“Thomas, you must not be too discouraged,” Lord Beaumont said. “Stratton was just telling me that his wife Diana slipped her first child, and yet they have now a pair of fine sons and another babe on the way. It is well known that Nature deals so with imperfections. Aristotle, if my memory serves me correctly, once wrote –”
“On the subject of imperfections,” Lady Beaumont cut in, “I received word today from Lady Morecombe that she has decided to overlook Laurence’s misconduct. Alice is prepared to do so as well. It does not much surprise me, given how those Morecombes stand to benefit from the marriage.”
Tom gaped at her. “So there’ll be no more consequences for him than if he’d broken wind and neglected to apologise? He arranged for Lady Morecombe to witness that disgusting scene! He did it all on purpose, can’t you see?”
There was an awkward pause.
“Thomas says he must leave for Oxford,” announced Lady Beaumont.
“Should you not be with your wife, given her circumstances?” Lord Beaumont objected.
“I wish I could stay, but there’s an issue of supplies for my troop that I must attend to,” Tom said, struggling to subdue his anger.
“I shall ride back with you, if I may,” Stratton said. “My lord, my lady, you have been too hospitable, and I thank you both.”
As Stratton went to ready himself for the journey, Ormiston took Tom aside. “What’s the true reason for your going, Tom? It’s Christmastide: we’ll have no action for a month, at least. Are you intending to find your brother?” Tom glowered at the floor. “You must forget your quarrel. What he did with that woman was in poor taste, but if he had fought with you afterwards, God knows what greater damage might have been done.”
“I’ve no need of your advice,” Tom spat back, livid. “And if you want to keep the peace between us, you won’t interfere again.”
On the way to Oxford, Stratton suggested that he and Tom break their journey at Woodstock, now stuffed to the seams with Royalist billets, and get a meal in an alehouse. This they did, and while they sat thawing their feet before the fire, drinking from their mugs, Stratton remarked, “It must have been a very low sort of trollop who came to your brother’s chamber that night.”
“I know who it was: her name’s Isabella Savage,” Tom said. “She’s one of those women at Court who live upon their looks and their cunning. And, of course, their easy virtue.”
“Dear Christ! It is my misfortune to know her too!”
By the time their meat had arrived, served on hearty slices of bread in the old style, they were assembling a fuller list of her crimes.
“Digby’s courier, is she,” Tom muttered; so she might have visited his brother for more than carnal purposes that night. “And she escaped from your house dressed as a boy? Hard to believe she’d fool anyone in that guise.”
“Because of her, my entire household was confined at Wytham and I lost some lucrative contracts,” Stratton complained. “If I see her again, I shall be tempted to wring her neck. As for your brother –”
“I should wring his neck.”
“I have more cause. I strongly suspect that he once had the gall to make advances to my wife.”
Tom feigned appropriate surprise and dismay. “When?”
“This summer, on his return from the other war.”
“She must have been horribly affronted.”
Stratton picked up his mug and toyed with it. “She will never again receive him alone, nor do I ever want him in my house. Out of discretion, I’ve not mentioned it to your parents, nor shall I tell my wife the details of this latest unsavoury episode. She still has a misguided affection for that Savage creature, and as it is she cannot bear to hear so much as your brother’s name, after his outrageous behaviour towards her.” Poor Stratton, mused Tom; either he had too much pride to admit that he had been cuckolded years ago, or he was unaware of the fact. Stratton took a quick gulp of ale, straightening his shoulders. “I’d call him out myself if he came anywhere near my door, but he’d probably refuse to settle with me as a gentleman should, just as he refused you.”
“We can only pray that he’ll get his comeuppance one day,” Tom said, setting down his mug and rising. “Well, sir, let’s cover those last miles, since we’ve eaten our fill.”
“I trust our conversation shall remain private, sir?” Stratton asked anxiously.
“I give you my word,” Tom assured him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I.
At half past nine o’clock on Christmas Eve, Laurence left Merton College for the Blue Boar. He had arranged to call on Isabella shortly before he met Captain Milne, who was to be waiting for him in the cloisters of St. Mary’s Church; he would then take Milne to Christ Church. But his conversation with Falkland had made him somewhat uneasy about Isabella’s role in their plans, so he had decided to set out early; he half anticipated surprising Digby in her chamber, or possibly even Milne.
In the streets, he encountered only bunches of revellers on their way to or from some Christmas celebration. The Blue Boar’s horn windows were bright with candlelight, and he could hear exuberant voices carousing within. As he entered, he inhaled the smell of tobacco smoke and the mixed odours of roasting meat and spiced ale. Festooned with branches of holly, yew, and mistletoe, the small taproom was crowded with people laughing, and singing and raising cups.
He pushed through them, then quietly mounted the stairs to Isabella’s chamber and listened outside her door for a moment. Hearing no voices, he knocked.
“Who’s there?” she called out.
“Me,” he replied.
She admitted him, shut the door behind him and bolted it; there was no one else in the room. “I did not expect you for at least another hour,” she said curtly.
“I beg your pardon, should I go and come back later?” he inquired, with mock politesse.
“Of course not.”
He removed his cloak and tossed his pistols on the bed. “Is anything wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why are you trembling?”
He reached for her, but she pushed him away. “Beaumont, this is not the time.”
“We have plenty of time.”
“Oh, I see, now I know the reason for your excessive punctuality.”
Irritated, he shot back, “Have you seen our friend Digby recently?”
“Yes.” She turned on him a bright smile. “And in fact we spoke of you. He hoped you might help him: he is about to publish a broadsheet, to assist the King in spreading news of his victories and discrediting the nonsense going about London these days as to his Cavaliers’ awful atrocities,” she carried on, as though delivering some speech that she had memorised. “Women raped and children skewered on muskets! Prince Rupert’s dog is even being portrayed as a satanic familiar. It is hilarious what people are willing to believe. But since many Londoners are now pleading for an end to war, Digby thinks they deserve better information to sway their allegiances.”
“Better information, or better lies?”
“Why so cynical? If you agree to help, Digby might get you exempted from military service this spring. He needs reliable intelligence from all parts of the country to be reported quickly to Oxford, so that the broadsheet can be printed weekly and then distributed in London. He might have it reprinted there, if we cannot import sufficient copies. I shall organize for it to be smuggled into the capital, under the best cover in the world: women’s skirts.”
“How ingenious,” he said, laughing. “Your idea?” She nodded. “What’s he going to call his broadsheet?”
“Mercurius Aulicus.” She hesitated, surveying Laurence, then resumed in a brittle, careless tone, “Do you know you have an admirer at Court? That poor young widow Lady d’Aubigny is besotted with you, or so rumour has it.”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumour,” he said dismissively.
“Well, beware. She’s a flighty girl and has deluded herself that she has a gift for politics. And she is p
ractically the King’s cousin.”
“Isabella, have you anything to drink?”
“No.”
“I can go down for it.”
“Would you?” Suddenly her expression changed and she became herself again. “Beaumont, I am so dreadfully on edge. I hope Captain Milne doesn’t disappoint us tonight.”
“And I hope Falkland doesn’t.” He smiled, to reassure her, and took a step towards her. “I forgot to tell you how much I like your perfume. Let me guess: attar of roses, orrisroot, musk … and …” He bowed his head to her neck and sniffed. “Perhaps a touch of frankincense. Am I right?”
“Why, yes!” she said, visibly impressed. He was about to venture yet closer when they heard the toll of church bells. “That’s ten o’clock,” she reminded him. “You should fetch the wine.”
Down in the taproom, Laurence had to elbow his way through the crush. Someone tried to grab his arm, but he paid no attention until, over the din of voices, he heard a man cry, “I’ve got him!” He recognised a couple of Hoare’s guards peering out of the crowd at him, and another nearby, who had attempted to seize him. He kicked that man in the shins, shoved his way back towards the stairs, raced up to Isabella’s chamber, hurried in, and slammed and bolted the door. “Hoare’s men are downstairs,” he whispered urgently.
“What shall we do?” she gasped.
He flung wide the window. There were more guards below, Corporal Wilson amongst them; they had surrounded the tavern entrance.
“You can’t – it’s too far down,” Isabella protested, as he hoisted himself over the sill. “Beaumont, you’ll break your neck!”
Men were now hammering at the door. It gave on its hinges as Laurence was squeezing his shoulders through the window frame. “Throw the pistols down after me,” he called up to her.
But she disappeared as though she had been snatched away, and Corporal Wilson’s face loomed over him instead, grinning. “Mr. Beaumont, we meet again!” Laurence released his hold and fell, then scrambled on hands and knees down a narrow alley beside the tavern. There was no exit, he quickly realised. “He’s down there!” Wilson yelled to his companions below. They rushed after Laurence, dragged him out into the street, and began to assail him with blows and kicks, until he was writhing about on the wet ground.
A pair of shiny boots approached and stopped in front of his face. “Mr. Beaumont,” said Colonel Hoare, “a happy Christmas to you.”
“And a happy one to you too,” Laurence managed to reply, just as two guards marched Isabella out of the tavern.
“What right have you to treat him so?” she demanded of Hoare, attempting to tear herself free from them.
“I need to get some answers from him,” Hoare said calmly. “I shall also detain you for a while.”
“You are a brute, sir!” she shouted. “Lord Digby shall hear of it!”
“He may hear of it, madam, but he has no power to prevent it.” As if to emphasise his point, Hoare sank one smartly booted toe into the pit of Laurence’s stomach.
“Let her go,” panted Laurence.
Hoare delivered another kick, lower than the first; Laurence retched and nearly fainted. “As I think you should recognise by now, Mr. Beaumont, you’re in no position to order me about. Take her to my quarters,” Hoare told the guards, who led her off. “And as for you,” he added to Laurence, “I have a special place.”
II.
A horde of young carol singers had arrived at Richard Ingram’s door hoping for cakes and ale in return for their performance. Radcliff accompanied Richard, his wife, Dorothy, and Madam Musgrave to hear them, for Kate and Ingram had gone off together to talk; and as the children trilled and warbled, he assumed a genial smile that belied his own roiling thoughts.
He felt everything slipping out of his control, and for reasons that he could not fathom. First had come the news about Tyler. Having heard nothing from him since they had parted at Aylesbury, Radcliff had bidden Poole to go looking for him. In the last week of November, when Radcliff was with his troop, he received a letter from Poole informing him that Tyler had been shot dead in Oxford around the time that the city fell to the King. Poole had made inquiries at the gaol in Oxford Castle, and the description of Tyler’s killer matched Beaumont precisely. Meanwhile, Seward was back at Merton and it seemed the charges against him had been dropped.
After reading the letter, Radcliff bore such a hatred for Beaumont that he wished he could do away with the man at once. But it was too risky, for the moment. Their waiting game would continue.
And then there was Kate. From the day Radcliff arrived at Newbury for the holiday, she seemed continually to avoid him, or else she would eye him piercingly when she imagined he was not looking. They rarely made love, and when they did, he sensed that she dreaded his caresses. Madam Musgrave tried his nerves with her gross comments; and she too gave him odd glances occasionally, as though she knew some secret about him that was not to his credit. Although Ingram remained the same as always, even-tempered and affectionate, this was small solace.
At length the carollers were shepherded into the kitchen by Madam Musgrave, and Radcliff went to join Kate and Ingram. As he might have predicted, Kate immediately left on the excuse of seeing to their refreshments.
“What’s been bothering you these days?” Ingram asked, his innocent concern like a scourge to Radcliff’s troubled soul. “You don’t appear to be enjoying yourself here as you should.”
Radcliff selected the only matter that he could discuss with his brother-in-law. “It’s Kate. She is so aloof with me lately.”
“Oh, now, she’s always like that,” Ingram protested, but not strongly enough.
“She is not aloof with you.”
“No, but women are strange creatures.” Ingram paused, at the sound of footsteps.
Kate returned with wine, poured out three glasses, and sat down with an air of trying hard to be agreeable.
“Did those young rascals get their fruitcakes?” Ingram asked her.
“They did. Aunt Musgrave has eaten almost as many. I wonder that she’ll have any appetite for supper. To Richard’s disapproval she was calling for a game of cards before we eat.”
“My aunt fancies herself a cardsharp, Radcliff,” Ingram said. “But we haven’t played thus far because my brother holds such pursuits in low regard.”
Unsurprisingly, Radcliff thought. Richard had succeeded in losing most of his property without resorting to games of chance. “There can be no harm in the cards themselves, as long as one doesn’t bet money on them,” he observed.
“You should have seen her with your friend Mr. Beaumont,” Kate murmured to Ingram, in what was clearly intended as a private aside. “She’d have played cards with him all night.”
Radcliff started at the name. “What did you make of Mr. Beaumont, Kate?” he asked, assuming an offhand tone.
“I am obliged to him for bringing me the letters, after Edgehill,” Kate replied, very properly.
“Yes, indeed, as am I. My dear,” he went on, an unpleasant idea occurring to him, “I know that you did not open mine, as I had requested, but I had written some instructions to that effect on the letter itself. Did he happen to read them?”
That same piercing look crept into her eyes. “How could he have?”
“Your letter was enclosed in mine,” Ingram said to Radcliff. “He wouldn’t even have seen it. And why would it matter if he had?”
“Those instructions were for Kate, in confidence. One cannot always trust people to be discreet.”
“Indiscretion is not amongst Beaumont’s faults,” Ingram said, rather crossly.
“Forgive me, Ingram, but you forget that I don’t know him as well as you do,” Radcliff said, with a conciliatory smile.
Ingram grunted in assent, as he lit his pipe. “It’s true though, Kate – he certainly must have charmed Aunt Musgrave,” he began again. “She called him a delectable young devil.”
“He is not attractive to me,” Kate s
aid. “It is as if he is of … of some other breed than the rest of us. And there is something impolite about his gaze.”
“There you go, Radcliff,” Ingram said, smiling. “At least he won’t steal Kate from you.”
Radcliff hesitated, to swallow his outrage at the suggestion. “Why, is he in the habit of luring married women away from their husbands?”
“He has at least once or twice in the past, and I don’t believe he owes his success entirely to his looks.”
“Oh, naturally, with his wealth and noble blood –”
“That’s not what I –” Ingram checked himself, casting a glance at Kate.
“If he were wed, I am sure he would not appreciate such behaviour from others,” she commented, wrinkling her nose as at some disagreeable smell.
“He may be married soon, to the daughter of one of Lord Beaumont’s neighbours.”
“Then all the husbands in England will be the safer for it,” Radcliff said, with an artificial laugh that tailed off as Richard Ingram entered, with Joshua Poole.
“Those impudent boys will not leave the kitchen,” Richard was complaining. “They intend to eat us out of house and home, by all the evidence. Sir Bernard, you have a visitor.”
Steeling himself to betray no hint of his surprise, Radcliff introduced Poole to Ingram and Kate. “Mr. Poole is my lawyer. What brings you here, sir?” he asked Poole.
“Some documents regarding Longstanton that require your signature, Sir Bernard,” Poole said, humbly. “I must apologise for bothering you with them, given the season.”
“No, no,” said Radcliff. “I must have overlooked them on my last visit.”
“You may go to my counting office,” Richard said. “You’ll find pen and ink where I keep my books.”
Radcliff hurried Poole from the room. Once they reached the office, he demanded harshly, under his breath, “Why did you show your face here?”
“It was not my choice, sir.” Poole appeared more bedraggled than normal, his thin features bitten by cold. “My Lord Pembroke called me to his house last week and asked what tidings I had of your affairs. I thought it best to tell him that Tyler had been stabbed to death in some taproom brawl, and that it was nothing to do with us.”
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