Kitabı oku: «The Tangled Skein», sayfa 6
CHAPTER XV
THE HAND OF FATE
Ursula had had a good cry.
She was a mere girl, only just out of her teens; she had been hideously disappointed and had given way to a paroxysm of tears, just like a child that has been cheated of its toys.
As far as her actual feelings for Wessex were concerned, she scarcely troubled to analyse them. As a tiny child she had worshipped the gallant boy, who had always been pointed out to her as the pattern of what an English nobleman should be, and moreover as the future husband who was to rule over her destiny.
No doubt that the Earl of Truro, lying on his deathbed, had but little real perception of what he was doing, when he forced his daughter to swear that she would marry Wessex or remain single to the end of her days.
But Ursula was thirteen years old then, and held an oath to her father to be the most sacred thing in the world. She had not seen Wessex for some years, but her girlish imagination had always endowed him with all those chivalrous attributes which her own father, whom she idolized, had already ascribed to him.
Love? Well, it scarce could be called that as yet. In spite of her score of years, Ursula had remained a child in thought, in feelings, in temperament. She had spent the last six or seven years within the precincts of old Truro Castle, watched over by her late father's faithful servants, who brought her up and worshipped her, taught her what they knew, and obeyed her implicitly.
Her one idea, however, had remained, that of a marriage with Wessex. By right and precedence she could claim a place in the Queen of England's immediate entourage. As soon as she was old enough she asserted this claim, and journeyed to Esher in charge of an old aunt, who had supervised her education since her father's death.
Since then her one desire had been to meet the man to whom she had pledged her troth. She had seen him, oh! scores of times, since the day on which he came back to the Court, but Mary Tudor, bent on winning his love, had resolutely kept him away from the beautiful girl who, she instinctively felt, would prove a formidable rival.
It had been easy enough up to now. His Grace, partly in order to please his friends, even if only half believing that his influence would prevent Mary Tudor from contracting an alien marriage, had been in constant attendance on the Queen.
Ursula, on the other hand, had been relegated into the background. She knew this well and chafed at the restraint. Something seemed to tell her that if she could but see the Duke he would easily realize that it would not be very hard to fulfil the old earl's promise. She knew that she was beautiful, her own mirror and the admiration of the Court gallants had already told her that, and at the same time she felt within herself a magnetism which must inevitably draw him towards her.
But time was speeding on. Ursula's quick intelligence had very soon grasped the threads of the present political situation, whilst Mary Tudor, on the other hand, made no secret of her love for Wessex. The young girl was well aware of the many intrigues which were being hatched round the personality of the man whom she looked upon as her affianced husband, and guessed how much these were aided by the enamoured Queen.
His Eminence the Cardinal, the Duc de Noailles, Scheyfne, Don Miguel de Suarez, all were seeking to obtain a definite promise from Mary. The English faction, on the other hand, hoped to force the Duke into a marriage which was obviously distasteful to him.
Ursula, in the midst of these contending parties, was, nevertheless, determined to gain her end. Too unsophisticated to attempt a serious intrigue, she relied on her woman's instinct to guide her to success. Her little plot to bring His Grace to her presence that afternoon had failed, probably owing to the Queen's keen acumen; and the young girl, for the first time since her arrival at Court, felt genuinely mortified and not a little despairing of ultimate triumph.
The Duke, evidently, had no desire to meet her, or he would have accomplished that end somehow. There was not much that His Grace wished that did not sooner or later come to pass.
Obviously, for the moment, he was glad enough to remain free of those bonds which truly were none of his making. Chivalry alone might tempt him to fulfil Lord Truro's dying wishes, for the late Earl and the Duke's own father had been the closest of friends. Ursula's pride, however, would not allow her to appeal to that chivalry; what she wanted was to gain his love.
Out of her childish admiration for the boy had grown a kind of poetic interest in the man, more than fostered by the great popularity enjoyed by Wessex, and the praises of his personality sung on every side. Ursula was still too young to be in love with aught else save with love itself, with her own imaginative fancy, her own conception of what her future husband should be.
He should be good to look at – like Wessex. High-born and gracious – like Wessex. A king among men, witty and accomplished – like Wessex.
"Holy Virgin! let me have him for mine own!" was her constant, childish prayer.
The girl was not yet a woman.
Thus musing and meditating, she strolled out into the garden, singing as she went. All the maids-of-honour had been bidden to wait on Her Majesty in the audience chamber, save Lady Ursula Glynde and Mistress Margaret Cobham, whose services would not be required. The Duchess of Lincoln, shrewdly guessing from this summons that His Grace of Wessex was in the Queen's company, had given the two young maids leave to wander whither they pleased.
Lazy Margaret had pleaded a headache and curled herself up in a window-embrasure with the express intention of doing nothing at all; but Ursula, with a burning desire for freedom and a longing for flowers, birds, and sunshine, had wandered out into the open.
A parterre of marguerites was laid out close to the terrace. Mooning, dreaming, singing, she had picked a bunch of these and was mechanically plucking their snow-white petals one by one.
Did she guess what a dainty picture she made, as she stood for one moment beside the pond, her shimmering gown of delicate white glistening against a background of dark green yews, her fair hair shining like gold beneath the soft rays of the October sun? Her sweet face was bent down, earnestly intent upon consulting the flowery oracle: a delicate shadow, that soft pearly grey tone beloved of Rubens, fell upon her girlish breast, her soft round arms, the dainty hands which held the marguerite.
"He loves me," she said, half audibly, "a little.. passionately.. not at all. He loves me.. a little.."
So wrapped up was she in these important rites, that she did not hear a muffled footstep upon the gravel. The next moment she felt two firm hands upon her waist, whilst a laughing voice completed the daisy's prophecy, —
"Passionately!"
She gave a little gasp, but did not immediately turn to look who the intruder was. Her woman's instinct had told her that, and then she knew – or guessed – the sound of his voice. The moment had come at last. It had been none of her seeking; she did not pause to think how it had all happened, she only felt that he was near her and that her life's happiness depended on whether he thought her fair.
The pleasant little demon of girlish coquetry whispered to her that, in the midst of this poetic setting of an old-world garden, he would be hard to please indeed if he did not fall a victim to her smile.
She turned and faced him.
"Ah!" she said, with a little cry of feigned surprise, "His Grace of Wessex!.. I.. I vow you frightened me, my lord.. I thought this part of the garden quite deserted, and.. and the Duke of Wessex at the feet of the Queen."
She looked divinely pretty as she stood there before him, a delicate, nervous little blush suffusing her young cheeks, her eyes veiled by a fringe of lashes slightly darker than her golden hair. As dainty a picture as this fastidious man had ever gazed upon.
"At your feet, fair one," he replied, with undisguised admiration expressed in his every look, "and burning with jealousy at thought of him, for whose sake your sweet fingers plucked the petal of that marguerite."
She still held the flower, half stripped of its petals; he put out his hand in order to take it from her, or perhaps merely for the sake of touching for one second the soft velvet of her own.
Harry Plantagenet, close by, had stretched himself out lazily in the sun.
"Oh!" said Ursula, a little confused, still a little shy and nervous, "that.. that was for a favourite brother who is absent.. and I wished to know if he had not forgotten me."
"Impossible," he replied with deep conviction, "even for a brother."
"Your Grace is pleased to flatter."
"The truth spoken to one so fair must ever seem a flattery."
"Your Grace.."
He loved to watch the colour come and go in her face, the dainty, girlish movements, simple and unaffected, that little curl which looked like living gold beside the small, shell-like ear. His passionate love for the beautiful was more than satiated at the exquisite picture before him, and then she had such a musical and tender voice; he had heard her singing just now.
"But you seem to know me, fair one," he said after a while.
"Who does not know His Grace of Wessex?" she responded, making a pretty curtsy.
"Then let me be even with you, sweet singer, and tell me your name."
Ursula darted a sudden shy look at him. Obviously he was conveying the truth; he did not know who she was.
A quick thought crossed her mind; she looked demurely down her nose and said placidly, —
"My name is Fanny."
"Fanny?"
"Yes.. you do not like it?"
"I didn't before," he said with a smile, "but now I adore it."
"I am getting to like it better too," she added thoughtfully.
"But, sweet Fanny, tell me how is it I never have seen you before."
"Your Grace does not know all the ladies of the Court."
"No! but I thought I knew all the pretty ones. Yet meseems that beauty was but an empty word now that I have seen its queen."
"Ah, my lord! I fear me your reputation doth not wrong you after all!" she added with a quaint little sigh.
"Why? What is my reputation?"
"They call you fickle, and say the Duke of Wessex loves many women a little.. but constantly, not at all."
He came a step closer to her, and tried to meet her eyes.
"Then will you let me prove them wrong?" he said with sudden seriousness, which perhaps then he could not himself have accounted for.
"I?." she said artlessly, "what must I do for that?"
"Anything you like," he replied.
"Nay, I have no power; for I fear me nothing short of putting Your Grace under lock and key would cure you of that fickleness."
"Then put me under lock and key," he suggested gaily.
"In an inaccessible tower?"
"Wherever you please."
She gave a merry, happy little laugh, for he was standing quite close to her now, his proud head slightly bent so that the quick, whispered words might easily reach her ears; and there was an unmistakable look of ardent admiration in his eyes. A demon of mischief suddenly seized her. She wondered whether he had guessed who she was and tried to nettle him into betraying himself.
"And to whom shall I give the key of that tower?" she said demurely. "To the Lady Ursula Glynde?"
"No," he replied. "Come inside and throw the key out of the window."
"But the Lady Ursula?" she persisted.
He made a quick gesture of mock impatience.
"What wanton cruelty to mention that name now," he said, "when mine ears are tuned to 'Fanny.'"
"Tis wrong they should be so tuned – Lady Ursula, they say, is your promised wife."
"But I do not love her.. never could love her whilst —
"They say she is not ill-favoured."
"Ill-favoured to me, like the bitter pills the medicine man gives us, whilst you – "
Once more she interrupted him quickly.
"You have never seen her," she protested, "you do not even know what she is like."
"Nay, I can guess. The Glyndes are all alike – sandy, angular, large-footed.."
She laughed, a long, merry, rippling laugh which set his ears tingling with the desire to hear it once again. Ursula was indeed enjoying herself thoroughly.
"They all have brown eyes," he continued gaily, "and just now I feel as if I could not endure brown eyes."
She cast down her own, veiling them with her long lashes.
"What eyes could Your Grace best endure for the moment?" she said, with the same tantalizing demureness.
But something magnetic must have passed at that moment between these two young people, some subtle current from him to her, which forced the innocent young girl to raise her eyes almost against her will. He looked straight into their wonderful depths, and murmured softly, —
"The very bluest of the blue, and yet so grey, that I should feel they must somehow be green.."
A little shudder had gone through her when first she met his ardent gaze; she tried to free herself from a sudden strange and delicious feeling of obsession, and said with somewhat forced merriment now:
"The Queen has greenish eyes, and Lady Ursula's are grey."
Then she held out the marguerite to him.
"Would you like to know which you love best?" she added. "Consult the marguerite, and take one petal at a time."
But he took the hand which held the flower.
"One petal at a time," he whispered. He took the slender fingers and kissed each in its turn: "This the softest.. that the whitest.. all rose-tipped.. and a feast for the gods.."
"My lord!."
"Now you are frowning – you are not angry?"
"Very angry!"
"I'll make amends," he said humbly.
"How?"
"Give me the other hand, and I'll show you."
"Nay! I cannot do that, for we are told that the left hand must never know what the right hand doeth."
"It shall not," he rejoined earnestly, "for I'll tell it a different tale."
"What is it?"
"Give me the hand and you shall know."
Overhead in the green bosquets of yew a group of starlings began to twitter. The sun was just beginning to sink down in the west, throwing round the head of the fair young girl an aureole of gold. He stood watching her, happy in this the supreme moment of his life. A magic veil seemed to envelop him and her, shutting out all that portion of the world which was not poetic and beautiful; and she, the priestess of this exquisite new universe in which he had just entered, was smilingly holding out her dainty hand to him.
He seized it, and a sudden wave of passion caused him to bend over it and to kiss its soft rosy palm.
"Nay, my lord," she murmured, confused, "that Your Grace should think of such follies!"
"Yet, when you look at me," he said, "I think of worse follies still."
"Women say that there is no worse folly than to listen to His Grace of Wessex."
"Do you think they are right?"
"How can I tell?"
"By listening to me for half an hour."
"Here, in this garden?"
"No!.. there!.. by the river.."
And he pointed beyond the enclosure of the garden, there where the soft evening breeze gently stirred the rushes in the stream.
"Oh!.. what would everybody say?" she exclaimed in mock alarm.
"Nothing! envy of my good fortune would make them dumb."
"But the Queen will be asking for you, and the Duchess of Lincoln wondering where I am."
"They shall not find us.. for we'll pull the boat beyond the reeds.. just you and I alone.. with the gloaming all round us.. and the twitter of the birds when they go to rest. Shall we go?."
Her heart had already consented. His voice was low and persuasive, a strange earnestness seemed to vibrate through it, as he begged her to come with him.
Slowly she began to walk by his side towards the stream. She seemed scarcely alive now, a being from another world wandering in the land of dreams. He said nothing more, for the world was too beautiful for speech. Youth, love, delight were coursing through his veins, and as he led the young girl towards the bank it seemed to him as if he were taking her away from this dull world of prose and humanity, far, far away through mysterious golden gates beyond the sunset, to a land where she would reign as queen.
The river beckoned to them, and the soft, misty horizon seemed to call. The intoxicating odour of summer's dying roses filled the air, whilst in the distance across the stream a nightingale began to sing.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ULTIMATUM
The envoy of His Holiness had departed.
Mary Tudor had dismissed her ladies, for she wished to speak with the Cardinal de Moreno alone.
Throughout the audience with the papal Nuncio, His Eminence had already seen the storm-clouds gathering thick and fast on the Queen's brow. His Grace of Wessex, gone to fetch a breviary left accidentally on the terrace-coping, had been gone half an hour, and moreover had not yet returned.
Her Majesty had sent a page to request His Grace's presence. The page returned with the intimation that His Grace could not be found.
Someone had spied him in the distance walking towards the river, in company with a lady dressed in white.
Then the storm-clouds had burst.
The Queen peremptorily ordered every one out of the room, then she turned with real Tudor-like fury upon His Eminence.
"My lord Cardinal," she said in a quivering voice, which she did not even try to steady, "an you had your master's wishes at heart, you have indeed gone the wrong way to work."
The Cardinal's keen grey eyes had watched Mary's growing wrath with much amusement. What was a woman's wrath to him? Nothing but an asset, an additional advantage in the political game which he was playing.
Never for a moment did he depart, however, from his attitude of deepest respect, nor from his tone of suave urbanity.
"I seem to have offended Your Majesty," he said gently; "unwittingly, I assure you.."
But Mary was in no mood to bandy polite words with the man who had played her this clever trick. She was angered with herself for having fallen into so clumsy a trap. A thousand suggestions now occurred to her of what she might have done to prevent the meeting between Wessex and Ursula, which the Cardinal had obviously planned.
"Nay! masks off, I pray Your Eminence," she said, "that trick just now with your breviary.. Own to it, man!.. own to it.. are you not proud to have tricked Mary Tudor so easily?"
She was trembling with rage, yet looked nigh to bursting into tears. A shade almost of pity crossed His Eminence's cold and clever face. It seemed almost wantonly useless to have aided Fate in snatching a young and handsome lover from this ill-favoured, middle-aged woman.
But the Cardinal never allowed worldly sentiments of any kind to interfere, for more than one or two seconds, with the object he had in view. The look of pity quickly faded from his eyes, giving place to the same mask of respectful deference.
"My breviary?" he said blandly. "Nay! I am still at a loss to understand… Ah, yes! I remember now… I had left it on the balustrade. His Grace of Wessex, a pattern of chivalry, offered to fetch it for me, and – "
"A fine scheme indeed, my lord," interrupted the Queen impatiently, "to send the Duke of Wessex courting after my waiting-maid."
"The Duke of Wessex?" rejoined His Eminence with well-played astonishment. "Nay, methought I spied him just now in the distance, keeping the vows he once made to the Lady Ursula Glynde."
"I pray you do not repeat that silly fairy-tale. His Grace made no promise. 'Twas the Earl of Truro desired the marriage, and the Duke had half forgotten this, until Your Eminence chose to interfere."
"Nay! but Your Majesty does me grave injustice. What have the amours of His Grace of Wessex to do with me, who am the envoy of His Most Catholic Majesty the King of Spain?"
"'Twere wiser, certainly," retorted Mary coldly, "if the King of Spain's envoy did not concern himself with rousing the Queen of England's anger."
His Eminence smiled as amiably, as unconcernedly as before. Throughout the length of a very distinguished career he had often been obliged to weather storms of royal wrath. He was none the worse for it, and knew how to let the floods of princely anger pass over his shrewd head, without losing grip of the ground on which he stood. Nothing ever ruffled him. Supremely conscious of his own dignity, justly proud of his position and attainments, he had, at the bottom of his heart, a complete contempt for those exalted puppets of his own political schemes. Mary Tudor, a weak and soured woman, an all-too-ready prey of her own passions, swayed hither and thither by her loves and by her hates, was nothing to this proud prince of the Church but a pawn in a European game of chess. It was for his deft fingers to move this pawn in the direction in which he list.
"Nay," he said, with gentle suavity, "my only desire is to rouse in the heart of the Queen of England love for my royal master, the King of Spain. He is young and goodly to look at, a faithful and gallant gentleman, whom it will be difficult to lure from Your Grace's side, once you have deigned to allow him to kneel at your feet."
"You speak, my lord, as if you were sure of my answer."
"Sure is a momentous word, Your Majesty. But I hope – "
"Nay! 'tis not yet done, remember," retorted Mary, with ever-increasing vehemence, "and if this trick of yours should succeed, if Wessex weds the Lady Ursula, then I will send my answer to your master, and it shall be 'No!'"
There was a quick, sudden flash in the Cardinal's eye, a look of astonishment, perhaps, at this unexpected phase of feminine jealousy. Be that as it may, it was quickly veiled by an expression of pronounced sarcasm.
"As a trophy for the vanity of His Grace of Wessex?" he asked pointedly.
"No! – merely as a revenge against your interference. So look to it, my lord Cardinal; the tangle in the skein was made by your hand. See that you unravel it, or you and the Spanish ambassador leave my Court to-morrow."
With a curt nod of the head she dismissed him from her presence. He was far too shrewd to attempt another word just now. Perhaps for the first time in his life he felt somewhat baffled. He had allowed his own impatience to outrun his discretion – an unpardonable fault in a diplomatist. He blamed himself very severely for his attempt at brusquing Fate. Surely time and the Duke's own fastidious disposition would have parted him from Mary quite as readily as this sudden meeting with beautiful Lady Ursula.
The Cardinal had withdrawn from the Queen's presence after an obeisance marked with deep respect. He wished to be alone to think over this new aspect of the situation. Through the tall bay windows of the Great Hall which he traversed, the last rays of the setting sun came slanting in. His Eminence glided along the smooth oak floors, his crimson robes making but a gentle frou-frou of sound behind him, a ghostlike, whispering accompaniment to his perturbed thoughts. Somehow the softness of the evening air lured him towards the terrace and the gardens. There lacked an hour yet to supper-time, and Mary Tudor was scarce likely to be in immediate need of His Eminence's company.
He crossed the Clock Tower gates and soon found himself once more on the terrace. The gardens beyond looked tenderly poetic in the fast-gathering dusk. The Cardinal's shrewd eyes wandered restlessly over the parterres and bosquets, vainly endeavouring to spy the silhouettes of two young people, whom his diplomacy had brought together and whom his shrewd wit would have to part again.
He descended the terrace steps and slowly walked towards the pond, where, but an hour ago, a sweet and poetic idyll had been enacted. There was nothing to mark the passage of a fair young dream, born this lovely October afternoon, save a few dead marguerites and the scattered flakes of their snow-white petals.
The Cardinal's footsteps crushed them unheeded. He was thinking how best he could dispel that dream, which he himself had helped to call forth.
"Woman! woman!" he sighed impatiently as he looked back upon the graceful outline of the Palace behind him, "thy moods are many and thy logic scant."
"A tangled skein indeed," he mused, "which will take some unravelling. If Wessex weds the Lady Ursula, the Queen will say 'No' to Philip, out of revenge for my interference. She'll turn to Noailles mayhap and wed the Dauphin to spite me, or keep him and Scheyfne dangling on awhile whilst trying to reconquer the volatile Duke's allegiance. But if Wessex does not wed the Lady Ursula.. what then? Will his friends prevail? Yet there's more obstinacy than indolence in his composition, I fancy, and the dubious position of King Consort would scarce suit his proud Grace. Still, if I do not succeed in parting those two young people whom my diplomacy hath brought together, then Mary Tudor sends me and the Spanish Ambassador back to Philip to-morrow."
