Master Raby smiled and glanced at Betty.
“’Tis come, Mistress Carew,” he whispered, as he helped her to the saddle. “I pray thee tell the king thy mind.”
“And so I will, if he asks me, Master Raby,” declared Betty, with spirit, “and, mayhap, it will do him good. A bitter truth is ofttimes wholesome medicine.”
CHAPTER IX
THE MAN WITH A SCAR
It was a cold and dreary night in London, and through the mist the lights of the inn blinked like great yellow eyes. Within the public room there was much jovial entertainment. It was well filled with guests, some drinking, others playing at dice, and a few eating belated suppers. It was an establishment much patronized by men of fashion, and the assembly was of a less motley character than that of most public houses. Two or three young gentlemen in velvets and satins, with ruffs of fine lace and jewel-hilted weapons, threw dice at one table, while at another sat a stately personage in black velvet, perusing some parchments with the assistance of a shrewd-faced, deferential companion, the one having the appearance of an eminent jurist and the other being, no doubt, his clerk. At yet another table sat some travellers, whose fur-trimmed garments and full wallets suggested wealthy merchants. Mine host bustled about with a rubicund and smiling countenance, attended by several servants and a rosy-faced Hebe bearing the wine cups and glasses. The innkeeper had the air of one who felt his pockets filling and his reputation growing at the same moment; a state of bliss seldom attained except by those who minister to the inner man, the way to a man’s purse, as well as to his heart, being through his stomach. There was a buzz of conversation, the rattle of dice, the click of glasses, but it was yet too early for the potations to take effect, and there was perfect decorum upon all sides.
Beyond this room, which was for public entertainment, there was a smaller one, opening into it by a low door, in one panel of which was a little window, a mere aperture, and through this the occupant of the private apartment might survey the outer room with slight risk of being discovered,—a convenient peep-hole, where mine host could spy upon his guests at pleasure. It was a small place and nearly filled by a table and two chairs. On opposite sides of this table were seated now two men engaged in earnest conversation. The tapers burning between them shed their light on the faces of both. To the right sat a little man clad in a russet cloak, the wizard Sanders; on the left, was quite a different person. The stranger was tall and well made, fully forty years of age, and with a face that, while it was handsome in a coarse, bold fashion, was also rather sinister in expression, and with a sensual mouth and chin. He was very dark, his hair, already touched with gray on the temples, accentuating the olive tint of his complexion, and his eyes being light gray, the effect was not altogether pleasing. Yet his features were fine and only marred by the scar of a sword-cut, which almost obliterated his left eyebrow. His dress was of the richest, his cloak covered with gold embroidery, and the green satin doublet slashed with white brocade, while his hands, white and soft as a woman’s, were jewelled. His embroidered gloves lay on the table beside his rapier, the hilt of which was beautiful in workmanship and glistened with precious stones. He sat with his elbow on the table, leaning his head upon his hand and listening to the wizard, who was speaking in low tones, though no ear could hear him but his companion’s.
“The trump card is gone,” he said calmly, his keen eyes watching the other narrowly, “but we have yet the Lady Mary.”
“Tush!” ejaculated his friend, “what of that? ’Tis said the king may have a boy.”
The wizard shook his head with a slow smile.
“Never,” he said composedly. “Henry has ill luck with his men children. This gay lady is falling out of favor, too; another star riseth yonder.”