“We must see this fiery horseman, if Bedingfield will let us,” said the queen when she had heard the story; “see, my maids, how obedient I grow from force of habit! If her jailer wills it, the Queen of England would see a travelling wizard for an hour of wild diversion. Forsooth, ’twill cast in shadow the jousts at Greenwich in honor of the Marchioness of Pembroke! Go you, Mistress Carew, for you are in favor, and pray Sir Edmund to send this fortune-teller to us.”
Thus admonished, Betty went upon the errand with alacrity, glad to escape from the sadness that the queen’s mood had cast upon the scene, and moved, too, by a young girl’s curiosity which had been awakened by the reports of the wizard. She found Bedingfield still entertaining the small stranger, and preferred Catherine’s suit with some hesitation on account of his presence. Sir Edmund’s face clouded a little at the proposition and he stood a few moments staring moodily at the floor. Betty, standing at a short distance, observed the two with interested eyes. The wizard had fastened his gaze on his companion’s face as soon as Betty told her errand and watched him much as a cat watches a mouse, but there was no expression on his small and wizened countenance to indicate his feelings. He was sitting on a low settle, his short legs drawn under it and his chin resting in his hands; something in his gray hair and dull skin, his brown clothing and diminutive size, gave him the appearance of some hobgoblin of fairy lore. Bedingfield was manifestly puzzled; the queen’s request was simple and natural enough, and there seemed no reasonable excuse for denying it, yet Sir Edmund was uneasy. There was something about the wizard which indicated a keen wit and no ordinary energy of purpose, and Bedingfield knew that there were dealings with Rome and Spain,—dealings that Cromwell and the king desired to break off,—and here was a stranger who might be bent on mischief, yet there was no reasonable excuse to refuse him admittance to the queen’s presence. The fact that he had not petitioned for it was in his favor and Bedingfield knew well enough that the poor women in his charge were sadly in need of some small diversion. Catherine had done wisely to choose Betty Carew for her messenger; the wistful expression on the young girl’s fresh face went far toward prevailing with Sir Edmund. After a few moments of hesitation, he despatched one of his own gentlemen with the wizard, to conduct him to the queen and remain in attendance during the interview, at the same time bidding Betty go before to warn the little court that the request was granted.
Mistress Carew sped on her errand with the swift feet of youth, and before the wizard and his escort had reached the top of the stair, she had entered the queen’s room. As she lifted the curtain at the door, something in the scene within arrested her attention. Catherine sat more erect than usual, and her three maids were gathered about her talking in low tones; there was an animation in their looks so unusual that Betty thought in an instant that there was some new interest in the air, some scheme afoot. At the sight of her, however, the habitual expressions came back to their faces, and Catherine received her announcement with her usual manner.
“I have no royal robes to assume,” she said, in a tone of bitterness, “but truly there must be some state with which to hold our levee. Come, my girls, stand around me, arrange the log upon the hearth, move yonder fire-screen; the Queen of England will receive the wizard Sanders!”
“Madam, the jest is bitter,” replied Patience, sadly; “spare us—who so bemoan your case—the sharp edge of your wit, whereby the loss of your high estate is in no manner redeemed. You are still our gracious sovereign lady, and so would be were you an outcast from this realm which hath so uncharitably used you.”
“I thank you, wench,” Catherine replied, her face softening at the expression of her attendant’s devotion; “you teach the queen to bear herself more worthily. Ah, good Patience, you know not how deep the wound corrodes my lonely heart. Albeit a queen, and the daughter of a king, I am yet a woman, and a woman’s heart doth crave a little tenderness,—a little love,—a little shelter, or else, God wot, it starves!”
All her attendants drew nearer to her chair, and tears shone in their eyes; the touch of womanly weakness in the cold character of the injured princess appealed to them more sharply because of its contrast with her habitual austerity. Catherine pressed her handkerchief to her own eyes, and there was a painful silence, broken only by the sound of footsteps at the door and the voice of the usher announcing the entrance of the wizard. At this interruption the queen was herself in a moment, and received the visitor with her usual cold dignity.
The scene was a strange one; the fire was burning low on the hearth, but a bright glow shone from the bed of fiery embers in which the fallen log lay smouldering. The room, a large and gloomy one, was hung with dark tapestries, which increased the somber effect, and it was only imperfectly lighted by the narrow windows at the farther end. In her great chair by the chimney sat the queen clad in black, and her hair entirely concealed by her velvet cap. Around her were grouped her four ladies, Betty Carew alone blooming with youth and beauty in this sad place. Into this little company of women came now the small, strange figure of the man who called himself Zachary Sanders, the most famous wizard in the south of England. He still wore his russet cloak, fastened by a clasp and chain that had been loosened so the mantle hung behind, only kept from slipping off his shoulders by the chain. His jacket and doublet were of russet-colored sarsenet, and he wore no ornament but a curiously wrought silver serpent, which was secured below his collar and hung on his breast. Without his hat he was a far more notable person than with it, for he had a large and finely developed head, the sphere of the brain well arched and full and with no ugly slant of the forehead, and not too protuberant behind, but with a fine line from the nape of the neck to the crown. His owlish eyebrows and pointed gray beard and mustache gave a slightly sinister cast to his features, but his eyes were so remarkable, both for size and brilliancy, that all else sank into insignificance by contrast. He came forward with an ease that indicated a person accustomed to encountering people of all ranks in life, one who was as little likely to be amazed at magnificence as he would be touched by distress. He made a profound obeisance to the queen, and she held out her hand, prompted, perhaps, by the thought that she could not afford to lose a friend, however humble. He knelt on one knee and kissed it with an apparently sincere feeling of homage.
“I have heard of you many times, sir,” said Catherine, gravely, “and my women were eager to have some entertainment and instruction. Doubtless they would look curiously into the future, fancying great things in store. I pray you gratify their innocent desires, if you may; for my part, such prognostications are of little comfort. Having encountered so great disasters, I do dread to look beyond the hour; for me such dreams are done.”
“Yet it should not be so, your grace,” the wizard answered, regarding the queen earnestly; “your horoscope hath no such evil ending to it.”