“And what happened to her?”
Laurence lowered his eyes. “I’d prefer not to talk about that.”
“You poor fool,” Seward murmured. “Now replenish the pipe, my boy, while I concentrate on the letters.”
At first it seemed that he might bring forth some speedy results, for he was scribbling away on another sheet various figures and calculations. But as the night wore on, Laurence stopped watching. Fatigued by the wine and hashish, he yawned and stretched out on the floor. All that he could hear was the scratch of Seward’s nib.
He was with Juana in the plains. She sat before him on the sandy ground, knees drawn up and apart; and he noticed to his horror that her belly was swelling, slowly, like an inflated pig’s bladder. Repulsed by this monstrosity, he exclaimed, “For God’s sake, get rid of it!” In the same instant, as though he had wrought some spell upon her, she let out a shriek of pain, grabbing her stomach. Blood soaked her skirts, and she screamed and screamed.
He jolted awake as something landed on his chest. He opened his eyes to see the striped cat glowering at him with a malign intelligence that he did not appreciate; it had its paw upon his cheek.
“Pusskins,” said Seward, “refrain from scratching my friend.” He picked up the cat and deposited it some distance away while Laurence struggled up, his head throbbing. “You’re right, Beaumont,” Seward told him, “that wine I had was sour. It did not mix well with what we smoked. Now go out and wash. You can’t have forgotten your way about College.”
Afterwards he poured Laurence a small measure of dark, syrupy liquid that must have contained some potent remedy, for his headache rapidly dissipated. As they turned their attention to the letters, his scalp began to prickle, as if his intellectual curiosity had transformed itself into a physical reaction. “You’ve broken the code, haven’t you,” he said eagerly.
“Not entirely. I have found a key to those symbols. Be patient, and I shall explain.” Seward cleared his throat. “The author is familiar with Gematria, handed down to us from the Jews through the Spanish scholars of the Cabbala, though it is definitely of still older extraction. The Greeks knew of it, and of course it was much used by adepts of the Hermetic school. When we were in Prague, you might recall, we met the last of these great scholars, friends to Dee and Fludd who have since died or gone into obscurity. You may not have heard, Fludd himself has been dead these five years –”
“Enough about Fludd,” Laurence interrupted, pacing about. “Tell me about the code.”
“I repeat,” Seward said crustily, “I did not complete the transcription.”
“Why not?”
Seward pursed his lips, an oddly secretive look on his face. “There wasn’t the time. I did, however, uncover the makings of an astrological chart. The date of birth is the nineteenth of November, 1600.”
Laurence ceased pacing and frowned at him. “Whose is it?”
“That of His Majesty King Charles.”
“Good Christ.” They were silent for a moment, then Laurence asked, “What does it predict?”
“Let’s find out.” Seward had already copied down on fresh paper a series of figures from the original documents, with their decoded equivalents beside them. On another clean sheet, he drew a perfect square, measuring the sides carefully with a ruler, and scored two lines across it diagonally from corner to corner. Then he marked the midpoint of each of the square’s sides and linked these points to form a second square, resembling a diamond shape, within the first. The diamond now contained four smaller diamonds, with eight smaller triangles around it that touched the corners of the outer square. “Twelve spaces in all, for the cabal of twelve houses,” he informed Laurence. “And in the spaces, I shall fill in the figures.” Laurence observed, chewing on his lip, as each was entered and Seward pored meticulously over the whole.
“I don’t like to trust another man’s calculations,” he muttered at last, “but if the mathematic and the reading of the stars are correct, His Majesty has only a short time to live. Two years or a little more. And he will die through violence.” He dropped his quill, sending a small splash of ink across the chart, and gazed up at Laurence.
“You’re thinking the same as I am, aren’t you,” Laurence said, his throat suddenly constricted. “Whoever made these calculations is plotting to kill him.”
“That is a wild assumption.”
“Why else would someone cast his horoscope?”
“There might be many reasons. Queen Elizabeth had hers cast regularly by Dee.”
“I’m sure Dee wouldn’t put it in a code that no one could read.”
“Calm down, Beaumont! His Majesty might have requested that it be done, for his own protection. Why, have you any grounds for what you suspect?”
Laurence paused. He hated to give credence to any kind of divination, yet if he were right, the potential consequences horrified him. He was being irrational, he told himself next. “No,” he said. “I have no grounds.”
“Well, we shall see once the transcription is finished. As for the code, I shall show you how it is designed. There is a key of repeated symbols. Are you paying attention, or must I take a rod to your backside?”
It took Laurence some time to understand how the key functioned, but eventually Seward brushed the sheets into a pile and handed them over to him. “It’s up to you, now. You’ve plenty of work ahead of you, so go to it.”
“But why can’t we do it together this morning?”
The same odd look passed over Seward’s face. “I am too busy with my own studies,” he said, in a waspish tone. “Pray remember that I am not your tutor any more, Beaumont.”
Laurence had a question on the tip of his tongue; it came out as a statement. “You have seen the code before, haven’t you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because what you did would be close to impossible otherwise. It’s too dense, too difficult. I tried for months and got nowhere.”
“Pray give me credit where credit is due. I am no humble initiate at such things.”
“Neither am I.”
“You have precious little knowledge of the Cabbala,” Seward grunted, and Laurence knew he would get no more out of him on that score.
“What if the letters do concern regicide?”
“You will have to alert His Majesty! Such an expression on your face,” Seward remarked, in a gentler voice. “As a boy, you were afraid of nothing and no one, much to your parents’ consternation. Have some courage: Fortune dealt you the hand, and you will prove equal to it.” He reached out and ruffled Laurence’s hair. “I missed you. Few of my students had the ability to provoke me as you did.”
“Thank God you’re still here to provoke. Seward, I’ll have to take the letters to my father’s house. I’d rather not stay here in Oxford for the present.”
“Why is that?”
“Some of the men I knew who fought abroad are pressing me to serve in their regiment,” Laurence said quickly, as he tucked the papers inside his doublet. “I’ll come back again once they’ve left to join the King, in the north.”
Seward accompanied him to the door and unbolted it. “Don’t let six years pass before we see each other again. I have every expectation of being dead by then.”
“You can raise the dead, can’t you?” Laurence winked at him. “Teach me how, and I’ll revive you.”
“Thank you, but I’d prefer the company of angels even to yours. One last thing: keep the letters secret until we have discussed how you should proceed. And when you visit me next, I should like you to bring the sword your gypsy stole. I might be able to glean something from it. Metal can be used to draw forth its owner, with certain magical operations. It can also speak, in its own fashion.”
“How remarkable – a talking sword. It hasn’t yet told me a thing.”
“Your scepticism only betrays your ignorance. Now, be off with you, Beaumont,” said Seward, pushing him out into the bright sunlight.
CHAPTER FOUR
I.
Laurence swore as he screwed up yet another wasted sheet of paper. He was almost sick with anxiety: after two weeks spent toiling over the letters, he still could not produce a full transcription, but he now knew that he had indeed uncovered a plot to kill the King. Yet he could put no names to the conspirators, nor could he establish where or precisely when they were planning to commit their crime.
With Seward’s key he had unlocked one layer of the code, only to discover a further puzzle beneath. It was a mathematical cipher which, though challenging, he had unscrambled to identify words, and then parts of sentences. Nevertheless, huge gaps remained, sequences of numbers that must be in a different code altogether for which he had not the key. Even if he took the information to His Majesty, it was incomplete in the most vital aspects.
Folding away the papers, he left his chamber for the library, where he concealed them carefully inside one of Lord Beaumont’s dustiest volumes. He replaced it high up on a shelf, tucking it for good measure behind several other tomes. Then he went downstairs as quietly as he could.
Lord Beaumont’s valet, Geoffrey, stopped him at the front doors. “Her ladyship has asked for you, sir. She is expecting a guest today whom she particularly wishes you to meet. Might I ask where you are off to, sir?” Geoffrey added.
“To the river.”
“Not to bathe? Oh sir, what if you catch a chill? Or drown, more like. Only witches and dead men float.”
“Then I must be a witch.”
“It’s no joke, sir. There was a woman ducked at Moreton-in-the-Marsh just last year. She’d put a hex on her neighbour’s cattle.”
“Did she float?”
“No, she was sinking till they dragged her out. She died in gaol later, though – of a chill.”
“Don’t you worry – that won’t happen to me,” Laurence assured him, and hurried off.
Outside not a breath of wind stirred the humid air, and the sky was almost white, the sun invisible behind a film of cloud; there would be rain before nightfall, Laurence thought. He passed through the courtyard to open meadow, where the heat became more intense, and when he arrived at the riverbank he sat for a while, gazing at the water and the apparently aimless passage of dragonflies over its shining surface, before removing his clothes. As he waded in and dived under, the frigid temperature shocked his skin. He stayed below as long as he could, feeling the sucking sensation of mud beneath his toes as he reached bottom, and the soft reeds that stroked his skin. He closed his eyes, imagining fronds and fish moving at the same calm pace about him.
Resurfacing, gasping from the cold, he looked across the gleaming expanse of river to the far bank. It was not his father’s property, and he had enjoyed trespassing there as a boy. Once he had scared some shepherds by springing out of the water stark naked, apart from the riverweed clinging to him. They had crossed themselves at first, thinking him some sprite. Later they grew accustomed to him, and would explain in their thick Gloucestershire accents where to find the biggest fish or how to get an orphan lamb to take milk from a bottle, and why he should not touch a toad for fear of poison, or kill certain birds whose death brought bad luck. Where were they now, he wondered; some probably dead, some with sons whose lives might soon be interrupted or ended altogether by a war they cared nothing about.
A shout from the near bank caught Laurence’s attention, and he turned to see a man dressed in black waving at him. He disappeared underwater again, hoping to be left in peace, but the second time he poked his head up the man was still there.
“You’re alive!” he yelled at Laurence. “Wait, wait – I shall find a stick, or a branch you can cling onto!”
“I’m not drowning,” Laurence called back.
“Sir, you must get out! The currents could pull you under.”
“What currents?” Laurence asked, amused. He swam closer, until the water reached to his waist as he stood up in it. “It’s all right. I know this river.”
“You live nearby?” the man inquired, staring at the scar on Laurence’s side.
“Yes.”
“The land belongs to Lord Beaumont, does it not?”
“It does.”
“Are you – are you acquainted with his lordship?”
“Yes.”
“As it happens, I have just come from his house.” The man’s eyes had a sharp glint to them; in his sombre garments, with his beaky nose, he looked like an oversized crow hunting for worms. “I wanted to see his lordship’s son, Laurence Beaumont, and a servant directed me to the river,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Joshua Poole, sir. Are you Mr. Beaumont?” Laurence nodded. “I must speak with you about a … a confidential issue, and I should be most obliged, sir, if you might come out so that I have no need to raise my voice. I would prefer not to be overheard.”
Somewhat uneasy, Laurence plunged through a tangle of reeds and lilies towards the bank. Poole modestly glanced away as he climbed out. He returned the courtesy by pulling on his breeches, and his shirt, to cover the scar. “So, Mr. Poole,” he said, sitting down on the grass and wringing the water from his hair, “how can I help you?”
Poole sat down also, more gingerly. “I have come to make you an offer for some letters in your possession.”
Laurence felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “Letters?” he queried, when he found his voice.
“Yes. Some months back, they fell into your hands through an unfortunate circumstance. A robbery. Their owner desires their speedy return.”
Laurence feigned polite confusion. “I don’t know anything about them – you must have mistaken me for someone else,” he said smoothly; he had used the line so often in the past.
“Allow me, sir, to refresh your memory. The theft of which I spoke occurred at a tavern in The Hague, one night towards the end of last winter. The thief was a young woman. I believe you would remember her.”
“To be honest, Mr. Poole, whenever I was in The Hague there were always plenty of women, but none of them gave me anything to remember her by, for which I’ve since been truly grateful.”
Poole did not crack a smile. “She was a gypsy. You left with her that same night and travelled together into France.”
Laurence pretended to think back; always better to tell a version of the truth, rather than a total lie. “Oh – her. She gave me a song and dance about not being able to protect herself on the road, and I was stupid enough to swallow it.”
“Was it not because of her theft that you quitted the Low Countries with such dispatch?”
“God, no! Someone was out to kill me over a game of cards.”
“You went a long way with her, to the Spanish border, in fact. In all that time, she never spoke of the theft?”
“No. In fact I’d never heard of it until today. Though it doesn’t surprise me,” Laurence went on, affecting scorn. “Those gypsies have thieving in their blood.”
“But she must have confided in you. She was your mistress.”
“Please,” he objected, with a laugh, “I wasn’t that desperate.”
“Did she have money with her?”
“Not that I saw. The only money she spent was mine.”
“Are you sure she was not carrying any gold?”
“If she was, she hid it from me.”
“One hundred pounds,” Poole said, with renewed determination. “He will pay you one hundred pounds for the letters.”
Laurence began tugging on his boots. “Really! What are they, billets doux?” Poole appeared not to understand. “Love letters?” Poole winced, as if insulted by the idea. “Whoever this man is, you should tell him to save his money and accept that they’re lost. Knowing that girl, she probably used them to wipe her arse,” Laurence concluded, rising.
“Mr. Beaumont,” Poole said, speaking rapidly, “you are fortunate, born to noble estate, loved and esteemed by your family and friends. If you refuse to comply with his request, you might endanger the
m all.”
“Are you deaf? I haven’t got his letters.”
“Sir, I must warn you that if you decline the offer, the matter will be out of my control entirely,” cried Poole, struggling to his feet. “Please, sir, give them to me and take the money, and let this be the end of it.”
“I’ll say it one last time: I don’t have them. And I don’t appreciate your threats. Now please leave this property at once.” Laurence strode towards the meadow; he could hear Poole behind him, panting to keep up.
“I shan’t trouble you any more today, sir. You can find me in Aylesbury at an inn called the Black Bull. I’ll give you a couple of days to reconsider.” Laurence continued to ignore him. “You will not be left alone, sir, until you bring me the letters,” gasped Poole. “Don’t delay, or he will strike you where it hurts most!”
The sunlight dimmed abruptly, so that Laurence peered upwards. Storm clouds, heavy with rain, were massing in the sky; a fitting change in the weather, he thought, as he quickened his pace again.
“The Black Bull, sir!” Poole shouted after him.
Laurence made no response and indeed hardly noticed which direction he took, for his mind was careening from one disastrous possibility to another. He or someone close to him must know the conspirators. How else could Poole have found out so much about him? Or could that evil-eyed servant somehow have picked up his trail again, after all these months? It seemed inconceivable.
He ran back into the courtyard, determined to grab the letters, fetch his horse, and leave for Oxford immediately. Heavy raindrops had begun to fall and a flash of lightening split the sky as he darted indoors, only to be cornered again by Geoffrey, who appeared almost as agitated as he. “Sir, her ladyship’s guest arrived over an hour ago. They have been waiting for you.”
“Not now, not now,” Laurence muttered, brushing past him to go upstairs.
Then his mother’s voice rang out from the hall. “Laurence, come here, if you please.”
With a grimace at Geoffrey, he entered to find his parents and sisters in the company of a woman he did not recognise. She was fanning herself against the heat.
The Best of Men Page 13
