Mistress Wilding

MISTRESS WILDING
BY RAFAEL SABATINI

CONTENTS
I. POT-VALIANCE
II. SIR ROWLAND TO THE RESCUE
III. DIANA SCHEMES
IV. TERMS OF SURRENDER
V. THE ENCOUNTER
VI. THE CHAMPION
VII. THE NUPTIALS of RUTH WESTMACOTT
VIII. BRIDE AND GROOM
IX. MR. TRENCHARD'S COUNTERSTROKE
X. THEIR OWN PETARD
XI. THE MARPLOT
XII. AT THE FORD
XIII "PRO RELIGIONE ET LIBERTATE"
XIV. HIS GRACE IN COUNSEL
XV. LYME OF THE KING

XVI. PLOTS AND PLOTTERS
XVII. MR. WILDING'S RETURN
XVIII. BETRAYAL
XIX. THE BANQUET
XX. THE RECKONING
XXI. THE SENTENCE
XXII. THE EXECUTION
XXIII. MR. WILDING'S BOOTS
XXIV. JUSTICE
CHAPTER I
POT-VALIANCE
Then drink it thus, cried the rash young fool, and splashed the contents
of his cup full into the face of Mr. Wilding even as that gentleman, on
his feet, was proposing to drink to the eyes of the young fool's sister.
The moments that followed were full of interest. A stillness, a brooding,
expectant stillness, fell upon the company - and it numbered a round
dozen - about Lord Gervase's richly appointed board. In the soft
candlelight the oval table shone like a deep brown pool, in which were
reflected the gleaming silver and sparkling crystal that seemed to float
upon it.
Blake sucked in his nether-lip, his florid face a thought less florid than
its wont, his prominent blue eyes a thought more prominent. Under its
golden periwig old Nick Trenchard's wizened countenance was
darkened by a scowl, and his fingers, long, swarthy, and gnarled,
drummed fretfully upon the table. Portly Lord Gervase Scoresby - their
host, a benign and placid man of peace, detesting turbulence -turned

crimson now in wordless rage. The others gaped and stared - some at
young Westmacott, some at the man he had so grossly affronted -
whilst in the shadows of the hall a couple of lacqueys looked on
amazed, all teeth and eyes.
Mr. Wilding stood, very still and outwardly impasive, the wine
trickling from his long face, which, if pale, was no paler than its habit,
a vestige of the smile with which he had proposed the toast still
lingering on his thin lips, though departed from his eyes. An elegant
gentleman was Mr. Wilding, tall, and seeming even taller by virtue of
his exceeding slenderness. He had the courage to wear his own hair,
which was of a dark brown and very luxuriant; dark brown too were his
sombre eyes, low-lidded and set at a downward slant. From those odd
eyes of his, his countenance gathered an air of superciliousness
tempered by a gentle melancholy. For the rest, it was scored by lines
that stamped it with the appearance of an age in excess of his thirty
years.
Thirty guineas' worth of Mechlin at his throat was drenched, empurpled
and ruined beyond redemption, and on the breast of his blue satin coat a
dark patch was spreading like a stain of blood.
Richard Westmacott, short, sturdy, and fair-complexioned to the point
of insipidity, watched him sullenly out of pale eyes, and waited. It was
Lord Gervase who broke at last the silence - broke it with an oath, a
thing unusual in one whose nature was almost woman-mild.
"As God's my life!" he spluttered wrathfully, glowering at Richard. "To
have this happen in my house! The young fool shall make apology!"
"With his dying breath," sneered Trenchard, and the old rake's words,
his tone, and the malevolent look he bent upon the boy increased the
company's malaise.
"I think," said Mr. Wilding, with a most singular and excessive
sweetness, "that what Mr. Westmacott has done he has done because he
apprehended me amiss."

"No doubt he'll say so," opined Trenchard with a shrug, and had
caution dug into his ribs by Blake's elbow, whilst Richard made haste
to prove him wrong by saying the contrary.
"I apprehended you exactly, sir," he answered, defiance in his voice
and wine-flushed face.
"Ha!" clucked Trenchard, irrepressible. "He's bent on self-destruction.
Let him have his way, in God's name."
But Wilding seemed intent upon showing how long-suffering he could
be. He gently shook his head. "Nay, now," said he. "You thought, Mr.
Westmacott, that in mentioning your sister, I did so lightly. Is it not
so?"
"You mentioned her, and that is all that matters," cried Westmacott.
"I'll not have her name on your lips at any time or in any place - no, nor
in any manner." His speech was thick from too much wine.
"You are drunk," cried indignant Lord Gervase with finality.
"Pot-valiant," Trenchard elaborated.
Mr. Wilding set down at last the glass which he had continued to hold
until that moment. He rested his hands upon the table, knuckles
downward, and leaning forward he spoke impressively, his face very
grave; and those present - knowing him as they did - were one and