Hearing the clink of spurs on the stair, she called out, “Laurence, is that you?”
“No, madam.” Thomas appeared at the door, and passed her a letter. “From the Spanish Envoy in London. He has a most fanciful seal.”
“The Spanish Envoy?” She scarcely glanced at it, surveying him instead. “Thomas, remove your boots, or you will leave muddy tracks all over the house.”
“I’m off to wash,” he said, and withdrew.
Lady Beaumont slit the seal with her paper knife, a miniature Toledo sword that had belonged to her mother, and that she had treasured since girlhood. She did not know Don Alonso de Cárdenas, nor could she imagine why he would write to her.
As she read beyond the formal greeting, the lines of script danced malevolently before her eyes. “Your cousin, the renowned soldier Don Antonio de Zamora, is in London, staying at the embassy as my guest. He has expressed a wish to reacquaint himself with you and your noble family, and bring you news from your homeland. He said that you have been parted these past thirty-odd years …” Conquering dizziness, she read to the bottom of the letter, and then reread it, to make certain she was not dreaming. How could this be? She would have to write to the Envoy and somehow stop Antonio’s invasion, but on what excuse? And why in God’s name should he come to her now?
She rose and went to the lacquered cabinet that she had brought with her from Seville as a bride. With a key on the chain at her waist, she unlocked the door, and pressed a panel that released a secret drawer where she stored a little rosewood box. As she had countless times, she picked it out and took from inside the medallion of reddish gold: on one side was engraved a cross, and on the other a sickle moon. Our bad blood seems destined to surface in each generation, Antonio had warned her.
Quickly she replaced the medallion, and thrust the box into the drawer along with the Envoy’s letter. She locked the cabinet again, and left her office. She could hear the gruff tones of Thomas and Adam in Thomas’s chamber; and as she reached the head of the stair, she saw her husband smiling up at her from the floor below. “My dear, you are pale. You work too hard on your accounts. Come, and leave business to itself.”
“I shall,” she said. Yet as she put a foot forward, the stairs transformed into the narrowest flight of steps, and the descent grew vertiginous, as if she were on the peak of a mountain. Lord Beaumont’s face had dwindled to a mere speck, though she caught the echo of his voice, crying out for help.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I.
Everyone in the household was perplexed that her ladyship should appear in robust health, and then in the space of hours faint and keep to her bed for three days, refusing to eat or speak. Neither Martha, mistress of the stillroom, nor Lord Beaumont’s surgeon could identify her malady. “The wedding drained her,” was Lord Beaumont’s explanation, and he stayed at her side until she had the strength to rise. By the fifth day, she was herself again, ordering about the servants, snipping at her children, and scolding Lord Beaumont for neglecting his own health. “It was no more than a passing ague,” she said, but her swift dismissal suggested otherwise to Laurence. He shared her impregnable constitution, which had borne him safely through his few childhood ailments, fluxes, chills, periods of starvation, a nearly mortal wound, and as close a brush with death from torture. She was hiding something, though he could not think what.
On purpose he rode back to Oxford a week earlier than the end of his holiday, hoping to catch Digby off guard, but his lordship’s offices were shut. Seward was still in Asthall with Dr. Clarke, so Laurence left his horse in the College stables and walked over to Christ Church in search of news about the stunning development Digby had mentioned. An equerry told him that the King was at the house of Sir Arthur Aston, the city Governor, but that Prince Charles would be pleased to receive him in the royal chambers.
He heard barking as he knocked at the doors, and the Prince rushed out, accompanied by Prince Rupert’s famous dog, Boy, wagging its tail. “Enter, sir,” said the Prince. “Rupert is here, and Harry Jermyn.”
Jermyn greeted Laurence as cordially, and Rupert’s handsome, stern face lit up. “Mr. Beaumont, how good to see you again,” he said, in his German-inflected English. “I have often asked your brother Thomas after you. And my cousin tells me you are teaching him how to design ciphers,” he added, ruffling Prince Charles’ hair.
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Laurence. “It’s been my pleasure.”
He had not seen Rupert in a while, and had forgotten how imposing the young man was, and not only in his height of well over six foot tall. Trained almost from infancy to his military career, Rupert had witnessed his first action when he was thirteen, no older than Prince Charles. At just twenty-four, he had a spectacular record of victory in this war, and his sole superior in the Royalist army was the old veteran, Patrick Ruthven, Earl of Forth, His Majesty’s Lord Marshal, whose gout and intemperance might soon prejudice his abilities in the field. No wonder Rupert was so envied by the men of Laurence’s age, such as Wilmot and Digby. But Laurence felt sorry for him: like Prince Charles, he had not yet been affected by the plague of intrigue and mistrust, and perhaps had not realised the extent to which his blunt manner, as much as his many talents and his privileged position with the King, had created him enemies in the Council of War.
“My Lord Digby is to return tomorrow or the next day, Mr. Beaumont,” Jermyn said. “He departed later than he’d wished for his family seat at Sherbourne, because his valet was taken ill.”
Prince Charles struck a languid pose, and mimicked Digby’s speech. “Poor Quayle was terribly afflicted with catarrh.” Next he became solemn and dignified, and adopted the King’s burr and stammer. “Our physician d-de Mayerne would advise a hot mustard p-plaster.”
“Now, now, Your Highness,” Jermyn reproved him, although all three men were trying not to laugh.
“It’s one of de Mayerne’s less revolting cures,” said the Prince. “I can’t remember what he once smeared on my chest, but it stank worse than a turd.”
“Mr. Beaumont, will you drink a cup of hippocras, or do you prefer your wine without sugar and spice, as I do?” inquired Rupert, waving to a sideboard laden with flagons and cups and salvers of sweetmeats.
“As you do, thank you, Your Highness,” said Laurence.
When Rupert had served him with charming informality, Charles led him to a table covered by a vast sheet of paper. “Look what Rupert made me for Christmas. Isn’t it magnificent?”
The gift was a map of the kingdom drawn in beautiful detail, with a breadth of geographical knowledge far beyond Laurence’s, and an artistry to which he could never aspire. There were forests, rivers, mountains, and hills; borders, county boundaries, cities, towns, fortifications, and roads; and around the islands, ships sailed, and fish and bare-breasted mermaids cavorted among the waves. Rupert had constructed little flags attached to wooden sticks no bigger than toothpicks, in orange for Parliament and gold, red, and blue for the Royalists, and had dispersed them about the map to indicate the current possessions of each side.
“It is amazing, Your Highness,” Laurence said frankly, to Rupert.
“My father believes these won’t be orange for long,” Prince Charles said to Laurence, indicating the flags at Aylesbury and southeast at Windsor, where the King’s Palace was depicted, and down the snaking Thames to London.
Rupert’s eyes were on Aylesbury. “Might we talk, Mr. Beaumont?” he asked. They left Charles and Jermyn with the map, and went to sit by the fireplace. “Major Ogle is in Oxford,” he said in a low voice. “I gather you assisted in his release.”
“Not I, but a man I trained – Edward Price,” Laurence said, relieved: this part of the mission had succeeded, although he still feared for Price’s survival as a double agent.
“Not just Aylesbury has been promised to surrender to us, sir, but also Windsor.”
Laurence drank off his wine, thinking of Digby’s reference to a richer prize. “I didn’t know abou
t Windsor, Your Highness.”
“Mr. Devenish has requested of Lord Bristol a royal warrant to raise two hundred men who will march into that garrison once I’ve occupied Aylesbury.” Rupert frowned at him. “Lord Digby said you were concerned that we should so rely on Devenish and the commander at Aylesbury. He joked to me that your brother’s name was more suited to you than yours, and called you a doubting Thomas.”
Laurence chose to be as blunt as Rupert. “My doubts persist. And I don’t understand how the keeper of a London gaol can promise you Windsor, too.”
“Ah well, in my view, Aylesbury is prize enough. The rebels could be so shaken by its loss that other ill-provisioned garrisons might follow in declaring for the King. You must take heart, sir: from our reports, the rebels’ power in London has shrunk over Christmastide, and their Parliament is poorly attended. The House of Commons is reduced to a third of its size, and the Lords to a mere score. My uncle is certain that both will be stripped of all legitimacy when his Assembly meets here in Oxford. By then, with God’s grace, Aylesbury will be ours.”
“When is it to be delivered?” asked Laurence, holding back more scepticism.
“If weather permits, my army will be at the gates on the twenty-first of January, the day before the Assembly opens.” Rupert rose as did Laurence, who was the shorter by two or three inches; a change for him. “I’ll bear your doubts in mind, however, Mr. Beaumont.”
Prince Charles and Jermyn were still poring over the map. “I recognise some of the mermaids,” the Prince exclaimed. “She’s the Duchess of Richmond.” Laurence noticed Rupert flush; according to Wilmot he had fallen in love with her, though the Duke was his close friend. “And I’d wager Mr. Beaumont can tell us who her companion is. Pray you examine her, sir.”
“Might she be the Duchess’s sister-in-law, my Lady d’Aubigny?”
The Prince winked at Jermyn. “To your expert eye, Mr. Beaumont, are her proportions accurately represented?”
“Her face is very like,” Laurence said judiciously; her breasts were larger in life, as he recollected.
“Rupert should have included Mistress Savage among them – she’d be perfect for a mermaid,” the Prince said. Then he too flushed.
“Down, Boy,” snapped Rupert, all of a sudden. The dog had its front paws on the sideboard and its nose in the sweetmeats.
Prince Charles ran to tug at its collar. “Stop, Boy, or you’ll be sick again. Rupert, he won’t listen to me.”
While the princes were busy chastising Boy, Jermyn turned to Laurence. “Mr. Beaumont, my Lord Digby asked me to tell you, in the event that you got to Oxford before him: Mistress Savage was married in London last month to Sir Montague Hallam, and is living at his house in the Strand. He’s a respected member of the Vintners’ Company whom the King knighted for his services to the City. He has already pledged his fealty to the royal cause, in secret, through Digby’s agent, Violet.”
Laurence could not speak for a moment. “Is he a … friend of Lord Digby’s?” he managed, at length.
“No, of Bristol’s. Digby knew it would be a blow to you, sir,” Jermyn continued, his face sympathetic. “But at least Mistress Savage will be in an excellent position to aid His Majesty in the capital.”
The wine surged up nauseously into Laurence’s throat, and he swallowed with an effort. “Then … is she now also an agent of Digby’s?”
Jermyn looked bewildered. “She always has been, sir, has she not?”
II.
“Ned,” hissed Sue, nudging Price beneath the bedclothes, “who were you dreaming of? Who’s Elizabeth, Ned? You were saying the name over and over.”
“For Christ’s sake, Sue, I’m barely awake yet and all I hear from you is who, where, what, Ned this, Ned that. Elizabeth was my mother’s name, if you must know.”
He swung his legs out of bed, sat up, and reached for the chamber pot. His immediate thought was that money went faster than he could piss. He was deep in debt to Robin Nunn, driven back to his old lodgings near Fish Street, and Sue had followed with infuriating tenacity. Veech had offered no advance upon hiring him, and he had seen neither Veech nor Draycott since that mid-December day. But at last he had received a message to meet them again this morning in the Saracen’s Head, and he was determined to squeeze some coin out of Veech, though he would need his wits to earn it.
“Will you call on the vicar, Ned?” she asked, as he began to dress. He did not reply, his mind on Veech. “Ned? Three weeks you’re home from Oxford, and I’m tired of your delays.”
“I told you,” he said, finally, dragging on his boots, “Mr. Beaumont was in Gloucestershire for Christmastide, and I didn’t get paid. We’ll have to wait until I have money.”
“Well I can’t wait. Ned, I am with child.”
He turned and stared at her. “Oh Sue, are you truly?” She nodded, her mouth wobbling. You’re not bound to have it, he nearly said. Then he thought of Jane in her grave, and felt remorse. “I’ll write to Mr. Beaumont and ask him to dispatch what he owes me. And after that, I’ll talk to the vicar.”
“Aren’t you happy, Ned?”
“Of course I am.” He bent to kiss her on the forehead. “Everything will be fine, don’t you worry.” As he was throwing on his cloak, it occurred to him that he did not care for her to witness his meeting with Veech and Draycott: she would want to know who they were. “You sleep a bit longer, my sweetheart. Let me call at the Saracen’s Head and tell Nunn your supper upset your stomach and you’ll come by in the afternoon when you feel better.”
Outside in the freezing dawn, Price swore some of his most indecent oaths: a future with Sue and a mewling babe scared him worse than jumping off London Bridge. He had not strived so hard and climbed so high to have his chances wrecked. Elizabeth was his destiny, and he deserved no less.
He walked northwest towards Ludgate, still pondering what to tell Veech. A crowd of unusual size had gathered at the end of Canning Street where the pamphleteers hawked their wares. “Hear ye, hear ye,” bellowed one of the sellers. “A devious papist plot has been discovered in our city, hatched by Jesuitical snakes. All is to be revealed in Parliament.”
Price stopped to buy a pamphlet, and as he read, his heart began to somersault in his chest. “Violet,” he whispered. “I must warn Violet.” He ran to Cheapside and the narrow close near St. Mary le Bow where Violet kept shop; the goldsmith had dutifully paid his taxes and was living above the premises, thus far unbothered by the authorities. Today, militiamen swarmed at Violet’s door. Another fascinated crowd filled the street, and people were craning from upstairs casements. “Open, on order of Parliament,” an officer yelled. The men pounded on the door with wooden staves, and eventually it splintered on its hinges. They barged inside, and Price watched haplessly as Violet was hauled forth. A hush fell among the spectators as the officer read out the charge: “Thomas Violet, you are under arrest for seditious practices, and conspiring with known Jesuits and papists to sow division between Parliament and the worthy aldermen of the City of London. I am hereby authorized to convey you to the Tower, where you will await examination by both Houses.”
“I am innocent of all these crimes,” protested Violet.
Soldiers wrestled him away, and as the crowd’s murmurs swelled to a hubbub, Price elbowed a path out, and hurried trembling and sweating towards the main thoroughfare of Cheapside. What if Violet broke under examination and gave his name? Calm, calm, he told himself, or Veech would be onto him quicker than a fox upon a rabbit.
Veech and Draycott had occupied a corner table in the taproom. Veech was lavishly seasoning his breakfast of fried collops and eggs; Draycott had only a mug of ale in front of him. Veech nodded at Price, while Draycott’s nervous eyes shifted from one to the other.
“Good day to you, gentlemen,” said Price, and slid onto the bench next to Draycott. He had been hungry earlier, but as Veech stabbed an egg yolk with the point of his knife and yellow liquid oozed out like blood from a wound, his appetite des
erted him. “What’s all the to-do in the streets?” he inquired, pretending mild concern.
“People are rioting to show their disgust, because the King has tried to stir up more trouble within the City,” Draycott replied. “It wasn’t to be an armed revolt, this time – instead, he attempted to woo the Lord Mayor and Members of the City Corporation. He invited them to his version of a parliament that he’s to call in Oxford later this month, where they would swear an oath declaring illegitimate our Parliament at Westminster. His letter to the Lord Mayor is to be published, as will other evidence of the conspiracy. Those most involved are Catholics.”
“Praise God it’s been thwarted,” said Price.
Veech licked a smear of yolk from his lips, his attitude reflective. “I forgot to ask you, Mr. Price: what brought you to Winchester House on the day you encountered Mr. Draycott there?”
“I’d been to visit a prisoner, a cousin of mine,” answered Price, wary at the change of subject.
“Hmm … Do you know the keeper, Mr. Devenish?”
The Licence of War Page 20
