The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  The Council of War dragged on into the morning, and it was not until afternoon that Laurence was summoned to Falkland’s billet, a windowless cottage, hardly fit for a Secretary of State. The air was thick with smoke from the fireplace, where Stephens was turning some pigeons on a spit.

  Laurence saw the terrible strain, more pronounced than ever, in Falkland’s eyes. “Forgive my delay, Mr. Beaumont,” he said. “As you might expect, there were divisions in Council as to how we should take Gloucester.”

  “What has His Majesty chosen to do?”

  “We shall besiege it. Prince Rupert will supervise the laying of mines.”

  “How will he fire mines in this wet weather? They’ll be flooded.”

  Falkland made no response to this; he was examining Laurence gravely. “Sir,” he said, “but for you our King might still be in peril from the conspiracy. And in the affair of Colonel Hoare, you showed both valour and a devotion to me that I lack words to thank you for. I once offered to free you from my service, and you declined. Now I insist that you accept. I wish you to rejoin Lord Wilmot as soon as you can. He has orders to scout the area about Oxford, lest Parliament send any rescuing party to Essex’s aid.”

  “I could be more helpful to you here.”

  “No, sir, you have more than fulfilled your obligations to me. You know how much I have always hated the business of espionage, and I would not willingly engage anyone I respected in it.”

  “I believe you, yet I think there’s more to it than that.” Falkland glanced aside, his expression so legible that Laurence needed no explanation. “You intend to fight in the siege.”

  “It is my duty.”

  “It’s not duty that’s driving you, my lord.”

  “Should I not face the same dangers as other men of my age, simply because I am one of the King’s ministers?” demanded Falkland, his voice becoming shrill. “I have not yearned for peace out of a lack of courage. If anything I should be prepared to venture my person yet more readily than other men.”

  “I don’t doubt your courage, my lord, but it would be a serious mistake to –”

  “I did not ask for your advice, sir. Stephens, Mr. Beaumont is about to go. You may bring my plate after you have seen him out. Greet Wilmot for me when you see him,” he told Laurence, “and God speed.”

  Outside, the sky had the colour of slate. Rain poured down, and the ground was slippery with mud. Laurence untethered his dripping horse and led it off, and as they trudged through the camp he apologised to it, not in English but in Spanish, for having stolen it from a sunny home and brought it to a damp hell. Why was hell portrayed as hot, he wondered, when this constant drizzle in half-darkness felt so much worse? He would give anything for a blast of sun on his skin.

  What a vital distinction there was, he thought, for good Christians like Falkland, between the cowardly escape of suicide and embracing certain death in an honourable fight. Falkland might choose the latter and consider himself free of sin or dishonour, whereas in Spain Laurence had attempted both within the same day, unconcerned by belief in any Divine judgement. Even upon reflection, it would have made no difference to him if he had died by his own hand, or by that of a petty thief on the road to Cadiz. In the end, out of instinct, he had chosen to live; yet he could still remember vividly how it was to peer over the precipice, into nothingness, hungering to jump.

  VIII.

  That night, as the gypsies made camp, the women whisked Juana away, and since no one else said another word to Laurence, he watched from a distance as the men put up their threadbare tents and dug a fire pit in which they quickly conjured up a blaze. Soon the women brought out cooking pots and started to busy themselves with supper. Juana was not amongst them. Later, a boy brought him a bowl of stew for which he should have been grateful, but the mere smell made his gorge rise.

  After their meal, the gypsies entertained themselves with songs, dirge-like melodies accompanied by flute and guitar, while Laurence distracted himself less happily, feeding the contents of his bowl to their yapping dogs. He was angry with Juana for abandoning him, yet he had to be patient: thus far, her people had treated him better than she had been served by most gadje.

  When the music faded, the women scoured out their pots with sand and chased the children into the tents for the night. It was then that Pedro rose from the fireside and strode over to the place where Laurence was sitting.

  “If I wake tomorrow and find you here,” Pedro told him bluntly, “I am going to kill you.”

  Laurence stood up to his full height; the top of Pedro’s head did not reach his shoulder. “Why should I deserve that?”

  “For what you have done to our sister.”

  “I brought her back to you.”

  “But she is not the same.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” demanded Laurence, taking a step forward.

  Pedro shouted a few words in his own tongue and half a dozen men ran over, armed with long knives and a decrepit-looking musket. Pedro grabbed the gun and trained it on Laurence. “I have changed my mind,” he announced. “You will leave now.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “You will never see her again,” Pedro spat back. “By all the saints, I’d like to blow a hole in you and fill it with my own shit.” He gestured to the others, and all of them sloped away.

  If they would not permit him to see Juana, Laurence thought furiously, they must be keeping her from him against her will. Retreating behind a pile of boulders, he charged his pistols and strapped on the Toledo sword; and he waited again, controlling the urge to rush down on the camp immediately and drag her off.

  When even the dogs were quiet, he stole over to the women’s tent, a mere canopy of cloth supported by sticks. Juana was sleeping curled up beside a younger girl, as she had often slept next to him. He pressed the nose of his pistol to her cheek and nudged her awake. She gave him a startled frown, yet came without a murmur, which reassured him, and she followed him to the lonely place where he had been sitting earlier.

  “What did you tell them?” he asked in a whisper.

  “That you forced me to be your mistress, in exchange for travelling with me,” she replied, her eyes averted.

  For an instant, he could not breathe; she might as well have thrust a knife into his flesh. “What need had you to say that?”

  She touched her belly, lightly; and he recalled her in Granada, standing by the window. A visceral instinct swept over him: for the first time he wanted desperately to be a father; but more desperately, he wanted her. “In a few months,” she said, “everyone would find out. And it was nearly the truth.”

  “I didn’t force you, Juana. You know that very well.”

  “Oh no?” She assumed an exaggerated version of her mendicant’s whine. “The kind gentleman may take her to Paris, and to Spain if it suits him. But he will desert her when she becomes too much of a burden. She will not fuck him, as most other women do, so she’s not worth his trouble. Admit,” she said in her own voice, “that you intended to leave me behind at the convent in Pamplona. I had to come and find you, and give my body to you, or else you would have shaken me off as a dog shakes off its fleas.”

  He shrank inwardly; she was not entirely wrong. “Then why did you swear afterwards that you would never leave me?”

  “What could you expect? You were protecting me. And if I had to be sullied by a gadje, you were above the rest: handsome, and honourable in your own fashion.”

  “Sullied? Is that what you felt?”

  She hesitated, her mouth trembling. “I was ashamed, because I liked it. Even in Granada, I liked it. As I liked you.”

  “So come with me! I promise I’ll do anything I can for you – you and our child.”

  “No. I belong here.”

  “But I love you,” he protested, making a start towards her.

  She cowered back, as if he might hurt her. “Monsieur, you are a fool. You cannot love whoever you wish.”

  “Did you
never love me?”

  “Never. Now you must go. It is only because I told Pedro how you saved my life that he has not taken yours tonight.” She gave a quick sob. “We did not create this world, Monsieur, but we must abide by its rules. For my people you are marime!”

  “And the child? Is it polluted, too?”

  “The child is mine,” she said, crossing her arms over her stomach.

  He took off the Toledo sword, and from his saddlebag withdrew the stolen purse, and tossed them at her. “As are these.”

  “I don’t want them. They will bring me bad luck.” She bowed her head, turning away. “Goodbye, Monsieur. Our journey together is finished.”

  She ran for the camp, and he knew that it was truly finished between them.

  He heard the dogs barking; in a short time, the men would also wake. A vengeful idea flashed into his mind, and he went to where the horses were tethered. Taking the saddle off his own weary mount, he threw it across the back of Pedro’s stallion and fastened its girth. Shouts were already echoing from the tents as he led the beast over to his isolated place, strapped the sword to his saddle and stuck his pistols in their holsters. The purse he stuffed back into his saddlebag; if she had no interest in it, he was not about to leave it for Pedro. Gathering up his bag and slinging it over the pommel, he heard more angry cries. Then an ill-aimed shot cracked over his head, frightening the horse, which reared violently. As it plunged down again, he hoisted himself into the saddle and dug spurs into its sides.

  He did not recall how he arrived at the coast or how long it had taken him, though he must have ridden at breakneck speed, for the stallion’s coat was flecked with foam. To the east, the sun was piercing through a bed of thin clouds that would burn off with the heat of day. Dismounting, he looked down at the jagged rocks and tide below, and then out over the sea, watching the gulls soar and swoop amongst the crashing waves. What next, he thought: he was unmanned, cut adrift with nowhere to go and no will to preserve himself. He had even come to the very end of Spain.

  From his saddle, he took one of the pistols with which he had dispatched so many men. Kneeling down in the dirt, he thrust the barrel deep into his mouth, but gagged at the oily taste. Applying it instead to his temple he cocked it, reflecting on the absurdity of fate: after struggling to survive countless dangers these past six years, he was choosing to die by his own hand.

  He depressed the trigger slightly, all that was needed, though in the final moment his hand must have jerked aside, for the ball blasted past his ear, deafening him. Numbly he rose, pulled the other pistol from the saddle and cocked it, to try again. Yet he found himself transfixed by the sight of Cadiz on the far horizon, a haze of walls and turrets; and he fired the second shot, aimlessly, into the lightening sky.

  IX.

  “May it p-please God that our supplies of ammunition arrive in time from Oxford,” His Majesty, said, as the meeting of Council drew to a close. “And sleep well, gentlemen, for tomorrow we do battle.”

  Falkland stood to bow with the rest of them, and the King departed for his quarters. At once, the arguments began.

  “What sheer incompetence to let Essex slip through and relieve Gloucester,” Digby exclaimed, to the obvious outrage of Prince Rupert and Wilmot. “Afterwards our intelligence was a shambles,” he went on, eyeing Falkland, “deceiving us that he would head north, when all the while he intended to plod home to London. And despite His Royal Highness’ noble efforts to prevent him,” he concluded, “he managed to march his army all the way past Hungerford through hostile territory.”

  “We made Newbury too hot for him last night,” Rupert growled, glaring back at Digby. “And we’ve blocked the London road. We have the advantage of him, my lord, and we’ll prove it to him in the morning.” With this he marched out, followed by Boy.

  “Temper, temper,” Digby murmured, gazing after him.

  “I didn’t notice you amongst our ranks, while we were trying to intercept the enemy,” Wilmot sneered. “What important work kept you away, my lord – were you penning some lines for your newssheet?”

  “My dear Lord Wilmot, how on earth do you think I got these? Not from an exploding quill!” Digby was indicating the powder burns on his cheek, still red and raw, that Falkland knew he had sustained in an earlier skirmish with the enemy.

  “Gentlemen,” Falkland told them, “I shall allow you to continue this scintillating debate without me. I am going to bed.”

  “My lord,” said Wilmot, “may we walk out together?” Falkland nodded, although he had no taste for any company tonight. “Why did you enlist with Byron’s regiment?” Wilmot asked, when they were alone. “If you must take part in the action, join me, as you did at Edgehill. You’ll be safer, my lord. I hear that you’ve been rather reckless in exposing yourself to fire ever since the siege at Gloucester.”

  “Thank you, but I have made my plans.” Falkland stopped, seeing a tall figure in the distance who appeared to be waiting for them. “Did Mr. Beaumont prompt you to ask?”

  “Yes, he did,” admitted Wilmot.

  “He has been avoiding me, I think, for the past three weeks. I’m afraid I was sharp with him when we last spoke.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t put it down to that, my lord. He’s in the most maudlin state because his lover has rejected him. Digby told me all about it.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Isabella Savage. They had a brief dalliance in Oxford last June, and now she won’t have anything to do with him.”

  Falkland thought of that day at Oxford Castle when Mistress Savage had bent down to touch Beaumont’s chest, as if to raise him from the dead. “What went wrong between them?”

  “You can’t win with women like her,” said Wilmot, with an air of authority. “Once they have power over you, they get bored and move on to make some other conquest. I’m amazed that Beaumont shouldn’t have foreseen it.”

  Falkland beckoned for him to come to them. The alteration in him was marked: even in the gloom of night, Falkland could detect how thin his face had become, a shadow of beard on his chin and upper lip, and yet darker circles about his eyes. He glanced at Wilmot, who quickly excused himself, reminding Falkland, “My invitation stands. We’re bivouacked near Rupert’s Horse.”

  “God be with you tomorrow,” Falkland responded.

  “And you too.”

  “How are you, my lord?” Beaumont asked, after Wilmot had gone.

  “Better than you, it appears.”

  Beaumont gave a shrug, more resigned than indifferent. “My lord, I won’t offer you my advice, as I know you’ve had enough of it, but I just had to – to say to you, you will be careful tomorrow?”

  “We shall all have to be careful.”

  He sighed, a short, frustrated breath, as though Falkland were purposely misunderstanding him. “You can’t stop this war, but rather than sacrifice yourself, consider what you value that the war can’t change: your family, your friendships, your ideals.”

  “You surprise me, sir. I did not imagine you such a philosopher.”

  “I don’t love wisdom.” He smiled, with a hint of his old spirit. “I like life, even though it’s kicked me in the teeth a few times.” Then his smile disappeared, and he regarded Falkland with acute concern. “My lord, you believe you compromised yourself, that you lost your integrity. It’s not true. His Majesty compromised you, as he has so many of his servants in the past, and there’ll be others to come. Remember your wife and children. They may be worth dying for. His Majesty’s cause is not.”

  “Treasonous words, Mr. Beaumont – good that only I can hear you,” Falkland commented, attempting humour.

  “I only hope that you listen.” He smiled at Falkland again, more weakly. “Forgive me, my lord – I am giving you advice, after all.”

  Falkland did not know what to say. They were quiet, still looking at each other. Then on impulse he reached up, being so much shorter, to embrace Beaumont. “I thank you, sir,” he whispered, releasing him. “Good nigh
t.”

  “Good night, my lord,” said Beaumont, in a hoarse, muffled voice.

  Falkland watched him go, his lanky form graceful in contrast to his actions, for he was sniffing and wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve like a beaten schoolboy.

  Before bedding down, Falkland wrote a letter to his wife in which he professed his love for her, and for his sons. When he had finished, he asked Stephens to set out a fresh shirt for the morning, as he had each night since the failed siege of Gloucester. Then he prayed, and settled down to catch what sleep he could. Tired as he was, he drowsed; and he seemed to be floating over his property at Tew. He soared effortlessly over trees and soft, rolling meadows, where sheep grazed, all bathed in golden sunlight. His house was spread out like an architect’s design below him, and he could almost brush the rooftops. He hovered, catching the scent of wood smoke from the chimneys, and wanted to descend and peer through the window, hoping for a glimpse of Lettice at her needlework, or of the boys playing. Yet he could not stop. On he went, over more countryside elegiac its beauty, the patched fields marked out by dry-stone walls; and there were great abbeys, with cathedral spires rising up towards him; and the sound of chanting, as of the monks that used to inhabit them. He was aware of an immense peace and happiness, now untroubled by the desire to direct his flight. But he was snatched, and pulled downwards; and as he woke to someone calling his name, he knew that although he had had that dream many times, never before had he understood what it signified.

  “My lord,” Stephens said, “Byron has been ordered to attack the enemy flank, on the hills outside Newbury. Early this morning Essex moved up and stole the high ground from us. He has a couple of field pieces up there and has already opened fire on our men down on the plain.”

  Falkland rose hastily, unbuttoned his doublet for Stephens to remove it, pulled off his soiled shirt and drew on the clean linen, enjoying its crispness next to his skin. The Rector of Newbury had arrived to give him communion, and as he took the sacrament, he felt within himself that same profound peace and solemn joy. Trumpets were sounding all about the camp, and drums beating. He went out to find his horse saddled, and his pistols primed. He mounted, gave instructions to Stephens about the letter, and cantered over to the place where Byron’s Horse had started to assemble. They were to accompany a regiment of foot led by Byron’s uncle, and would proceed uphill, along a lane lined with tall hedgerows, to challenge those of Essex’s troops already positioned there. Byron was in a black mood, annoyed that this area had not been scouted and occupied earlier. They might have a difficult task ahead of them, he warned Falkland, because the thick hedgerows would give the enemy cover from which to fire, while they themselves would have little room to manoeuvre.