Mistress of Mistresses. E. Eddison R.
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a time the Vicar spoke again: ‘For my own part, I had as lief sit quiet now: enjoy that fortune hath given us.’
‘I praise your resolution,’ said Lessingham: ‘a most pious and fine humility in you, whom fortune hath so much blest, without all seconding of your proper action.’
The Vicar took a peach and skinned it. ‘Could we but count,’ he said, ‘on others for the like temperate withholding.’
Lessingham said nothing.
‘The south breedeth hot bloods and hot livers like summer flies,’ said the Vicar after a pause. He poured out some more wine. ‘’Tis that gives me stay,’ he said. ‘’Tis that makes me think may be we should do somewhat,’ he said, after another mouthful.
Lessingham waited.
The Vicar smote his fist on the table. ‘I am master of the game, by this lucky turn,’ he said: ‘play off the fat Admiral ’gainst the Duke, and all the poppets of Meszria ’gainst each in turn: cheap as kissing, and twice as profitable. But it needs suasion, cousin, specious arguments; butter ’em, tickle ’em, conycatch ‘em; you must go to ’em like coy wenches: amuse ’em, feed ’em with pathetical flim-flams, flout ’em, then seem to forget ’em, then be somewhat bold with ’em, laugh at ’em; last, i’ the happy instant, ring up the grand main piece. Now I, cousin, am a loose, plain, rude talker: call a spade a spade. But you, and you would, should do this to admiration.’
‘I have handled such a matter ere now,’ said Lessingham, ‘and have not spoilt things utterly.’
‘Cousin,’ said the Vicar: ‘harkee, I would have your head in this. I would have you fare south and play this game for me. You shall be my ambassador. And, so you magnify it not beyond all reason, you shall name your own reward.’
‘I did think you knew,’ said Lessingham, ‘that it is not my way to do aught upon reward. Reason why, that to such things only am I wont to set my hand as the reward thereof lieth in the doing of ’em.’
‘’Twould make a dog laugh to hear such fiddle-faddle,’ said the Vicar. ‘Go to, I shall give you wide choice of dominion and treasure when the time comes. Will you do it?’
‘I will do it,’ answered Lessingham: ‘but upon conditions.’ His eyes were a-sparkle.
‘Well,’ said the Vicar.
Lessingham said, ‘First is, that you uphold the King’s testament.’
‘That,’ replied he, ‘proceedeth without question. It is my open proclaimed policy to uphold it throughly, and if you will I’ll swear to it.’
‘Second is,’ said Lessingham, ‘that you own and acknowledge to me, for my private ear only, here in this place, that ’twas by your rede, more, your direct commandment, the King was lately thus miserably murdered.’
The Vicar laughed. ‘’Las cousin, will you, too, give credit to that slanderous rumour and obloquy now going abroad?’
‘I see,’ said Lessingham: ‘you will not fulfil my second condition. Good. Get you another ambassador.’
The Vicar’s face was scarlet to look upon. He said, ‘I swear to you by God, the very founder, furtherer, and finisher of truth—’
Lessingham brake in upon him: ‘Give over, cousin. Indeed, if you be not damned already ’twere pity damn yourself for so hopeless an attempt as make me credit what I well know to be a lie. Be not angry, cousin: here we be close as the grave: surely ’twixt you and I ’tis stretch courtesy past use and reason to pretend I know you not for a most approved liar and forswearer.’ He ate a bit of marmalade, and leaned back in his chair. ‘To be open with you,’ he said, ‘you have put me into such a gog of going. I would not stay now for the world. Yet see the pass we stand in: if it be as hard for you to tell the truth as for me to go back from my word, I’m sorry for it, for then all goeth miss.’
‘Put case it were true,’ said the Vicar. ‘Were it not rash in you to desire a knowledge might hurry you to ruin? Like to that great man’s mistress, wheedled him to confess a horrid murder, which done, he swore her to silence upon a poisoned book: knowing it lay not in her to conceal his counsel, bound her to’t by death.’
Lessingham looked at him with the flicker of a smile in his eyes. ‘When I am grown so useless to you, cousin, as you should afford to lose me, I’ll think it danger to receive such secrets of you. Till then, no. I’ll trust no man’s affections, but I trust your wisdom most securely. Most securely, cousin.’
The Vicar toyed with his wine-cup. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said at last. ‘This you talk on is a monstrous folly. Where’s the reason of the thing? I were a fine fool to a murdered the young suck-egg, when ’twas in my hand to have overthrown him with force of arms.’
‘There,’ replied Lessingham, ‘you do much belie your prudent mind. It had been folly indeed to stand in the eyes of the world a usurping rebel, when ’twas the readier way, with some devilish pothecary stuff, stibium, henbane, I know not what, to whiffle him off and then put on your mourning and say his jealous brother did it.’
‘Ay, and did he,’ said the Vicar. ‘And did set too the lying tongues a-wag to say ’twas I.’
Lessingham yawned and studied the back of his hand, the little silky black hairs that grew fine and smooth on the shapely finger-joints, and the heavy ancient golden worm that he wore on his middle finger, scaly, eating of its own tail, its head a cabochon ruby big as a sparrow’s egg, that glowed with inward fires like the blood-red fires of sunset.
‘You will go then?’ said the Vicar.
‘But upon condition of confession,’ answered he.
The Vicar lurched up from the table and began to pace about. Lessingham yawned again and played with his ring. Neither spoke. After a minute the Vicar, grinding his teeth, came and stood over against him. Lessingham looked up. ‘Dear cousin,’ he said, ‘how long will you stay this matter’s going into action, of so much worth and moment? And how long will you seek to cast suds in my eyes that am long since satisfied of the truth, but will have it of you in friendship? You did send me out of the way to Mornagay whiles it was done. But I know it.’
The Vicar laughed with anger. ‘Know it? Upon what evidence?’ He ground his teeth. ‘Gabriel, that filth, was’t he told you this? I’ll have him hewn in pieces.’
‘O spare your pains,’ said Lessingham. ‘Should Gabriel tell me at noonday ’twas twelve o’clock, I’d have evidence corroborative ere I’d believe it. No, cousin, I am satisfied you did act this murder; not by your own hand, indeed: that were too simple: but yours the deed was. And since you will be so strange with me as deny the thing: well, the Gods be with you, I’ll have no further hand with you.’
The Vicar sat down again and leaned across the table, glowering at him awhile in silence. Lessingham returned his gaze steadily; the eyes of Lessingham were grey with brown and golden speckles. The Vicar at length turned away his gaze. ‘Well,’ he said betwixt his teeth: ‘I did it.’
Slowly and luxuriously Lessingham stretched his arms, yawned, and then sat up. He reached out a leisurely hand to the golden flagon and filled his goblet with red hippocras. ‘Truth hath been long time a-coming out,’ he said. ‘I’ll pledge her, so.’ He drank, looking over the cup at the Vicar with a slow smiling contentment, a strange, clouded look, in which came suddenly an alteration as if the red sun had glared out through a rift in the clouds. ‘This murder,’ said he, and there were now undertones and overtones in his voice that made it terrible, for all it was so quiet and came on so even and undisturbed a breath: ‘This murder was one of the most filthiest acts that ever was done.’
The Vicar faced him like a bull of Nineveh.
‘You did show me the testament,’ said Lessingham. ‘Was that some fine counterfeit device of yours, or was it real and true?’ The Vicar made no answer. Lessingham said, ‘Well, I know it was true, by tests beyond your protestations,