The Historical Nights' Entertainment by Rafael Sabatini (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

him from the consequences he provoked.

But that letter of his to Philip made the task a difficult one.

Philip showed it to me.

 

“If that man,” he said, “had uttered to my face what he has dared

to write, I do not think I should have been able to contain myself

without visible change of countenance. It is a sanguinary letter.”

 

I set myself to calm him as best I could.

 

“The man is indiscreet, which has its advantage, for we always know

whither an indiscreet man is heading. His zeal for his master

blinds him and makes him rash. It is better, perhaps, than if he

were secretive and crafty.”

 

With such arguments I appeased his wrath against the secretary. But

I knew that his hatred of Escovedo, his thirst for Escovedo’s blood,

dated from that moment in which Escovedo had forgotten the reverence

due to majesty. I was glad when at last he took himself off to

Flanders to rejoin Don John. But that was very far from setting a

term to his pestering. The Flanders affair was going so badly that

the hopes of an English throne to follow were dwindling fast.

Something else must be devised against the worst, and now Don John

and Escovedo began to consider the acquisition of power in Spain

itself. Their ambition aimed at giving Don John the standing of an

Infante. Both of them wrote to me to advance this fresh project of

theirs, to work for their recall, so that they could ally themselves

with my party - the Archbishop’s party - and ensure its continuing

supreme. Escovedo wrote me a letter that was little better than an

attempt to bribe me. The King was ageing, and the Prince was too

young to relieve him of the heavy duties of State. Don John should

shoulder these, and in so doing Escovedo and myself should be

hoisted into greater power.

 

I carried all those letters to the King, and at his suggestion I

even pretended to lend an ear to these proposals that we might draw

from Escovedo a fuller betrayal of his real ultimate aims. It was

dangerous, and I enjoined the King to move carefully.

 

“Be discreet,” I warned him, “for if my artifice were discovered,

I should not be of any further use to you at all. In my conscience

I am satisfied that in acting as I do I am performing no more than

my duty. I require no theology other than my own to understand

that much.”

 

“My theology,” he answered me, “takes much the same view. You would

have failed in your duty to God and me had you failed to enlighten

me on the score of this deception. These things,” he added in a

dull voice, “appal me.”

 

So I wrote to Don John, urging him as one who counselled him for

his good, who had no interest but his own at heart, to remain in

Flanders until the work there should be satisfactorily completed.

He did so, since he was left no choice in the matter, but the

intrigues continued. Later we saw how far he was from having

forsaken his dreams of England, when I discovered that he had

engaged the Pope to assist him with six thousand men and one

hundred and fifty thousand ducats when the time for that adventure

should be ripe.

 

And then, quite suddenly, entirely unheralded, Escovedo reappeared

in Madrid, having come to press Philip in person for reinforcements

that should enable Don John to finish the campaign. He brought

news that there had been a fresh rupture of the patched-up peace,

that Don John had taken the field once more, and had forcibly made

himself master of Namur. This was contrary to all the orders we

had sent, a direct overriding of Philip’s wishes. The King desired

peace in the Low Countries because he was in no case just then to

renew the war, and Escovedo’s impudently couched demands completed

his exasperation.

 

“My will,” he said, “is as naught before the ambitions of these two.

You sent my clear instructions to Escovedo, who was placed with Don

John that he might render him pliant to my wishes. Instead, he

stiffens him in rebellion. There must be an end to this man.”

 

“Sire,” I cried, “it may be they think to advance your interests.”

 

“Heaven help me!” he cried. “Did ever villain wear so transparent

a mask as this dog Escovedo? To advance my interests - that will

be his tale, no doubt. He will advance them where I do not wish

them advanced; he will advance them to my ruin; he will stake all

on a success in Flanders that shall be the preliminary to a descent

upon England in the interests of Don John. I say there must be an

end to this man before he works more mischief.”

 

Again I set myself to calm him, as I had so often done before, and

again I was the shield between Escovedo and the royal lightnings,

of whose menace to blot him out the fool had no suspicion. For

months things hung there, until, in January of ‘78, when war had

been forced in earnest upon Spain by Elizabeth’s support of the

Low Countries, Don John won the great victory of Gemblours. This

somewhat raised the King’s depression, somewhat dissipated his

overgrowing mistrust of his half-brother, and gave him patience to

read the letters in which Don John urged him to send money - to

throw wood on the fire whilst it was alight, or else resign himself

to the loss of Flanders for all time. As it meant also resigning

himself to the loss of all hope of England for all time, Escovedo’s

activities were just then increased a hundredfold.

 

“Send me money and Escovedo,” was the burden of the almost daily

letters from Don John to me, and at my elbow was Escovedo,

perpetually pressing me to bend the King to his master’s will.

Another matter on which he pressed me then was that I should obtain

for himself the governorship of the Castle of Mogro, which commands

the port of Santander, an ambition this which intrigued me deeply,

for I confess I could not fathom what it had to do with all the rest.

 

And then something else happened. From the Spanish Ambassador at

the Louvre we learnt one day of a secret federation entered into

between Don John and the Guises, known as the Defence of the Two

Crowns. Its object was as obscure as its title. But it afforded

the last drop to the cup of Philip’s mistrust. This time it was

directly against Don John that he inveighed to me. And to defend

Don John, in the interests of common justice, I was forced to place

the blame where it belonged.

 

“Nay, Sire,” I assured him, “these ambitions are not Don John’s.

With all his fevered dreams of greatness, Don John has ever been,

will ever be, loyal to his King.”

 

“If you know anything of temptation,” he answered me, “you should

know that there is a breaking-point to every man’s resistance of

it. How long will Don John remain loyal while Escovedo feeds his

disloyalty, adds daily to the weight of temptation the burden of

a fresh ambition? I tell you, man, I feel safe no longer.” He

rose up before me, a blotch on his sallow face, his fingers tugging

nervously at the tuft of straw-coloured beard. “I tell you some

blow is about to fall unless we avert it. This man this fellow

Escovedo - must be dispatched before he can kill us.”

 

I shrugged and affected carelessness to soothe him.

 

“A contemptible dreamer,” I said. “Pity him, Sire. He has his uses.

To remove him would be to remove a channel through which we can

always obtain knowledge precisely of what is doing.”

 

Again I prevailed, and there the matter hung a while. But the King

was right, his fears were well inspired. Escovedo, always impatient,

was becoming desperate under persistent frustration. I reasoned

with him - was he not still my friend? - I held him off, urged

prudence and patience upon him, and generally sought to temporize.

I was as intent upon saving him from leaving his skin in this

business as I was, on the other hand, intent upon doing my duty

without pause or scruple to my King. But the fool forced my hand.

A Court is a foul place always, even so attenuated a Court as that

which Philip of Spain encouraged. Rumour thrives in it, scandal

blossoms luxuriantly in its fetid atmosphere. And rumour and

scandal had been busy with the Princess of Eboli and me, though I

did not dream it.

 

We had been indiscreet, no doubt. We had been seen together in

public too often. We had gone to the play together more than once;

she had been present with me at a bull-fight on one occasion, and

it was matter of common gossip, as I was to learn, that I was a too

frequent visitor at her house.

 

Another visitor there was Escovedo when in Madrid. Have I not said

that in his early days he had been one of Eboli’s secretaries? On

that account the house of Eboli remained open to him at all times.

The Princess liked him, was kindly disposed towards him, and

encouraged his visits. We met there more than once. One day we

left together, and that day the fool set spark to a train that led

straight to the mine on which, all unconsciously, he stood.

 

“A word of advice in season, Don Antonio,” he said as we stepped

forth together. “Do not go so often to visit the Princess.”

 

I sought to pull my arm from his, but he dung to it and pinned it

to his side.

 

“Nay, now - nay, now!” he soothed me. “Not so hot, my friend.

What the devil have I said to provoke resentment? I advise you as

your friend.”

 

“In future advise that other friend of yours, the devil,” I answered

angrily, and pulled my arm away at last. “Don Juan, you have

presumed, I think. I did not seek your advice. It is yourself that

stands in need of advice this moment more than any man in Spain.”

 

“Lord of the World,” he exclaimed in amiable protest, “listen to

him! I speak because I owe friendship to the Princess. Men whisper

of your comings and goings, I tell you. And the King, you know

well, should he hear of this I am in danger of losing my only friend

at Court, and so - “

 

“Another word of this,” I broke in fiercely, “now or at any other

time, and I’ll skewer you like a rabbit!”

 

I had stopped. My face was thrust within a hand’s-breadth of his

own; I had tossed back my cloak, and my fingers clutched the hilt

of my sword. He became grave. His fine eyes - he had great,

sombre, liquid eyes, such as you’ll scarcely ever see outside of

Spain - considered me thoughtfully a moment. Then he laughed

lightly and fell back a pace.

 

“Pish!” said he. “Saint James! I am no rabbit for your skewering.

If it comes to skewers, I am a useful man of my hands, Antonio.

Come, man” - and again he took my arm - “if I presume, forgive it

out of the assurance that I am moved solely by interest and concern

for you. We have been friends too long that I should be denied.”

 

I had grown cool again, and I realized that perhaps my show of anger

had been imprudent. So I relented now, and we went our ways

together without further show of