Beauvallet Read online

  She had no quarrel with Dangerfield; she smiled upon him, enslaved him straightway, and sat her down at the table, unconcernedly fanning herself.

  There was a cheerful voice uplifted without, a strong masculine voice that had a ringing quality. One might always know when Sir Nicholas Beauvallet approached.

  He came in, apparently cracking some jest, escorting Don Manuel.

  Dominica surveyed him through her lashes. Even in dinted armour, with his hair damp with sweat, and his hands grimed with powder he had appeared to her personable. She saw him now transformed.

  He wore a purple doublet, slashed and paned, with great sleeves slit to show stitched linen beneath. A high collar clipped his throat about, and had a little starched ruff atop. Over it jutted his beard: none of your spade beards this, but a rare stiletto, black as his close hair. He affected the round French hosen, puffed about the thighs, and the nether-stocks known in England as Lord Leicester's since only a man with as good a leg as his might reasonably wear them. There were rosettes upon his shoon, and knotted garters, rich with silver lace, below his knees. Starched handruffs were turned back from his wrists; he wore a jewel on one long finger, and about his neck a golden chain with a scented pomander hanging from it.

  He entered, and his quick glance took in Dominica at the table. He swept her a bow, and showed his even white teeth in a smile that was boyish and swift, and curiously infectious. ‘Well, met, señora! Has my rogue seen to your comfort? A chair for Don Manuel, Diccon!’ The room seemed to be full of Sir Nicholas Beauvallet, a forceful presence.

  ‘I am ashamed to have stolen Señor Dangerfield's cabin from him,’ Dominica said, with a pretty smile bestowed upon Richard.

  He stammered a disclaimer. It was an honour, a privilege. Dominica, choosing to ignore Beauvallet at the head of the table, pursued a halting conversation with Dangerfield, exerting herself to captivate. No difficult task this: the lad looked with eyes of shy admiration already.

  ‘A strange, whimsical fellow ordered everything señor,’ she said. ‘I cry pardon: it was not I threw your traps out on to the alleyway! I hope the master was not so incensed as was the man?’

  Dangerfield smiled. ‘Ay, that would be Joshua, señora. My man's a fool, a dolt. He is greatly enraged against Joshua. You must understand, señora, that Joshua is an original. I dare say he boasted to you of Sir Nicholas’ exploits – always coupling himself with his master?’

  Dominica had nothing to say to this. Dangerfield plodded on. ‘It is his way, but I believe he is the only one of our company who takes it upon himself to censure his master. To the world he says that Sir Nicholas is second only to God; to Sir Nicholas’ self he says –’ he broke off, and turned a laughing, quizzical look on his chief.

  Sir Nicholas turned his head; Dominica had not thought that he was attending. ‘Ah, to Sir Nicholas’ self he says what Sir Nicholas’ dignity will not permit him to repeat,’ said Beauvallet, smiling. He turned back to Don Manuel, who had broken off in the middle of a sentence.

  ‘Your servant did not seem to hold him in so great esteem as he holds himself, señor,’ said Dominica.

  ‘Ah, no, señora, but then he threw my clothes out into the alley.’

  ‘I doubt it was dusty,’ Dominica said demurely.

  ‘Do not let Sir Nicholas hear you say that, señora,’ Dangerfield answered gaily.

  By a half smile that was certainly not conjured up by her father's conversation Dominica saw that Sir Nicholas was still attending.

  Meat was set before the lady, breast of mutton served with a sauce flavoured with saffron. There was a pasty beside, and a compost of quinces. She fell to, and continued to talk to Master Dangerfield.

  Don Manuel tried more than once to catch his daughter's eye, but he failed, and was forced to pursue his conversation with Sir Nicholas. ‘You have a well-found vessel, señor,’ he remarked courteously.

  ‘My own, señor.’ Beauvallet picked up a flagon of wine. ‘I have here an Alicante wine, señor, or a Burgundy, if you should prefer it. Or there is Rhenish. Say but the word!’

  ‘You are too good, señor. The Alicante wine, I thank you.’ He observed that his cup was of Moorish ware, much used in Spain, and raised his brows at it. Delicately he forebore comment.

  ‘You remark my cups, señor?’ said Beauvallet, lacking a like delicacy. ‘They come out of Andalusia.’ He saw a slight stiffening on the part of his guest, and his eyes twinkled. ‘Nay, nay, señor, they never were upon a Spanish galleon. I bought them upon my travels, years ago.’

  He threw Don Manuel into some discomfort. Don Manuel made haste to turn the subject. ‘You know my country, señor?’

  ‘Why yes, a little,’ Beauvallet acknowledged. He looked at Dominica's averted face. ‘May I give you wine, señora?’

  So rapt in conversation with Dangerfield was the lady that it seemed she did not hear. Beauvallet watched her a moment in some amusement, then turned to Don Manuel. ‘Do you suppose, señor, that your daughter will take wine from my hands?’

  ‘Dominica, you are addressed!’ Don Manuel said sharply.

  She gave an admirable start, and turned. ‘Señor?’ She encoun tered Beauvallet's eyes, brimful with laughter. ‘Your pardon, señor?’ He held out a cup in his long fingers. She took it from him, and turned it in her hand. ‘Ah, did this come from the Santa Maria ?’ she asked, mighty innocent.

  Don Manuel blushed for his daughter's manners, and made a deprecatory sound. But Beauvallet's shoulders shook. ‘I had these quite honestly, señora.’

  Dominica appeared surprised.

  Supper wore on its way. Don Manuel, shocked at the perversity of his daughter in bestowing all her attention on Dangerfield, began to talk to the young man himself, and success fully ousted Dominica from the conversation. She bit her lip with vexation, and became absorbed in the contemplation of a dish of marchpane. At her left hand Beauvallet lay back in his chair, and played idly with his pomander. Dominica stole a sidelong glance at him, found his eyes upon her, wickedly teasing under the down-dropped lids, and flushed hotly. She began to nibble at a piece of marchpane.

  Sir Nicholas let fall his pomander, and sat straight in his chair. His hand went to his belt; he drew his dagger from the sheath. It was a rich piece, with a hilt of wrought gold and a thin, flashing blade. He leaned forward, and presented the hilt to the lady. ‘I make you a present of it, señora,’ he said in a humble voice.

  Dominica flung up her head at that, and tried to push the dagger away. ‘I do not want it.’

  ‘Oh, but surely!’

  ‘You are pleased to mock me, señor. I have no need of your dagger.’

  ‘But you would like so much to kill me,’ Sir Nicholas said softly.

  Dominica looked at him indignantly. He was abominable, and to make matters the more insupportable he had a smile that set a poor maid's heart in a flutter. ‘You laugh at me. Take your fill of it, señor: I shall not heed your sneers,’ she said.

  ‘I?’ Beauvallet said, and shot out a hand to grasp her wrist. ‘Now look me boldly in the face and tell me if I sneer at you!’

  Dominica looked instead toward her father, but he had turned his shoulder, and was descanting to Master Dangerfield upon the works of Livy.

  ‘Come!’ insisted the tormentor. ‘What, afraid?’

  Stung, she looked up. Defiance gleamed in her eyes. Sir Nicholas kept his steadily upon her, raised her hand to his lips, kissed it fleetingly, and held it still. ‘You will know me better some day,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve no ambition for it,’ Dominica answered, but without truth.

  ‘Have you not? Have you not indeed?’ His fingers tightened about her wrist; there was a brilliant look of inquiry before he let her go. It disturbed her oddly; the man had no right to such bright, challenging eyes.

  A silence fell between them. Don Manuel, absorbed in his topic, had passed on to the poet Horace, and was inflicting quotations upon Master Dangerfield.

  ‘What came to Don Juan, señor