The Fortunes of Lal Faversham

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Not now, Roger,” I answered, calmly. “We have an audience. In an hour’s time at the Horseshoe in Drury Lane.”

  “As you please,” he assented curtly, and we went our ways.

  It was striking nine as my chair was set down at the door of the Horseshoe tavern, and I alighted. I called for a cup of canary and inquired of the landlord whether Mr. Marston had arrived. He informed me in answer that Roger had come to the hostelry half an hour ago, but that soon after his arrival a boy had brought him a letter, upon reading which he had again gone forth. I stayed a while in the house, then, seeing that Roger came not, and having dismissed my chair, I set out to walk back to Whitehall. The evening was a fine one, and I strolled slowly along, so that it was after ten before I had regained my apartments.

  Next morning Killigrew was regaling the Court with a monstrous story touching Anne Hyde and Roger Marston. The gallant Roger, mad with love, had sought, he had it, to snatch a kiss from Mistress Hyde in the Privy Gardens, whereupon she had flown to the arms of Lal Faversham, and Faversham had not only protected his betrothed, but, athirst for vengeance, he had spent the night hunting in London for the man who had offended her. ’Twas a vile fabrication from end to end.

  The Duke of York asked me if I knew aught of Roger’s whereabouts; to which I naturally replied that I did not, I had not seen him since we parted in the Stone Gallery the night before.

  Later in the day there were strange rumors afloat. Roger Marston, it was said, had disappeared. And when presently I learned that his hat and cloak and broken sword had been found on Tower Wharf, I was filled with vague uneasiness.

  It was not until the morrow, however, that this uneasiness of mine had cause to take a definite shape. I was in attendance upon his Majesty in the banqueting house during the morning, when the Lord Chancellor entered and approached the King. They stood apart in conversation for some moments, and I observed that Hyde handed something to Charles which the latter examined closely. He returned to my side presently, and stood chatting easily with me for some moments, then dismissed me. But as I was on the point of leaving the apartment he called me back and pointed to a handkerchief that lay upon the floor.

  “You have dropped something, Lal.”

  I turned, and retracing my steps lifted the kerchief, on a corner of which was embroidered the Faversham eagle. Thanking him, I pocketed it, wondering abstractedly that it was so curiously soiled, and again I made shift to go. But again he called me back—this time in a cold, imperious voice.

  “Sir Lionel.”

  “Sire?”

  “You are certain that that kerchief belongs to you.”

  I pulled it forth again, and again I examined it—unquestionably the thing was mine. I told him so, asking myself what cause there might be for so much ado about a piece of cambric.

  “Know you where you let it fall?” he asked, severely.

  “Why even now, sire, upon this floor.”

  “Not so, Sir Lionel. ’Twas I who cast it there. It was brought me awhile ago by my Lord Chancellor. It was found where the pieces of Roger Marston’s sword were found—on Thames Wharf. How came it there, sir? Unriddle me that.”

  I looked askance from him to those about him, and that frown of his reflected upon every face, turned me cold with apprehension. I guessed the thing that was in their minds.

  “Oh, sire!” I cried. “You do not accuse me of this?”

  “Of what, sir? I have accused you of nothing. ’Tis your conscience and that kerchief that accuse you. Sir George, he added, turning to Etheredge, “be good enough to call the guard.”

  “But your Majesty—”

  He silenced me by a lofty wave of the hand.

  “Anon the matter shall be sifted. In the meantime, Sir Lionel, you shall remain a prisoner in your own apartments.”

  They that have a king for friend lack not for enemies, and the downfall of Lal Faversham was cause, I doubt not, for more joy than sorrow.

  Clearly, I saw that whether Roger were dead or living I was the victim of some foul plot whose depth and purport I could not measure. I had been heard make an assignation with Roger Marston on the night of the scene with Mistress Hyde. It was known that I had sought him and there were none to prove that I had not found him. In my chamber I was left alone, a sentry at my door night and day, and another beneath my windows in King Street. Communication of any kind was interdicted, and I saw no one until toward the evening of the third day, when I was visited by Dick Talbot. He came from the King to tell me that his Majesty would himself look into the affair upon the following morning. Dick Talbot was my friend—one of those who had shared my exile. I swore to him by my honor that I was innocent and ignorant alike of Roger Marston’s fate, and he believed me. He cheered me with the news that after all his Majesty was favorably disposed toward me, and with a parting word of encouragement he would have left me when of a sudden we were startled by a noisy altercation outside my door.

  Some one remonstrated with the sentry, demanding admittance, and the loud, angry voice made my nerves tingle with excitement.

  “Dick,” I cried, “’tis Roger Marston’s voice!”

  In a bound, Talbot had crossed and bidden the sentry stand aside; a second later the man of whose murder I was accused appeared in the doorway. He came hatless and disheveled; his face was white and haggard; and there was a bruise over his right eye, his clothes were soiled and disordered, and in the shoulder of his Camlett coat gaped a great rent. Still he it was, and with a shout of joy and relief I sprang to greet him. But he met my gladness coldly and with a scowl.

  “Back, you hound—you hypocrite!” he thundered.

  “Are you mad, Roger?” I gasped, and to such a cause indeed I assigned for the moment his disordered looks.

  “Mad?” he echoed, with a contemptuous laugh. “No, no, I am sane enough, friend Lionel.”

  “Then why greet me in this fashion—me who am accused of your murder, and lying here under arrest for it?”

  “And fitly so, for, crush me, ’tis no fault of yours that I am not murdered; though, perchance, it had been better for you had your assassins done their work outright.”

  “My assassins? I swear by my honor, Roger, that I know not to what you allude.”

  “Oddslife, will you deny that you sent me a letter to the Horseshoe, bidding me come to you at the Red Lion in Thames Street? Dare you deny that at Tower Wharf your ruffians fell upon me, stunned me and carried me off to a house in Seething Lane, whence I have just made my escape at the risk of a broken neck?”

  “I do deny it, all of it. Where is the letter?”

  He gave me a glance of ineffable contempt. then handed a piece of paper to Talbot.

  “Read that, sir,” he said. “then let its author see it again.”

  “You must not forget, Mr. Marston,” said Talbot quietly, after he had glanced at the paper and passed it on to me, “that such a document may easily be forged. I have known Lal Faversham these many years, Mr. Marston, for a gentleman. A gentleman, sir, does not do these things, particularly when his swordsmanship is of the quality of Sir Lionel’s. Bethink you, sir, that had he desired to rid himself of you, he had no need to employ such means.”

  “Thank you. Talbot.” I said, then turning to the boy who stood livid with anger at this fresh opposition—“Roger, this letter is forged, I swear it. Be assured by this and Mr. Talbot’s reasoning.”

  “I care not a fig for your lies or Mr. Talbot’s reasoning,” was the passionate answer.

  “Roger!”

  “Oh, have done this farce,” he returned, with a bitter laugh. “What of your protestations that you did but woo Mistress Hyde because the King had bidden you—that you cared no whit for her nor she for you? Did not her action in the Stone Gallery prove that you had lied?”

  “Mr. Marston,” put in Talbot calmly, “your purpose here is clear, but I entreat you let this affair be conducted with decency. Sir Lionel is no longer under arrest—at least, he will not be when I have
told the King that I have seen you. Let me prevail upon you to withdraw and send a friend to wait upon a friend of Sir Lionel’s.”

  “No, no, Talbot,” I cried. “The boy is beside himself. Surely we can bring him to see reason. Remember, Roger, how long I have been your friend.”

  “Such a friend as was the Iscariot,” he retorted, at which fresh insult I lost all patience.

  “Dick,” I said, with a shrug, “since he will have it so, perhaps, you will do me the honor of arranging this affair.”

  I withdrew into the adjoining room, and an hour later I was informed by Talbot that we were to meet at Rosamond’s Pond in St. James’ Park, at six o’clock next morning. The sentry was removed from my door, and my sword returned to me.

  Albeit it wanted still a few minutes to six on that glorious July morning, when Talbot and I reached Rosamond’s Pond, we found Roger Marston with his friend, Lord Falmouth, already pacing ’neath the trees. There was little said, and we made ready swiftly. Our swords were measured, and we faced each other. Then, at my request, Talbot made a last appeal to Roger, but the lad was beyond reason, and we crossed swords—I, reluctantly and sadly, he, with an eagerness that proved how deep was his resentment.

  I was determined not to hurt the lad, despite the affront he had put upon me, and in this purpose I went to work. For what he lacked in skill he made up in fury, and for some moments he kept me busy enough. But in the end came a favorable opportunity and ere he well knew what had befallen him, I had twisted the sword from his grasp, and sent it flying over his head.

  “Will that suffice you, Roger, in reparation for your fancied grievance, and will you listen to me now?”

  “I will hear naught from you. Kill me disarmed if you will; if you will not, let my sword be returned to me.”

  I bowed my head, and a moment or two later we were at work again. Seeing how little it availed me to disarm him. I was now intent upon getting my sword home in his sword-arm, and thus by a slight wound disabling him. Calmly I fenced, and waited. And then of a sudden, whilst my eyes were intent upon my opponent, there came a ringing clash, and our swords were knocked up by Lord Falmouth.

  “Gentlemen,” he cried, in alarm, “the King!”

  And truly enough, as I turned, I beheld Charles advancing toward us by great strides of his long legs. He came unattended, and his swart face wore a look that was monstrous ugly.

  “How is this, gentlemen?” was his angry greeting. “Do I find you with drawn swords in the very grounds of my park? Are you so eager, Sir Lionel, to give truth to the accusation so lately brought against you of having caused the death of Mr. Marston?”

  “This quarrel, sir, is none of my seeking,” I replied, boldly. “I was visited yesternight by Mr. Marston, who came to accuse me of having caused the abduction whereof he has been the victim. To my denial of the imputation he answered that I lied.”

  Charles turned to him.

  “If I pledge you my kingly word that I am convinced Sir Lionel had no hand in that affair—that, in fact, as I have since discovered, it was a plot rather against him than against you—will that satisfy you, Mr. Marston?”

  “So far as that affair is concerned it must perforce, sire. But Sir Lionel and I have another cause of quarrel that is at the root of this one.”

  “What is this cause?”

  “Mistress Hyde, sire,” I ventured.

  “Mistress Hyde!” he blazed, turning upon Marston. “What is Mistress Hyde to you?”

  “I love her, sire.”

  “Why, so I have heard, and that she loves you not, therefore let the matter end. Oddsfish! I am sick of this business, and Sir Lionel shall marry her this very day if I have any power in England. Don your doubtlets, gentlemen, and attend me. I charge you both upon the pain of my lasting displeasure to let this matter go no further.”

  We did his bidding, and a sad procession we formed as we crossed the park in the direction of Whitehall. Roger gnawed his lip and wore the look of a newly birched schoolboy, Talbot and Falmouth followed crestfallen at the loss of a morning’s sport, while I stalked alone, the saddest of the melancholy party. In my heart I cursed Roger devoutly, and blamed his mawkish love-sickness for having so precipitated matters that I was compelled to wed a woman who—at the thought of it—grew loathsome to me.

  But that morning was rich in surprises. We were all but out of the park when in amazement our steps were arrested by no less a sight than that of Mistress Hyde and the Duke of York strolling toward us arm in arm, and all absorbed in the contemplation of each other. For a moment we paused; then, with a vigorous oath, Charles strode forward with quickened step, we following upon his heels. They stood still upon beholding him, and Mistress Hyde let fly a little cry of fear.

  A hundred rumors touching Anne Hyde and James of York, that I had heard but left unheeded, holding it mere Court scandal, recurred to me at that moment, Then as in a flash I understood why Charles sought to wed me to the Chancellor’s daughter. He sought to place her beyond his brother’s reach.

  Out of deference we paused, unwilling to intrude upon the scene we saw was imminent, and so I missed the greeting that passed between the royal brothers, and which I take it had little that was brotherly. They controlled a while their voices, but at length a loud, mocking laugh burst from the King, who, turning, bade us approach. As we drew near I caught the words from Charles:

  “By gad, James, it shall take place to-day.”

  “Sire.” replied the duke, “it is too late. There is no Mistress Hyde to give in marriage.” Then taking her by the hand, and bending upon her a look of eloquent affection: “Let me present to your Majesty, and to you, gentlemen, her royal highness, the Duchess of York.”

  Scarce believing our ears, we stood by and heard the gasp that escaped the King.

  “James, ’tis false!” he cried.

  “Nay, sire, ’tis true. We have been wed these three months.”

  There was an ominous pause.

  Then realizing that this was now become a family affair, Charles dismissed us by a wave of the hand, and we—but too glad to escape from so trying a scene—made off to my lodging.

  As we mounted the stairs Roger gripped my hand.

  “Forgive me, Lal,” he murmured, brokenly. “We have both been duped.”

  We had indeed, for it was now clear to both of us, that Roger’s abduction was the work of the duke, as also was the raising of suspicions against me, with the connivance—as I afterward ascertained—of her father who was privy to the marriage. In this fashion he had sought to remove the two suitors whose liberty was a menace to the secret which in the end he had been forced to disclose—thanks to the King’s early rising.

  CAROLUS AND CAROLINE

  It was on a Saturday early in August of the year of His Majesty’s blessed Restoration that court and town alike were set agog by the news that Sir Charles Sedley had that morning been caned in Hyde Park.

  The King was gone by water to the Tower to dine with Sir John Robinson, the lieutenant, and having naught to keep me at Whitehall I went forth to seek for more news of this incredible affair, to learn at whose hands and for what sins the gallant Sedley had suffered this chastisement. I took Dick Talbot with me, and in the Rhenish wine house we came upon a company of gentlemen—some four or five there may have been—whose tongues were wagging noisily upon the very business whereon we sought enlightenment, yet who knew no more of it than did we. Anon, however, we were joined by that buffoon Killigrew, who was better informed—as, indeed, he was in all matters, from the rascally habit he had taken of thrusting his lean old nose into the business of his neighbors.

  “Gentlemen,” quoth he, “I make no doubt that you have heard that a caning was administered this morning to the gay Sedley?”

  “Heard of it?” cried Falmouth. “Why, ’tis the talk of the town.”

  “H’m!” sneered Killigrew, twirling his gray mustachios, “the town talks much, and like all who talk much knowing little, it lies much. Gentlemen, let
me scatter the mist of falsehood that envelops you. Sir Charles was not caned in Hyde Park this morning—nor, for that matter, anywhere else at any time, so far as my knowledge reaches.”

  “Go your ways, Tom,” said Denham. “What jest have you brought us?”

  “Jest! Oddslife, ’tis no jest. Shall I tell you what really befell? Lend me your ears then. There is at the Cockpit Theater a handsome young dog of an actor lately hoisted into fame by his playing in The Loyal Subject, who is well known to all of you. I speak of Ned Kynaston. You may have remarked that of late he hath cut a brave figure abroad, in clothes that are closely copied from those worn by Sir Charles—whose taste in such matters is beyond compare. Sedley hath noticed this, and being for all his wit the vainest puppy in England, he hath conceived the notion that Kynaston seeks to pass for him. Incensed by what he deems an unwarrantable presumption, he determined to read the actor a lesson. And thus it befell that when this morning Kynaston was taking the air in the park arrayed in a gorgeous brocaded doublet, the very counterpart of one in which Sir Charles had been seen but two days ago, he was accosted by a burly hireling of Sedley’s who addressed him as Sir Charles Sedley. Now, the poor lad hath an unfortunate propensity for a jest, and no sooner did he conceive that by virtue of his coat the fellow had mistaken him for Sedley, than turning, he assumed on the instant the manner of Sir Charles, and demanded the fellow’s business. Thereupon, without more ado, the giant takes him by the collar of his brave coat, and sets about belaboring him in merciless fashion. Vainly doth Kynaston yell that there is a mistake, that he is not Sir Charles. His protests do but incense his assailant further, and the more he protests the more is he belabored, the other swearing that he seeks by a falsehood to evade punishment. When at length Kynaston gets his sword out and is like to repay the fellow’s attentions with interest, the onlookers—numbering half a score or so—rush in between and separate them. That, gentlemen, is the truth of what occurred.”

  There fell a silence upon the company when Killigrew paused, broken at length by Lord Falmouth with the comment that in a measure Kynaston was already avenged, since ‘twas Sedley’s reputation was like to suffer.