The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “His Royal Highness is ever in a hurry,” Bristol murmured.

  “You mention London, Your Majesty,” said Digby. “Our Mr. Violet was briefly there and has returned with heartening reports of the quarrels in Parliament over its alliance with the Scots. Those of its Members who would choose freedom of conscience over the dictates of the Presbyterian Church are restive, and some are so hotly against the ecclesiastical state ruling in Edinburgh that they might be prepared to split with the Scots-loving Presbyterians – if they could be assured their liberty of worship.”

  “My Lord Digby, what c-common ground have I with these independent sects, apart from an aversion to the Scottish K-kirk?” inquired the King, sitting forward. “As Head of the English Church, I cannot tolerate every stray sect in my kingdom, especially when their beliefs defy the principles upon which our Ch-church is founded.”

  “Perish the idea, Your Majesty! Yet if you were to demonstrate a certain flexibility of mind, you might woo some of these freethinkers to our side.” Digby cast him a winning smile. “We have had stranger allies.”

  “But did they not recently sign their Solemn League and C-covenant with Edinburgh?”

  “Your Majesty, that agreement is tenuous,” said Bristol. “Edinburgh may consider it as a guarantee that the rebels will impose the Kirk’s Presbyterian rites throughout England, but many in Parliament view it as a contract entered into simply to obtain military support for the war. They have no real intention of carrying through on their religious promises.”

  “And Violet says that the main architect of the agreement may soon take his final bow upon the stage of politics – and of life,” Digby added. “Though Pym has slaved day and night to achieve his goal, he often cannot attend sessions in the House due to his sickness. When he dies, these cracks in the façade that he pasted over will resurface, and possibly widen. They might be exploited to our advantage.”

  “And if the Highland Scots rally to your cause,” said Bristol, “they will threaten the rule of the Kirk on home soil. That could put paid to a Scottish army for the rebels.”

  The King sat back in his armchair, stroking his beard.

  “Ah well,” said Digby, “we shall have to see how events turn out.” He knew from the King’s expression that the seed was planted; now he had only to water it at judicious intervals. “Violet also reports that the citizens of London are being bled to the bone, Your Majesty. They are taxed on everything, and life has become a dreary affair, with fines and punishments imposed for the slightest breach of order.”

  “The last measure I can understand,” the King said. “I hear of so much intemperate behaviour in Oxford: duels, drunkenness, improprieties towards women, and blasphemous language. Has Violet been in communication with our f-friends in the capital?”

  “Yes, he has, Your Majesty. Despite our unfortunate venture in the spring with the Commission of Array, and the gaoling of some known Catholics, your friends are chafing for an opportunity to assist your cause.” Digby glanced at his father.

  “A friend of ours there, named Major Ogle, reports the same, Your Majesty,” Bristol said. “He, too, is convinced that these independent sects are hostile to the Scottish settlement, and that Londoners in general are tiring of war.”

  “Their womenfolk proved as much by marching upon Whitehall to call for peace,” remarked Digby.

  “The gentler sex is oft the wisest,” the King observed. “ ‘Wise as serpents, and harmless as doves..’ ” He stood, and picked up his silver-topped cane. “On that note, I am about to take the air with Her Majesty.”

  “The skies promise rain, Your Majesty,” Bristol said.

  “Then we shall walk in the covered passage by our two colleges.”

  Digby hid mirth. According to gossip, the royal couple used it for more than walking; it was the one place they could be alone, away from their courtiers.

  “Oh, my Lord Digby,” the King said, “my son Charles has asked me if Mr. Beaumont could instruct him in the art of writing ciphers – an apt study for a prince. Might you spare your agent, for a couple of hours here and there?”

  “Why yes, Your Majesty. Mr. Beaumont is out of town for the nonce, but I shall apprise him of your wishes on his return.”

  “Charles is very attached to him – after Rupert, of course! Charles worships his cousin as a hero.”

  “His Royal Highness Prince Rupert is a hero to us all,” said Digby, assuming his smoothest tone.

  “Prince Charles may have to wait for those lessons,” Digby confessed to his father, as they left Christ Church. “Violet was apprehended at once by the City militia and questioned about his outstanding taxes, so it is highly likely that Beaumont will be caught. I’m half tempted to let him pay the price for his disobedience.”

  “Should he be examined, a great many inconvenient secrets might spill out. And what a price he’d pay, after eluding arrest once already this past spring. At the very least he would hang, George, as others did who were connected to that unfortunate venture, as you called it. Don’t forget he is your spy, and you have been painted as an arch fiend by Parliament.”

  Digby rolled his eyes. “I thank you for reminding me. It would be a shame to lose him. I’d solve a different problem, however,” he went on, more lightly. “Lady Beaumont came to see me in some perturbation over his offer of marriage to Isabella.”

  “Marriage?” exclaimed Bristol. “Has he gone that far?”

  “He did promise her ladyship that he would not take Isabella to the altar until he had spoken with Lord Beaumont. She wishes me to work upon Isabella, so that he can be betrothed to the daughter of some neighbouring family – a Mistress Furnival. She went to talk to Isabella herself, to no avail.”

  “Isabella is an ideal mistress, by any man’s estimation, not a suitable wife. She must realise that the marriage will never take place. She has had enough disappointments in life, but if love is blinding her to the truth, you have a duty to enlighten her.”

  “You are in no position to speak of her disappointments, or of my duty to her. It is partly thanks to you that she was ruined as a girl and is now unsuitable for a wife.”

  “How was I to know she would be seduced at that house?”

  “My honoured father,” said Digby, stopping and turning on him, “you might as well have put a lamb in with a wolf. I was but twenty at the time, and even I could have predicted the outcome.”

  “Well none of us could have predicted that she would be fertile at so young an age,” retorted Bristol.

  “And who decided that she should be submitted to some filthy witch for an operation that almost killed her? She could have had the child in secret and been none the worse.”

  Bristol bowed his head. “What’s done is done, and you have been a faithful guardian to her since then. Bring her to reason. She will understand it’s in her best interests.”

  “And offer her what, in exchange for relinquishing the prospect of marriage to the man she loves?”

  “You could rescue her good name by getting her a husband – one who would not object if she continues as Beaumont’s mistress. It was your intention to find a match for her, and you should act soon, before the bloom is off the rose.”

  “You contradict yourself. You have described her as the ideal mistress, not a suitable wife.”

  “Don’t be facetious with me, George. We both know of a widower with heirs who would happily overlook her past and allow her the … liberty she might desire: our friend in the Vintners’ Company.”

  “I have considered Sir Montague,” Digby admitted, peering up at the clouds; his father was correct about the rain. “And I have tried to suggest to her that her talents are wasted here in Oxford. Yet I cannot imagine she would agree to such an arrangement, unless Beaumont gives her more heartache.”

  “George, think of what we are planning in London. Sir Montague is resourceful, but like Pym he is often ill. We may need someone to continue his work for us, if his health fails.”

  �
��Dear me,” sighed Digby. “It is a game of chess. Which piece to sacrifice?”

  “Oh, Isabella would not be in any personal danger. Remember how leniently Parliament treated the Ladies d’Aubigny and Murray. She would be titled herself, as Sir Montague’s wife.” Contemplating the match, Digby experienced a shade of guilt most rare in him. “Why not strike while the iron is hot – in Beaumont’s absence?” his father persisted. “Go and speak to her.”

  “Very well – I shall try.”

  “On a graver issue,” Bristol said, “will His Majesty deign to court the independent sects in Parliament? We know how immovable he is on matters of religious doctrine.”

  “Were he not, he might have avoided a war. But this would hardly be the first time he made a promise he did not intend to keep.”

  “And the stranger the ally, the less compunction he will have in breaking it. I shall encourage Major Ogle to pursue negotiations with them.”

  “Yes,” said Digby. “In a few months, our efforts may bear fruit.”

  “Niger is an enchanting little fellow,” Digby declared, tickling the cat’s silken ears with his fingertips. Isabella had greeted him at the door cradling it in her arms.

  “Will you come into the parlour, Digby?”

  “No thank you, my dear – I cannot stay long. What a pity the Doctor was not helpful as regards your inquiry, when he gifted you your companion.”

  “It seems Beaumont was as secretive with him as with us,” she said tartly.

  “Secretive is not the word for Beaumont’s conduct! I’d have been pleased for him to tell you I was sending him to London – after all, I told you myself. He lied to us. But you may be sure he confided in Seward, and that Seward is lying, probably on his request. Sometimes I think the venerable Doctor is the only person Beaumont trusts. He does not trust me, and … I tend to wonder if he trusts you.” Digby let fall a silence. “This business of his wanting to marry you – was he still asking, before he left?”

  “Oh yes. And he had talked of his proposal to his mother. Her response was as he had expected. Can you believe – the day before yesterday, she came here herself and asked me to end our liaison. She is direct, I must admit,” Isabella said, smiling, “though she kept notably quiet about her scheme for his betrothal. How Beaumont would laugh. He considers it such a joke.”

  “Does he? How odd … She came to see me, too, and I received a somewhat … contrary impression.” Isabella’s smile faded. “You must corroborate my account with Beaumont, but her ladyship told me that he has agreed not to pursue his suit to you until he discusses this other prospect with his father. And he acknowledged to her that his duty is first to Lord Beaumont.” Digby watched Isabella; she controlled her emotions so bravely. “Isabella, Beaumont is full of passion for you, as are you for him, and such feelings can cloud judgement. Think how many of us, carried away by the moment, make promises we can never hope to keep,” he continued, reminded of the King. “Beaumont wishes you to be secure in his love, and he means it. I once considered him incapable of love, but I was wrong. The trouble is that even if you defied his family and married him, you could not give him what he wants. And in the recesses of his mind, he knows.”

  She resumed her smile, though it was now forced. “Do you claim to know him better than I?”

  Tread delicately, Digby warned himself. “I may care more for your future than he does. You suggested that I ask Dr. Seward to cast your horoscope. I would suggest, Isabella, that you consult the Doctor about Beaumont’s inner nature.”

  “You have accused the Doctor of lying to me. Why would I get an honest opinion, this time?”

  “Lies can be as revealing as the truth.”

  “Trust you to say such a thing,” she remarked insouciantly, but he could read the hurt in her eyes.

  VII.

  “O Lord, may thy heavenly angels guide me in my search,” prayed Seward, his chest fluttering, like the beat of an angel’s wing.

  Tonight he had filled his scrying bowl not with plain water, but with a decoction of herbs and roots that he had gathered at the appointed dates and times, some in the dead of night, and others under the noonday sun. He had recorded the recipe years ago, and then misplaced it until recently among his books. It was from Robert Fludd, as was the bowl, bestowed on him shortly before Fludd died.

  Fludd had passed it to him, saying, “William, remember: all truth lies in the harmony of microcosm and macrocosm.”

  “Might the truth one day free us from ignorance and superstition?” Seward had asked. “I do believe it, but do you?”

  Although Fludd had not answered him, Seward maintained his faith. At his great age, he might never see the day when enlightenment dawned upon the world, and nor would he find a student to pass on his store of occult learning. He had made a dire mistake, once, in thinking that Bernard Radcliff might be worthy of the latter privilege, and had taught him too much. Radcliff had desired earthly power, not spiritual enlightenment, and his ambition had led to his death.

  Seward shook off the memory, and slowed his breathing, gazing into the dark liquid. “What will be His Majesty’s fate?” he whispered. “How will he die?”

  For a long time, Seward saw only his own reflection. Then a mist floated across the surface, his nerves began to tingle, and a vision appeared. Two figures, their backs to him, were walking side by side, swaying as if drunk, their cloaks rippling and billowing in a powerful wind. The shorter man clutched his hat tight, while his companion gestured extravagantly with both hands. In the next second, a sudden gust blew away his own hat before he could catch it. He turned, and Seward had a clear view of his face. As rapidly, the vision evaporated, leaving Seward shocked and mystified: had he seen the present, or far into the future? At least he understood the men’s strange gait: they were on the deck of a ship.

  VIII.

  “What’s that you’re eating?” Antonio asked Diego, between gritted teeth. In the last few days their vessel had hit rough waters and he had been wretchedly seasick, unable to stir from their miserable berth below deck; and he was still furious about losing his prized cocked hat in a wind.

  “Ginger, Don Antonio,” Diego replied, chewing as contentedly as a cow on its cud. “A root very efficacious for nausea. I had the presence of mind to buy myself a small supply before we left port.”

  “Why in hell have you waited so long to give some to me?”

  With his pocket knife, Diego sliced off a section of the dry, knobbly root and offered it to Antonio, who crunched at it, grimacing at the taste. “I’ve been thinking,” Diego said, in the deliberate tone Antonio had come to recognise.

  “Yes, Diego?”

  “As you have at last confided in me that we’re not on a mission to bring funds to King Charles, and as I realise that we have no diplomatic papers to protect us, other than the ones I forged, we’ll want help upon our arrival in London.”

  Antonio glowered at this piece of wisdom, as unpalatable to him as the ginger root. He had been driven to show the forgeries when the ship’s captain had asked for their travelling documents. To Diego he had explained that he had deceived everyone about the purpose of his journey so as not to be bothered by questions. “And all you need to know is that I am seeking to re-establish a family connection in England.” To his annoyance, Diego had crowed with laughter. “I knew from the start that your pretext was false, Don Antonio! As if King Philip has money to spare for Charles of England.”

  “You might like to find yourself a friend,” Diego now continued, “such as … the Spanish ambassador.”

  “I should also like to be twenty years younger and rich as Croesus,” scoffed Antonio.

  Diego stopped chewing. “His name is Don Alonso de Cárdenas.”

  “Who told you that, my clever monkey?”

  “I’ve been following events in England ever since I began to learn the language. You said you have friends at King Philip’s Court – well I have friends in Madrid. Don Alonso has been King Philip’s envoy in En
gland for about the past five years,” Diego breezed on. “From what I managed to glean, he encountered many difficulties early in his appointment, the first being his greatest disadvantage: he spoke practically no English.”

  “Is that so,” said Antonio, mastering his temper; the ginger was working magic on his queasy stomach. “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He may be no friend to King Charles. Queen Henrietta Maria is French, and we are at war with France. Or should I say, losing our war with France.”

  “As I am perfectly aware. Have you a better reason?”

  “The English royals have been seeking aid from the Protestant House of Orange, in the Netherlands, to which Spain is equally hostile. And our King Philip has a strong interest in limiting the influence of his French and Dutch enemies abroad. In short, Don Alonso may be more kindly disposed to the English Parliament than to King Charles,” Diego concluded, popping another slice of ginger into his mouth.

  “Kindly disposed to a bunch of rebels?”

  “Yes – on the instruction of our king.”

  Antonio pondered: this did not fit with the tone of Don Miguel’s letter. How could Diego know more about English affairs than Don Miguel’s sons? “Surely neither our king nor Don Alonso can afford to be openly hostile to King Charles.”

  “You’re right, Don Antonio. It’s my guess that they’ll preserve a polite façade of diplomacy until they see how the civil war unfolds.”

  “Civil war?” Antonio shook his head in amazement. “Are you suggesting that King Charles might be defeated?”

  “You’re a soldier, Don Antonio – you have experienced the vagaries of warfare,” said Diego. “I’ve only studied them. But history teaches us that rulers can be defeated by their subjects, and I’d venture to predict that whichever side in this conflict has the most money and is least plagued by internal strife will win.”