The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “He’s only anxious about Tom,” Laurence said.

  “That is no excuse. Laurence,” she continued, “it is his lordship’s dearest hope that you and Thomas be reconciled. You must seize this chance to mend the breach between you.”

  “Let us pray that it is not too late,” Lord Beaumont murmured.

  “Indeed.” She tapped Laurence on the arm. “Come to the still room. Martha will have some remedies that may be useful to you.”

  “Of course,” said Laurence, rather admiring her cool efficiency.

  Along the way, she remarked, “I pray you have not given Mary false hope.”

  “She’s unhappy that she can’t be with him. I don’t see the point of upsetting her even more.”

  “Goodness, since when did you acquire such delicacy of feeling?” she inquired sardonically.

  “I don’t know. I must have inherited it from you,” he said, with a smile.

  “Well, I am afraid I lose patience with that girl. She mopes about the house as if she felt life with us to be insufferable.”

  “Perhaps we are insufferable,” Laurence suggested; and he could detect in his mother’s face a hint of amusement.

  As they entered the still room, Martha was assembling a list of medicines. “Agrimony, clove root, ginger, and wild carrot. Will you remember everything, sir?” she said to Laurence.

  “You’ve known him since he was a child, Martha,” said Lady Beaumont. “If nothing else, he has a good memory. What more do we need?”

  “Opium,” Laurence said.

  “Martha, hand me the poppy tincture.” Lady Beaumont wrapped the precious bottle in layers of cloth, and it was stored with the others in a leather bag. “Take this, Laurence, and find yourself some dry clothes. We cannot have you falling sick before you reach Nottingham. And if all goes right with Thomas,” she went on, more agreeably, “we could be persuaded to delay your wedding until after Christmastide.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” Laurence demanded. “That I have to be bribed to take care of my own brother?”

  “You misunderstand,” she replied. “We know you will do your best, out of love for him.”

  Laurence looked her in the eye. “I’m glad that much is clear,” he said.

  Not an hour later, he rode out of the courtyard and across the park towards the gatehouse. A few yards away from it, he reined in by the wall surrounding his father’s property and peered about, but saw no one. He dismounted, pulled out one of the stones and reached in to retrieve the conspirators’ letters, which he had hidden wrapped in oilcloth to protect them against moisture. Stuffing them inside his doublet, he climbed back into the saddle and headed through the gates, with a wave at the gatekeeper who had come to open for him.

  III.

  “So you came that near to him,” Radcliff said to Tyler.

  “It galled me no end I couldn’t catch him.”

  “I did not ask you to.” Eager for a breath of fresh air, Radcliff got up to open the window, then remembered that the Black Bull’s kitchen midden lay directly below it. Even the close atmosphere of his room was preferable to the stench of refuse. “How much did the boy give away, apart from your name?”

  “Nothing else.” Tyler sniggered. “He was so frightened of Beaumont, he’d pissed in his breeches. The little money-grubbing coward! If Beaumont had cut his throat, I wouldn’t be a bit sorry.”

  “The boy may hear something soon. Someone is bound to gossip.”

  “I’m not so sure. He said that Seward’s disappeared without a trace.”

  “Small wonder,” said Radcliff, with heavy irony, “since he is, by reputation, a master of spells.” He saw fear pass over Tyler’s face and made a mental note: it was worth remembering what could scare a man like him. “So, what did you bring back?”

  “Just some scraps of paper I found. Spells, maybe.” Tyler hunted in his bag and produced them.

  “Spells?” Radcliff stifled laughter. “These are copy lessons, for his students. In Greek, for the most part.”

  “That fits. He’s got the Greek vice.”

  Radcliff rifled through them without interest until he came to a sealed letter. “Not much here. You must be starved after your ride.” He held out some coins. “Poole is down in the taproom eating. Why don’t you join him. And bid him come to me when he has finished.”

  “Aye, sir,” muttered Tyler, and sloped out.

  Radcliff’s heart quickened as he opened the letter, directed to Dr. John Earle, in the care of Merton College. The seal bore a noble crest that he guessed must belong to the Beaumont family. As he scanned the contents, written in an elegant hand, he recognised the cipher and set to transcribing it. Half an hour’s labour yielded most of the passage, which he remembered came from The Politics of Aristotle. “The inquiry we still have to attempt,” it began, “is concerned with the King who does everything at his own discretion. An absolute kingship is a form of constitution in which a king governs at his own discretion and in all affairs. He who commands that law should rule may thus be regarded as commanding that God and reason alone should rule; he who commands that a man should rule adds the character of the beast.”

  On reaching the last line, however, Radcliff could scarcely believe his eyes, for it was in a different cipher, cunningly modified from the one he used himself in his correspondence with Pembroke.

  “Appetite has that character,” the line read, “and high spirit, too, perverts the holders of office, even when they are the best of men.”

  He grew dizzy, as he had upon meeting Beaumont for the first time. Beaumont and Seward had his letters. Why had they sent such a pointed message to Earle? They could not have cracked the last layer of the code, and found out any names of those involved, so how could they know that John Earle, Prince Charles’ tutor, was meant to play an unwitting role in the scheme, keeping the boy safely distracted just as his royal father met with a fatal accident? Unless Seward had used his scrying bowl to fill in what blanks remained in the code. Radcliff shivered: it was perfectly possible.

  He heard footsteps, and hastily locked the letter away amongst the other secret documents in his small travelling coffer. He tucked the key back inside his shirt, as there was a knock at the door. After wiping the sweat off his forehead, he said, “Enter, Mr. Poole.”

  “Tyler’s gorging on a whole side of beef, or so it appears,” Poole said scornfully.

  “That gives us time to talk. I’m afraid Beaumont deceived you. He most certainly has my letters. Sit down, man,” Radcliff told him next, for Poole’s horror appeared almost as great as his own.

  Poole crumpled into the chair that was offered him. “How did you learn of it?”

  “Tyler brought me evidence from Seward’s rooms that proves the code has been partially broken.”

  “After all my years in the courtroom, I could not detect a liar right in front of me!” groaned Poole.

  “You should not blame yourself. Beaumont is practised at mendacity – he made his living off it.”

  “But what are we to do?”

  Radcliff sighed; he had always appreciated Poole’s faith in him, which was why he had kept from his devoted lawyer certain details of the conspiracy. All that Poole knew was that the Earl of Pembroke was seeking to secure a peace by setting up a private conference with His Majesty and certain other parties on both sides of the conflict, and that only in the last resort was the King to be detained by use of arms in order to expedite the settlement. “Listen to me,” Radcliff said, “Tyler hasn’t a clue as to the value of what he’s given me, and I’d rather he not know. I shall send him back to Oxford to see if he can sniff out any more information. That boy at Merton College might be able to discover where Seward has gone. As for you, I want you to stay here in Aylesbury. There’s a chance that Beaumont might decide to sell us the letters, now that he may think he’s got all he can from them.”

  “After he has delayed so long? I doubt it! Sir Bernard, let me return to London. My wife will be fretti
ng for me.”

  “I am sorry but wait you must,” Radcliff insisted. “This is a convenient meeting place for us, and I cannot keep passing messages through your friend Robinson whenever I need you.”

  At once he regretted mentioning Robinson, for Poole became even more agitated. “I have not heard from him in over a week, sir. I pray he has not fallen into any danger, in his work for us.”

  “He’ll come to no danger,” Radcliff answered, with a confidence he did not at present feel. Like Poole, Robinson had not been trusted with full knowledge of what was to happen, but it would be a grave setback if he were to be caught and questioned. He was useful as a courier.

  “And this business of your giving a false name to the innkeeper: what if he were to find out that you are not Mr. Rose?” Poole whispered.

  “How would he ever find out? Hush,” Radcliff added, hearing a heavy tread outside and then a louder knock. “Tyler, is that you?”

  Tyler walked in, his breath stinking of meat and onions. “Well?” he said, his features alert, like those of a hunting dog ready to attack; if he had a tail, Radcliff imagined, it would be erect and quivering.

  “You are to go back to Oxford and continue the search for Beaumont and Seward. Press the boy to ask everywhere after them.”

  “But I told you –”

  “Use your ingenuity, Tyler! Poole shall remain here at the Black Bull. And as for myself,” Radcliff concluded, wryly, “I must go to war.”

  IV.

  From Adam’s directions, Laurence found the old, ramshackle inn at which Tom was accommodated, now as busy as every other such establishment in Nottingham catering for the Royalist troops. He climbed up a winding, partly rotten staircase to the top floor, and as he reached the door, he smelled no longer the combined odours of ale and tobacco and rancid fat from the taproom below, but the sourness of a sick chamber. Before he could knock, a voice cried out, “Leave the food outside.”

  “I’ve come to see my brother,” Laurence shouted back.

  The door swung wide, revealing a room not much bigger than a cupboard, close and reeking. Apart from a bed, the curtains of which were drawn, the chamber was furnished with a table supporting vials, bottles and medical instruments, and a collection of soiled chamber pots.

  “Your brother?” the speaker repeated sceptically. He was a short man with a single brown lock combed down over his pate to imitate the appearance of hair where none grew.

  Laurence threw his bags on the floor and went to open the window. “Yes, I’m Laurence Beaumont, and I was sent here by our family. And who are you, his doctor?”

  “I am, sir, and as such, I would recommend that you shut the window,” the man ordered. “The draught will kill him.”

  Laurence paid no attention, tearing aside the bed curtains.

  Tom’s face was grey and wasted, his lips crusted with sores beneath his matted beard. He peered up dully. Then in his bloodshot eyes Laurence saw something register: either disappointment or despair, or a combination of both. His linen had probably gone unchanged since he had first occupied the bed, and his nightshirt clung to his chest like a second skin. “What are you doing here, Laurence?” he mumbled.

  Laurence touched his forehead. “Oh, Tom, that’s a high fever you have.”

  “Mr. Beaumont,” the doctor intervened more politely, “may I introduce myself? I am Dr. Chapman, his physician, and let me assure you, sir, he is much improved since yesterday.”

  “Improved? What are you giving him?” Laurence selected one of the bottles on the table. Inside, wrinkled, blackened objects floated about in a viscous solution. “What’s this? Pickled spiders? And this?” He indicated a curious instrument, a tubular metal construction attached to a plunger.

  Chapman moved protectively towards the table. “The administration of clysters is of prime importance to the patient. He is taking a course of physics that will balance the humours in his body. I have been purging the effluvia with senna taken by mouth, and a pepper wash, by his nether parts. He has on waking each morning, and each night, a mixture of seethed egg yolks, peppercorns, and red wine. At midday, he takes a glass of ale containing a measure of grated dried stag’s pizzle, mercury, and tincture of shepherd’s purse.”

  “That would make anyone sick. And the spiders?”

  “They restore the throat. With a drop or so of melted butter, they go down very easily.”

  “And come up as easily,” Laurence commented, glancing at the chamber pots.

  “Sir, the vomit is a sign of imminent recovery.”

  “He was vomiting when he came under your care. You’re dismissed.”

  Chapman blinked at him. “Sir, I –”

  “You may go.”

  “With all due respect, it was your brother who engaged me, and it is for him alone to dismiss me, should he so wish it.” Chapman turned to Tom. “For the life of you, sir, do not allow him to interfere.”

  But Tom could not speak. He was waving feebly at the pile of chamber pots. Not a moment too soon, Laurence thrust one under his chin. He disgorged some frothing liquid and lay back with a moan. Laurence removed the pot and set it on the table; there was dark blood in the vomit.

  “A person of your rank cannot be used to such unsavoury labours,” Chapman observed. “You need me, sir, as much as he does.” In response, Laurence picked up the bottle full of spiders and flung it through the window. “My remedies!” Chapman gasped, as more bottles disappeared. “My payment, at least, sir!”

  From his pocket Laurence took a handful of coins and dropped them with a splash into the chamber pot. “Take it and get out now, unless you want me to kick you down the stairs.”

  Chapman grabbed the pot and made a rapid exit, not stopping to shut the door behind him.

  “What’s happening, Laurence?” Tom asked hoarsely.

  Laurence did not reply, digging out from his bags a flask of spring water and a cup into which he mixed honey, a pinch of salt, powdered ginger, and some drops of Martha’s poppy tincture. “Here,” he said. “It should plug you up, and put you to sleep.”

  Tom had to be fed in spoonfuls, a process lengthened by his reluctance to ingest anything at all. He stirred fitfully for a bit, and then the drug worked its magic. Meanwhile, Laurence examined what remained of Chapman’s alarming pharmacopoeia and wondered if he should have let Tom’s body rid itself of the poisons naturally. Yet sleep was also curative, he thought. He would not have minded sleeping himself, for he was weary and saddle-sore.

  He leant out of the window, and as he gazed down on the courtyard below, he thought of Mary and his facile assurances to her. He had seen men fitter and stronger than Tom waste away from this disease. He could not leave his brother until the fever passed, if in fact it did. His meeting with the Secretary of State would have to wait.

  V.

  Not a propitious day for declaring war, mused Falkland. It was more like November than late August: large clouds hung in the sky, gobs of rain spattered everyone’s cloaks, and the King’s speech, delivered with some garbling of words by a herald, was practically inaudible in the strong breeze that made the royal standard flap about like a nervous bird.

  “How unfortunate that His Majesty changed his script at the last minute,” Lord Digby remarked, shouting in Falkland’s ear. “The other version was superior.”

  “Your work?” Falkland asked, one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing away.

  “For the most part. Never mind, it would have been wasted on the wind. And what a poor showing,” Digby went on, gesturing at the assembled troops. “I’ve heard Parliament has twice our number mustered in London. Any regrets, Lucius?”

  “No man of conscience can be happy today,” Falkland answered guardedly, “to see a monarch wage war against his subjects.”

  “Ah well, the die is cast.”

  “I think not. We can continue to negotiate. I have every faith in Culpeper’s mission to London.”

  “But what is the chance that our terms for a settlement
will be accepted by the radicals? All Culpeper will do is buy us some time – which, God knows, we need, to amass a decent fighting force.”

  “That smacks of duplicity. Parliament’s Commissioners are men who just yesterday were our friends and colleagues. We must be honest and fair in our dealings with them. After all, they are some of them as eager for peace as we.”

  “Yet as the Gospel says, no man can serve two masters. Are you not content with the one you have chosen?”

  “He is my King. I could not choose to side against him.” Falkland looked over at His Majesty, who was mounted as usual on a very tall stallion. Beside him was his handsome young nephew, Prince Rupert of the Rhine, newly appointed Lieutenant-General of the Horse; and by Rupert was Boy, the white poodle that went with him everywhere.

  “Young pup,” muttered Digby, at which Falkland smiled. “And here comes your trusty spymaster Colonel Hoare, who worships the Prince as faithfully as does Boy,” Digby added, as Hoare galloped up.

  Hoare stopped briefly to salute them. He eyed Digby with undisguised loathing, then urged his horse over towards the Prince’s.

  “What a man,” Digby exclaimed. “His face reminds me of a death’s head. I really can’t abide him.”

  “Nor can I. But thanks to you, I must tolerate him.”

  “Poor Lucius! Permit me to make amends by inviting you to a small collation after Council meets. Around ten o’clock. I have asked the Prince to attend but I don’t expect he will.”

  “Have you two had a falling out?”

  “Not as far as I am concerned,” Digby replied with a hurt expression, smoothing down the feather in his hat. “But it is as if he has forgotten all about our months of friendship abroad, and now he treats me like some neophyte who has no business in a council of war. He doesn’t seem to care how many people he offends with his brusque Teutonic manners. And he has offended a great many in such a small space of time.”

  “So what was your purpose in inviting him to sup with you?”