The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “Isabella, I love you,” Laurence told her suddenly; and as the words leapt out of his mouth, he knew that he loved her as he had never loved before.

  She frowned at him severely. “That cannot be.”

  “Why not?” he asked, taken aback by her certainty.

  “Think of who you are, and who I am. I have tried to keep a distance between us for your own good and mine, though I admit, my resolve did falter temporarily after you came so heroically to my rescue.”

  “Which was nothing, compared to what you did for me.”

  “Dr. Seward broke his promise.”

  “Digby told me, not Seward.”

  This seemed to perplex her, but she shrugged her shoulders. “Well, whatever the case, we behaved as friends should. Let’s not spoil our friendship now.”

  “Don’t you …?” He sighed: it was as he had feared. “I’m sorry. How stupid of me to think you might feel anything more than that.”

  She did not speak for a moment, her face softening. “Beaumont,” she said, “I have always wanted to be your friend ever since I first saw you, but, to be honest, I did not believe you were capable of true friendship with a woman. I suspected that you did not have much of a heart – that you were just a better copy of Wilmot and the many others who have sought me out for the usual reason. Then, at Shrewsbury, I discovered that I was wrong. And I realised that I must on no account fall in love with you.” There was a pause, which he dared not interrupt. “I armoured myself against temptation, and I was nearly invincible – until I saw the look in your eyes when I told you my sordid story. They say a woman’s tears come cheap, and I have seen men cry before. I have even made them cry. Yet you – once more, you surprised me. And you were so sweet to me at Merton, candid as a boy in your affection. You had no need to declare it.” She lowered her eyes and went on sorrowfully, “I do love you, though I shall recover from it in time, as I have from my quartain sickness. Go, Beaumont, and forget what you said to me today. It was a fancy of your imagination – a passing dream, from which you will soon awake clear-headed.”

  “No I won’t,” he murmured.

  He stood gazing at her, and she at him; and she began to weep without making a sound, the water pouring down her cheeks. He could not bear to watch, for her grief was his own. Risking that she might push him away, he took her in his arms; and she clung to him tightly.

  Unlike the night of the wedding, they had only grass for their bed, and they were quick with each other. Afterwards she appeared as dazed as he was himself. Then he remembered the necklace, and pulled it out of his doublet pocket. “This is for you. I heard you had to pawn your jewellery a while ago.”

  “So I did!” She gathered up her hair so that he could fasten it about her throat. “Thank you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “I shall wear it with pride.”

  “Isabella,” he told her, after they had restored their clothing, “I have to go to London tomorrow. You know why.”

  She nodded slowly. “Are you afraid of what will happen there?”

  “I can tell you already. The uprising will fail.”

  “Will you be able to escape?”

  “I can only hope so.”

  “I am afraid for you, Beaumont, more than ever. And if you do come back to me, which by the grace of God I trust you will, I shall still be afraid. Digby may not want us to be together. He likes his power over me, and he is a keen observer of human nature. We must be very careful.”

  “He should let you choose for yourself.”

  “Brave words, as brave as your profession of love,” she said, kissing his cheek again. “You will have time to reflect, however, while you are away from me. And I would prefer you be honest if you change your mind. Will you promise me that? Don’t spare me, if you have the smallest doubt.”

  “I promise. But you should stop doubting me.”

  “It is to protect myself,” she reminded him, soberly.

  The light was fading as they left the meadow, his horse trotting after them, and as they entered the house, Clarke’s servant appraised them both, and the necklace, too, though she said nothing. She fed them a supper that they made an effort to eat, avoiding each other’s eyes, and they retired, Isabella to her own chamber and Laurence to Clarke’s. He slept soundly until late the next morning, when on his pillow he found a note in her flowing script. Digby’s coach had come for her, she wrote, and she had not wanted to wake him to say goodbye. She would be praying for him, she added.

  IV.

  Pembroke strolled in the lush grounds of Wilton House, examining his garden with mixed discontent and self-congratulation. The work on it had begun more than ten years before, under the direction of Inigo Jones and the Frenchman de Caus, and was still only half done. Pembroke had planned a series of fountains and a bridge across the river, in Palladian style, but had managed to complete just the right-hand aspect of his design before he lost the King’s favour and embarked on that other, grander plan that had since cost him both money and peace of mind. As he turned back towards the house, he was surprised to see Sir Bernard Radcliff walking with measured steps across the lawn towards him.

  Radcliff removed his hat and bowed with his habitual dignity. “Forgive me, my lord, I am late in responding to your summons.”

  “More than a month,” Pembroke said coldly, examining him; he looked as if he were afflicted with some wasting sickness.

  “I was making progress on that issue we discussed, back in February. I now know who sent you the message in our code.” Pembroke held his breath, waiting for Radcliff to continue. “Remember when we talked together in this same garden, in the autumn of twenty-nine, and I first mentioned the casting of horoscopes? I told you then that I had been instructed by a scholar, a Merton man. His name is William Seward. He sent you the message.” Pembroke frowned: he had been expecting another name, that of Laurence Beaumont. “In truth,” Radcliff said, “he is himself part author of the code.”

  “What? I thought you had designed it! You said so, when you gave it to me!”

  “I did write much of it but the particular arrangement of cabbalistic figures was one that he shared with me when I studied with him at Oxford. I borrowed it for our purposes, certain that he would never find out. I thought he would be dead by now, for he was elderly even then. But he is very much alive and must have discovered everything about our scheme.”

  “How?” Pembroke asked, after a tense silence.

  “I believe, through scrying – a means of divination. He may have used a crystal, or a mirror, or simply a bowl of any liquid substance, which, if I recall, was his favourite method.”

  Pembroke stared at him and then exploded into laughter. “By Jesus, how gullible do you think me?”

  “William Seward is the sole man in England, to my knowledge, who is familiar with the cabbalistic figures as they appear in our code. As I said, he is its begetter. And his path crossed mine again last July, so he will have been reminded of me.”

  “Did you reveal any of our private affairs to him?” Pembroke demanded, now wondering if the mysterious Dr. Seward might be in league with Radcliff, against him.

  “No, my lord. We did not even meet. While I was in Oxford raising my troop early in August, my brother-in-law, Ingram, introduced me to a friend from his university days. During the course of our conversation, the friend expressed a desire to call upon Seward at Merton College. Seward had been his tutor and Ingram’s, though Ingram had never told me. It must have been this friend who mentioned me to Seward, quite accidentally, in passing. And Seward, probably curious as to what had become of me, must have gazed into his scrying bowl.”

  “What outrageous nonsense!” Pembroke cried.

  “My lord, you said that your efforts to court the favour of Prince Charles’ tutor, Dr. Earle, had been rebuffed. In your words, it was as if he had been warned away from you. He was. Earle is Seward’s close friend.” Pembroke laughed again, yet a small anxiety twigged within him: Earle was the Secretary of State�
��s close friend, also. “And last week,” added Radcliff, “Joshua Poole came by a very strange fate. His body was found in a field at the bottom of his garden. His neck had been broken and his skull caved in on one side.”

  “He must have been set upon by thieves.”

  “But he was not robbed. I spoke with his wife, who is in a terrible state. She said that the guard dog made not a single noise to alert the family of any intruder. Poole got up, dressed and left in the night, voluntarily it seems, without waking her. He may have been under the influence of some spell.”

  “This is all pure speculation!”

  “I wish it were, yet I fear that I am next on Dr. Seward’s list. He has visited me in my sleep every night this past month,” Radcliff confessed, running a tremulous hand over his face. “He is overlooking me, I can feel it. And he will be overlooking you, my lord.”

  “Why has he not killed you, rather than Poole? Or me, for that matter?”

  “I do not know. It may be that he is taking the smallest of us first.”

  If Seward wished to foil my scheme, Pembroke wanted to ask, why would he reveal to me that it was betrayed? Then he hit upon a better tactic. “Sir Bernard, I’ve something to show you,” he said. “Come.”

  He marched Radcliff back to the house and up into the clock tower, the oldest part of the building. Here, in a room fusty for lack of use, he had stored the telltale canvas of Eros and Harpocrates. He unveiled it, watching for Radcliff’s reaction.

  Radcliff surveyed the work without a hint of shock or guilt; on the contrary, he appeared impressed. “How astute of Dr. Seward to throw suspicion on me. He wanted you to do away with me, and thereby destroy any link between him and the code, since it could implicate him in our plans if everything comes out. He has been accused of many dark dealings in the past.”

  “Did he teach you the art of scrying?” Pembroke asked curiously.

  “Alas, no. I think he decided to keep that weapon to himself, once he had seen my gift for astrology.”

  Pembroke indicated the canvas. “A man by the name of Laurence Beaumont commissioned this. If we have been discovered as you suggest, he must be linked to William Seward. Get him for me, and bring him to my house in London. We shall then learn whether there is any truth to your absurd suppositions.”

  “But, my lord, how will I –”

  “I shall give some particulars to aid you in your search for him. Fail me and I can assure you, without the benefit of astrological guidance, that you will have no future to speak of. I told you I needed another agent, and I have taken steps to remedy the problem. You are no longer indispensable to me, Sir Bernard. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Radcliff murmured.

  “And bring me Seward, too. Once I have finished questioning him, you may be cured of your nightmares.” As I may be of my own, Pembroke concluded, to himself.

  V.

  Had he been in a less pessimistic mood, Laurence might have viewed his next trip to London as a comedy of errors. From the start, Lady d’Aubigny and her friend Lady Sophia Murray maddened him with their indiscreet chatter and flirtatious giggling. Hampden he totally mistrusted. The only one of his fellow travellers who did not wear upon his nerves was the page, Ibrahim, an intelligent lad with a sense of humour as dark as his skin. Once they arrived at Lady d’Aubigny’s mansion, Hampden went off to deliver His Majesty’s letter to Parliament while Lady Sophia exited with Lady d’Aubigny, who had the Commission of Array tucked down the front of her dress. When they all returned in high spirits from their respective errands, they had a feast; and Laurence drank as much as he could, though it did not calm his nerves.

  They waited for developments over two long days. Avoiding both Hampden and the ladies, Laurence whiled away the tense hours playing cards with Ibrahim. Then Hampden casually announced that he was going for a walk. This time he failed to come back, and Lady Sophia finally confessed to Laurence that he had been carrying a letter to the Earl of Dover’s wife telling her to get out of London with her children as soon as she could, because a major political upheaval was about to occur. Laurence was horrified at Hampden’s recklessness, compounding the danger to all of them. The next day, they learnt that the House of Commons had rejected the terms of His Majesty’s letter, though a majority in the Lords had favoured renewing peace overtures. A member of the Commons suggested impeaching the Queen herself for taking up arms against the realm, and this proposal was passed and sent up to the Lords. And Hampden had been arrested.

  Laurence would have quit London immediately but was under strict instructions from His Majesty not to leave the women un protected. A week dragged by, punctuated by sullen arguments, during which he forbade anyone to leave the house. On the last day of May, they received more awful news: Sir Edmund Waller had been seized. Parliamentary soldiers had discovered the Commission of Array in his brother-in-law’s cellar.

  “I didn’t give it to his brother-in-law, I gave it to a man called Chaloner,” Lady d’Aubigny moaned, as Laurence hurried her and Lady Sophia off to the French Embassy.

  Upon receiving them, the Ambassador curtly informed Laurence that he could offer sanctuary to the ladies and their servants only. Laurence raced off to hide at Blackman Street, while rumours flew about over the next few days and other arrests were made: Waller had incriminated many, including his own brother-in-law, who would surely hang. More disastrously for Laurence, Lady d’Aubigny and Lady Sophia Murray had been removed from the Embassy and taken as prisoners to the Tower of London.

  “They won’t suffer,” Mistress Edwards told him. “They’re pretty young women with handles to their names. Parliament will have mercy on them. But it’s a good thing you weren’t seized, or you’d be dancing the hornpipe at Tyburn along with the rest of those sorry buggers. And we won’t have no more talk of peace from the rebels, mark my words.”

  A calamity for Falkland, Laurence thought. As for himself, even if he escaped arrest on his way out of the city, he would be in no strong position upon returning to Oxford, for he had disobeyed the King’s orders.

  VI.

  After a gruelling ride back to Oxford, Laurence was summoned, with Falkland, to the royal chambers. They barely spoke as they walked over to Christ Church, both equally grim, anticipating a hostile reception from His Majesty.

  “Mr. Beaumont, you were just a youth when last I stayed at your father’s house on a progress through Gloucestershire,” His Majesty observed, as Laurence bowed to him. “Those were less d-difficult times. Today I must demand some explanation of your conduct, sir. I b-believe you were asked to keep guard of my Lady d’Aubigny and Lady Murray during their mission. Why did you not remain with them?”

  “I was declined sanctuary by the French Ambassador, Your Majesty,” Laurence replied. “And had I insisted on staying, I could have done nothing to prevent Parliament from taking them into custody.”

  “He would have been arraigned and questioned also, Your Majesty,” Falkland intervened, “under torture, no doubt.”

  And then hanged, Laurence added privately.

  “You suffered torture before, did you not?” the King asked Laurence.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I can understand that you would not wish to undergo the same again. Nevertheless, it is hard for me to forgive your recent dereliction of duty, particularly as my own family is concerned.” The King cast him a pained frown. “I remember how my Lady d’Aubigny made every attempt to help you when you were imprisoned.”

  “I am aware of that, Your Majesty, and am most beholden to her for her kindness,” Laurence said, bowing his head.

  “You repaid it very ill,” the King said tersely. “Now, my Lord Falkland has alerted me to a plot that you brought to his attention – a potentially scurrilous affair, involving the Earl of Pembroke, whom I thought to be my friend.”

  “Your Majesty,” Falkland interjected, “I most urgently require Mr. Beaumont’s services to investigate it.”

  The King looked heave
nwards, then at them. “It was to threaten my life when – a year hence?” he inquired of Falkland, with the suggestion of a smile.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And I was to enter into negotiations with his lordship, the earl, who would try to d-dispose of me in some cunning manner?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, as is clear from the letters you read.”

  “Well, then, forewarned is forearmed. I still see no need to act upon it, as yet.”

  “Your Majesty, there is every need,” said Laurence, at which he felt Falkland’s hand on his sleeve.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” the King said, “why hurry, when we are not in possession of all the facts. You could not have known this, but – unbeknownst to Parliament, also – his lordship pledged an oath of fealty to me last summer, and he has been true to his word. He has not taken up arms against me and has gone to considerable effort in rallying support for a peaceful settlement.”

  “That’s part of his scheme. He hopes to gain your confidence.”

  “And you are eroding it, sir, through your impertinence.” The King’s smile faded. “My Lord Falkland, until I can hear from Lady d’Aubigny what occurred at the French Embassy, I should prefer that Mr. Beaumont not stray too far. Keep him in Oxford, my lord. Since he has a knowledge of ciphers, have him train your agents in that useful skill.”

  Laurence shook off Falkland’s hand. “Your Majesty, you must be aware that Pembroke –”

  “Mr. Beaumont, I am disappointed in you,” snapped the King. “Do as I bid you, or else you shall find yourself under restraint. Good day, sir, and good day to your lordship.”

  “You ought to have been more diplomatic, Mr. Beaumont,” Falkland scolded, as they walked back through the College grounds. “Other than Her Majesty the Queen, only Prince Rupert is allowed such freedom in addressing His Majesty, and even he may one day earn the King’s displeasure for speaking his mind.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” said Laurence, unapologetically.