The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “He’s dead to the world,” she said, looking pleased; but when Laurence handed her the open letter, she frowned. “Did you read it?”

  “Lady Radcliff, I have some honour,” Laurence retorted. She read it herself and afterwards seemed bewildered. “Well?” he asked.

  “He is not what I feared,” she said, in a guarded tone.

  “Then give it to me and I’ll put back the seal.” He warmed the knife again and with it replaced the fragile circle of wax, as she watched closely.

  “It’s absolutely perfect,” she exclaimed when he had finished. “How did you learn to do that?” He said nothing. “You have gone to such pains for me. Why?” She was beginning to smile; and he knew what was on her mind. As did most beautiful women, she assumed that he would be drawn to her as a fly to jam. She did not want him, but she wanted to be secure in her powers of attraction.

  “To allay your worries,” he said blandly. “Now go and put that letter away where you found it. And you should stay with your husband, in case he does get sick – he might choke on his own vomit.”

  She hesitated, as if unsure whether to thank him or to take umbrage at his advice. In the end she did neither and simply left the room. He waited only a short time before snatching up his cloak and few possessions and letting himself out quietly.

  Downstairs Madam Musgrave was still sitting at the table. “Such a disappointing conclusion to our party!” she said. “Sir Bernard has no head for liquor.”

  “It happens to us all occasionally,” he remarked.

  “At least I can count on you to keep me –” She broke off, seeing the cloak over his arm. “Do you have to go out somewhere, sir?”

  “Yes. To Oxford, on urgent business.”

  “Ah. Has it to do with the letter you received this morning?” He nodded. “I shall ask no more questions, sir.” She got up from her chair, then drew closer to him and whispered, “But – you may not know – Sir Bernard is full of questions about you. It may be that he was just a trifle anxious for his wife’s virtue, while you were here. I happen to remember my nephew saying that you never had much respect for marriage vows, if a woman took your fancy.”

  “How indiscreet of him to mention that,” Laurence said, laughing, and nearly added that, with respect to Kate, Sir Bernard had absolutely no need for concern. “Madam, might I borrow a horse from your stable? I’ll see it’s brought back to you soon.”

  “Of course, though I’m afraid you won’t like your choice of mounts, sir; our Robber Prince stole the best of them.”

  “Thank you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “And thank you for everything you’ve done for me. If ever there’s anything I can do for you in return …”

  “You owe me another visit, sir.” She enveloped him in a bear-like embrace and kissed him on both cheeks. “I have grown most fond of you, and I pray that we shall soon be related by marriage!”

  “By marriage?” Laurence echoed, wondering exactly how fond of him she had become.

  “Yes! Walter confessed to me that he is head over heels for your sister Anne.”

  Laurence burst out laughing again. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “He’s afraid your family would not have him. Now, I ask you to keep this to yourself for the present, but I intend to leave him my estate, so that he can marry as he wishes and won’t have to go begging crumbs from Richard’s table. So if your sister is agreed, but your family poses an objection, you may explain to them what I have in mind.”

  “She’d better agree, or I’ll be very disappointed in her,” Laurence said warmly, as Madam Musgrave saw him to the door.

  IV.

  Radcliff stirred awake, a sour taste in his mouth. He was lying alone on the bed fully dressed, though his boots had been removed. Only vaguely could he recall Beaumont and Kate carrying him upstairs the night before. How had he become so intoxicated by a few cups of wine?

  Clambering off the bed, he went to the window, which looked out over Madam Musgrave’s kitchen garden, and saw her bent double, rump in the air, planting some seedlings in the ground. The day was bright, with soft white clouds scudding across the sky. Opening the casement, he called down, “Aunt Musgrave, what hour is it?”

  She straightened, massaging her back. “It must be about eleven of the clock, Sir Bernard. No headache, I trust?”

  “No, madam. Pardon me for yesterday evening,” he added, hoping that she might enlighten him as to whether he had disgraced himself.

  “It must have been fatigue,” she said generously.

  “Whatever it was, it has passed, thank God. I have to leave soon. I shall come down shortly, to say goodbye.”

  He sat back on the edge of his bed, about to put on his boots. Then he noticed the stains on his breeches, and recalled Beaumont spilling the wine, and the odd taste of his own first glass. Panic gripped him. He threw aside the boots, grabbed a candle, and raced upstairs to the third floor, along the corridor, and into the last chamber. His hand shook as he manoeuvred the levers that opened the priest’s hole. Lighting the candle, he stepped inside, then hastened down the stairs and through the door to the hiding place. It took him only a moment to find his coffer, where he had left it last autumn, and he felt somewhat less alarmed until he tried his key in the lock, which did not turn with its normal facility. When eventually it clicked open, he reached within, and his fingers met the crisp texture of parchment. Too crisp for his much handled letters, he realised, swinging back the lid. And as he looked inside, he saw that Beaumont had taken all of them.

  He tore out of the hole, not bothering to close it, and ran down the three flights of stairs, nearly slipping in his haste, to the kitchen. Pushing past the cook and the potboy, he rushed into the garden beyond.

  “Madam Musgrave!” he shouted.

  “She’s not there, sir, she’s in the courtyard,” the cook said, giving him a perturbed look.

  He hurried back into the house and through the front door, his breath burning in his chest, to find Madam Musgrave talking with the stable boy, Sam, who was in tears.

  “Now you stop that, little fellow,” she was saying. “I’m sure he would have liked to say goodbye to you, but you were abed long before he rode out.”

  Radcliff inhaled deeply, to control his voice. “Madam Musgrave,” he said, “has Mr. Beaumont left this house?”

  She turned to him, her eyes widening as she surveyed his face and stockinged feet. “Why, yes, Sir Bernard, last night. He had some business in Oxford. My dear sir, you must be coming down with an ague!” she cried next. “What on earth –”

  “Where is my wife?” Radcliff snapped. When she did not answer at once, he marched into the house and started yelling Kate’s name.

  Kate emerged from the hall. “Sir Bernard, you are awake! Are you –”

  He did not give her time to finish, seizing her by the wrist and dragging her upstairs, and into their chamber, slamming the door after them. She was cowering, as though afraid he might do her violence. “Sit down, Kate,” he ordered, trying to sound gentler. “I have a great deal to tell you, so please do not interrupt. I shall start from the beginning. Your brother told me about my steward’s visit here. I did lie to you, as you know. Now I shall tell you the truth, but you must promise me that you will keep it secret, for the sake of your life, mine, and that of our child.” After she had pledged her word, he launched into the story that he had recounted to Ingram. “My love,” he said, at the end, “you remember my letter, that you did not open?” She nodded, trembling, as he took it from his doublet. “I want you to read it.” She broke the seal, and obeyed, glancing up at him from time to time with the same frightened air. “You will note my directions about the papers: where I had stored them, and what to do with them in case of my death,” he went on, as she raised her eyes to him again. “These documents are missing. They could utterly ruin me if they were made public.”

  “Who could have taken them?”

  “Mr. Beaumont did – last night, after he put me int
o a drugged stupor.”

  “Mr. Beaumont?” She shook her head from side to side. “But – but what would he want with them?”

  “He is an agent of the Secretary of State.”

  “No, it cannot be! Oh,” she exclaimed more hotly, “he is despicable! Beyond despicable!” She gasped. “So that was why! Soon after he arrived, he got up and came downstairs, though I had been given to understand he was so very ill. And that first evening, he asked Aunt Musgrave about the priest’s hole! She must have showed him how to get into it without telling me! Sir Bernard, what will you do?” she concluded, in a despairing voice.

  “Go after him and get my letters back,” Radcliff said, though he knew this would be impossible; by now, Beaumont must have delivered them to Falkland.

  V.

  “Let me have a look at one of those blank sheets,” Seward said, as he and Laurence sat at his desk poring over their transcriptions of the letters.

  “Is this like scrying?” Laurence asked, as Seward examined the paper with avid concentration. “Can you see something that I can’t?”

  “We should have caught such a simple device.” Seward held the page over the flame of his candle and a pattern blossomed slowly upon it. “Look, roses adorned with drops of dew, or of blood, aligned in the shape of a cross just as on the sword. The symbol Radcliff and Pembroke stole from the Knights of the Rosy Cross. More secure than a signature, which they need never put to any of the letters. And they would always be sure of their correspondent. If the paper did not have the mark, they could tell it for a forgery.”

  “Ah,” said Laurence. “Thank you so much for explaining.”

  Seward swatted at him with the page, then sat back to fill a pipe. “Let us review what we now know from the first set of letters we transcribed and the new ones you found in the chest. You may start.”

  “Pembroke has three safe houses, one near Reading, one in Oxford, and one close to his estate at Wilton. His plan is to take the King on a hunting expedition. The King is accidentally killed. The Queen is given a choice: exile or acceptance of the new regime, under the rule of her son.”

  “A neat operation, to remove the head and leave the body intact.”

  “Oh, come, Seward,” Laurence protested, “who’d believe the King’s death was an accident? Certainly not the Queen. It’s well known that she hates Pembroke.”

  “There will be witnesses, Beaumont, reliable ones who saw it happen. And the assassin won’t be left to tell tales. Think of the shock and sorrow it will cause. All Englishmen will temporarily forget their quarrels and unite to mourn His Majesty. Pembroke will emerge as the architect of a new harmony between Parliament and young King Charles II. England will be restored to its full, Protestant glory and Pembroke can shift his ambitions to the continent.” Seward drew on his pipe before continuing. “As to the other conspirators, apart from Radcliff there’s reference to a courier, who must have been Robinson, and to a lawyer, who must be Poole, and to Radcliff’s servant, Tyler.

  There may be more working for Pembroke, though I would say very few.”

  “There must be more. He’d need a private army to seize power.”

  “He cannot depend solely on force. I would guess that he is doing precisely what he told Falkland: building an alliance of supporters in Parliament and in Oxford. Falkland would be especially useful in gaining their confidence. If a sufficient number are won over, then Pembroke can choose the moment, propitiously, with Radcliff’s astrological guidance, to lay his peace proposals before His Majesty. He may even have entered into some secret pact with the King, to facilitate the deception.”

  “But it’s all deception.”

  “Not entirely. It lays the ground for what Pembroke hopes will follow. Suppose there is a truce, and he invites the King to hunt at Wilton. Or the war carries on, and he takes the King out somewhere near his safe house in Oxford. Naturally Earle is vital here to draw Prince Charles into the net, to separate him temporarily from his father so that the murder can be done.”

  “I’m not convinced,” Laurence said, shaking his head. “It all seems so … fallible. And why would he put all his trust in Radcliff, when the man could so easily betray him, and indeed may have been planning to, all along?”

  “Radcliff can be persuasive. He won me over, for a time.”

  “Well I never liked him.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Seward said dryly. “He is not your sort – too proper a gentleman by far.”

  “And I bet Pembroke doesn’t trust him any more.”

  “Pembroke may have accused Radcliff of treachery as soon as he saw the painting. He may also feel threatened on another front. While you were in Faringdon he came here to Oxford again, with the other delegates from Parliament. He met with both Earle and Falkland, who have since told me that he urged them more forcefully to join his secret alliance. Earle refused outright, as I had advised him. Falkland was less adamant, yet unenthusiastic.”

  “We should keep Pembroke guessing. If he knows we’re on his scent, he could sail for the continent and take refuge there for as long as he had to, and if Parliament were to win this war, he’d return with no damage done to his reputation.”

  “Yes, I quite agree with you. Beaumont,” Seward went on, in a speculative tone, “what if Radcliff is really about to turn him in?”

  “That’s what Radcliff is bound to claim, once he’s arrested. It’s his only way out of a traitor’s death – if I haven’t already killed him with that drug of yours.”

  “No, no. It may give him a bellyache, but no more.”

  Laurence sighed and yawned, stretching. “God, I’m tired. So what’s happening here in Oxford? I want to be prepared before I see Falkland tomorrow.”

  “Hoare’s still being a menace in the courtroom,” replied Seward. “He is arguing that Danvers died of shock and that the murder charge is utterly spurious. And your brother has yet to testify. Hoare may be pinning on him the hope of impugning Falkland’s good name and yours, needless to add.”

  “Has Hoare mentioned the conspiracy yet?”

  “Oh yes. In his opening speech he claimed it as part of his justification for interrogating you. He said he would introduce as evidence the transcriptions you made of those first coded letters, and a record he kept of your meetings.”

  “We have to make sure Hoare can’t use any of this in court. Pembroke may be watching the trial – from a distance, of course. We don’t want him getting too interested.”

  They both mused over this, then Seward said softly, “I am delighted to see you on form again, my boy.”

  “I am for the most part, though I haven’t got my full strength back.”

  “It will come, God willing.” Seward cleared his throat. “I should alert you as to some other news. Mistress Savage knows about the uprising, from Digby. She told me that –”

  “When did you last see her?” Laurence interjected.

  “At Hoare’s trial. She says the revolt will happen in May. A Commission of Array will be smuggled into London, to set it off. Waller is involved, and Falkland will take charge of all correspondence between Oxford and London. She believes Falkland may ask you to assist him in these communications.”

  Laurence groaned. “I suppose I’ll have to.”

  “You virtually begged to fill Hoare’s shoes when you gave his lordship your deposition.”

  “Yes, but first he must deal with the regicides.” Laurence hesitated, fingering the blank sheet of paper. “Did she tell you where she’s lodged?”

  “I presume you refer to Mistress Savage. She is still at the Blue Boar.”

  “Once I’ve delivered the letters to Falkland, I’ll go and see her.”

  “Can you not wait until the end of the trial?”

  “Why should I?”

  Seward did not answer immediately, puffing away on his pipe. “From what I know of her, she could be a dangerous woman,” he said at last, through a cloud of smoke. “I hope you’re not cherishing any amorous feelings f
or her. Or lustful ones, either,” he concluded, beetling his brows at Laurence.

  VI.

  “You did it, sir!” Falkland exclaimed, as he scanned the letters. “I’m completely amazed!”

  “I had some luck,” Beaumont said, with one of his charming smiles. “So,” he went on briskly, “Radcliff has probably rejoined his troop and is moving north towards Birmingham. If you give me a small company of men, we could bring him back to Oxford within the next couple of days.”

  Falkland sighed, inspecting him. Though slightly gaunt and sallow in complexion, he seemed untouched by his ordeal in Oxford Castle, apart from the scars on his face. Yet Falkland remembered him lying outside that noisome cell, bloodied and barely alive. How resilient he was, Falkland thought, a little enviously. “I know you are eager for an arrest, sir,” he said, “but circumstances have altered since your return, and although we are not having much joy of our current negotiations with Parliament, we might prejudice them if we were to make any startling announcements – or arrests.”

  Beaumont screwed up his eyes as if he could not credit what he had just heard. “What are you saying?”

  “Just that. We have to wait.”

  “But you wanted Radcliff detained last year and I asked you to hold off until I could find evidence of his guilt! Now we have it – there’s nothing to stop you. He can give you all the answers, which you’ll certainly require before you take in Pembroke.”

  “I would act, sir, but it is His Majesty’s request that we delay.”

  Beaumont’s expression changed to one of combined outrage and disgust. “It’s his life that’s at stake here! How much more urgent can this matter be?”

  “Nevertheless, it is complicated. He refuses to believe the man is a regicide.”

  “Show him the letters! They’re in Pembroke’s hand!”

  “There is no signature on them. They might be forgeries.”

  “Pembroke’s mark is on the paper.”

  “You have no proof that it is his mark.”