VI.
After a tortuous ride from Faringdon to Oxford evading enemy patrols, Laurence headed straight for the Castle to reconnoitre the area. He considered risking a visit but was not sure that Seward would still be imprisoned there. As dusk began to fall, more and more soldiers came riding back in through the main gate, and he knew he could not linger without attracting their suspicion. He had no choice but to go again to Dr. Clarke.
At Merton, he found that gentleman on his way out of the door. “What in God’s name are you doing here, Mr. Beaumont?” Clarke exclaimed, his face flushing with anger.
“Let me in,” Laurence said, and Clarke reluctantly opened for him. “Is Seward still in gaol?” he demanded, pulling off his cloak.
“Yes, he is. As you may be, if you don’t get out of Oxford at once.”
“How is he?”
Clarke sighed and waved Laurence to a chair. “I am trying everything in my power to move his case forward, sir, to no result thus far. But I did succeed in having him transferred to a new cell, away from the common pound, and his health has greatly improved. Indeed, I have been permitted to visit him almost every day and bring him nourishing food, and books, to relieve the tedium of his confinement. He is as well as can be expected. And he would not wish you to venture any mad escapade on his behalf. Tell me, sir,” Clarke went on, in a different tone, “have you news of the battle between His Majesty and Essex’s army a few days ago? It’s all we can talk about here.”
“I was in it,” Laurence said.
Clarke questioned him eagerly about it, remarking when he had finished, “So His Majesty could be marching on the capital as we speak. Well, as for me, I should get my supper. Don’t stir from my rooms, sir, until I return.”
Once alone, Laurence sat forward and rested his head in his hands. How to free Seward? he asked himself. An hour passed, and another, and he grew increasingly restless. Then at last Clarke burst in, very excited.
“I have glad tidings! The Warden is packing to leave for London! And why must he flee? Because the King is on his way to reclaim Oxford! Lord Say has called the townsfolk to prepare for an attack within the next day or so!”
“That is good news,” Laurence admitted.
“We must be patient. If the city is liberated, our friend will be too.”
“But he’s facing a charge of murder. He may yet go to trial.”
“With Brent out of the way, the charges will not stick! There’s nothing you can do for him, sir,” Clarke added. “You may sleep here tonight and rejoin your regiment on the morrow.”
Laurence acquiesced, settling down as before on the floor of Clarke’s main chamber. But he could not sleep. It occurred to him, as he tossed and turned, that the conspirators had been counting on Parliament to hang Seward. Tyler was on the loose, and perhaps Radcliff as well. They must know that their hopes could be foiled by the arrival of Royalist forces.
When he heard the university bells chiming out four o’clock, Laurence rose and lit a candle. Hunting out a sheet of Clarke’s paper, he scribbled a couple of lines on it, signed it with a flourish that he considered suitably illegible, sealed it up, and stuffed it in his doublet. Then he charged his pistols, removed his spurs, grabbed his cloak, and exited quietly. In the stable, he saddled his horse and walked it out through the gatehouse, managing not to rouse the porter on duty.
There was only a thin moon to light his path, but he knew the territory well, apart from the recent city fortifications. He mounted and rode south, passing Corpus Christi and Christ Church Colleges, and then west, without encountering a soul. The city seemed deep in slumber, as on any other chill early morning before dawn.
Troopers were mustering at the Castle walls, no doubt headed for the northern boundaries of the city to anticipate the invading Royalists. Laurence heard the jingle of harness and hooves pounding on the cobbled street, though it was too dark for him to see how many soldiers had stayed to guard the prison. He brought his horse up against the wall and stood in the stirrups to get a higher grip on its rough stones, then dragged himself over, jumping down on the other side. Torches burned at the gate, which he avoided, looking instead for a window that might offer him entrance, but there was none within his reach.
A sentry stood not far away, shuffling his feet to keep warm, and humming to himself. Laurence could not get past unnoticed. Slowly, step by step, he crept up on the man, who fortuitously took off his hat to scratch his head just a second before Laurence’s pistol butt crashed down on it. Two more blows felled him, and he got a fourth on the ground. Seized by a sudden inspiration, Laurence stooped to strip off the man’s orange sash, which he tied about his own waist. It was a poor disguise, he knew, and as liable to fail him as the rest of his plan.
Retrieving his pistols, he ran towards the main gate and across the courtyard, through a set of open doors, into a large chamber with a vaulted ceiling. Here he looked around, concealed by one of the thick supporting columns, their shadows starkly defined by the light of torches that blazed upon the wall. Prisoners were crowded in iron cages on either side of an aisle, some sleeping, some clinging to the bars in a dejected manner. The floor, strewn ineffectually with hay, was a wash of sewage. At the far end, a couple of guards sat on a low stone ledge, muskets propped beside them. They were eating, apparently undeterred by the odour.
Laurence screwed up his courage and strode out, along the aisle between the cages. “Stand to attention,” he yelled, in his most imposing military manner. The guards jumped, nearly dropping their breakfast of bread and cheese. “I come with an order from Lord Say, to release a prisoner by the name of William Seward into my custody,” he continued, before they could speak. “Take me to his cell.” The men frowned at each other and then at him. “What are you waiting for?” he snarled.
“Order?” queried the oldest of the pair, putting his food down carefully on the ledge. “I wasn’t told about no order.”
“You should watch your tongue. Who is in command here?”
They glanced at each other again. “Captain Flynn, sir, but he went last night to drill the troops out by Gloucester Green,” the younger man said.
“How the hell could he leave the Castle so poorly defended?”
“Those was his orders, sir,” said the other man. “I am in charge, in his absence.”
“And who are you?” snapped Laurence, willing them not to ask the same question.
“Ensign Crawley, sir.”
Laurence glared at him until he looked down at his boots. “Well, I suppose I must deal with you.” He took the parchment from his doublet and proffered it to the ensign, who broke the seal with grubby fingers and inspected it officiously. Laurence tried not to laugh: the untidiness of his own writing had frequently earned him criticism, but in this case its legibility was not helped by the fact that Crawley had the letter upside down.
Crawley gave him back the parchment and nodded to his companion to pass him a bunch of keys. “This way, sir,” he said to Laurence. They went through an archway into another chamber, less stinking than the last, where the cells were divided by walls rather than bars, each with a wooden door into which a small peephole had been cut for the benefit of the guards. “What does Lord Say want with him, sir?” Crawley asked Laurence, his tone now deferential.
“He’s not just a murderer but an enemy spy. He will be interrogated and then hanged.”
“That ancient fellow? I’d never have thought it.”
“He’s a known witch, too,” Laurence added, for good measure.
“That I can believe,” Crawley said.
“Has he had any visitors?”
“Yes, sir. Someone else from the university, a Dr. Clarke, has come every day, to bring him food and books. And not a moment ago, I let in his nephew.”
“His nephew? At this hour?”
“Yes, sir. He came with a basket of provisions. I ain’t seen him before, sir.”
As Crawley fitted a key into one of the doors, Laurence stayed his h
and and peered through the peephole. Inside, Seward was lying on a pallet, half obscured by a huge, familiar figure standing over him. “Open the door quietly and go back to your post,” Laurence whispered to Crawley.
Moving away so that he would not be seen as it swung wide, he cocked his pistols. As he stepped into the doorway, pistols raised, Seward saw him and let out a cry. Tyler turned and with amazing speed hoisted Seward up as if he weighed less than a child, holding him in front of his own body like a human breastplate.
“Good evening, Mr. Beaumont,” he said softly, his face registering no surprise.
“Good evening, Mr. Tyler,” said Laurence. “Sorry to have missed you on the last occasion.”
“More narrowly than I missed you at Aylesbury. I spent a few weeks in bed nursing my shoulder after that. And you clipped off my earlobe.” Laurence risked a glance at Seward, whose eyes were now shut tight. “So,” Tyler continued, in the same calm voice, “I can be more use to you alive than dead. In fact, I might tell you some things that you’d like to know.” He paused, and then went on less patiently, “Put down your weapons, and let’s agree to be out of here.”
He moved just a fraction, perhaps to gauge Laurence’s response, and exposed his face. It was the best that Laurence could hope for, and he fired with the pistol in his left hand, praying that his aim was true.
At such short range the impact of the shot sent Tyler flying against the wall. His face was blown open, one eyeball hanging loose from its socket on a strand of flesh, the other socket a well of blood. Seward had collapsed on the floor. “I thought you’d never do it,” he murmured to Laurence, as the guards ran in.
“Don’t give me any trouble,” Laurence ordered him, for their benefit, “or I’ll shoot you, too. He was another Royalist agent,” he said to them, nodding at Tyler. “No doubt passing messages to this fellow. We’ll find out soon enough, even if you take a little persuading,” he said nastily, to Seward.
“Did you have to kill him, sir? We could have arrested him for you,” said Ensign Crawley, examining what remained of Tyler’s visage.
“You couldn’t arrest your own mother. Search the body.”
Crawley’s efforts yielded no more than a knife and a few coins, while the basket that Tyler had brought for Seward contained only a loaf of bread and a slice of meat pie.
“Put the prisoner in irons,” Laurence said next.
“Sir, we’ve got none to spare.”
“Then tie his hands behind his back and take him to the main gate. Carry him if you must. And don’t you try me,” Laurence spat at Seward, afraid of any error that might give them away. He marched ahead of them through the gaol and past the astonished prisoners. Out in the courtyard, he could see the sky paling with dawn. More soldiers came to gawk, although they maintained a respectful distance.
Crawley was hovering about nervously, like a schoolboy waiting for his master to leave. “What shall we do with the dead spy, sir?”
“You can fuck him up the arse for all I care,” Laurence replied. “I’m going to remember you, Ensign Crawley. Next time you slack off, I’ll have you stripped of your rank and flogged senseless. Good day to you.”
“Good day, sir,” said Crawley, saluting shakily.
With a brutality that was not lost on the soldiers, Laurence seized the rope around Seward’s wrists and hauled him out through the gate and into the street beyond. To Laurence’s relief, his horse was where he had left it. He lifted Seward into the saddle, mounted behind him, and kicked the beast into a gallop. Neither of them spoke until they neared Merton College, when he slowed it to a trot.
“That was a fine performance, Beaumont,” Seward told him, in a remarkably strong voice.
“It was pure luck,” said Laurence. He knew what they were both thinking: had he come on stage a minute later, Seward would have been dead.
VII.
“There was method to his madness, I grant you, but he could have got you both killed,” observed Clarke, as he arranged a pillow for Seward to sit up in bed.
“I should not want Beaumont for my superior officer,” Seward jested gaily, rubbing at his wrists where the rope had chafed them. “He nearly bit that poor ensign’s head off. Didn’t you, my boy!” Beaumont said nothing. He was watching them both, eyes narrowed and glittering like those of a cat about to fight. “What’s the matter with you?” Seward asked. “You should be in high spirits after your marvellous feat of daring!”
“Was it Sir Bernard Radcliff’s name that you held back from me?” Beaumont exploded furiously.
Seward stared at him. “Yes, it was.”
“And it was you who gave him the code. Why didn’t you say it was yours when I first showed it to you?” Beaumont tore the orange sash from his waist and hurled to the floor. “You lied to me – or you concealed the truth, which is just as bad!”
“I planned to tell you but fate intervened.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“I know,” Seward conceded, his joy deflating; he felt suddenly frail and helpless. “How did you find him out?”
“Your story first,” Beaumont said, grabbing a chair for himself.
“Very well,” Seward sighed. “My acquaintance with Radcliff began six or seven years before your time, Beaumont. He’d studied at Cambridge for his bachelor’s degree, and he was interested in the great Hermetic teachers, in cryptology, and astrology, of course, which was why he’d sought me out. We often discussed codes, both ancient and new, and the code he used in those letters was one we had worked on together.”
“My God,” exclaimed Beaumont. “Go on.”
“He had such a quick mind,” Seward said, remembering. “And I took such pleasure from instructing him that I grew almost giddy with it. I saw in Radcliff someone to whom I could pass on the learning of my great masters, Dee and Fludd. Indeed, I thought then that I would never find a better student. But over time I became uneasy, as he showed signs of worldly ambition. He had a mind to preferment in the foreign embassies, because the estate he would inherit in Cambridgeshire was on such poor land that it could barely keep a gentleman’s household.” Beaumont frowned as if this meant something to him, though he did not interrupt. “And then we had a disagreement. He wanted me to teach him the art of scrying. I felt he was not ready for it and would use the knowledge for venal purposes. So I refused. That was why he broke with me. I never saw him again.”
“He already had most of what he wanted from you.”
“Far more than I realised. I not only taught him to cast horoscopes, for which he had a genuine aptitude, but I revealed to him part of what I knew about a Hermetic order, the Knights of the Rosy Cross.”
“And who are they?” Beaumont asked brusquely.
“A Protestant Brotherhood dedicated to the enlightenment of Europe, to freedom from the yoke of Rome, and to the revival of learning in politics, the arts, and the sciences based upon the mathematical and alchemical synchronicities between microcosm and macrocosm.” Seward hesitated, catching Beaumont’s annoyance with his long-winded answer. “They seek a revolution, my boy, as well as a revival: to cast off centuries of misguided, superstitious scholarship that has accumulated ever since Aristotle’s teachings were bastardised by the Roman Church. Dee was almost certainly connected with them, and I know Fludd was, though he always denied it. Radcliff had heard that I had been Fludd’s student and must have thought I was a member of the order.”
“Well, are you?”
“If I were, I would not tell even you.”
“What could Radcliff expect to get out of this Brotherhood?”
“Secret knowledge brings many kinds of power,” Seward murmured.
Beaumont let out a harsh breath. “Can you be more precise?”
“Please, Beaumont, I am too weary to discuss such deep and complicated things just now, but to give one obvious example, the power to control others and bend them to your will. A power most useful in politics.”
“He failed with you.”
> “Ultimately, yes, and he would be unable to gain admittance to the Brotherhood for the same reason that I would not teach him how to scry. There – now you know everything,” finished Seward, dropping his head back upon the pillow.
“Not quite,” Beaumont said, in a low voice. “Why did you hold back on me?”
“Out of selfish fear,” Seward replied sadly. “I have had so many troubles in the past, and so many false charges brought against me. I did not want my association with Radcliff to come out into the open. I am ashamed of myself, Beaumont. Can you forgive me?”
Beaumont gazed at him for a moment, then smiled. “Of course.”
“Now I have told you my story. It is time for yours.”
Beaumont rattled his off, ending with his glimpse of Radcliff’s writing on the letter. “And here’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said, “though I can’t prove any of it. Radcliff is working for the Earl of Pembroke, who is negotiating in secret for a peace. But what if these negotiations are a cover for some less noble scheme? Why should he be courting the Secretary of State and Dr. Earle?”
“Earle was his chaplain,” Clarke put in.
“Earle is also Prince Charles’ tutor. And my father says Pembroke had a grudge against the King. Wasn’t he dismissed from office as Lord Chamberlain for some offence?”
“Hardly sufficient to turn him into a regicide!”
“That’s where my theory falls down,” Beaumont acknowledged.
They were quiet for a while; then Seward said, “Do you remember, Beaumont, the design on that sword? Of roses. And the form of the sword is like a cross.”
The Best of Men Page 34
