The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “Then you must be very popular in the neighbourhood,” Laurence commented, wary of Hoare’s newly amicable attitude towards him; the man had not even berated him for his absence.

  “Quite so,” said Hoare. “Have you heard what they’re calling Rupert? Prince Robber. He’s an impatient lad, naturally, used to doing as is done abroad, demanding tribute in short order. But the English can’t understand that sort of warfare.” Hoare now hesitated, regarding Laurence more thoughtfully. “Your brother fought at Powick. I hear he distinguished himself by his zeal.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Laurence said, though he disliked the idea of Hoare knowing Tom. “May I ask where we’re going?”

  They had turned down a small street with warehouses on either side. He began to feel choked by the sickly smell in the air, of dye used on the woollen fabric produced in that part of the country.

  “Our men will have new coats and breeches for their next engagement,” Hoare carried on, as if he had not heard. “Blue for Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard, red for the King’s, and so on. It’s as well or else we cannot tell ourselves apart from our enemies.”

  “Unless they choose the same colours.”

  “Ah, yes, there is that possibility,” Hoare agreed with a laugh.

  They went inside one of the buildings where the stench was even stronger. The Colonel had made himself a rudimentary office there, with a table and chairs, and several chests set around them. Another, interior door was heavily barred. Laurence could detect some muffled voices on the other side, as of men arguing, and then, more distinctly, a cry.

  “Wait in the lane,” Hoare ordered the guards, who withdrew. “I learnt today that there may indeed be a Mr. Rose in the Prince’s regiment,” he said to Laurence. “You shall bring him in for me. But first, however, you shall undergo a small test.” He removed the bar on the interior door, and opened it. “This way, Mr. Beaumont.”

  In the adjoining room, above the reek of dye, another smell more powerful and familiar greeted Laurence’s nostrils: of sweat and blood and excrement combined. A naked man hung suspended from a beam in the ceiling, his feet dangling inches from the floor. Rope bound his wrists behind his back so that the full weight of his body tugged at his shoulders, slowly dislocating them. His buttocks were smeared with his own filth and crisscrossed with markings from a lash. On his chest and back the same pattern was repeated.

  The room was windowless, lit by a brazier and a couple of torches thrust into holders on the wall. Three soldiers attended the prisoner: a scribe seated on a bench before a small table, his quill and paper at the ready, and two men standing, who bowed to Hoare and Laurence with jovial complicity.

  “We’ve been teasing him since last night,” said one, “but he’s a tough nut to crack.” He picked up a leather strap caked in gore and struck at the man’s thighs. As though to contradict him, the man let out a scream.

  “You have been teasing him,” Hoare said. He seized the strap from the soldier and sent it curling across the man’s face, where it left a broad red line. The scribe quickly turned aside.

  “Our prisoner says his name is Peter Robinson,” Hoare told Laurence. “We believe he is a mole for Parliament. He was caught asking questions about the location of Prince Rupert’s troops, and he had a message on him that he stuffed in his mouth and swallowed as we arrested him. You must make him cough it up.”

  “Why me?” Laurence asked. “He’s your prisoner.”

  “You should know by now that you are in no position to pick and choose your assignments,” Hoare said, his amiable manner vanishing. “Take this as a warning, sir. I’ll string you up just like him if you play about on me again.” And he raised the strap, poised to lash at the man’s groin.

  “You should stop,” Laurence said, keeping his voice purposely cool. “Or he’ll be dead before he talks.”

  “Ah yes, you would know about that,” Hoare observed, with heavy irony. “Come, sir, share your technique with us. Or would you prefer to work alone, as you did in Oxford? I’ll give you a chance. Not more than half an hour, mind, and if you have nothing from him, I shall take my disappointment out on you. Do I make myself clear?”

  “It’s hopeless,” Laurence protested. “He’s about to faint.”

  “So work quickly. Search Mr. Beaumont and make sure he’s not armed,” Hoare said to the soldiers, and they took Laurence’s knife from him. “Now, sir, do your bit, or when I get back I shall have you pulling out his nails and crushing his fingers one by one. Come along, boys.”

  The soldiers and scribe left, and Hoare followed, with a backward grin at Laurence, who felt desperate: the hardest task of all, he knew, was to obtain any sensible intelligence from the mangled wreckage left behind by other interrogators. As for that final threat of slow torture, he had watched it inflicted before and did not care to witness it again. He grabbed the scribe’s bench and set it near the beam, then climbed up to untie the rope. It was difficult to support Robinson while lowering him, and the man moaned as he was laid on the ground. Laurence struggled next to loosen the knots about his wrists but the rope had sunk too deep into his flesh.

  “What are you doing to me?” he gasped.

  “I’m trying to help you,” Laurence said.

  He jumped up and looked frantically around the room, a cold sweat breaking over him. On the scribe’s table he spied a blade for sharpening quills; he snatched it up and used it to saw at the rope but its edge was blunt. After some minutes of hacking away and tearing at the rope’s frayed ends, he finally released Robinson’s arms, and turned him over. He fetched a cupful of water from a barrel standing nearby, then shifted the man into a sitting position and brought the cup to his lips. Most of the water trickled out again, mingling with the blood on his face.

  “Robinson,” hissed Laurence, “you’re very brave to hold on, but what they’ll do to you next will be even worse than what you’ve already suffered. If you talk to me, I’ll make them stop.”

  The man shook his head. “Whether I talk or not, I am as good as dead. If you truly want to help me, finish me now! Put me out of my pain!”

  Laurence wiped his own perspiring brow. “You have to give me something first. What was in that message?”

  “Please just cut my throat,” Robinson implored him.

  “I can’t,” he said, shuddering, imagining the agony that dull blade would cause.

  “Then find another way! Oh, hurry!”

  “I will. Just answer me, and I will.”

  “I did no wrong!” the man burst out.

  “Then what was in the message? Tell me, and I’ll do as you ask.”

  The man hesitated, before whispering, “Do you swear?”

  “I swear. These men who tortured you are no friends of mine,” Laurence added. “Whatever you say to me, I’ll keep to myself. I promise you, on my soul.”

  Robinson grimaced. “Why should I trust you?” Laurence said nothing; he could think of no reason. But his silence seemed to have an effect on Robinson, who shifted one bloody hand to place it on his, and mouthed, “Water.” Laurence gave the cup to him again, and afterwards Robinson breathed, “It was a letter to further the peace – there was no evil intent behind it.”

  “Then why the secrecy?”

  “There are some in P-parliament who would consider its author disloyal for seeking a reconciliation with the King.” Robinson rested his head back against Laurence’s chest, evidently exhausted from the effort of speaking.

  “Who wrote the letter?” Laurence helped him to more water. “You must tell me. We haven’t much time.”

  Robinson nodded, then panted in short bursts: “P-Pembroke. The Earl of Pembroke.”

  Laurence frowned: this made no sense. Pembroke was engaged in open peace negotiations with His Majesty’s delegates, Falkland included. “And who was to receive it? Someone here, amongst the King’s troops?”

  “I cannot risk his life.”

  “You won’t, if his intentions are as honourable as yours,�
� Laurence urged, shaking him gently by the shoulders. Robinson howled, and Laurence immediately stopped, realising that the man’s shoulders were already out of joint. “Please, Robinson, please – tell me who was to receive that letter,” he begged, “and I’ll take away your pain.”

  “It was – Sir – Sir Bernard Radcliff,” stammered the man.

  “Radcliff?” exclaimed Laurence, completely astonished: how could Ingram’s brother-in-law be involved in this?

  “Now do it!” Robinson told him, too spent to catch his reaction. “Do it, for the love of Jesus.”

  Laurence could use neither knife nor rope, or Hoare would see exactly what he had done. With one hand he pinched the man’s nostrils together, and with the other sealed his mouth, trying not to look into his eyes as they bulged wide. Then he knelt on top of his chest, knowing that Robinson would struggle instinctively for air no matter how much he yearned to die. Laurence’s grip kept slipping in the blood drawn by Hoare’s lash, and the flesh, soft and pulpy to the touch like rotten fruit, oozed through his fingers. He had to exert all of his strength. At last he felt Robinson’s body grow limp. He checked that the man had ceased breathing, waited a moment to catch his own breath, rose and walked over to the door. He was shaking as he opened it.

  Hoare lunged into the room, followed by the soldiers. “What in hell is this?” he snarled at Laurence. “Why did you untie him?”

  “His heart must have given out. He was dead when I cut him down.” Laurence shoved aside the soldiers and gained the other room before anyone could grab him. But the outer door, as he might have expected, was locked.

  “Did he talk?” demanded Hoare.

  Laurence paused to compose himself, then turned about. “He said he was trying to deliver a letter to the King, concerning the peace negotiations.”

  “A letter from whom?”

  “He had no opportunity to explain. I told you, you’d pushed him too far.”

  “And I have not yet pushed you far enough! Was that all?”

  Laurence merely stared at Hoare, possessed by a brutal desire to smash his teeth in and pound at his face until it was beyond recognition.

  Perhaps Hoare sensed this, for he took a step back. “Very well, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, unlocking the door.

  “May I have my knife, please?”

  Hoare smiled down at Laurence’s outstretched hand, which was bloodstained, with raw flesh packed beneath the fingernails. “How is it, to be back in the saddle again?”

  “An unmitigated pleasure, sir,” Laurence replied.

  Hoare stopped smiling and passed him the knife. “Bring me that third man – Mr. Rose. And don’t be too long about it, or I’ll be in danger of losing my patience with you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I.

  Most of Prince Rupert’s cavalry was scattered wide across the countryside around Shrewsbury, requisitioning supplies or simply pillaging, in preparation for the long march on London, and new levies were flooding in from Wales and the northwest, overcrowding the camps. When Laurence asked amongst the men for Mr. Rose, some did not know the names of their commanding officers, and even when they did, he could hardly understand their impenetrable accents. Then at last he learnt from one of Rupert’s troopers that there was a Mr. Rose in their ranks who had just gone out with a foraging party.

  “Not an officer, sir,” the fellow told him. “Can’t be over eighteen, that lad, still wet behind the ears.”

  All the while, Laurence had been turning over in his mind two pieces of information: what the tortured man had confessed about Radcliff and the Earl of Pembroke, and the description of Mr. Rose that the serving woman in Aylesbury had provided. This last fitted Radcliff curiously well, he thought.

  “Keep looking,” Hoare said, when Laurence reported back to him. “And I shall keep an eye on you.”

  Wilmot must have had the same idea, for Laurence received an order to meet him in his quarters at the house of an alderman in town. “Where have you been, Beaumont?” he demanded. “Your private business has taken too long. I need the cipher you promised me for my correspondence. Until I get it, you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Then you’ll have to talk to Colonel Hoare,” Laurence said. “He found out about my work abroad for the Germans, and he wants me to serve him in the same capacity.”

  “I’ll gladly tell him to go and fuck himself,” Wilmot responded, laughing. “He can’t pull rank over the King’s Commissioner of Horse. As for you, Beaumont, Mr. Fulford, my generous host, will find you a spare chamber here, so you can scribble away undisturbed.”

  As soon as he was settled in his room, Laurence wrote to Clarke for news of Seward. Couriers were both difficult and expensive to hire, and over a week passed before he received Clarke’s disheartening reply. Seward was being held in Oxford Castle, in the custody of the Parliamentary governor, pending a criminal inquest for which no date had yet been set.

  “Nor have formal charges been laid,” Clarke went on, “which is an outrageous violation of habeas corpus. He is not the only one to suffer likewise, for the rebels are hard pressed to keep order in the city, and whomsoever they accuse of wrongdoing is sent straight to the Castle, to rot at their discretion. As a result, that place is horribly overcrowded and full of disease. I visit him daily, but he has wasted despite my efforts and any small illness could carry him off. The College has failed to rally to his aid. Even those who were his friends have turned cowards, too frightened of the Warden to speak out against this injustice.”

  Laurence could only hope for a victory over the Parliamentary army massing under the Earl of Essex: if the King triumphed, Oxford would be liberated. Yet it might be too late for Seward, he realised despondently.

  “There’s a fellow called Thomas Beaumont in my regiment,” Wilmot said to him one evening. “He raised his own troop. Any relation?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “Hmm! I saw him in action, at Powick. He’s got guts.”

  “I’m sure he has.”

  “Do I detect a little fraternal discord?”

  “No, merely a difference of character.”

  “How’s my cipher coming along?”

  “It’s almost finished.”

  “About time. We’ll be leaving Shrewsbury in under a week. Then you’ll have to fulfil the other part of our agreement. I told you, I’m going to put you in my Lifeguard.”

  “To be honest,” Laurence said, “I’d rather just be a humble soldier.”

  “Humble, my arse,” Wilmot growled back.

  Laurence sighed; he appreciated Wilmot’s offer, but he still had to locate Mr. Rose. He also wanted to talk with Ingram, who might know something about Radcliff’s connection to Pembroke. Strange, though, that he had not mentioned it to Laurence when he first spoke of his new brother-in-law.

  The next day Laurence completed the cipher. As he and Wilmot were poring over it together in Mr. Fulford’s parlour, a blond, smartly dressed gentleman walked in.

  “My Lord Digby,” exclaimed Wilmot, bowing.

  “You’re very comfortable here, Wilmot, more so than where I am,” Digby remarked. “And who, pray, is your friend?”

  “Laurence Beaumont, my lord.”

  Digby surveyed Laurence, his blue eyes curious. “Ah yes,” he murmured ambiguously. “Wilmot, might the house have accommodation for another person?”

  “Don’t raise your hopes. There’s not room enough for you and all of your retinue, my lord.”

  “Oh, it’s not for myself that I ask, but for a lady who cannot tolerate my inferior lodgings, which are perishing draughty. She has been unwell, you see. She came to Shrewsbury after a misadventure in Oxford, and a journey that was even more insufferable. She lost my father’s coach to Parliament and nearly lost her life getting away from the rebels.” Isabella Savage, thought Laurence, with a flicker of interest. “In fact,” Digby said, “she is waiting outside.”

  Wilmot began to laugh. “So you didn’t plan on being refused.”
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  “I try not to be, as a rule. I shall summon her.”

  As Digby was about to go, Mrs. Fulford entered and dropped them a curtsey. “My Lord Digby,” she said, “what an honour! Is that your wife you have with you?”

  “No, madam. My dearest Anne has not followed me on our campaign. She is at home with our children. The lady you saw is my ward, Mistress Savage,” he continued, his eyes again on Laurence, who pretended not to notice. “She is indisposed, and I was about to beg you the favour of sheltering her under your roof for a few days until she recovers her health.”

  “It would be my privilege,” said Mrs. Fulford. “I shall help her in.”

  When the women arrived, Laurence caught Wilmot appraising Isabella with a lasciviousness that vexed him, even if he might have predicted it. Mrs. Fulford was supporting her, one arm about her waist, as though she were unable to walk unaided. Her face had a sallow hue, and she was dressed not in her plain travelling costume but in an ill-fitting dress that hung loosely on her frame.

  “Isabella Savage, this is Henry Wilmot, gallant Commissioner General of His Majesty’s Horse,” Digby said. “I think you and my ward are already acquainted, Mr. Beaumont.”

  “Yes, we are,” said Laurence blandly, and he and Isabella exchanged the appropriate courtesies.

  “Where are your things, madam?” Mrs. Fulford asked.

  “Such baggage as I had was left behind, in Oxford,” Isabella replied.

  “You shall want for nothing in my house. My lord, gentlemen, I must put her straight to bed,” said Mrs. Fulford, and the women disappeared.