it was a love marriage. It was a marriage, anyway, and you can speak so calmly of her death?” Her tone was brooding. She sought understanding that should silence her own lingering doubt of him.

  “Where lies the blame? Who made me what I am?” Again his bold arm encompassed her. Side by side they peered down through the gloom at the rushing waters, and he seized an image from them. “Our love is like that seething tide,” he said. “To resist it is to labour in agony awhile, and then to perish.”

  “And to yield is to be swept away.”

  “To happiness,” he cried, and reverted to his earlier prayer. “Say that when... that afterwards, I may claim you for my own. Be true to yourself, obey the voice of instinct, and so win to happiness.”

  She looked up at him, seeking to scan the handsome face in that dim light that baffled her, and he observed the tumultuous heave of her white breast.

  “Can I trust thee, Robin? Can I trust thee? Answer me true!” she implored him, adorably weak, entirely woman now.

  “What does your own heart answer you?” quoth he, loaning close above her.

  “I think I can, Robin. And, anyway, I must. I cannot help myself. I am but a woman, after all,” she murmured, and sighed. “Be it as thou wilt. Come to me again when thou art free.”

  He bent lower, murmuring incoherently, and she put up a hand to pat his swarthy bearded cheek.

  “I shall make thee greater than any man in England, so thou make me happier than any woman.”

  He caught the hand in his and kissed it passionately, his soul singing a triumph song within him. Norfolk and Sussex and those other scowling ones should soon be whistled to the master’s heel.

  As they turned arm in arm into the gallery to retrace their steps, they came suddenly face to face with a slim, sleek gentleman, who bowed profoundly, a smile upon his crafty, shaven, priestly face. In a smooth voice and an accent markedly foreign, he explained that he, too, sought the cool of the terrace, not thinking to intrude; and upon that, bowing again, he passed on and effaced himself. It was Alvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, the argus-eyed ambassador of Spain.

  The young face of the Queen hardened.

  “I would I were as well served abroad as the King of Spain is here,” she said aloud, that the retreating ambassador might hear the dubious compliment; and for my lord’s ear alone she added under her breath: “The spy! Philip of Spain will hear of this.”

  “So that he hears something more, what shall it signify?” quoth my lord, and laughed.

  They paced the length of the gallery in silence, past the yeoman of the guard, who kept his watch, and into the first antechamber. Perhaps it was that meeting with de Quadra and my lord’s answer to her comment that prompted what now she asked: “What is it ails her, Robin?”

  “A wasting sickness,” he answered, never doubting to whom the question alluded.

  “You said, I think, that... that the end is very near.”

  He caught her meaning instantly. “Indeed, if she is not dead already, she is very nearly so.”

  He lied, for never had Amy Dudley been in better health. And yet he spoke the truth, for in so much as her life depended upon his will, it was as good as spent. This was, he knew, a decisive moment of his career. The hour was big with fate. If now he were weak or hesitant, the chance might slip away and be for ever lost to him. Elizabeth’s moods were as uncertain as were certain the hostile activities of my lord’s enemies. He must strike quickly whilst she was in her present frame of mind, and bring her to wedlock, be it in public or in private. But first he must shake off the paralysing encumbrance of that house-wife down at Cumnor.

  I believe — from evidence that I account abundant — that he considered it with the cold remorselessness of the monstrous egotist he was. An upstart, great-grandson to a carpenter, noble only in two descents, and in both of them stained by the block, he found a queen — the victim of a physical passion that took no account of the worthlessness underlying his splendid exterior — reaching out a hand to raise him to a throne. Being what he was, he weighed his young wife’s life at naught in the evil scales of his ambition. And yet he had loved her once, more truly perhaps than he could now pretend to love the Queen.

  It was some ten years since, as a lad of eighteen, he had taken Sir John Robsart’s nineteen-year-old daughter to wife. She had brought him considerable wealth and still more devotion. Because of this devotion she was content to spend her days at Cumnor, whilst he ruffled it at court; content to take such crumbs of attention as he could spare her upon occasion. And during the past year, whilst he had been plotting her death, she had been diligently caring for his interests and fostering the prosperity of the Berkshire estate. If he thought of this at all, he allowed no weakly sentiment to turn him from his purpose. There was too much at stake for that — a throne, no less.

  And so, on the morning after that half-surrender of Elizabeth’s, we find my lord closeted with his henchman, Sir Richard Verney. Sir Richard — like his master — was a greedy, unscrupulous, ambitious scoundrel, prepared to go to any lengths for the sake of such worldly advancement as it lay in my lord’s power to give him. My lord perforce used perfect frankness with this perfect servant.

  “Thou’lt rise or fall with me, Dick,” quoth he. “Help me up, then, and so mount with me. When I am King, as soon now I shall be, look to me. Now to the thing that is to do. Thou’lt have guessed it.”

  To Sir Richard it was an easy guess, considering how much already he had been about this business. He signified as much.

  My lord shifted in his elbow-chair, and drew his embroidered bedgown of yellow satin closer about his shapely limbs.

  “Hast failed me twice before, Richard,” said he. “God’s death, man, fail me not again, or the last chance may go the way of the others. There’s a magic in the number three. See that I profit by it, or I am undone, and thou with me.”

  “I’d not have failed before, but for that suspicious dotard Bayley,” grumbled Verney. “Your lordship bade me see that all was covered.”

  “Aye, aye. And I bid thee so again. On thy life, leave no footprints by which we may be tracked. Bayley is not the only physician in Oxford. About it, then, and swiftly. Time is the very soul of fortune in this business, with the Spaniard straining at the leash, and Cecil and the rest pleading his case with her. Succeed, and thy fortune’s made; fail, and trouble not to seek me again.”

  Sir Richard bowed, and took his leave. As he reached the door, his lordship stayed him. “If thou bungle, do not look to me. The court goes to Windsor to-morrow. Bring me word there within the week.” He rose, magnificently tall and stately, in his bedgown of embroidered yellow satin, his handsome head thrown back, and went after his retainer. “Thou’lt not fail me, Dick,” said he, a hand upon the lesser scoundrel’s shoulder. “There is much at issue for me, and for thee with me.”

  “I will not fail you, my lord,” Sir Richard rashly promised, and on that they parted.

  Sir Richard did not mean to fail. He knew the importance of succeeding, and he appreciated the urgency of the business as much as did my lord himself. But between his cold, remorseless
will to succeed and success itself there lay a gulf which it needed all his resource to bridge. He paid a short visit to Lady Robert at Cumnor, and professed deepest concern to find in her a pallor and an ailing air which no one else had yet observed. He expressed himself on the subject to Mrs. Buttelar and the other members of her ladyship’s household, reproaching them with their lack of care of their mistress. Mrs. Buttelar became indignant under his reproaches.

  “Nay, now, Sir Richard, do you wonder that my lady is sad and downcast with such tales as are going of my lord’s doings at court, and of what there is ‘twixt the Queen and him? Her ladyship may be too proud to complain, but she suffers the more for that, poor lamb. There was talk of a divorce awhile ago that got to her ears.”

  “Old wives’ tales,” snorted Sir Richard.

  “Likely,” agreed Mrs. Buttelar. “Yet when my lord neither comes to Cumnor, nor requires her ladyship to go to him, what is she to think, poor soul?”

  Sir Richard made light of all, and went off to Oxford to find a physician more accommodating than Dr. Bayley. But Dr. Bayley had talked too much, and it was in vain that Sir Richard pleaded with each of the two physicians he sought that her ladyship was ailing— “sad and heavy” — and that he must have a potion for her.

  Each in turn shook his head. They had no medicine for sorrow, was their discreet answer. From his description of her condition, said each, it was plain that her ladyship’s sickness was of the mind, and, considering the tales that were afloat, neither was surprised.

  Sir Richard went back to his Oxford lodging with the feeling of a man checkmated. For two whole days of that precious time he lay there considering what to do. He thought of going to seek a physician in Abingdon. But fearing no better success in that quarter, fearing, indeed, that in view of the rumours abroad he would merely be multiplying what my lord called “footprints,” he decided to take some other way to his master’s ends. He was a resourceful, inventive scoundrel, and soon he had devised a plan.

  On Friday he wrote from Oxford to Lady Robert, stating that he had a communication for her on the subject of his lordship as secret as it was urgent. That he desired to come to her at Cumnor again, but dared not do so openly. He would come if she would contrive that her servants should be absent, and he exhorted her to let no one of them know that he was coming, else he might be ruined, out of his desire to serve her.

  That letter he dispatched by the hand of his servant Nunweek, desiring him to bring an answer. It was a communication that had upon her ladyship’s troubled mind precisely the effect that the rascal conceived. There was about Sir Richard’s personality nothing that could suggest the villain. He was a smiling, blue-eyed, florid gentleman, of a kindly manner that led folk to trust him. And on the occasion of his late visit to Cumnor he had displayed such tender solicitude that her ladyship — starved of affection as she was — had been deeply touched.

  His letter so cunningly couched filled her with vague alarm and with anxiety. She had heard so many and such afflicting rumours, and had received in my lord’s cruel neglect of her such circumstantial confirmation of them, that she fastened avidly upon what she deemed the chance of learning at last the truth. Sir Richard Verney had my lord’s confidence, and was much about the court in his attendance upon my lord. He would know the truth, and what could this letter mean but that he was disposed to tell it.

  So she sent him back a line in answer, bidding him come on Sunday afternoon. She would contrive to be alone in the house, so that he need not fear being seen by any.

  As she promised, so she performed, and on the Sunday packed off her household to the fair that was being held at Abingdon that day, using insistence with the reluctant, and particularly with one of her women, a Mrs. Oddingsell, who expressed herself strongly against leaving her ladyship alone in that lonely house. At length, however, the last of them was got off, and my lady was left impatiently to await her secret visitor. It was late afternoon when he arrived, accompanied by Nunweek, whom he left to hold the horses under the chestnuts in the avenue. Himself he reached the house across the garden, where the blighting hand of autumn was already at work.

  Within the porch he found her waiting, fretted by her impatience.

  “It is very good in you to have come, Sir Richard,” was her gracious greeting.

  “I am your ladyship’s devoted servant,” was his sufficient answer, and he doffed his plumed bonnet, and bowed low before her. “We shall be private in your bower above stairs,” he added.

  “Why, we are private anywhere. I am all alone, as you desired.”

  “That is very wise — most wise,” said he. “Will your ladyship lead the way?”

  So they went up that steep, spiral staircase, which had loomed so prominently in the plans the ingenious scoundrel had evolved. Across the gallery on the first floor they entered a little room whose windows overlooked the garden. This was her bower — an intimate cosy room, reflecting on every hand the gentle, industrious personality of the owner. On an oak table near the window were spread some papers and account-books concerned with the estate — with which she had sought to beguile the time of waiting. She led the way towards this, and, sinking into the high-backed chair that stood before it, she looked up at him expectantly. She was pale, there were dark stains under her eyes, and wistful lines had crept into the sweet face of that neglected wife.

  Contemplating his poor victim now, Sir Richard may have compared her with the woman by whom my lord desired so impatiently to supplant her. She was tall and beautifully shaped, despite an almost maidenly slenderness. Her countenance was gentle and adorable, with its soft grey eyes and light brown hair, and tender, wistful mouth.

  It was not difficult to believe that Lord Robert had as ardently desired her to wife five years ago as he now desired to be rid of her. Then he obeyed the insistent spur of passion; now he obeyed the remorseless spur of ambition. In reality, then as now, his beacon-light was love of self.

  Seeing her so frail and trusting, trembling in her anxious impatience to hear the news of her lord which he had promised her, Sir Richard may have felt some pang of pity. But, like my lord, he was of those whose love of self suffers the rivalry of no weak emotion.

  “Your news, Sir Richard,” she besought him, her dove-like glance upon his florid face — less florid now than was its wont.

  He leaned against the table, his back to the window. “Why, it is briefly this,” said he. “My lord...” And then he checked, and fell into a listening attitude.

  “What was that? Did you hear anything, my lady?”

  “No. What is it?” Her face betrayed alarm, her anxiety mounting under so much mystery.

  “Sh! Stay you here,” he enjoined. “If we are spied upon...” He left the sentence there. Already he was moving quickly, stealthily, towards the door. He paused before opening it. “Stay where you are, my lady,” he enjoined again, so gravely that she could have no thought of disobeying him. “I will return at once.”

  He stepped out, closed the door, and crossed to the stairs. There he stopped. From his pouch he had drawn a fine length of whipcord, attached at one end to a tiny bodkin of needle sharpness. That bodkin he drove into the edge of one of the panels of the wainscot, in line with the topmost step; drawing the cord taut at a height of a foot or so above this step, he made fast its other end to the newel-post at the stair-head. He had so rehearsed the thing in his mind that the performance of it occupied but a few seconds. Such dim light of that autumn afternoon as reached the spot would leave that fine cord invisible.

  Sir Richard went back to her ladyship. She had not moved in his absence, so brief as scarcely to have left her time in which to resolve upon disobeying his injunction.

  “We move in secret like conspirators,” said he, “and so we are easily affrighted.. I should have known it could be none but my lord himself... here?”

  “My lord!” she interrupted, coming excitedly to her feet. “Lord Robert?”

  “To be sure, my lady. It was he had
need to visit you in secret — for did the Queen have knowledge of his coming here, it would mean the Tower for him. You cannot think what, out of love for you, his lordship suffers. The Queen...

  “But do you say that he is here, man,” her voice shrilled up in excitement.

  “He is below, my lady. Such is his peril that he dared not set foot in Cumnor until he was certain beyond doubt that you are here alone.”

  “He is below!” she cried, and a flush dyed her pale cheeks, a light of gladness quickened her sad eyes. Already she had gathered from his cunning words a new and comforting explanation of the things reported to her. “He is below!” she repeated. “Oh!” She turned from him, and in an instant was speeding towards the door.

  He stood rooted there, his nether lip between his teeth, his face a ghastly white, whilst she ran on.

  “My lord! Robin! Robin!” he heard her calling, as she crossed the corridor. Then came a piercing scream that echoed through the silent house; a pause; a crashing thud below; and — silence.

  Sir Richard remained by the table, immovable. Blood was trickling down his chin. He had sunk his teeth through his lip when that scream rang out. A long moment thus, as if entranced, awe-stricken. Then he braced himself, and went forward, reeling at first like a drunken man. But by the time he had reached the stairs he was master of himself again. Swiftly, for all his trembling fingers, he unfastened the cord’s end from the newel-post. The wrench upon it had already pulled the bodkin from the wainscot. He went down that abrupt spiral staircase at a moderate pace, mechanically coiling the length of whip-cord, and bestowing it with the bodkin in his pouch again, and all the while his eyes were fixed upon the grey bundle that lay so still at the stairs’ foot.

  He came to it at last, and, pausing, looked more closely. He was thankful that there was not the need to touch it. The position of the brown-haired head was such as to leave no doubt of the complete success of his design. Her neck was broken. Lord Robert Dudley was free to marry the Queen.