The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  They set off, their scouts ahead on horseback, then the ranks of foot, and lastly two regiments of horse. As they toiled up the incline, Falkland could not see over the wall of green on either side, lush from the wet summer. The men appeared uneasy, glancing about and murmuring to each other. Shots rang out, and the foot began to cave and scatter, some seeking cover behind a grassy bank, yelling for the horse to come to their defence. The horse was still protected by a shoulder of hill, and Byron gave the command to advance, to reconnoitre.

  Falkland pushed to the front, beside Byron. He saw that their line of advance was almost completely blocked by a hedge, save for a gap so narrow that only one horseman could press through at a time.

  “Widen the gap!” Byron shouted.

  In the same second, Falkland heard the whiz of a ball near his ear, and Byron’s horse screamed, blood pouring from its neck. Byron leapt off before it could fall and crush him, and the wounded beast tumbled into the ditch and lay, still screaming and quivering in agony, on its side.

  Falkland could not bear the noise any longer. He looked from Byron to the gap in the hedge, cocked his pistol and charged.

  X.

  Laurence surfaced slowly from a drunken sleep, to pounding at the door. “Who’s there?” he called out.

  “A messenger from the Secretary of State, for Mr. Beaumont.”

  He sat up in bed, rousing the woman whom he had forgotten was beside him, the sister of Wilmot’s latest mistress. As she yawned lazily, he wished that he could make her disappear with the morning light, which was not flattering to her after so much liquor and so few hours’ rest; nor probably to him, he reminded himself, as he slid out and searched for his breeches on the floor. Then he stopped: Falkland was dead, so whose messenger was this?

  The night after the battle of Newbury, Falkland had been missing from Byron’s regiment. Prince Rupert had written to the Earl of Essex asking if he had been taken prisoner, and learnt that he must be amongst the fallen. His body was eventually found, so mangled and disfigured that it could only be identified by a mole on his throat. Laurence had felt sick when he heard, and for the whole week since he thought constantly of Falkland, tormented by the idea that there might have been something more that he could have said to prevent such a senseless loss. Against Prince Rupert’s counsel, the King had subsequently withdrawn most of his forces to Oxford. Deeply grieved by the death of Falkland, and those of others who had perished in the muddy lanes and fields, His Majesty was unwilling to re-engage with Essex and suffer further casualties. Although harried by Rupert’s Horse, Essex had marched his army back to London, and a hero’s welcome. Meanwhile, Wilmot had taken charge of Laurence, knowing how much Falkland’s death had devastated him. He kept him occupied scouting the Oxford environs by day, after which they would drink away most evenings in town.

  Still fastening his breeches, Laurence opened the door to a liveried servant. “Who is the Secretary of State?” he inquired.

  “My Lord Digby, sir.”

  “Since when?”

  “The appointment was made yesterday. He wishes an audience with you,” the man replied, smirking; he had caught a glimpse of the woman.

  Laurence shut the door and went to put on the rest of his clothes.

  Upon arrival at the Secretary of State’s quarters, he bowed to Digby, who was humming a tune as he perused some documents. “Ah, Mr. Beaumont!” he cried, looking up. “My servant was able to ferret you out!”

  “Congratulations on your appointment, my lord,” Laurence said.

  “It was not entirely my choice, but Her Majesty urged me to accept.” Of course she would, Laurence thought: she resented the influence of Prince Rupert over her husband, and Rupert was no ally of Digby’s. “May I offer you some hair of the dog that so evidently bit you?” Digby asked, waving for Laurence to take a seat.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well, then.” Digby began again in a more efficient tone. “I know how you must mourn my predecessor, and I also know how well you served him. I should like you to continue in the service of the Secretary of State, as my chief agent. Amongst Lord Falkland’s papers, I have inherited a curious list that he received from a Sir Bernard Radcliff, with whom I gather you were acquainted. It merits investigation – by you.” Laurence remained silent, waiting for Digby to speak his piece. “Unlike Falkland, I have a great enthusiasm for your profession, sir. I have always had my own agents here and there, and they will be at your disposal. I can give you all the latitude you require. There will be no lectures from me on the evils of dissimulation, nor shall I issue any moral rebukes. Do you grasp my meaning?”

  “You would give me a free hand.”

  “How we understand each other!”

  There was a pause, during which Laurence regretted that he had not taken advantage of Digby’s other offer: he could have used a glass of wine. “My lord,” he said, “Lord Falkland released me from my duties early in August. Since then, as you’re aware, I’ve been serving with Wilmot – excuse me, with Lord Wilmot – and I don’t intend to leave him.”

  “Has he seduced you so easily with liquor and women?”

  “No. It’s my wish.”

  “So you categorically refuse?”

  “I do.”

  “You might reconsider, in time.”

  “I won’t. Is that all, my lord?”

  Digby hesitated, shuffling the papers before him. “Isabella wants to see you. Not to renew your former friendship but in order to return to you something you gave her. A necklace, I believe.”

  “She should have given it to you to return.”

  “As I told her, but you know women – once they have an idea in their heads, they are as immoveable as mountains. There’s a banquet tonight, at Merton. She will be in attendance. Do spruce yourself up for the occasion.”

  “What an excellent idea, my lord,” Laurence said.

  All the city bathhouses were shut, clean water being in short supply although the drainage ditches were overflowing from the heavy rains. He had to wash and shave in Seward’s rooms, while Seward mocked him for accepting the invitation. “Not your style, Beaumont, these frivolous Court events. Why are you bothering?”

  “Oh, politics,” he said, shrugging.

  He decided to arrive late. Isabella would guess where to find him if she had not seen him at table, for since the day had been dry and the evening was cloudless, torches had been set up to mark a path into the gardens beyond the College terrace so that the courtiers could filter out after their repast to take fresh air; and there was a special pavilion for the royal family where musicians were playing viols and assorted wind instruments. He waited, skulking in the shadows, until he saw groups of people begin to emerge from the brightness of the hall. Finally she appeared on Digby’s arm, the unwanted necklace about her throat. Laurence edged closer and concealed himself behind a wall.

  “You owe me five pounds, Digby,” she was saying; she did not look in the least unhappy.

  “How disappointing – I thought it a sure bet that he would come,” said Digby. “Are you unwell, my dear?”

  “I feel indigested, after that revolting goose we ate.”

  “I hope it is not your quartain sickness. You always say that your food tastes odd when it comes over you.”

  “I have no fever. But would you bring me a glass of spirits to settle my stomach?”

  “At once,” Digby told her, with a sweet affection that Laurence had not heard from him before. “Wait here on this bench.”

  Digby returned towards the hall, stopping occasionally to bow or exchange a greeting, while she sat staring ahead, motionless. Laurence crept out and sat beside her, though not too close.

  She turned to look at him, a fierce glitter in her eyes, as brilliant as the jewels round her neck. “I knew you were here.”

  “You lost faith in me, didn’t you,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t I? In a whole month while you were supposedly with your father, all that I rece
ived from you was a single, most unsatisfactory letter.”

  “If I had time I could tell you what kept me away, but in part it was because of what I had to do for Falkland. When I came back to your house, you refused to see me. And I did write to you again, after that.”

  “Another literary masterpiece,” she said scornfully.

  “I know, I’ve got no talent for expressing my feelings on paper,” he confessed.

  She seemed temporarily mollified; then her face hardened again. “Such fun you must be having with Wilmot. Digby says he’s quite the bawd. And Oxford is a gentleman’s paradise nowadays.”

  “You know none of that means a thing to me!” he retorted.

  She rose abruptly, picked up her skirts, and rushed off into the darkness.

  He followed and grabbed her by the shoulder, twisting her around. “I love you, Isabella, but I can’t go on loving in vain! If there’s no hope, then for God’s sake say so.”

  She was fumbling to unclasp her necklace, and when it came free she attempted to throw at him. He stayed her hand; she was panting, as though she had run a great distance.

  “Will you marry me?” he asked, tightening his grip as she tried to pull away from him.

  “What a question! Or are you being deliberately cruel?”

  “If you’ll have me, I’m yours – and no one else’s.”

  She was frowning at him with the same hostile mistrust. Unable to contain himself, he seized her and kissed her, almost roughly at first, until she relaxed against him and opened her mouth to his; and they stayed locked together for some time.

  Then she tilted back her head and whispered, “Help me with this necklace, Beaumont.” She held it about her throat and turned for him to fasten it, which he did with trembling fingers. “Digby’s back,” she said next, peering towards the terrace. “I must go to him. Call at my house tomorrow, and I promise I shall receive you – warmly.”

  He kissed her again before releasing her, and she walked slowly up to the terrace, a hand over her mouth, as though nauseated.

  Digby held out a little glass to her as she came closer. “My dear, where were you?” Laurence heard him ask.

  “I went into the bushes – I thought I was about to be sick. I can’t drink it, Digby,” she added, refusing the glass. “Just take me home. I want an early night.”

  “Yes, yes,” Digby said, squinting for a second in Laurence’s direction, and gave her his arm; and the two of them were swallowed by the crowd.

  Still bursting with ungovernable energy, Laurence retreated to pace the streets around the College and run over in his mind every word of his conversation with Isabella. After an hour or so of this, he knew that he absolutely could not wait until the next day to see her.

  He sped towards her house, but as he was approaching her door, someone seized his collar, and a cold object was rammed against his temple. “Hello there, Mr. Beaumont,” said a voice.

  “Hello, Captain Milne,” said Laurence.

  “Did you think I’d forgotten about that night you cheated me?”

  There were four or five others in the shadows, two of whom Laurence knew from the Blue Boar: the card players, Ruskell and Pickett. “What are you doing here?” he demanded of Milne, remembering that Digby had paid the man to leave her alone. “And who told you I would be –”

  “We’re going out to the fields, sir, to settle our dispute like gentlemen. If you object, however, I’ll put a ball in your skull right now. We brought you a sword in case you weren’t wearing one, as I see you’re not.”

  “Most considerate of you,” Laurence said, as they marched him off at gunpoint. He felt aghast at the terrible irony of the situation: Milne could not know what an inept opponent he was.

  A low fog hung about the meadows down by the river. The grass was pooled with water after all the rain, and their boots sank deeply into it as they walked. Bad terrain for a duel, Laurence thought, not that he had much chance on the driest of ground.

  Milne tossed him the sword. “Put up your blade.” Laurence shook his head. “Or would you prefer a round of primero?” Milne asked snidely.

  “Can’t you get it up?” Ruskell jeered.

  Laurence had to raise the weapon. It was not the same as riding into battle, where confusion, smoke, and an enemy’s nerves could hide his poor swordsmanship, and as he had been warned, Milne was agile and skilful. They parried and feinted for a bit, to much comment from their audience, the clash of steel ringing out in the quiet of night. Then Milne wounded him on his sword arm.

  “All your breeding and you handle your rapier worse than any ploughman,” Milne taunted him, dancing about, apparently unimpeded by the soggy turf. “Come at me! Come at me!” The blood from Laurence’s cut made his grip slippery, and he was slower than Milne, breathing hard. “Are you as clumsy with your cock?” Milne persisted. “All show and no action, aren’t you!”

  Laurence managed to dodge a few more thrusts, but Milne delivered a serious slash to his shoulder, the blade entering and withdrawing like a shaft of flame. From Milne’s expression, nearly demented with pleasure, he knew that the man would kill him, and the thought of dying such a ridiculous death infuriated him. As Milne paused, guard momentarily down, no doubt preparing to utter another insult, Laurence jerked up his sword, intending to point it at Milne’s throat and demand an end to the fight. Yet he was too clumsy, after all: instead he caught Milne on the side of the neck. Blood shot out as if from a fountain.

  Milne exclaimed aloud, dropping his sword, and fell. Laurence tossed aside his, also, and went down on his knees, clapping both hands to the wound. Milne’s body had started to judder. As for the friends, they were running away, melting into the fog. The flow of blood gradually stopped spraying in Laurence’s face, and pulsed more dully through his fingers. Wincing with pain, he stripped off his doublet and pressed it to Milne’s neck, knowing as he did so that the man was past help and that he himself had to disappear.

  He rose and pulled the drenched garment over his good arm, buttoning it to form a makeshift sling. Dawn began to break as he retraced his steps to Isabella’s house, and hammered on the door with his free hand.

  “Who is it?” said Lucy, from within.

  “Lucy, let me in,” he yelled, and this time she did. She gave a shriek on seeing him.

  “What’s the matter, Lucy?” Isabella called, from upstairs.

  “It’s Mr. Beaumont and he’s – he’s almost dead!”

  “No I’m not,” said Laurence, as Isabella hurried down.

  “Oh my God, Beaumont, who did this to you?” She drew him in and lowered him into a chair. “Where are you hurt?” Helping him off with his doublet, she tore away his shirt to view the wounds: a gash on his right arm, below the muscle of his shoulder, and in the shoulder itself a wider, more profound incision. “You’ve lost so much blood!”

  “Most of it isn’t mine. Bring bandages, and hot water. And a needle and some strong thread. I could do with some liquor, too.”

  When she and Lucy returned, she went to work immediately, washing away the blood with a cloth that became redder each time she applied it. “With whom did you fight?”

  “Milne.”

  “That can’t be! Digby sent him off.”

  “Apparently not far enough. He was waiting for me outside your house.”

  “I hope you served him as well as he did you.”

  “I killed him.”

  “Oh no! Beaumont, that’s dreadful!”

  “I can assure you, it wasn’t my intention,” he said, taking a swig of liquor.

  “I am not sorry for him, I am worried for you! Did anyone witness the fight?”

  “About half a dozen of his friends.”

  “Dear Jesus! All of Oxford must know by now. Should I bandage you?”

  He shook his head, with difficulty since the pain was now spreading upwards from his shoulder. “The cuts have to be stitched.”

  “I’ll send Lucy for a surgeon.”

  “You
can sew, can’t you?”

  “I can try,” she said bravely, but as she began, she was shaking and overly tentative. He had to guide her, insisting that she dig the needle further in and pull the thread tighter. By the end, she seemed about to faint.

  “You did very well,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Now for the bandages.” This she was accomplishing more speedily, when they heard loud noises outside.

  “Open up, Mistress Savage!” came a stern order. “Open now, or we shall break down the door.”

  “What should I do?” Lucy gasped.

  “Nothing for it but to answer,” Laurence said, nearly laughing at the hopelessness of it all, and on Isabella’s command Lucy opened, to a troop of soldiers.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” one of them said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Captain Milne.”

  “Can’t you see he is wounded?” Isabella cried, as they hauled him out of the chair. “Let him be!” Then Laurence heard another voice at the entrance, and he realised instantly what trap had been set for him that night, though he could see from Isabella’s face that she did not yet understand.

  The Secretary of State strolled in, with the air of a guest invited to a surprise party thrown for his benefit. “Isabella, my darling, I must apologise for my sudden entrance! Release her and sit him down,” he told the men. “How grievously are you hurt?” he inquired of Laurence.