“And who,” said he, “is the young giant that carries his book like a weapon and has a face like Gabriel?”
“My Lord,” said Clancarty, “he is one of the sucking pupils of Oxford: a fine Latin scholar and speaks a fluent French, though he has no English.”
“Moreover, my Lord,” said Lady Clancarty in her dry accents, “he possesses a marvellous great white stallion who loves him like a father, and who he proposes shall share his rooms at the university.”
“That indeed is a recommendation,” said Essex, smiling.
Estercel bowed profoundly. He purposely spoke in a low voice and dexterously removed Essex a step or two under pretence of turning back to the sun, and without changing the tone of his voice. Holding open the page on which was emblazoned a well-known four-lined epigram of Politicus, he followed the lines with his finger ostensibly reading from the book, first raising his eyes to the face of Essex with a fiery and instant significance. Then in a low voice, but with clearness and tremendous intensity, he delivered his message in the Latin tongue.
“I, the messenger of Tyrone and all Ireland, speak as Tyrone to you, Earl Marshal of England. Hear and heed well. I, openly your enemy, am secretly your friend. Many are your apparent friends, who secretly work for your destruction. Your gallant and generous spirit has conquered me without a battle. Give me a meeting that I may unmask your foes and give all Ireland into your right hand.”
“Read the epigram once again, young man,” said Essex blandly. “You have an excellent appreciation of the Latin tongue.”
Estercel repeated the epigram. Essex, with an apparent carelessness, received the copy of the epigrams, remarking on the fine parchment and decorated script, passed it to an officer, and motioned Estercel to withdraw.
It was over. The message had gone home. Estercel drew back, Essex passed on to his seat. The mystery recommenced. On the stage lay the two lads, Crispin and his brother, moaning and crying, while the gaoler and his men kicked them for sport.
Estercel never marked the play. His face was pale and set, his eye bright; he looked straight before him, seeing nothing but one gallant face and form. Now he might return the way he had come, for his errand was done. As the thought passed through his mind, there was a slight stir on the bench. On a pretence of the heat and crush, the bold Meraud had forced her mother to change her place, and there she was on the outer seat of the crimson bench looking up at him with a face like a star.
There is a might in beauty, a power and a light that speak to the soul! The very air about the head of Meraud was suffused with a brightness. Her hair shook down a radiance that covered her shoulders like a cloak. As he gazed, the set pallor of Estercel's face relaxed, and his cheek flushed. He turned away his head, for he dared not gaze too long lest he should be overcome. While for a moment he had so lost himself, he felt warm fingers seize upon his hand which hung innocently down by his side. He started and glanced down, and there was Meraud looking up at him with a witch's face. She had hold of the very finger on which was the twisted gold ring.
“Noble person,” said she, maliciously regarding him, “where did you get this ring? It is an ugly thing, but curious. Take it off that I may inspect it.”
“Beautiful girl,” answered Estercel, attempting to draw away his hand, “do not meddle with it; it is a fairy ring. Who knows, if you took it away from me, it might bring a blast upon you?”
“A fairy ring?” said Meraud, looking malignantly at it. “How? Did it come out of a barrow? Did a fairy woman give it to you? Why do you wear it?”
Estercel gazed in front of him seeking for a lie that should be convenient and good to be told.
“It is said to be a charm against whooping cough,” said he.
“The whooping cough!” said Meraud scornfully. “A great man like you to wear a charm against whooping cough. Nay, I don't believe you. It was some woman gave it to you, and I don't believe about your colleges either. And I want to know what piece of a book you were reading to my Lord of Essex?” And she made her eyes as narrow as two slits.
Estercel turned and looked upon her with a solemn face. “For two pennies I would correct you,” he said.
Meraud laughed and threw off her malicious look, but she never left him alone. While Meraud laughed with all the company, gentle and simple, still she was teasing Estercel.
“Stay but two more days,” said she, “your education is unfinished. You will gain much by frequenting the gentlemen of the court. Your manners are something rough. I would gladly help to form them. Also I have a great curiosity to know more about this fairy ring,” and she sought again to take his hand. But at this moment her lady mother chanced to turn.
“My eye is upon you, Meraud,” said she. “Do not imagine that while I talk to Sir Anthony Standen, yet I cannot at the same time see what goes on behind my back. Unless you alter your behaviour, bitter brewing awaits you at home. After meat, mustard!”
Chapter XIII. - Meraud Goes to Court
At first glance, it would have been hard to recognise the wild free-gestured girl in the splendid lady who stood before the mirror but four days after. The kincob gown was on over a satin petticoat: the stiff golden cloth, the large sleeves, the ruff, the decorated head-tire, the tightly cinctured waist combined to disguise the natural form: even the countenance was altered, seeming at once more lavish yet more guarded in its beauty.
It was a wonder, too, to see the chamber. The whole paraphernalia of luxury was there: rich draperies flung down in disorder, combs, ornaments, pots and vials of essences and perfumes. As she stood a moment before the mirror, while impatient voices called her from below, a gorgeous figure in the midst of this disorder, Meraud's face was pale. But an instant before she had stepped back into the chamber for a last look in the glass, and a strange chance had frightened her.
The late afternoon had grown dusky, and the serving women who had helped her to dress had lit two candles which burned with no very great light. As Meraud hastily approached the mirror whose surface shone palely in the double crossing lights, her own resplendent figure gleamed in it, moving towards her from its furthest depths. Behind her there was, or seemed to be for one moment, a something that did not move at all, a face that drew her eyes. It was ruddy-haired like her own, with crimson cheeks, the red lips were open, and the fierce eyes were bent upon her. With a movement of instinctive horror, Meraud turned about to see what thing stood so menacingly behind her in the room, and when she looked again in the mirror, the face was gone. One instant, she stood. Then obeying the shouts that called her from below, she darted from the room.
Once safe downstairs, Meraud clean forgot her short moment of fear and lived only in the atmosphere of admiration and excitement that surrounded her. A wonder and a novelty was before the door, a coach with six horses, sent by a member of council to draw her and her father to the great assembly at the castle, for not only was her father a man of weight and importance, holding extensive properties in the south and loyal to Elizabeth, but the beauty of Meraud was famous already.
Fourteen days it was since Essex had landed, fourteen days of deep excitement and unrest, while Essex and the lords of the council debated disposing their armies and arguing their plans of war. From the camp outside the city walls came a rumour that filled the air and lasted from early morning till late at night. This murmur was echoed in men's waking thoughts and even in their dreams. Never before had such an armament been spied on Irish shores. And never before had the men of Ireland been so united; never before had they had so gallant and so wise a leader as Tyrone, a gentleman schooled at the same court as Essex and a graver man than he.
Tonight, there was a great assembly at the castle. Already from all quarters of the city those who had any titles of authority, on foot or on horseback, were crowding towards it, eager to see the great earl. The centre of Ireland's fate tonight was the castle. The centre of the castle, the unseen point from which depended all that was visible and seen, was the hidden heart of Essex.
As the coach lumbered heavily up Castle Street, and the horses trod hollow on the drawbridge between the two round towers, Meraud's heart beat high.
“See, now, child,” her father was saying. “These are dangerous times; see that you bear yourself discreetly. To be seen speaking to the noble Earl of Essex shall advance us greatly.”
But Meraud did not listen at all to her father.
Within the castle shone a memorable pageant. The hall, one hundred feet in length and eighty in breadth, was lit by candles and torches, and filled with a great throng of figures that continually moved. A lane was kept clear up the middle, leading directly to the upper end of the hall where stood the Earl of Essex. The eye was at once awed and enchanted that rested upon him. Behind him was the dark wall, and over him the dark roof. Against this background, his person blazed, an emblem of power shown forth in actual beauty of manhood and state. From head to foot, he was clothed in very rich white satin embroidered in pearls, with a short mantle of white velvet upon one shoulder. A jewelled order hung on his breast, suspended by a ribbon of blue. His bearing was august, almost suggesting the sovereign, but crossed by sudden flashes of impatience or delight. The noble head was thrown a little back, and the light, brightest in that part of the hall where he stood, showed the dark locks of hair, the beard lighter by many shades, the bright red lips, the well-formed features, and the high brow. On either hand of him shone a constellation of his officers: those next to him young and brilliant as himself, the grey-beards further off.
Although Meraud, more than once, had had direct speech of him, she was awed in spite of her pride as she approached him. Quitting her father's arm, she sank him a curtsey. He, taking a full step forward, extended his hand and raised her up. Meraud looked into his face and met his flashing look.
“Ah, beautiful Mistress Meraud!” he said. “Lovely shining emerald of ladies, I am conveyed straight to another world when I look on you. In truth,” said he, lowering his voice and gazing earnestly upon her, “such beauty as yours is like a still pool to a troubled spirit. So exasperated as I am, with sage councillors and foolish counsels, I do long for nothing so much as some enchanted ship that would carry me with so fair a companion as you to some island of rest, where I might find that peace which honour ever denies me.”
“Ah,” said Meraud, gaily smiling and also speaking low, “I thought your Lordship had had enough and too much of the sea of late. And did you indeed find such peace, where were your Lordship's glories then?”
The eyes of Essex darkened and his face, that but a moment before had been so victorious, became uneasy and perturbed.
“Truly, fair lady,” he said in still lower tones, gazing upon her radiant form and countenance and as if impelled to speak, “I fear there is small augury of any glory coming to my house by way of this country. Did not my unhappy father lose here fortune and life?” And as he spoke, a black cloud rested on his brow for all men to behold, for the countenance of Essex showed always the open sign of his loves and hates.
Seeing Essex with his eyes cast down upon the floor in the attitude of despondency, Sir Henry Cuffe stepped forward and touched him upon the arm. Essex started and flung off the warning hand as, in an instant recovering his customary look of gallant animation, he turned to those who continually pressed forward from the other end of the hall.
Meraud passed on and, at her father's bidding, took the arm of Sir Xylonides Bullen, a round-faced middle-aged gentleman with a cold, keen eye, reputed an able governor, known in those harsh days for his harshness.
“You have been highly honoured, Mistress Meraud,” said he. “The noble Earl spoke long with you. I see many eyes upon you, and many are wondering of what he spoke so earnestly?”
But Meraud would give no heed; she was wild on the gaze. “Oh, what a day! what a night!” she cried. “I am glad to be here. Was ever so much grandeur seen before?”
“It is in truth a splendid scene,” said he. “And the noble Earl, the sun or centre of the firmament of lesser lights. Small wonder if all men's eyes follow him. He is fantastic in his humours of late, but it were something beside the ordinary if he spoke of something particular in the very centre of this crowd?”
Meraud looked at him, and for all answer, a strange slow smile that was not her own overspread her face. Then of a sudden, she cast down her eyes and fell to considering a mean leg in a handsome black stocking which she well recognised. Sir Xylonides looked at her with fresh attention.
“You are wise beyond your years, Mistress Meraud, for you will keep counsel. Look how bitterly Captain Anthony Falconer looks down into his beard. He doesn't like the complexion this expedition has put on. Men say that the evil augury of this voyage is likely to be fulfilled.”
“I have heard of none,” said Meraud, her looks still seeking through the crowd, “save that the ships met with ill winds and were long at sea.”
“Haven't you heard then how nearly was the Queen's treasure lost? When the ships were endeavouring to recover over the bar with all their sails up and full, the Popinjay and the Charell, that had all the treasure on board, made together and were likely to have dashed each other in pieces, and with much ado escaped one from the other. It is said that when the army marched out of London, and the whole city was gone out to see them, such a thunderstorm burst upon all as has scarcely been experienced before, for the wonder of the lightning and the violence of the rain.”
“That is strange,” said Meraud. “But my father has told me that so great an army or so much gold has never come into Ireland before, and that even Tyrone, himself, is no match for the Earl of Essex; so that out of this war we shall get peace at last.”
Sir Xylonides smiled upon her. “Heaven send peace, indeed, fair Mistress Meraud. We are long enough distracted. But this Essex from his boyhood was a Queen's darling, and I do not like the breed.”
While they spoke, Meraud's eyes that had ceaselessly roamed about the hall now at last, like a travelling bird that sights her home, joyfully lighted on the face they sought. Far back in the hall, leaning against an arch's side, was Estercel. Since ever she had seen him come riding down the street, the whole desire of Meraud's heart, strong and untamed, had been placed upon him. In her youth and pride, Meraud had never doubted of happy love. All men told her she was beautiful. Already she knew them for her subjects and practised consciously arts of subjugation till her more simple mother wondered at the once simple girl.
Now as her glance flew and rested upon Estercel standing in dark clothes at the back of the gaily-dressed crowd, there was a simplicity of delight in her face that transformed the stiff attire, the more calculated bearing, she had assumed. At the same moment, his eyes lit upon her, and either smiled.
Sir Xylonides saw the greeting which passed. “Fair lady,” he said, “I see plainly that you are in all the secrets. I would give ten crowns to know what is that young man's business with the Earl of Essex, and I would give twenty for that white horse he rides.”
“You would not get him,” said Meraud, laughing. “That white horse is father and mother to him, for neither has he.”
“What does he do here, fair Meraud?”
“That I don't know,” answered she.
“I will wager you two crowns,” said Sir Xylonides, “that he will not tell you.”
“I will take up the wager,” said Meraud smiling from under her eyelids; for she said to herself, “Estercel will tell me if I ask him, but I will not tell you, old man.”
“Let us go round the hall, and you shall speak with him, mistress,” said Sir Xylonides, and they began slowly to make their way.
“I will tell you what I think,” said Sir Xylonides, speaking in a small bitter voice, the voice of the plotter, his mouth to her ear. “I believe this young man is a spy of Tyrone's. They say he sends lame men and blind men everywhere as his messengers, but he may well employ a piece of comeliness on such occasions as this. For this youth has had speech of Essex and the council, and men are now
whispering that the army moves not against Tyrone. They will first destroy his allies in the south. I know how it comes about. Could I but find there had been parleying between Essex and Tyrone, I could make up a budget for the Queen's Majesty's ears which, God bless her, are always open for such. Who knows, fair mistress, but that fortune for us both may lie that way?”
He took Meraud by the arm as he spoke and drew her into a side doorway that opened on a vaulted passage. A dank air moved up from it, and it was black dark and chilling cold. The voice of the plotter, the same that spoke in the cathedral, was in her ears.
“See, Mistress Meraud,” said he, pointing down: “George Arglass that has the charge of this castle is my good friend, and many matters we have in hand together. It is but the word 'spy' in his ear, and a few words from your lips, fair mistress, and we have a traitor by the heels.”
Meraud turned and gazed into the black depth of the passage, then back into the bright hall whose floor was like a moving garden, whose roof was filled with the loud mingled murmur of many voices. Either seemed real, either seemed to make the other unreal. Often in her short life Meraud had looked upon fear, and it had passed her by. Tonight, it took hold of her. Her strong and lovely face turned pale, and she was shaken in the comfort of her beauty and youth. For the first time, she knew that behind day comes the night; behind joy, sorrow; that behind beauty waits decay, and behind security wanders fear. Her keen intelligence suddenly fathomed the depth of the plot against Essex. His friends, Blount and Southampton, excluded from the council through the Queen's jealousy, which was easily manipulated to their own advantage by his enemies at home; the council, packed with his enemies, forcing him on the southern war, while Tyrone camped in the north. The same council aided by a hundred, a thousand, false and bitter tongues whispering everywhere the rumour of Essex's traitorousness, because he secretly parleyed with the enemy — of his cowardice, because he dare not meet Tyrone. Her heart was torn with pity for Essex so hedged about as he was with perfidiousness, one foot in a deadly trap. She felt a great pang of fear lest Estercel should be caught also and destroyed by this terrible man.
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