“Laurence,” said his mother stiffly, a pained look on her face as she examined his damp, rumpled clothes, “may I present to you Lady Morecombe.”
Lady Morecombe rose and curtseyed, as he bowed. “Well, sir,” she said, “if you are to be betrothed to my daughter Alice, should we not become acquainted? Do please sit.” She indicated the chair beside hers with her ivory-handled fan. He did as she asked, his knees weak. What had he brought upon his family? And here they were, in perfect ignorance, merrily arranging his future. “You are nearly twice Alice’s age,” Lady Morecombe was saying, “although I would not guess it. You have decided rather late to marry, given your position in society. Were you too set in your bachelor habits?”
“To which habits do you refer?” he asked, inspecting her; her gown was low cut, and ill advisedly so, from what he could see.
“What I mean, sir, is this,” she said, reddening under his gaze. “Her ladyship has addressed the matter, yet I should like to hear from your own mouth why you have not chosen to marry before.”
“I haven’t cared to,” he said.
“Most men are delighted to relinquish their freedom, once they discover the advantages of a loving and obedient wife.” Since he made no response to this, she was forced eventually to turn to Lord and Lady Beaumont. “It would be most distressing to me were there to be any delay in the wedding plans as a consequence of our political troubles.”
“Few armies campaign over Christmastide,” Lady Beaumont said. “Elizabeth and Mr. Ormiston are to be married then. If necessary, we can hold the weddings together.”
“But it permits him such a short time to know his bride, or for her to know him,” Lord Beaumont interjected.
“There is time enough,” she told him firmly.
“Oh yes,” agreed Lady Morecombe, scanning the hall as though estimating its worth. “A single meeting between them may suffice. Alice will make him a perfect helpmeet. I have taught her the arts of household management. She is expert in the preparation of sweets and light repasts. She has a fine hand at needlework. Her health has never failed her. She is even-tempered and devout, very devout. What more could a man ask?” she said, to Laurence.
“I can’t possibly imagine,” he replied, resisting an impulse to drag her from her chair and boot her out.
“My dear Lady Morecombe,” said Lord Beaumont, as a clap of thunder rattled the windowpanes, “you should stay until the storm abates.”
“She is to pass the night here,” his wife informed him.
“Ah. In that case, might I steal Laurence away for an hour or so? He has promised to assist me with a translation.”
“Of course,” Laurence said, and jumped up.
“A most obedient son,” Lady Morecombe remarked to Lady Beaumont, who coughed discreetly into her hand.
“Oh dear, oh dear!” exclaimed Lord Beaumont, as he and Laurence mounted the stairs. “I knew we had sprung this on you too fast. I did say as much to your mother, but I had not expected your reaction – such shock and dismay! Is the idea so awful to you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The idea of marrying Alice Morecombe! Laurence, you haven’t heard a word I said. There must be something else troubling you.”
“No, no.”
“Then you would be prepared to meet the girl?”
“Why not,” Laurence said, to put an end to the subject.
His father beamed at him. “Your mother will be so gratified, as am I. The Morecombes are old Gloucestershire stock, as you might remember. Her ladyship’s late husband was active in Parliament, though poor health forced him to resign his duties some years ago.” Once in the library he regarded Laurence again with consternation. “Why so hagridden, my boy? What is on your mind?”
“I have to go back to Oxford.” Laurence attempted a more cheerful demeanour. “I promised to meet up with some friends of mine from the other war.”
“When will you leave?”
He hesitated, incapable of producing any decent excuse to rush off to Oxford in the middle of a blinding storm. “In the morning, I hope.”
“Good. You can take with you my response to Earle’s letter. You promised to help me write it in a new cipher. We may as well go to it now.”
“Can’t we wait until I return?” Laurence asked hopefully; at present he felt that he could not have designed a cipher if his life depended on it.
“Now don’t disappoint me, sir. I have chosen to transcribe a passage from Aristotle on kingship, rather fitting for the tutor of a prince. And I want to challenge Earle, so you must make me an ingenious device.”
The passage from Aristotle unsettled Laurence in its irony, given how the King had been so much on his mind. Most of the words he encoded with a cipher that he had used before, but in his state even this process was arduous, and he had to keep putting down his quill to wipe the sweat from his hand.
“I’m not quite satisfied,” Lord Beaumont said critically, at the end. “Add a hook to it. Something truly brilliant that will outfox Earle.”
Laurence thought again, and an idea came to him. For one crucial line he would use the conspirators’ cipher, which he had memorised, removing its more obscure mathematical digressions. But as the missive was sealed with the family crest, he pondered if he had tempted fate in borrowing from those other, deadly letters; and he also wondered who might be lying in wait for him on the road to Oxford tomorrow. He decided, as a precaution, not to take the originals with him. He would make copies that he could easily destroy if he were followed.
II.
The day after he and Juana had set out from The Hague, he asked her, “Who is it that’s tracking us?”
“I haven’t seen anyone.”
“You lie worse than you sit a horse. He’s the lone rider I pointed out to you this afternoon.”
“It must be Saint-Etienne.”
“He wouldn’t be fool enough to come without friends, and he would have confronted us by now. He’s had ample opportunity.”
“Then how should I know who it is?” she said, shivering.
They travelled on south, past abandoned cottages, ransacked churches, barren fields, and remains of the dead quarrelled over by carrion birds. They were continuously soaked to the skin by rain or sleet, and their supply of food dwindled, for there was nothing to purchase or steal: with the countryside pillaged by one army after another, the local people were reduced to eating roots and vermin. Meanwhile they had to hide themselves and their horses from roaming bands of marauders, a rabble of beggars and cutthroats. And although he did not mention it to Juana, Laurence also feared that he might come across some party of soldiers who would recognise him and drag him back to face a hanging.
Throughout, Juana stayed true to her word: tireless, resourceful, quick to sense danger, she did not slow him down, and though she must have been aching from saddle sores, she never complained. He felt a growing admiration for her, tempered by a desire to be free of her as soon as he could.
Just north of the border with France, they stopped one evening to camp as darkness fell. With her usual resourcefulness, Juana coaxed a smoky fire from a handful of twigs and dried grass, and they sat warming their numbed hands, their stomachs growling.
“You are very quiet, Monsieur,” she remarked to him. “What is it that you are thinking about?”
“That I’m hungry,” he answered, tersely.
“No. You are worrying that you may be captured, by the army. Cecilia told me once, after she’d had too much wine, that you were a deserter.” Laurence kept silent. “Why did you desert, Monsieur?”
“I was sick of fighting.”
“You’d been a soldier for years. What made you stop, just like that? Was it something that you did?”
Laurence sighed and looked up at her. “Yes. And something I failed to prevent.”
“You might feel better, for talking of it,” she suggested.
She might be right, he thought. “Well,” he began, “there was a town
we’d laid siege to, I can’t even remember the name of it. We’d taken our share of dead and wounded, so we were ready to celebrate when it fell. We sacked a warehouse and I found some barrels hidden away. We got drunk. Later, when we had to move on, I was ordered to round up a few of the men who were missing.” He paused, and pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders.
“Go on, Monsieur.”
“I found them with a woman.”
“Nothing new to them, or to you,” Juana murmured.
“Oh, but it wasn’t my kind of entertainment. She was hugely pregnant – she must have been very near to giving birth – and they were raping her one at a time, as her children watched.”
“Hmm. And what did you do?”
“I told them to leave her alone. They didn’t approve. The last man, as he was finished, took his sword and stuck it right up her. Such a lot of blood – I’d never seen so much come out so fast. I was carrying two pistols. I shot him dead. The others bolted.”
“You should have shot them all. They were animals!”
“Were they? I knew them as my companions, my comrades in battle who’d risk their lives to come to each other’s aid – and to mine, for that matter. But after some privation and suffering, followed by victory and liquor, that’s what became of them.”
“They deserved to die. They killed a woman and her unborn infant.”
“They didn’t kill her.” Laurence took a breath. “She was still screaming in agony. So I … I shot her in the head, as you might some horse that’s no good any more. I shot her in front of her children. You should have seen their faces. It made me wish I’d fired that second ball into my own skull.”
Juana frowned at him. “She would not have survived, and anyway, why should you carry this with you, as if you blame yourself? You surprise me, Monsieur. I have witnessed far worse cruelties, and learnt to put them from my mind.”
“I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to do that,” he said, at which she smiled, as if to herself, and fed the last twigs to the flames.
III.
During his journey to Oxford on the morning after the storm, Laurence drew his horse off the road every so often into the shelter of trees, anticipating that a figure might be shadowing him, yet there was never anyone suspicious in sight. The hot weather had broken: torrential rain overnight had petered off into a steady drizzle, the wind blew cold, and the roads became bogged with treacherous puddles, in several of which carts had become hopelessly stuck. Even his own progress was slowed.
He arrived at Merton around six in the evening, tired and chilled. Leaving his horse at the College stable, he hurried over to Seward’s rooms with the sword tucked under his cloak.
There he found Seward in fine spirits, sharing sack posset with a companion. “Take off that wet cloak, Beaumont, and sit down,” he said. “I don’t believe you’ve met Dr. Isaac Clarke.”
Clarke more than filled his chair: his posterior and thighs spilled over the edges of it. The contours of his face resembled those of a well-nourished baby, and his old-fashioned scholar’s robe was so strained over his belly that Laurence could glimpse the spotless linen shirt beneath it. “Ah, yes, you are Thomas’ older brother,” he declared, in a fruity baritone. “You left College before my time, but I took him in rhetoric. Is heredity not a mysterious thing,” he added to Seward. “How one child of the same parents may be as different from another as a changeling.”
“Beaumont resembles his mother, though he must be tired of hearing it remarked upon,” said Seward, as he resumed his chair and draped the striped cat over his knees. “Clarke and I have been discussing Merton politics,” he informed Laurence.
“We suspect that our Warden, Nathaniel Brent, is about to abscond to the rebels in Parliament,” elaborated Clarke. “We should have predicted it earlier. He’s full of venom for bishops, and quarrelled with Archbishop Laud on the issue of religious reforms at the College.”
“He’ll have to escape to his house in London when Oxford declares for His Majesty,” Seward said, offering the silver posset cup to Laurence, who refused; from childhood he had detested the sweet, custardy drink. “Still, support for the King is not as strong here as we might hope. The merchants care only about their purses, and the students are unruly and without proper direction, liable to be swayed by any street demagogue.”
“If Brent does run off,” Clarke said, shaking his head, his jowls wobbling back and forth, “I fear he may take with him most of the College plate!”
Laurence sighed and glared at Seward, willing him to send Clarke away.
“Beaumont,” said Seward, “you’ve something preying on you. You may speak freely in Clarke’s presence.”
“No, no.” Clarke heaved himself up. “I shall be going. But, Seward, please listen to my advice about Illingsworth. He is liable to take advantage of you and could prove very dangerous indeed.”
“No need to tell me,” Seward said huffily, brushing the cat off his lap and reaching for his pipe. “I am already tiring of him.”
“Don’t lend him any more money and you’ll be rid of the pest, that’s what I say. Good night to you, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Who’s this Illingsworth?” Laurence asked Seward, when they were alone.
“A student of mine.”
“I heard you’d given up teaching.”
“I made an exception in his case. He’s a very gifted boy whose parents can barely afford to keep him here.”
“How very generous of you. Or has he found another way to pay you for his lessons?”
“Never mind him, you impudent fellow. Did you finish the transcription?”
“As much of it as I could. Enough to know that it is about regicide.”
“Heavens,” murmured Seward, and his hands shook as Laurence passed him the papers. “But these are all in your illegible scrawl!”
“I’ll explain why I only brought you copies.” In a rush, Laurence told of his encounter with Poole. “I don’t understand how the conspirators found me. But there are so many people that might have known me in The Hague, a number of whom are here in England again. And they talk too much.”
“Yet how could they have known about the letters when you didn’t learn of their existence yourself until you reached France? No – it is my guess that the conspirators used magic to locate you,” Seward stated sombrely. “If one of them is an adept of the Hermetic school, he might have employed a scrying bowl or a crystal to divine your whereabouts.”
Laurence gave a derisive snort and sat forward. “Seward, in case something happens to me, I’ve left the letters in a hole in the wall near the gatehouse to my father’s property.” He described where Seward could find them, and then, reminded of his father, he took out the script for Dr. Earle and put it on Seward’s desk. He was now so nervous about having used the conspirators’ cipher that he felt inclined to burn it straight away, but Seward’s grate was cold.
Seward was reading over his transcription. “This is unfinished. You did not apply yourself.”
“Yes, I did, for days and nights, which is why I took so long in coming back here. The code concealed a mathematical cipher, which I managed to break parts of. But you see these numbers, in series? I think they represent names, of people and places crucial to the conspiracy. I couldn’t make any sense of them, except where they refer to the King and his son Prince Charles. Those names I could assume from the context. But that’s all.”
“Your writing is too much of a dog’s breakfast for my feeble eyes, and in this poor light. Tell me what you’ve found out.”
“Remember you said that one of the authors had a bold hand? I have the impression that he’s the master of the conspiracy,” Laurence said. “The other letter I’m sure was written to him some time later, judging from its contents, and of course it’s in the same hand as the astrological calculations.” He stopped, to catch his breath. “I suspect that the second author invented the code, or introduced it to his master. If you compare the letters, the master h
as an assertive hand but he’s blotted some of his words by hesitating over them. The second author’s script flows perfectly, and the horoscope is in his writing. If he’s familiar with astrology he could also be knowledgeable about the Cabbala. Just as you are.” Seward furrowed his brow, as if he did not appreciate the compliment. “Anyhow,” Laurence went on, “the money Juana stole was for arms, to be bought in The Hague, presumably.”
“Wait – you think the master’s letter is dated earlier. Start with that.”
“He writes that he anticipates a war and must know the propitious time to act in order to save the country from ruin. He’s convinced that the King himself poses the greatest obstacle to peace.”
“And does he say how he reached that conclusion?”
“No, but he sounds as if he’s a courtier well acquainted with His Majesty. And he mentions others, both at Court and in Parliament, who might be persuaded to his side.”
“Their names are still a mystery?” Laurence nodded. “And how will the deed be done?”
“The King will be spirited away to some place, also a mystery, and a hired assassin will take care of him. The master doesn’t say how, but his own hands will look clean. Then he’ll see to it that when Prince Charles takes the throne, he’ll be appointed as protector until the boy comes of age. So I assume that the Prince, too, is well known to him and would trust him.”
“And Her Majesty?”
“I couldn’t find any reference to her. At any rate, that’s the essence of the first letter.”
“And the second, that you believe was written by his accomplice, our astrological adept?”
“It’s all about business: how much the arms will cost, and when the purchase will take place, how they’ll be shipped over and who’ll receive them, though that was another name I couldn’t transcribe.”
“Dear God! Our master conspirator must be powerful indeed, to cherish such ambitions.”
“But he has a problem,” Laurence said, picking up the sheet of paper covered in bold writing. “He insists here several times that all correspondence must be destroyed immediately on receipt. His accomplice obviously disobeyed him and kept this very damning letter, I think to betray the conspiracy if need be, or to have a hold over him.”
The Best of Men Page 14
