Beauvallet

by Georgette Heyer

  Dona Dominica had to admit her heart assailed dangerously. A certain smile haunted her dreams, and would not be banished. Yet he was a hardy rogue, surely. She could not say what there was in him to seize her fancy; he used no courtier tricks, no elegant subtleties. You would have no dropped knee, no sighs, no fashionable languishings from Beauvallet. He would have an arm about a maid's waist before she was aware, snatch a kiss, and be off again on his adventures. Oh, merry ruffler! He was too direct, thought my lady, too swift, employed no gentle arts in his wooing. She played with the idea that he was like a strong wind, vigorous, salt-tanged. He had no repose; he must be here and there, restless, so charged with vitality that it almost seemed to brim over. See, too, his challenging eyes, wickedly inviting under the down-dropped lids! Shame! Shame that one should know an answering leap of the heart! He would swing past along the deck, a hand on his hip, careless, heedless; one was bound to watch him, willy-nilly. He might stop beside his Master a brief while; his quick, gay speech would be borne back to one in snatches on the wind; one would see him fling out a pointing hand, give a decisive shake to his neat black head, crack some jest to set the Master chuckling, and be off down the companion to mingle amongst his men.

  It seemed they held him in some esteem, no little awe. No good came of an attempt to trifle with Sir Nicholas Beauvallet. He was a leader to love, but one to fear withal. Dona Dominica, catching at new-learned English words, heard stray comments, enough to show her what Beauvallet's men thought of him. They thought him a rare jest, she gathered, and pondered over the strange mentality of these English, who spent their time in laughing. They did not behave thus in Spain.

  And Spain, with its courtly propriety, its etiquette, and its solemn grandeur, grew nearer and ever nearer. Mad days at sea were nearly done now, and adventure was coming to an end. Don Manuel, reclining on his pillows, spoke of duennas; my lady hid a shudder and turned wistful eyes towards Beauvallet. To one reared in the freedom of the New World trammels of the Old would not be welcome. Don Manuel said severely that he had permitted his daughter too great a license. Faith, the girl thought for herself, was pert, he doubted, and certainly head-strong. As witness her behaviour on board the Santa Maria. A maid surprised by piratical marauders should have stood passive, a frozen statue of martyrdom. A daughter of Spain had no business to kick, and bite, and scratch, or to brandish daggers and spit venom upon her captors. Don Manuel had been shocked indeed, but knew her well enough to forbear comment. He trusted that his sister would find a strict duenna to govern her. He had marriage plans in mind, too, and hinted as much to her. He would see her safely bestowed, he said, and drew a fine picture of her future life. Dona Dominica listened in growing horror, and escaped from her father's cabin to the free air above.

  ‘Oh!’ cried she, ‘are English ladies so hedged about, and guarded, and confined, as we poor Spaniards?’

  They were in colder latitudes, and the wind bit shrewdly. Beauvallet loosened the cloak about his shoulders, and clipped it fast about my lady, so that it fell all about her. ‘Nay, I’ll not confine you, sweet, but I shall know how to guard my treasure, don’t doubt it.’

  She drew the cloak about her, and looked up, wide-eyed. ‘Do you in England set vile duennas to watch your wives?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘We trust them, rather!’

  Her dimples quivered. ‘Oh, almost you persuade me, Sir Nicholas!’ She frowned a warning as his hand flew out towards her. ‘Fie, before your men? I said “almost”, señor. Know that my father plans my marriage.’

  ‘A careful gentleman,’ said Beauvallet. ‘So, faith, do I.’

  ‘If you came, indeed, into Spain you might haply find me wed, señor.’

  A gleam came into his eyes, like a sword, she thought. ‘Might I so?’ he said, and the words demanded an answer.

  She looked away, trembled a little, smiled, frowned, and blushed. ‘N-no,’ she said.

  Too soon the day came that saw Spanish shores to the southward. Don Manuel braved the cold air on deck for a while, and followed the direction of Beauvallet's pointing finger. ‘Thereabouts lies Santander, señor. I shall set you ashore tonight.’

  The day wore swiftly to its close. Dusk came, and my lady watched Maria pack her chests. Maria stowed jewels away in a gold-bound box, and jealously counted each trinket. She could never be at ease amongst these English, but must always suspect darkly.

  My lady was seized by an odd fancy, and demanded to stow her jewels with her own hands. She took the casket to the light, and laid its contents out on the table, and debated over them with a look half rueful, half tender. In the end she chose a thumb ring of gold, too large for her little hand, too heavy for a lady's taste. She hid it in her handkerchief and quickly locked up the case that Maria might not discover the loss of one significant piece.

  In the soft darkness of the evening she flitted up on deck, a cloak wrapped about her, and her oval face pale in the dim lamplight. The ship made slow way now, the dark water lapping gently at her oaken sides. There was a little bustle on the deck; she heard the Master's voice raised: ‘Steady your helm!’ She saw Beauvallet standing under the light of a swinging lamp, with his boatswain beside him. The boatswain held a lantern, and was peering into the darkness. Far away to the south Dominica could see the little glow of lights, and knew that Spain was reached at last.

  She stole up to Beauvallet and laid a timid hand on his arm. He looked quickly round, and at once his hand covered hers where it lay on his latticed sleeve. ‘Why, child!’

  ‘I came – I wanted – I came to speak with you a minute,’ she said uncertainly.

  He drew her apart, and stood looking down at her quizzically. ‘Speak, child, I am listening.’

  Her hand came out from the shelter of her cloak; in it she held the golden ring. ‘Señor, you gave me a ring of yours to keep. I – I think you will never see me again, and so – and so I would have you take this ring of mine in memory of me.’

  The ring and the hand that held it were alike caught in a strong hold. She was swept out of the circle of light cast by the lamp above, and stood face to face with Beauvallet in the friendly darkness. She felt his arms go round her, and stood still, with her hands clasped at her breast. He held her in a tight embrace, laid his cheek against her curls, and murmured: ‘Sweetheart! Fondling!’ Madness, madness, but it was sweet to be mad just once in one's life! She lifted her face, put up a hand to touch his bronzed cheek, and gave him back kisses that were shy and very fugitive. Her senses swam; she thought she would never forget how an Englishman's arms felt, iron barriers holding one hard against a leaping heart. A shiver of ecstasy ran through her; she whispered: ‘Querida! Dear one! Do not quite forget!’

  ‘Forget!’ he said. ‘Oh, little unbeliever! Feel how I hold you: shall I ever let you go?’

  She came back to earth; she was blushing and shaken. ‘Oh, loose me!’ she begged, and seemed to flutter in his arms. ‘How may I believe that you could do the impossible?’

  ‘There is naught impossible that I have found,’ he said. ‘You shall leave me for a space, since to that I pledged my word, but not for long, my little love, not for long! Look for me before the year is out; I shall surely come.’

  A rich voice sounded close at hand. ‘Where are you, sir? They answer the signal right enough.’

  Beauvallet put the lady quickly behind him; the boatswain came to them, peering through the darkness.

  What followed passed as a dream for Dominica. There was a furtive light dipping and shining on the mainland; she escaped below decks, and saw her baggage borne away, and heard the bustle of a boat being prepared. Don Manuel sat ready, wrapped about in a fur-lined cloak, but shivering always. ‘He hath com passed it,’ Don Manuel said in quiet satisfaction. ‘He is a brave man.’

  Master Dangerfield came to fetch them in a little while; he gave an arm to Don Manuel, spoke words of cheer, but cast a regretful eye towards my lady. They came up on deck and found Beauvallet by a rope-ladder.
Below, bobbing on the ink-black water, a boat waited, manned by the boatswain and some of his men, and with the baggage stowed safely in it.

  Sir Nicholas came forward. ‘Don Manuel, have you strength to descend yon ladder?’

  ‘I can essay, señor,’ Don Manuel said. ‘Bartolomeo, go before me.’ He faced Beauvallet in the shaded lamplight. ‘Señor, this is farewell. You will let me say –’

  ‘No need, señor. Let it be said anon. I shall see you safely ashore.’

  ‘Yourself, señor? Nay, that is too much to ask of you.’

  ‘Be at ease, ye did not ask it. It is my pleasure,’ Beauvallet said, and put out a strong hand to help him down the ladder.

  Don Manuel went painfully down the side with Bartolomeo watchful below him. Beauvallet turned to Dominica, and opened his arms. ‘Trust yourself to me yet again, sweetheart,’ he said.

  Without a word she went to him and let him swing her up to his shoulder. He went lightly down the side with her, let her slip to her feet in the boat below, and held her still with one supporting hand. She found a seat beside Maria, crouched in the stern, and nestled beside her. Beauvallet left the ladder and gained the boat, stepped past the two women to the tiller behind them, and called a low order to his men. There was a casting off, long oars dipped into the heaving water; silently the boat cleaved forward towards the land.

  A crescent moon gleamed suddenly through a rift in the clouds above; Dominica looked round and saw Beauvallet behind her, holding the tiller. He was looking frowningly ahead, but as she turned he glanced down at her and smiled. She said suddenly on a sharp note of fear: ‘Ah, if there should be soldiers! A trap!’

  His white teeth shone between the black of beard and mustachio. ‘Never fear.’

  ‘Foolhardy!’ she whispered. ‘I would you had not come.’

  ‘What, and send my men into a danger I dare not face?’ he rallied her.

  She looked at him, so straight and handsome in the pale moonlight. ‘No, that is not your way,’ she said. ‘I cry pardon.’

  The clouds covered the moon's face again; Beauvallet was a dark shadow against the night. ‘I have a sword, child. Fear not.’

  ‘Rather, Reck Not,’ she said in a low voice.

  She heard the ripple of his gay laugh.

  Soon, too soon, the boat's keel grated on the beach. There were men running down to meet them now, men who caught at the boat, and held her, and questioned eagerly, in low, rough Spanish. Sir Nicholas picked his way across the baggage, and between the rowers to the nose of the boat, and sprang ashore, closely followed by his boatswain. There was the quick give and take of question and answer, a sharp exclamation, a subdued babel of voices in a long parley. Then Beauvallet came back to the boat, with the sea washing about his ankles, and gave his hand to Don Manuel. ‘All is well, señor; these worthy fellows will give you a lodging for the night, and your man may ride into Santander tomorrow to find a coach to bear you hence.’

  A burly sailor lifted Don Manuel on to dry land; his daughter lay in tenderer arms. She was carried up the beach, held closer still for a moment. Beauvallet bent his head and kissed her. ‘Till I come again!’ he said, and set her on her feet. ‘Trust me!’

  Six

  The venture was left in Plymouth Sound, under charge of Master Culpepper, and her treasure safely stored. She was docked, and would be clean careened before she could put to sea again. Beauvallet stayed some three nights in Plymouth, where he found a sea-faring crony or two, heard what news was abroad, and saw to the bestowal of his ship. He took horse then, with Joshua Dimmock in attendance, and a hired man following hard upon them with led sumpters, and made for Alreston, in Hampshire, where he might reasonably expect to find his brother. My Lord Beauvallet had other dwellings beside this, but of all this manor of Alreston saw him the most. There was a grim hold in Cambridgeshire, built nearly two hundred years ago by the founder of the house, Simon, First Baron Beauvallet. A left-handed scion of the old house of Malvallet, Simon cleaved for himself a new name and a new title. Under King Henry V he saw much fighting in France, and when those wars were done, came riding back into Cambridgeshire with a French bride, a countess in her own right, holding lands and a stronghold in Normandy. You might read of this first Beauvallet's mighty deeds in the dreamy chronicles of his close friend, Alan, Earl of Montlice, who occupied the latter years of his life with the writing of his reminiscences. It is a diffuse work, something poetical in tone, but contains much of interest.

  Since the days of the Iron Baron the family fortunes had fluctuated. The French County was lost to the English branch very early, for Simon, finding himself continually at loggerheads with his first-born, bestowed it upon his second son, Henry, who was thus the founder of the present French house.

  Geoffrey, the second baron, survived the Wars of the Roses, but left the barony considerably impoverished by his vacillations. His heir, Henry, took to wife Margaret, heiress of Malvallet, by which wise alliance the two families were made one. His successors all laid schemes for the family's advancement, but the times were troublous, and it was not always possible to steer a safe course through the varying politics of the day. Thus in this year, 1586, although the house of Beauvallet had by dint of careful marriages planted its roots in many great houses, and become one of the wealthiest in the land, the present holder of the title was only a baron, as his ancestor had been before him.

  This Seventh Baron, Gerard, a solid man, had built the new house at Alreston, a noble mansion of red brick, with oak timberings. My lady, a frail dame, complained of the cruel temper of the climate in Cambridgeshire, and was urgent in her gentle way, to be gone from an ancient castle full of draughts and damp and gloomy corners. My lord, inheriting much of his great ancestor's rugged nature, had a fondness for this medieval hold, and saw in the use of oak for house-building a sign of the decadence of the age. He was, so they said, a hard man, with a will of iron, but there was a joint in his armour. My lady had her way, and there arose in milder Hampshire, on lands that had come as part of the dowry of Gerard's grandmother, a stately Tudor mansion, set in fair gardens, surrounded by its stables, its farmsteads, and its rolling acres of pasturage. It was seen that my lord for all his hardy notions had pride in the magnificence of the building. He might speak slightingly of an age of luxury, but he adorned his house with every trapping of wealth, used the despised oak for his panelling, and had all carved and painted to the admiration of his neighbours.

  Thither rode Nicholas, on a bright spring day, and came in sight of the square gatehouse, after an absence of over a year. The gates stood wide, and showed a broad avenue stretching ahead, with rolling lawns to flank it, and the high gables of the manor beyond. Sir Nicholas reined in, and sent a shout echoing through the archway. The gate-keeper came out, no sooner saw who called than he hurried forward, beaming a welcome. ‘Eh, but it could be none other! Master Nick!’

  Beauvallet stretched down a hand in careless good nature. ‘Well, old Samson? How does my brother?’

  ‘Well, master, well, and my lady too,’ Samson told him, and bent the knee to kiss his hand. ‘Are you come home for aye at last, sir? The place misses you!’

  There was a shrug of the shoulder and a shake of the head. ‘Nay, nay, the place needs but my brother.’

  ‘A just lord,’ Samson agreed. ‘But there is never a man on Beauvallet land would not be glad to welcome Sir Nicholas home.’

  ‘Oh, flatterer!’ Beauvallet mocked. ‘What have I ever done for the land?’

  ‘It is not that, master.’ Samson shook his head, and would have said more.

  But Sir Nicholas laughed it aside, waved his hand, and rode on under the arch.

  A flight of broad stone steps led up from the neat drive to the terrace and the great doorway. There were clipped yews in tubs, and in the stonework above the door the Beauvallet arms were set in a stone shield. Leaded windows reared up slim and stately to either side, built out in rounded bays, with scrolls beneath them of stonework set against th
e warmer brick. The roof was tiled red, with tall chimney-stacks to either end, and round attic windows set between the many gables. The door stood open to let in the spring sunshine.

  Sir Nicholas swung himself lightly down from the saddle, tossed the bridle to Joshua, and went bounding up the steps. Like a boy he set his hollowed hands to form a trumpet for his mouth, and called: ‘Holà, there! What, none to cry Nick welcome?’

  In a moment heads peeped from upper windows. There was a stir amongst the serving maids, a whisper of: ‘Sir Nicholas is home!’ and much preening of stuff gowns and patting of prim coifs. Sir Nicholas might be counted on to give a hearty buss to the prettiest, ignoring my lady's murmured protests.

  Portly Master Dawson, steward for many years, heard the shout in his buttery, and made haste to come out into the sunlight. A couple of lackeys hurried at his heels, and Dame Margery, urgent to be the first to greet her nursling. She pushed past Master Dawson as he reached the door, dived under his arm without ceremony, a little wrinkled woman in a close white cap. ‘My cosset!’ cried Dame Margery. ‘My lamb! Is it my babe indeed?’

  ‘Indeed and indeed!’ Sir Nicholas said, laughing, and opened his arms to her. He caught her up in a great hug while she fondled and scolded all in one breath. He was a good-for-naught, a rough, sudden fellow to snatch up an old woman thus! Eh, but he was brown! She dared swear he was grown; but his cheek was thin: she misgave her he was in poor health. Ah, he was a sad wastrel to be so long gone, and to come home but to laugh at his poor nurse! She must pat him, stroke his hands, feel the thickness of his short cloak. A fine cloth, by her faith! all tricked out with points and tassels of gold! Oh, spendthrift! Take heed, take heed! Could he not see my lord coming to greet him?