“You think that d’Aguilar is this man?” asked Peter, while Castell folded up the letter and hid it in the pocket of his robe.
“I do; indeed I have heard already that a fox was on the prowl, and that men should look to their hen-houses. Moreover, did you note how he crossed himself like a priest, and what he said about being among good Christians? Also, it is Lent and a fast-day, and by ill-fortune, although none of us ate of it, there was meat upon the table, for as you know,” he added hurriedly, “I am not strict in such matters, who give little weight to forms and ceremonies. Well, he observed it, and touched fish only, although he drank enough of the sweet wine. Doubtless a report of that meat will go to Spain by the next courier.”
“And if it does, what matter? We are in England, and Englishmen will not suffer their Spanish laws and ways. Perhaps the señor d’Aguilar learned as much as that to-night outside the banqueting-hall. There is something to be feared from this brawl at home; but while we are safe in London, no more from Spain.”
“I am no coward, but I think there is much more to be feared, Peter. The arm of the Pope is long, and the arm of the crafty Ferdinand is longer, and both of them grope for the throats and moneybags of heretics.”
“Well, Sir, we are not heretics.”
“No, perhaps not heretics; but we are rich, and the father of one of us was a Jew, and there is something else in this house which even a true son of Holy Church might desire,” and he looked at the door through which Margaret had passed to her chamber.
Peter understood, for his long arms moved uneasily, and his grey eyes flashed.
“I will go to bed,” he said; “I wish to think.”
“Nay, lad,” answered Castell, “fill your glass and stay awhile. I have words to say to you, and there is no time like the present. Who knows what may happen to-morrow?”