Beauvallet

The deck was a shambles. Men lay dead and dying; there was split woodwork, a welter of broken mizzen and sagging sail, dust and grime, and the reek of powder. A ball screamed through the rigging overhead; another tore the sea into wild foam beneath the galleon’s stern. She seemed to stagger, to reel, to list heavily to port. From his quarterdeck Don Juan de Narvaez gave a sharp order; his lieutenant went running down the companion into the waist of the ship.

Soldiers crowded there in steel breastplates and chased morions. They had halberds and pikes, and some held long double-edged swords. They looked out to sea, to where the smaller ship came steadily on, the Red Cross of Saint George flying at her mainmast head. They were sure now that it would end in a hand to hand fight; they were even glad of it: they knew themselves to be the finest soldiers in Christendom. What chance could these bold English have against them at close quarters? The English ship had held off beyond reach of the Spanish guns this past hour, ceaselessly bombarding the Santa Maria with her longer-reached cannons. The soldiers in the waist did not know how serious was the damage she had wreaked, but they were fretting and nervous from their impotence, and their forced inaction. Now the English ship drew nearer, the wind filling her white sails, and bearing her on like a bird through the scudding waves.

Then, all at once, a ringing voice spoke authoritatively from beyond the group that encircled her. “God’s death! What’s this? Give way there!”

Two men went staggering aside, spun apart by an iron hand on the shoulder of each. The lady looked fearfully into the face of El Beauvallet.

He had cast aside his morion, and his close black hair showed, curling neatly over his head. Under straight brows she saw fine eyes, the blue of the sea with the sunlight on the water. They were bright eyes and keen, vivid under the black lashes; laughing eyes, watchful yet careless.

The laugh was stayed in them now as he checked in his impatient stride. He stood staring; a mobile eyebrow flew up comically; Sir Nicholas Beauvallet appeared incredulous, and blinked at this unexpected vision.

His glance, quick moving, took in next the lady’s captors, and the stilled laughter went right out of his eyes. He was swift in action, too swift for Hick, still stupidly grasping one of the lady’s wrists. A clenched fist shot out and took Master Hick neatly on the point of the jaw. Master Hick fell a-sprawl on the deck. “Cullions! Dawcocks!” said Beauvallet terribly, and swung round to deal in kind with John Daw.

But Master Daw had hurriedly released the wrist he held, and was making off as quickly as he could. He was sped on his way by a shrewd kick to the rearward. Beauvallet turned to the lady. “A million pardons, señora!” he said, as though here were no great matter.

“When I approach my chosen goal, señor, I march straight. That you may have heard of me. Let it go. I make you privy now to a new goal I have sworn to reach, a fair prize. The day will come, Don Manuel, when I shall take your daughter to wife.”

Don Manuel’s eyelids fluttered a moment. “Do you tell me, señor, that you love my daughter?” he asked sternly.

“Madly, señor, I make no doubt you would say.”

Don Manuel looked more sternly still. “And she? No, it is not possible!”

“Why, as to that, señor, I do not know. I am not over-apt with maids. She will love me one day.”

“Señor, be plain with me. What is this riddle you propound?”

“None, señor. Here is only the plain truth. I might bear Dominica away to England, and thus constrain her⁠—”

“You would not!” Don Manuel cried out sharply.

“Nay, I constrain no maid against her will, be assured. But you will allow it to be clearly within my power.” He paused, and his eyes questioned.

Don Manuel watched the swing of the golden pomander from long fingers, looked higher, and met the imperative gaze. “We are in your hands I know full well,” he said evenly.

Beauvallet nodded. “But that easy course is not the one I will take, señor. Nor am I one to enact the part of ravisher, of betrayer. I will take you to Spain, and there leave you.

What comes to our house if you be slain or drowned? Get a wife, and be done with this roystering!”

Sir Nicholas lifted his pomander to his nose. “Give me joy, brother, I am about to get me a wife.”

My lord was momentarily surprised, but he hid it quickly. “In good time. My lady hath her eye upon a likely maid for you. We had thought on the Lady Alison, daughter of Lord Gervais of Alfreston, but there are others beside. Ye might go into Worcestershire for a bride. My sister writes sundry names might please you.”

Beauvallet held up his hand. His eyes were fairly brimful now with that secret jest. “Hold, hold, Gerard! I am going to look in Spain for my bride.”

My lord set down his glass with a snap that came near to breaking it. He stared under his projecting brows. “What’s this? What new folly?”

“None, I swear. My choice is made. Give me joy, brother! I shall bring home a bride before a year is out.”

My lord sat back in his chair. “Expound me this riddle,” he said quietly. “Ye jest, I think.”

“Never less. I give you a new toast.” He came to his feet and lifted his glass on high. “Doña Dominica de Rada y Sylva!”

My lord did not drink it. “A Spanish Papist?” he asked. “Do you ask me to believe that?”

“No Papist, but a dear heretic.” Sir Nicholas leaned on the goffered-leather back of his chair. With a sinking heart my lord noted the scarce curbed energy of him, the exultant look in his face.

Above the sound of the rebecks, above the subdued chatter of guests gathered in the hall, sounded the steward’s voice. There was a stir at the door. “M. le Chevalier de Guise!” called the steward, and bowed in this late arrival.

Dominica looked towards the door, wondering who the Frenchman might be. A knot of gentlemen gathered there parted to let the newcomer pass. There was a quick, decided step; no Frenchman came in, but Sir Nicholas Beauvallet, as though upon his own quarterdeck.

Dominica almost let fall her fan; the breath caught in her throat; she stood staring, first pale, and then red, and through the mad riot in her brain ran only the one clear thought: He has come! He has come! He has come!

Across the hall he came, with that graceful, careless step she knew so well. He was brave in silk and velvet, with a neat, small ruff such as he had always worn clipping his throat about. He had a hand laid lightly on his sword-hilt, and his eyes looked straight at Dominica. She saw them fearless, with a kind of mocking challenge in their blue depths, as though they would signify “Well, did I not say that I would come?” Everything in her responded to the daring of him. Ah, what a man! Ah, what a lover for a girl! what a brave, laughing lover!

He was close now, bowing to her aunt.

“Ah, so you have come, Chevalier,” said Doña Beatrice, giving him her hand. “We shall talk a little, but later on. Let me present you to my niece, Doña Dominica de Rada y Sylva. This gentleman, my dear, is a Frenchman strayed by some good chance into Spain. The Chevalier de Guise.”