The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “Sir Montague Hallam of the Vintners’ Company has a new wife – a marriage of convenience, or so it would appear for an old invalid,” replied Veech. “His bride, Isabella Savage, is said to be a woman of uncommon beauty, and hasn’t long to wait to be a wealthy widow.”

  St. John turned to face him. “I did not call you here to indulge in trivial gossip.”

  “Mr. Pym can’t have told you, Mr. St. John: I’ve been watching Sir Montague for some time,” said Veech, as if he had not heard the reproof.

  “You are wasting the resources of Parliament. Of all the Members in the City Corporation, Sir Montague is among the most loyal to us.”

  Again, Veech paid no notice. “I received information from a man I’d posted in the alehouse where Sir Montague’s servants go to drink, near the Strand. Last week, his valet let slip that Lady Hallam gave up a lover to get married.” Veech saw a gleam in St. John’s eyes: how these Puritans relished a juicy scandal. “He eavesdropped on her talking with her maidservant. The lover’s name was Beaumont.”

  “And what do you make of that, Mr. Veech?” said St. John, in a politer tone.

  “Sir Montague conducts regular business with Oxford. I’ve searched his barrels randomly, unbeknownst to him, and found no evidence to incriminate him – thus far.”

  “You searched them without proper warrant?”

  “I shall have the warrant soon enough. As to other matters,” Veech went on, “Mr. Devenish informed my agent Draycott that Major Ogle is petitioning the House of Lords to be released from gaol with a keeper, to obtain materials to prosecute his case. He will then be allowed to escape. It’s my guess that he will stop, on his way to Oxford, to visit his purported friend Lieutenant-Colonel Mosely in the Aylesbury garrison.”

  “A neat plan, sir,” St. John acknowledged. “He cannot suspect that both Devenish and the Lieutenant-Colonel are loyal to us.”

  Veech bent to adjust his brace; Pym would have made some kind inquiry about his leg, but not St. John. “When the garrison is supposedly to fall to the Royalists, who might be commanded to occupy it?” he asked.

  “Who can say, Mr. Veech – the honour might go to Prince Rupert himself. Pray God, Essex’s troops will be waiting to do battle with whoever is sent.”

  “His Majesty’s beloved nephew would be a prize hostage for Parliament. Mosely could insist that he will open the gates only to Rupert.”

  “Are you proposing that we lay a trap for the Prince?”

  “Yes, Mr. St. John,” said Veech, wanting to laugh at the man’s outraged face; what a performance.

  “Rupert may be wary of such a condition.”

  “I doubt it, with the King so sure of Mosely.”

  “Even if Rupert were drawn in, he and his Lifeguard would fight to the death.”

  “No, sir: he’s a mercenary – a professional soldier, if you prefer – and they don’t waste their resources in bootless heroism when they know themselves outnumbered.”

  St. John was clearly too deep in thought to catch Veech’s contemptuous use of his own phrase. “The Committee might consider it an … un-English tactic.”

  “Rupert is half-German and un-English in his tactics. How else did he earn the title of Prince Robber, but by sacking English towns and demanding tribute from the citizens?”

  “And his brother Prince Maurice is still worse. By spring, Mr. Veech, the Committee of Safety will have a change of title,” St. John said next. “The Scots Commissioners have requested it to be called the Committee of Both Kingdoms.”

  “Another marriage of convenience,” said Veech, under his breath.

  IV.

  Blowing on his numbed hands, his stomach growling, Draycott paced up and down the chilly hall of Westminster. He had missed his dinner with Judith; Veech was an hour late for their appointment; and at half past three in the afternoon the light was fading, and he would have to go home, across the river, in bleak darkness. “I’ve waited long enough,” he muttered to himself.

  Then he saw Veech hobbling through the main doors, leaning heavily on a cane. “Mr. Draycott – were you about to leave? Forgive me, sir: Mr. St. John kept me at Derby House. Let’s hire a hackney coach to take us to Ludgate. I daren’t walk the distance in this weather, or my leg will seize up.” When they had found a vehicle and were settled in, rattling up the Strand, he asked, “How is Mr. Price?”

  “How do you think – he’s been agitating for this meeting each time I see him,” Draycott replied irritably. “He will not talk to me. Why have you delayed, if you’re so anxious to capture Beaumont?”

  “Is it not your practice as a lawyer to investigate the character of a witness, before you place any trust in his testimony?”

  “Of course it is.”

  Veech was wedging his left foot against the door, to protect his wounded leg from the bouncing of the coach. “Mr. Price has acquaintances everywhere,” he said. “At the Saracen’s Head, where we’re going, and in Cheapside, and in Southwark. They’re a mixed lot, as mixed as their accounts of him. Some report that he’s a thief and a cozening rogue, always out of funds because of his extravagant tastes. Yet the landlord of the Saracen’s Head, Robin Nunn, claims he’s a gentleman, and pays his bills. Price’s mistress, Susan Sprye, is employed by Nunn as a serving wench. Price has promised to marry her, Nunn says. The man I sent on my inquiries tried to talk to her, but she was tight-lipped and hostile.”

  “Your description of Price matches a multitude of citizens in London.”

  “You’re annoyed with me, sir, but be patient and hear me out. Mr. Price’s friend in Cheapside is Thomas Violet, a goldsmith, and a known agent for His Majesty who goes back and forth from Oxford. I should say, I’m letting him do so, for the present, until I decide to take him.”

  “That is a curious association,” agreed Draycott.

  “As curious as Price’s friends in Southwark. There used to be a famous brothel in Blackman Street. The bawd and her whores had since seen the error of their ways, and turned it into a house of prayer. Troopers searched it over and over, but could discover no signs that she was in her former business. She died in November, and a servant of hers named Peter Barlow now keeps the house. He’s served his spells in gaol. He was a practised miller of kens, if you’re acquainted with the term.”

  “Are you testing me, Mr. Veech? He was a burglar.”

  “And you must have come face to face with him, the night Beaumont escaped, when you went knocking on all the doors of Blackman Street.”

  “It’s possible, though I’d be hard put to remember any one face, we questioned so many people.” Draycott chose not to add that he had been so horrified, confused, and subsequently embarrassed by the whole train of events that he had done his best to forget them.

  “My man spoke with Mistress Edwards’ neighbour, who knows Mr. Price as a merry young blade. He visits Barlow to this day.”

  “Price is an informer. We can’t expect him to be a choir boy.”

  “He’s far from that. But let’s return to the night of Beaumont’s escape. A very short time before you knocked at Mistress Edwards’ house, the neighbour heard footsteps and pounding on her door. She was scared to tell the authorities – Barlow’s a rough fellow. And the next week, she heard there was sickness in the house, though Mr. Price went in and out freely. The house was shut to visitors until after the twenty-second of October, around when Price took his lodgings at the Saracen’s Head.”

  Draycott held up a hand. “You’ve lost me, sir.”

  “On the twenty-first of October, an old lady was taken out of the house swaddled in blankets, and packed into the back of the cart. One of Mistress Edwards’ women drove off the cart.”

  “The old lady was Mistress Edwards, I presume.”

  “No, sir: Mistress Edwards was a little old lady. This one was tall.”

  “Then … Beaumont was hiding at Mistress Edwards’, and got smuggled out.”

  “And where does that leave us with Mr. Price?”

&nb
sp; “He’s a true scoundrel. He’s about to inform on his friends, who abetted in Beaumont’s escape.” The coach made a sharp lurch, round Temple Bar into Fleet Street, and Draycott was thrown sideways against Veech, who thrust him violently away. “Excuse me,” he said, staggered by the fury on Veech’s face.

  “That would be the most obvious explanation,” Veech said, calm again, as though nothing had happened. “But Mr. Price may be yet trickier. On the day you met him at Winchester House, he had come to visit a prisoner there, our Major Ogle, who is getting ready to fly the coop. And they had a very quiet chat together, Mr. Devenish said.”

  “So what mischief is Price up to?”

  “We must find out.”

  “Will you arrest the occupants of Blackman Street?”

  Veech rolled his eyes. “You and Mr. St. John both are so eager for arrests, when it’s the small fish that are bait to hook the biggest.” The coach had come to a halt. Draycott leant through the window; in the twilight he could discern a signpost, of a turbaned face in profile with a hawkish nose. “I’ll do the talking,” Veech said. “You listen, and learn.”

  V.

  Laurence had much to say to his father, on the ride to Sir Harold Furnival’s house, and so he began at once. “I think you should profit from the break in hostilities over Christmas by hiding as much of your wealth as you can, as secretly as you’re able. You’ll need enough to support you to live in modest style for some years: gold, silver, jewellery – items that are portable and easy to conceal. Most of your servants would lay down their lives to protect you, but in the circumstances of war, you can’t rely on their discretion. As few of them as possible should know where your valuables are hidden. And in the last extremity, I’d recommend that you might go to France.”

  Lord Beaumont frowned at Laurence as if he had proposed running naked through the streets of Chipping Campden. “I would rather be slain on my doorstep.”

  “I hope Parliament would treat you more respectfully than that, and, in the event of His Majesty’s defeat, would pardon Tom. But I might not be as fortunate, given who I serve.”

  “I never liked you in such work, even when you served Lord Falkland.”

  Laurence refrained from pointing out how it was his father’s well-meaning suggestion that he seek employment with Falkland that had sucked him back into espionage, on his return from abroad. “Even sooner, you may need money to pay the fines that will be levied on you, should our part of Gloucestershire fall to the enemy. And you should be prepared for what may happen to the house.”

  “Oh that I could wave a magic wand to render my marbles invisible, and my canvasses, and the books in my library,” Lord Beaumont lamented. “Your mother would say they are just things, yet they are beautiful things that represent to me what separates us from the character of the beast, as Aristotle so aptly named it. I shall talk with her after the wedding, about what might be stored away. Now do not press me any more, Laurence. You will find that Sir Harold and Lady Margaret keep a large household, in the old style – a contrast to ours, not that Penelope seems distressed by the prospect of life at Chipping Campden. She has paid us a few visits, and grown close to Elizabeth. She is a sociable girl.” He paused; and Laurence knew what was coming next. “You must forgive me, but I inquired of Ingram as to your relations with Mistress Savage, and he told me she had ended them. Is that so?”

  “It is,” said Laurence shortly, and for the rest of their journey they discussed other matters: the estate, his lordship’s tenants, and Elizabeth’s interest in a second marriage.

  Sir Harold’s was indeed a traditional country seat, from the crumbling stone archway bearing the Furnival coat of arms to the house itself, a timbered structure with diamond-paned windows and an overhanging thatched roof. The front doors opened directly into a hall festooned with ancient weapons, and the air was thick with smoke from damp wood smouldering in an enormous blackened fireplace. A couple of wolfhounds trotted up, slavering enthusiastically when Laurence patted their grizzled heads. He was surprised to see some thirty people assembled, most of them women and young girls, busy carding wool and spinning; tasks that Lady Beaumont assigned to her servants. They all rose to curtsey, some of them clearly in awe of the new arrivals.

  “Your lordship, Mr. Beaumont,” Sir Harold greeted them in a loud voice, striding up from his place by the fire. He had the rubicund complexion of a man who spent little time indoors, and his legs were as bandy as old Jacob’s from years in the saddle. His manner struck Laurence as simultaneously fawning and self-satisfied, and there was a glint of avarice in his eyes as he appraised his guests. When his remarks about Laurence’s prestigious service with the Secretary of State elicited no comment from Laurence, he turned his attention to Lord Beaumont. Laurence understood him: it did not signify whether he especially liked his future son-in-law; his daughter would be wife to the heir of a wealthy peer, and that was sufficient. Lady Margaret greeted them more timidly. She must have been as pretty as Penelope in youth, but her brow was now creased into an expression of permanent anxiety, and the way she deferred to Sir Harold suggested that she lived in fear of him.

  “Pen is everyone’s favourite,” Sir Harold said, as the girl came forward. “She was even celebrated at Her Majesty’s Court, and cannot stop talking about her sojourn in Oxford. Her Majesty and Lord Jermyn showed her the greatest kindness …” Laurence’s gaze drifted as Sir Harold babbled on. A girl who resembled Penelope, but more humbly dressed, had risen from her spinning wheel. A sister, he assumed. Then Sir Harold distracted him, moving closer and talking in an even louder voice; and when Laurence looked again, she had disappeared. “We should let the young folk get acquainted,” Sir Harold told his wife and Lord Beaumont.

  Penelope slipped her arm into Laurence’s and drew him a little aside. “You must find us very homely, Mr. Beaumont, after the splendours of Chipping Campden.”

  He could think of nothing to say to this. He wanted to like her: Elizabeth’s friendship was a recommendation, and he could identify no flaw in her physically. Yet he could not help remembering the tiny lines at the corners of Isabella’s eyes and mouth, witness to experience of both suffering and pleasure; and how the light would catch the gold in her irises and the copper in her dark hair.

  “Sir,” said Penelope, in a consternated tone, “I believe your mind is elsewhere.”

  “Oh no,” he assured her. “Tell me more about your time in Oxford.”

  VI.

  Unabashed by the presence of the Beaumont family, Madam Musgrave assaulted Laurence in the entrance hall at Chipping Campden and crushed him to her, momentarily depriving him of breath. He was delighted to see her unchanged, still wearing her stiff, outmoded gown and yellow ruff. “Mr. Beaumont, can it be that you are even more handsome than I recollect?” she said, in a voice as booming as Sir Harold’s, but far dearer to his ears. “Let’s have a proper kiss, you young devil.” And she smacked him on the lips. “Where is Walter’s sweetheart?” she demanded, and embraced Anne with the same gusto. “Mr. Beaumont and I plotted this match,” she informed Lord and Lady Beaumont triumphantly.

  “Mr. Ingram and I are very lucky that you did,” Anne said, smiling.

  “Madam Musgrave, you will be thirsty after your journey,” Lord Beaumont said, offering her his arm.

  “I am, my lord,” she rejoined, seizing it, and swept him into the Hall. The other women followed, leaving Ingram, Richard, and Laurence behind.

  Richard bowed to Laurence, for the first time in their unfriendly acquaintance. Laurence bowed also, but could not resist the urge to provoke. “Mr. Ingram,” he said, “I owe you an apology. From the day I met your younger brother at College, I have exerted an evil and debauching influence over him, for which, in the past, you quite correctly reproved me. And now I see the tragic consequences: he is about to marry my sister. I don’t know how I can make amends.”

  Richard blushed and stammered, “There is … really no need.”

  Laurence and Madam Musg
rave sat at cards into the early hours of the morning, long after the rest of the household had retired. His lordship’s butler had furnished them amply with Jerez, and a platter of almond tartlets on her special request, and they were both somewhat tipsy. Laurence was letting her win and she knew it, but she was enjoying herself too much to object.

  As he dealt out a fresh round, she observed, “Human nature is a constant source of amazement to me, sir: that two children from the same issue as Walter should end up such prim, pious creatures! Richard is a conceited idiot with no head for business, and Kate behaves as though she has never broken wind in her entire life.”

  “Perhaps she hasn’t,” said Laurence. “That would explain a lot about her character.”

  “Ah well,” laughed Madam Musgrave, “I suppose we must forgive them. They were orphaned young, and Richard had to grow up fast, trying to be both father and brother. Mr. Beaumont,” she said, wiping her sticky fingers on the skirt of her gown, “I have the distinct impression that, unlike Walter and Anne, you are unhappy in love and in want of advice.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Laurence agreed, and confessed all.

  “So it was Mistress Savage that we talked of at my house, when you asked if a woman could conceive after having a child torn from her womb.”

  “And you said it might be possible.”

  “But it may be only a faint chance, if you have not yet got a babe on her. She was wise to decline you. As for Mistress Furnival, give her children and she may be content to let you do as you please, if you’re discreet and don’t bring home any gifts from your travels,” Madam Musgrave went on, grabbing another tartlet. “I should not have to remind a man of your age and experience that few marriages begin with love. You’re a horse left too long to its own druthers. It will do you a world of good to settle down. And fatherhood – legitimate fatherhood,” she stressed, “may bring you unexpected joy. Now, there’s a fee for my counsel, sir.”