The Tangled Skein: Historical Novel. Emma Orczy
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she had once more freed herself from the Marquis's grasp, and running up to Margaret, she snatched her by the hand and dragged her away from Lord Everingham, readjusting her hood and mask as she flew towards the booth, vaguely hoping for shelter behind the folds of the tent.
But once more fate interposed relentlessly betwixt her and her attempts at escape. Two gallants, seeing the episode, eager to have a hand in the adventure, friends no doubt too of Don Miguel and Everingham, laughingly barred the way to the steps, just as the two girls had contrived to reach them. With a cry of disappointment Ursula, still dragging Margaret after her, tried to double back. But it was too late. Don Miguel and Lord Everingham were waiting for them on the other side. They were two to one now, and all chances of escape had hopelessly vanished.
Never had Ursula Glynde felt so mortified in her life.
"Many thanks, gentlemen, for this timely interference," came in mocking accents from that odious Spaniard. "The ransom, sweet one," he added, as the chase 'twixt gallants and maids became more general, and the girls at last felt themselves quite helpless and surrounded.
Ursula's pride alone prevented her from bursting into tears.
"By my faith! here is strange sport!" said a pleasant, slightly mocking voice suddenly. "What say you, Harry Plantagenet? A lively sight . . . what? . . . four gallants frightening two ladies!"
Instinctively every one had turned in the direction whence the voice had come. A man was standing some dozen yards away with mantle tightly drawn round him, his tall figure stooping to pat and fondle a powerful-looking boarhound, which clung closely to his side.
He had spoken very quietly, apparently to the dog, whose great ears he was gently stroking.
Without taking any further heed of the somewhat discomfited gentlemen, he came forward towards the little group.
"Ladies, your way stands clear," he said, with that same pleasant irony still apparent in his voice, and without casting more than a cursory glance at the close hoods and dark masks, which was all that he could see of the ladies, whom he had so incontinently saved from an unpleasant position.
"Sir," murmured Ursula, under her breath and without attempting to move, for she felt as if her knees would give way under her.
"Nay, Madam," rejoined the newcomer lightly, "if my interference has angered you, I pray you forgive me and I'll withdraw, as these gentlemen here obviously desire me to do. But an you really wish to escape, my friend here will assure you that you can do so unmolested. . . . Eh, Harry? what say you?" he added, once more turning his attention to the dog.
The boarhound, as if conscious of this appeal to his chivalry, turned a knowing eye on the two girls.
The four men had been taken so absolutely unawares that during the few seconds while this brief colloquy took place they had scarcely realised that an interfering and unknown stranger was trying to hamper them in their amusements.
They had remained quite speechless, more astonished at the newcomer's impertinence than wrathful at the interruption; and when the next instant Ursula and Margaret suddenly fled with unaffected precipitancy, no one attempted to stop them.
Harry Plantagenet's intelligent eyes followed the retreating figures until they were out of sight. Then he yawned with obtrusive incivility, and plainly showed his master that the present company no longer interested him.
"Well, Harry, old man, shall we go?" said the stranger, calmly turning on his heel.
But at this final piece of cool insolence Don Miguel de Suarez at last recovered from his astonishment. This tame ending to an unwarrantable intrusion was certainly not to his liking, and he, for one, was unaccustomed to see his whims or caprices thwarted.
In these days tempers ran high, hot blood was allowed free rein, and at a word or a smile out of place, swords and poniards were soon out of their sheaths and friendships of yesterday changed to deadly antagonism in the space of a few minutes.
"Carramba!" swore the young Spaniard, "this passes belief. What say you, gentlemen?"
And, drawing his long, tapering sword, he barred the way threateningly to the stranger.
The silence, thus broken, seemed to restore at once to the other three gallants the full measure of their wrath. One and all following Don Miguel's example, had put their hands to their sword-hilts.
"Aye! unmask, stranger," said Lord Everingham peremptorily.
"Unmask! unmask!" came in threatening accents from all.
"Unmask, or . . ."
"Or by our Lady!" rejoined the stranger lightly, "you'll all run your blades into my silken doublet and thus end pleasantly a chivalrous escapade. Eh?"
One could divine the pleasant, ironical smile lurking behind the thick curtain of the mask. The Spaniard's blood was boiling with vexation. Harry Plantagenet gave an impatient whine.
"Your name, stranger, first," commanded Don Miguel haughtily, "then your sword if you are not a coward; after that I and these gentlemen will deal with your impudence if you have any left."
There was a moment's silence; the stranger whistled to his dog.
"My sword is at your command," he said; "mine impudence you shall deal with as you list. . . . My name is Wessex!" he added with a sudden hauteur which seemed to tower above Don Miguel as the gigantic oak of the glen towers above the bustling willow beneath.
And he removed the mask from his face.
CHAPTER VII
HIS GRACE OF WESSEX
There are several portraits extant of Robert d'Esclade, fifth Duke of Wessex, notably the one by Antonio Moro in the Pitti Gallery at Florence.
But in the somewhat stiff portraiture of that epoch it is perhaps a little difficult to trace the real image, the inner individuality of one of the most interesting personalities at the Court of Mary Tudor.
There is, however, a miniature of him, attributed to Holbein, and certainly drawn by the hand of a great master, which renders with greater truth and loving accuracy the peculiar charm made up of half-indolent nonchalance, gracious condescension, and haughty reserve which characterized the Duke of Wessex.
So justly styled His Grace!
The reserve was so little apparent. The hauteur only came to the surface in response to unwelcome familiarity. But the debonair indolence was always there, the lazy droop of the lids, the nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, when grave matters were discussed, and also that obvious fastidiousness — a love of everything that was beautiful, from a fine horse, down to a piece of delicate lace — which annoyed the more sedate-minded courtiers of the Queen.
And with it all that wonderful virility and vigour, that joy of life and delight in gaiety and laughter which lent to the grave face at times a spark of almost boyish exuberance; that mad, merry, proud insouciance, which throughout his life made him meet every danger — aye! every sorrow and disgrace — with the same bright smile on his lips.
Scheyfne, in his letters to the emperor, Charles V, says of the Duke of Wessex that he was insufferably conceited — "il est tres orgueilleux de sa beauté personelle, laquelle certes est plus que médiocre."
Noailles, too, speaks of him as "moult fatueux et vaniteux de sa personne."
But it was hardly likely that these foreign delegates, each bent upon their own schemes, would look with favour upon His Grace. His only merit in their eyes was that same characteristic indolence of his, which caused a man of his great wealth and boundless influence to abstain from politics.
Certes no one could accuse him of intriguing for his own political advancement. Mary Tudor's own avowed penchant for him was so well known, that he had but to say the word and the crown of England would be his, to share