The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  Laurence could not argue. He rose and went to the door. Price was chatting with Quayle in the hall outside; when he saw Laurence, he hurried over.

  Laurence had a second to whisper in his ear. “They’re sending you to London, and will ask you to enter into Veech’s service and supply us with intelligence on him. Refuse, if you value your life.” The moment Laurence stopped speaking, he realised he had said the stupidest thing possible.

  Price’s face shone. He walked in, ahead of Laurence; and while Digby explained, in the briefest detail, about Winchester House, and then described the trickier part of his assignment, he listened avidly.

  “A risk is always rewarded by His Majesty,” Digby said, smiling at Laurence.

  Price did not hesitate. “I am honoured to accept, my lords, and I pray that I shall prove worthy of your trust.”

  Still smiling at Laurence, Digby produced a purse from the drawer of his desk and gave it to Price. “An advance on your wages, Mr. Price. Mistress Savage’s house may become somewhat crowded when she is home from the country, so Quayle has prepared a chamber for you here, in my quarters. You may go with him to inspect it, and then you are invited to dine with me and my father. Mr. Beaumont, I thank you for a most informative conversation.”

  “Might I beg a word with Mr. Beaumont before he leaves?” Price asked, his expression now that of a child about to be separated from its mother.

  “We’ll talk when you come to collect your belongings from the house,” Laurence said to him. “Good day, your lordships.”

  Laurence strode out and snatched his cloak from Quayle. Tugging it around his shoulders, he tore off into the street and back towards the Woodstock Road. He was so angry that he did not feel the cold, though it was indeed foul weather, and he could not blame the Trained Bands for running home. He would be as glad to desert from Digby’s service. And what more could he say to Price about the enormity of the task he had accepted? Price would not listen to him. Laurence next considered appealing straight to the King, to reconsider these rash schemes. But he knew that His Majesty would not listen, either. Both were already seduced, by their own aspirations and by the Digbys.

  There was a carrier at Isabella’s front door, shuffling his feet to keep himself warm. “Mr. Beaumont? A letter for you, sir,” he said.

  Laurence took it, hoping for her writing on the cover, but instead recognised Walter Ingram’s. He paid the man and went inside. As he threw off his cloak, her cat appeared as if out of thin air and circled him mewing; he had forgotten to feed it since the day before. And how dismal the place looked: the table was strewn with evidence of his labours with Price, and dirty glasses, plates, and knives, and stumps of burnt-out candles; skeletons of roses poked from a vase on the window ledge surrounded by a drift of decaying petals; balls of paper lay scattered across the floor; and every surface was dusty with ash from the fireplace. He went into the kitchen, the cat trotting at his heels, and rooted out some leftovers of a ham joint and a bowl of soured milk for it. Then he found a bottle of wine and started to drink as he read Ingram’s letter; he had not seen his old friend in months.

  Ingram opened with kindly inquiries, and a short account of his actions in Prince Rupert’s autumn campaign. “ ‘Major Beaumont’ likes his elevated rank,” Ingram commented. Of his own sister, Sir Bernard Radcliff’s widow, he wrote, “Kate was delivered of a healthy boy on the last day of September, but the fenland air in Cambridgeshire did not agree with her. She left the Radcliff estate in the care of her steward, and has gone with the baby to Aunt Musgrave’s.” Laurence smiled: proud Lady Radcliff was once more dependent on the hospitality of long-suffering Madam Musgrave. “Our troop stopped by Chipping Campden on All Saints Day,” Ingram went on. “Tom wanted his lordship your father to supply some of his horses for the men, and funds for their equipment. His lordship admitted to me that he was not sleeping well, and had pain in his joints. I seized the chance to warn him about the damage that I have seen wrought to other great houses, knowing how he cherishes his beloved collection of art. We also talked more cheerfully of wedding plans. Anne and I are to marry on the seventeenth of December, with modest ceremony. Hard times do not warrant lavish celebrations, and his lordship has dug deep into his pockets to finance Tom’s troop, or should I say, the Major’s. We pray you can come to the wedding. Aunt Musgrave is especially keen to embrace you.” Laurence smiled again, remembering her wise, affectionate face and bearlike hugs. “If you see Dr. Seward at the College, please greet him for me.” Below his signature, Ingram had penned an afterthought. “His lordship and her ladyship are very distressed, Beaumont, that you will not sever your ties with Mistress Savage. They asked me, as your friend, to urge that you do so. I told them how she helped to save your life when you were imprisoned in Oxford Castle. Nonetheless, I understand their feelings. We shall have occasion to discuss yours, God willing, since his lordship has invited me to stay at the house over Christmastide.”

  How typical of Ingram to sympathise with both sides; yet the issue must be resolved. Laurence decided to ask Digby for a couple of days’ leave to go home, as soon as Price set out for London.

  II.

  “Mr. Beaumont was predictably difficult,” Digby complained to his father, as they took a turn in the herb garden before dinner. “I do wonder why His Majesty insisted that we ask for his opinion. I also wonder about this secret business in which he helped the King. As Secretary of State, I should be privy to it. If only I could raise Falkland from the grave: he must have known about it, and, I am convinced, destroyed all record of it prior to his mad decision to ride into the fray at Newbury and get himself slaughtered.”

  “My dear son, calm,” said Bristol, his breath fogging in the misty air. “It is a good habit to listen as much to advice one does not want to hear as to that which one does. Mr. Beaumont may be right that Mr. Price is still wet behind the ears, and that a more experienced agent should be in London to handle him.”

  “Don’t speak to me of ears,” Digby said, cringing at the memory of Albright’s. “And who else have we in London?”

  “Were Isabella there, she could supervise Price and the necessary imports for our plan. She possesses both experience and subtlety in such matters. George, you must persuade her to wed Sir Montague. You can assure her that it would not trouble him if she and Beaumont remained lovers.”

  “The old roué might derive pleasure from watching them together. Gossip always had it that he was something of a voyeur.”

  “Work upon her, then.”

  Digby began to smile. “I am working, through Mr. Cotterell. I wrote to him of her position and told him truthfully that Beaumont would hurt her, and that she would be foolish to spurn this opportunity for marriage and a comfortable future. Mr. Cotterell is particularly sensible to her feelings. And she will heed his advice, where she might believe mine prejudiced.”

  “She owes her very survival to him and his late wife. They nursed her so kindly back to health, after …” Bristol stopped, and sighed.

  “It might be easier to have Mr. Beaumont out of town, around the time that she is to return. I can then judge what progress Mr. Cotterell has made in his efforts.”

  “Yes, it might. But where and on what pretext will you dispatch Beaumont?”

  “I shall think of one,” said Digby.

  III.

  Veech could see that John Pym was clinging to life by a thread. His skin had a chalky hue where it was not blotted with sores and broken blood vessels, his clothes sagged on his frame, and when he spoke, his voice was so faint that Veech and St. John had to lean in to catch his words. “Oliver,” he said to St. John, “show Clement what evidence of the King’s duplicity we have lately received.”

  St. John looked to Veech a pompous fellow, with his curled hair and fancy clothes; he had been the King’s Solicitor-General, a position stripped from him before the war by His Majesty for political reasons. “This is a copy of a letter from a Major Ogle, prisoner at Winchester House, to the Earl
of Bristol,” St. John said, handing Veech the paper. “The original letter was forwarded to the Earl through our commander in the Aylesbury garrison, Lieutenant-Colonel Mosley. Major Ogle is a sincere yet misguided gentleman who believes he can find common ground between the King and Members of our Parliament disaffected by our alliance with the Scots. He has outlined the terms upon which they might support the King, and, moreover, has stated that as proof of good faith, our garrison at Aylesbury might be surrendered to the Royalists in January.”

  “How can Major Ogle make such a claim from a gaol cell?” Veech asked incredulously, eyeing the letter. The chain of involvement fascinated him, however: if Bristol was a part of the King’s scheme, so was Lord Digby, and so must be Laurence Beaumont.

  “Because Lieutenant-Colonel Mosely has encouraged him in that expectation.”

  “In which he is deceived?”

  “Entirely deceived, and he is equally deceived into thinking that the keeper of Winchester House, Mr. Devenish, is his friend and accomplice.”

  “It is a most scurrilous affair,” said Pym, his sunken eyes half closed. “The King can have no true desire for a reform of the English Church, or he would have acceded to Parliament’s demands on that count during last year’s peace talks. Oliver, you must forewarn the Members of Parliament, but let us keep this business quiet. With God’s blessing, our treaty with the Scots Commissioners will be concluded in the next few days. It is imperative that we show them a united front. Mr. Veech, have you any tidings for us?”

  “I continue to search cargo,” said Veech, “but no arms or powder have been discovered, as yet. I heard, however, that His Majesty’s agent Mr. Violet was here not long ago, and visited with important folk in the City, some of them Catholics.”

  “You should have brought Violet in for questioning, Mr. Veech,” said St. John.

  “That would be to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, Mr. St. John. I’ll take him, when the time is right.”

  Pym frowned at Veech. “Clement, I had report of Hector Albright. Someone who saw his body told me it had been … mutilated, by you.”

  “He did not die from having his ears clipped,” Veech responded obliquely.

  “That was not all you did to him,” murmured Pym, in a sickened tone.

  To judge by the expression on St. John’s face, he could not give a damn, so Veech let the comment pass.

  IV.

  “Your Majesty’s profile was admirably captured,” Digby said to the King, of the new medals struck to award his soldiers for gallantry in the field. They were leaving the mint at New Inn Hall, where quantities of College plate were being melted down and turned into coin for the war effort. “In the next issue, however, might I suggest an equestrian portrait? It would convey a martial tone in keeping with the medals’ purpose.”

  “I shall bear that in mind,” said the King. “Has Violet set forth yet with … what is his name …?”

  “Mr. Price, Your Majesty. Yes, three days ago. They may be in London by now.”

  “I am sorry that Mr. Beaumont d-disapproved of our plans.”

  “Were he so very averse, he would have come and told you.”

  “Yes, I think he would.”

  “And it is, shall we say, a deformity of his profession to see flaws in every plan. Experience has taught him to trust nothing and no one.”

  The King hesitated at the door to his coach. “I hope you are not on bad terms with him, because of his opinions?”

  “We parted on the best of terms, after I granted him a week’s leave to call upon his father, who has been asking him to visit for some time.”

  Assisted by an equerry, the King lifted his fur-lined cloak to ascend the muddied stair. Then he beckoned Digby to the window. “Prince Rupert comes tonight into town, to sup with us at Christ Church.”

  “He must be fresh from harassing the Earl of Essex’s regiments,” Digby observed, concealing irritation; inevitably Rupert would attend their meeting of His Majesty’s Council later, and throw his weight around.

  “Her Majesty wishes for you and Jermyn to leaven the atmosphere at table,” the King said, with a twinkle in his eye. “My nephew can sometimes discourse too long on military manoeuvres for her taste.”

  “She may depend upon us for lighter fare,” said Digby, and bade the King goodbye.

  How to exploit this evening to his own advantage, Digby ruminated, on the way back to his quarters: he and the Queen both viewed Rupert as their main rival for influence over her husband, and they could not resist poking fun at the humourless young man, who missed even the most blatant of jokes. Jermyn was more cordial towards the Prince, yet Digby often managed to eke a smile out of him with some veiled witticism at Rupert’s expense.

  “My lord, you have visitors from London,” Quayle said, as Digby bustled in out of the cold. “Two – er – ladies, who are in search of Mr. Beaumont. They are in your antechamber. I took the liberty of serving them wine.”

  Digby handed Quayle his cloak and hat, and smoothed down his hair, before entering the room. The women had drawn up chairs at the fireplace, and were sipping from their glasses and teasing Isabella’s cat with a ribbon; Beaumont had consigned the animal to Digby’s care on his departure. The prettiest, a blonde with dimples at either corner of her mouth, was pregnant, Digby noted. Although both wore high-cut frocks of sober colour, as they rose and curtseyed he had to agree with Quayle: there was something unladylike about them.

  “My Lord Digby, we thank you for receiving us,” the blonde said, in an accent of mixed gentility and common London twang. “May I introduce Mistress Perdita Hughes.” Her companion was a redhead, with pillow lips. “And I am Madam Cordelia Weston. We are friends of Mr. Beaumont.”

  “Merely friends, my lord – we know that he is soon to be married,” said Mistress Hughes, reassuringly. “We come with sad news for him, from the capital.”

  “Oh?” said Digby. Whores, he realised: expensive whores; and they were taking the measure of him, as expertly as he was them.

  “A lady very close to his heart has passed on,” said Madam Weston.

  “That is tragic!”

  “Mistress Edwards was sixty-two in April, my lord,” Mistress Hughes said. “A fair age, but it was still a blow to us.”

  “Was she your … mother?”

  “No, my lord,” said Madam Weston. “She might have been, such was the attention she doted on us. We were lodgers at her house.”

  “Paying lodgers,” Mistress Hughes added.

  “Please be seated, ladies,” he said, and availed himself of a chair.

  “Where might we find Mr. Beaumont, my lord?” Madam Weston asked, without further ado.

  “I am afraid that he went out of town yesterday, to his family in Gloucestershire.”

  “When might he return?”

  “In a week, or perhaps more.”

  “You won’t be sending him into London again, will you, my lord?”

  “Not after his most recent, arduous sojourn,” replied Digby; by her attitude, she had more than friendly feelings for Beaumont.

  “To be honest, our Mistress Edwards aided in his escape. He was hiding in her house, during his stay.”

  “What a service to His Majesty, and to myself! Were you ladies also of assistance to him?”

  “We did our share.”

  “Cordelia, you did more than that,” asserted Mistress Hughes, and to Digby, “She drove him through the defences in a donkey cart. He was lying in the back, got up as a sick old woman. If it wasn’t for Cordelia being in her delicate state, the militia would have searched the cart and found him.”

  “Then Mr. Beaumont is in debt to you for his life, Madam Weston,” said Digby, impressed.

  “He has done us many a good turn over the years.”

  “Why, how long have you known him?”

  “Since thirty-five or six, before he went to fight in the Low Countries,” said Mistress Hughes. “We were just girls then, weren’t we, Cordelia, and ne
w to the house. He is a sweet-tempered gentleman, and so respectful of the fair sex!”

  “Who is he to wed, my lord?” Madam Weston inquired.

  “A young maiden, from a neighbouring county.”

  “Oh – I’d pictured a woman. And Mistress Edwards said they’d been lovers for months. As a matter of fact, he bought her a necklace off the Mistress.”

  A bawd’s necklace for his darling Isabella, thought Digby. “That passion has ended.”

  “Well, well, and I thought he was so taken with her as to refuse all others!”

  Mistress Hughes nudged her friend’s elbow. “He didn’t refuse you, on his final night in London.”

  “Ladies,” Digby said, as though to steer the conversation away from Mr. Beaumont’s romantic affairs, “might you be acquainted with another of his London friends – Mr. Edward Price?”

  “Ned Price?” said Mistress Hughes. “It was at Mistress Edwards’ house that Mr. Beaumont met him, only last month.”

  Madam Weston expressed similar astonishment. “How might you be acquainted with him, my lord?”

  “He, too, came to Oxford in search of Mr. Beaumont. He seems a fine young gentleman.”

  The women looked at each other once more. “He does like to be seen as such, my lord,” said Madam Weston.

  “I had considered employing him in some way or other, but … as His Majesty’s Secretary of State, I must be assured of his probity.”

  “What’s probity, my lord?” queried Mistress Hughes, with endearing innocence.

  Digby surveyed them beneficently. “Tell me first about Mr. Price.”

  V.

  Laurence stirred, between sheets scented with Lady Beaumont’s select combination of bay and rosewater, and opened his eyes to the hangings of his bed. He wished he could remain there indefinitely, cocooned in this womblike space, familiar to him since childhood.

  He had trudged home in the dark through Lord Beaumont’s park, leading his Arab stallion; over the final mile from the gatehouse, a stone had nicked its front right fetlock, and he had not wanted to aggravate the injury. Jacob, his lordship’s venerable Master of Horse, had greeted him in the courtyard, promising the Arab a thorough rubbing down, a salve for its wound, and a supper fit for a king. Lord Beaumont’s valet, Geoffrey, stood on the front steps to usher Laurence in and take his sodden cloak; and in the luxury of the Hall, Laurence had enjoyed as warm a welcome from Lord and Lady Beaumont, his sisters Elizabeth and Anne, and Tom’s wife Mary.