The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “Not our pewter, but all of the gold and the silver along with our best jewels are buried under the dovecote floor. Sundry other items dear to his lordship are dispersed elsewhere, in the outbuildings.”

  “How many of the servants know?”

  “We could not have accomplished the digging unassisted. Although the work was done at night and by our closest servants, the rest were bound to wonder how come our fine pieces had disappeared. We elected to be honest, rather than let them believe that we had any less faith in them.”

  “And they have pledged their loyalty to us,” put in Lord Beaumont.

  “You were right,” Laurence told them, though he knew the threat of retribution might loosen the tongues of even the most devoted members of their household.

  “If the rebels decide to pillage the estate, we stand to lose everything else,” said Lady Beaumont, in her brusque manner. “We cannot hide our sheep and cattle, or the game in his lordship’s park.”

  “You would have to hide me. I was selfish to come here and put you at risk,” Laurence said. “Let’s hope word doesn’t get to the Gloucester garrison.”

  Lord Beaumont cheered a little. “We’ve our own means of collecting intelligence, on that score. Our neighbourly spies in Chipping Campden town are on the alert, and will report post haste to the gatekeeper any rumours of approaching troops.”

  “With sufficient notice, you could ride north across the Warwickshire border,” Lady Beaumont suggested to Laurence. “You would do well to ride there whatever the case. We might conclude the details of your betrothal this month, so that the marriage can be solemnised when Lord Digby next grants you leave.”

  “I might have to beg leave of Lord Wilmot. I tendered my resignation to Lord Digby. I only need His Majesty’s approval for it.”

  “Was there an argument between you and his lordship?” she inquired accusingly.

  “No, I’ve had enough of serving him, that’s all.”

  “Thank heavens, my boy – he is a pernicious fellow,” exclaimed Lord Beaumont, surprising both Laurence and his wife.

  “My lord, how can you speak so?” she said.

  “He is what Parliament says of him, my dear: an evil influence on our King. He has encouraged His Majesty to neglect the duties of a monarch towards his people. I might well ask you: how can His Majesty portray himself as a peacemaker, after these disgraceful schemes in London?”

  “We read a broadsheet composed by the rebels, my lord. I am disappointed that you should give credit to their lies. Now, pardon me. I have accounts to draw up in my office.”

  When she had gone, Lord Beaumont cast his eyes towards the ceiling. “I cannot discuss political affairs with your mother. She has a vein of extremism in her, much like the Queen’s. Her Majesty has been as malign an influence upon the King as Digby. And it is hard for me to accept that their obduracy in the face of Parliament’s grievances may rob me of my sons, and land cultivated for six centuries by my ancestors.”

  “Do you ever think you chose wrongly, in siding with the King?” queried Laurence.

  “Yes, but in conscience I could not do otherwise. I would be more wrong yet to change sides now.”

  Laurence sensed that his father was about to ask him the same question and would be saddened by a truthful answer, so he remarked, “Ah well, there must be pernicious rascals on both sides.”

  “And noble souls, such as Lord Falkland. Were he still alive, and Secretary of State, he might have convinced His Majesty to chart a wiser course.”

  “Oh no,” said Laurence, unable to conceal his bitterness. “He had given up all hope. That was why he died.”

  X.

  Lady Beaumont unlocked her cabinet and drew out the letters from Don Alonso de Cárdenas. The most recent she had received two weeks ago, mercifully unbeknownst to anyone but the local carrier; it described Antonio’s flight from the Envoy’s house, and his probable involvement in the slaying of an officer in London.

  The militia searched in vain for the culprits, and I have endeavoured to learn independently of Don Antonio’s whereabouts, to no result. My Lady Beaumont, your cousin is a reckless and violent man, whose sanity I begin to doubt. Forgive me my error, in telling him where to find you. I believe he will come to you soon. When he does, you must write to me at once. His presence in England is a threat to you, and to my position here as His Majesty King Philip’s representative. I shall not hesitate to assist you, if it is in my power.

  She closed her eyes and leant against her cabinet for support. Should she confide in her husband and her son, or await further news of Antonio? If she spoke out, they would ask why she had kept silent about the first letter. She might invent an excuse her husband would believe, but Laurence would not be fooled. She remembered his sceptical look when she had dismissed her illness at Christmastide as a passing ague; he would connect it to the letter. And there were so many obstacles that might forestall Antonio’s arrival: capture by Parliament, death in a fight or from the cold. He could already have succumbed to one of these; it was now over a month since he had fled the Spanish embassy. Why prejudice the peace within her household for nothing?

  CHAPTER NINE

  I.

  Among the first in gaol to be selected by Prince Rupert’s recruiting officers was a pair of French mercenaries, Antoine Desorme and Jacques Sand. On the eve of their march to Shrewsbury, Diego explained to the officers that Antonio had served most of his sentence and he himself had been convicted of no crime. Might he absent himself briefly from camp to purchase some supplies in town, for the road?

  He came back exultant, and reported to Antonio, “I found Lord Digby’s offices and inquired about Mr. Beaumont of his lordship’s servant, pretending to be a friend from the Low Countries. Mr. Beaumont is at his father’s house recuperating from a wound. The house is as the Envoy told us, some thirty-five odd miles northwest, near a town named Chipping Campden.”

  “How fortuitous,” said Antonio. “We’re heading that way tomorrow. We can escape from the ranks once we get closer to our destination.”

  Diego seemed not to hear him. “I also asked after Mr. Beaumont’s brother. Major Thomas Beaumont serves in Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard. He rode out of Oxford about a week ago with the Prince, and must now be at Shrewsbury.”

  “So what? Shrewsbury is over a hundred miles away.”

  “Don Antonio,” said Diego, “while the prospect of travelling such a distance in this brutal climate with a bunch of thieves, drunks, turncoats, and deserters is anathema to me, and I’m tired of posing as a Frenchman, the fact is that if we’re captured as deserters, we’ll face a hanging. I didn’t waste a month of my life locked up with you, sharing the blame for your stupid offence, only to lose it because you haven’t the patience to wait until we get to Rupert’s camp.”

  “Why must I wait, you impudent boy?”

  “You know almost nothing about the Beaumonts. You would confront a united force on home ground, without intelligence as to its weaknesses. You may think it convenient that Mr. Beaumont is there at the house, yet it’s the opposite. He’s a spy, and his expertise lies in detecting mischief. I propose, instead, that you open your campaign with his brother.”

  Again, Antonio had to concede to Diego’s wisdom. “Mr. Beaumont may be skilled in detecting mischief, Diego, but I happen to know that he has a mischievous past. I’ve been saving up a story for you, about him and a gypsy from Andaluz. I believe we could put it to good use.”

  II.

  Price timed his arrival at Chipping Campden to coincide with the supper hour, hoping that Beaumont would not dispatch him to the town inn as soon as he had delivered his news. He further hoped somehow to catch Elizabeth alone, although even if she received him warmly, Lady Beaumont’s opposition was predictable, judging by her disdainful attitude at the wedding banquet. More alarming was the thought that Beaumont might have revealed to Elizabeth the details of Price’s past. Yet nothing ventured, nothing gained, Price told himself, as the mans
ervant took his cloak in the entrance hall.

  “The family is at table in the parlour, sir,” the servant said. “Shall I announce you?”

  “No, I thank you,” said Price, in his best imitation of Lord Digby’s accent. “You may whisper in Mr. Beaumont’s ear that I bring him news from Oxford.”

  He waited, one elbow propped against the stone nymph’s shapely hip, listening to the genteel murmur of conversation and the clink of cutlery. When Beaumont emerged from the parlour, Price felt reassured by his amiable air; he wore a sling to support his right arm, but looked in much better health. He guided Price into the Hall, which appeared more spacious and austere on this occasion. “So, what news have you got?”

  “We’ve heard from Lady Hallam, through Violet’s wife.” Beaumont’s face became alert. “Violet’s still in the Tower, confined indefinitely at Parliament’s pleasure. Thanks to his City friends, he hasn’t been ill-treated, but his estates in Essex have been sequestered.”

  “Goodbye Violet,” Beaumont said, in a tone that disturbed Price.

  “At any rate,” Price went on, “about the barrels: she and Sir Montague predicted they would be searched by Parliament, and organized for them to be emptied beforehand. She wished to convey her thanks to you, nonetheless, for your warning.”

  “Has the powder been smuggled in?”

  “Yes, inside coffins. They were brought by river for burial to a crypt near Vauxhall. The authorities were too respectful to interfere with dead bodies. The powder will stay underground until it’s needed.”

  “Vauxhall is a bad choice: the land’s marshy. The powder will spoil if the crypt floods. And that could well happen before a march on London. What else?”

  “That’s all I have to tell you,” answered Price, now distinctly piqued. “I should be getting back to Oxford.”

  “No, sup with us, Price, and stay the night here,” said Beaumont. “I’ll ask for a chamber to be prepared.”

  Tonight’s was an intimate gathering, with none of the extended family members or dependents that Price would have anticipated in a noble household. Despite hunger, he restrained his appetite and said little. Lady Beaumont struck him as paler and thinner, her expression stern and withdrawn, and Lord Beaumont as benevolently vague. Price tried to keep his eyes from straying too often towards Elizabeth, but whenever he did venture a glance, she responded with a gratifying flush to her cheeks.

  After the meal Beaumont excused himself and his visitor, and escorted Price upstairs and along a corridor to the chamber where he would sleep. A fire blazed invitingly in the hearth, and a jug of steaming hot water, a washing bowl, towels, and a ball of fragrant soap were arranged on a side table. “I must write a message for you to deliver to Digby tomorrow,” Beaumont said. “We can talk more, in a bit. I’ll bring us up some wine.”

  Price closed the door and collapsed onto the luxurious featherbed. He imagined Elizabeth lying with him, her arms twined about his neck. And Beaumont had stuck him in a corner of this vast mansion, expecting him to stay there like an obedient child! “I’m not good enough for your sister, eh?” he was complaining into his pillow, when a noise arrested him: the click of a woman’s heels in the corridor. Someone knocked gently. He leapt from the bed, and answered, to Elizabeth.

  “Mr. Price, are you retiring already to sleep?”

  “Why … no, my lady,” he replied.

  She took a step nearer, leaving the door ajar. “How pleased I am to see you,” she said, in the same spontaneous manner as at the wedding banquet. “I’ve thought often of you, since we met.”

  “As … have I of you,” he said, cautiously.

  “My brother is particularly mysterious about you. He’s told me only that you were of assistance to him, and that he recommended you to Lord Digby.” Price nodded, further encouraged by Beaumont’s discretion. “Are you married, sir?” she asked next, so directly and with such candid interest that he hesitated.

  “I am a bachelor, my lady, free to pledge my affections where I choose.”

  “Have you a … sweetheart?”

  This time, Price did not hesitate. “No, my lady, and though you may consider me very forward, there is none other to whom I would rather pledge myself, than to you.”

  She sighed and offered him her hand, which he pressed to his lips. “I have been lonely, after the death of my husband. I never hoped to love again, as I did him. And yet …” She gave his fingers a little squeeze. “My strongest instincts inform me that … I am in love with you.”

  “My lady, those last words were on the tip of my tongue.”

  “You needn’t worry that my parents might forbid me to accept suitors so soon upon my widowhood,” she said, with an assurance that dizzied him. “They have agreed that I can, once Laurence is married. He and Mistress Furnival are to be wed in a matter of months.”

  “There might be other obstacles,” Price said, yearning for her to demolish them. “I am not of noble birth.”

  “Nor is Anne’s husband, Walter Ingram.”

  “I have no property to my name.”

  A shade of uncertainty crossed her face. “Ingram’s Aunt Musgrave made him heir to her estate – that was what sealed the betrothal. But Laurence told Ingram he would have spoken in favour of the marriage, even so. He’ll do as much for us. He’s your friend, too, is he not?”

  Price grew anxious: Beaumont could come upon them at any minute. “Yes, but my lady—”

  “Elizabeth,” she corrected him.

  “Elizabeth, we must keep our love private between us.”

  “Doesn’t Laurence know?”

  “I would have been presumptuous to speak out, when I was afraid you might not reciprocate my feelings.”

  “Now you can. Or I’ll tell him. And I can confide in Anne, not that she hasn’t guessed.”

  “No, I beg you – we’ve met just twice, and I have many things to settle before I can ask for your hand. I’ve … I’ve debts to repay.”

  “Ah well, afterwards we won’t have to concern ourselves about money. My bridal portion was restored to my father by Ormiston’s mother upon his death, since he and I were wed less than a year. It’s over a thousand pounds.”

  High stakes, thought Price. “Elizabeth, let’s not be rash. In due course, I’ll address his lordship for permission to court you. Anything else would be unworthy of us both. We should say no more tonight, but you will hear from me. Promise you will abide by my instructions?”

  “I promise.” She danced out, and blew him a kiss. “And I wish you happy dreams, sir.”

  Price shut the door again, trembling from head to toe. Impossible to maintain a conversation with Beaumont: his excitement would betray him, and that divine creature and her thousand pounds might be lost to him forever. He tore off his boots, undressed to his shirt, extinguished the candle by his bedside, and dived under the covers. He was praying for God to smooth his path towards marital bliss, when the clink of spurs in the corridor signalled Beaumont’s approach.

  A firmer knock sounded. “Price? Are you awake?”

  Price stumbled from bed, ran his fingers through his hair to dishevel it, and padded to the door. He opened it an inch. “I’m sorry, Beaumont – the journey must have tired me out.”

  Beaumont had two glasses in his left hand, a letter in his right, and a bottle tucked into his sling. “Never mind, we’ll drink when I get to Oxford in a couple of weeks. This is for Digby.” He passed Price the letter. “I’m sorry, about my rudeness earlier. It was a consequence of anxiety, but I shouldn’t have directed it at you.”

  “Oh, I understand. We could drink one glass,” said Price, feeling somewhat calmed, and buoyed by Beaumont’s apology, as frank as Elizabeth’s declaration of love.

  “No, no – one always leads to another, and you’ve a long ride tomorrow. Price,” Beaumont went on, more quietly, “I met Sue when I was in London. She told me about taking Devenish the pie – and about the child.”

  “Trust her to keep a secret.”


  “She asked if I wanted to hide in her room. Of course, I couldn’t accept.”

  “What was she thinking – as though you’d ever stay in a wretched hole like that.”

  “I’d have been grateful for it, but I might have brought her a lot of trouble. She was brave to offer.”

  “So she was.” For the second time that night, Price summoned up his own courage. “But I’m afraid my fancy for her is over, Beaumont. Though I wish I could go and explain to her honestly, as a man should, I can’t risk it, now that my cover’s blown with Veech. I’m not worried about her,” he said, forcing a grin. “She has a bevy of admirers at the Saracen’s Head. She’ll find a husband faster than I could say the Lord’s Prayer.”

  “Then you might write and suggest that she does.”

  “She can’t read.” Price saw reproach in Beaumont’s eyes, and felt annoyed. “Have you never got a woman with child that you had no desire to marry?”

  “Perhaps many times, without my knowledge,” Beaumont admitted. “I do know of one, when I was sixteen, and marriage was out of the question. She was a servant here.”

  “What became of her?”

  “My mother dismissed her with a payment, and I was sent abroad on a tour. On my return nearly a year later, I’m ashamed to say I’d forgotten her.”

  “You had your problem solved for you.”

  “And it’s not to my credit.”

  Price thought of Elizabeth: he would need Beaumont’s good opinion of him in his dealings with women if he was to court her. “I swear, I’ll do what I can to make amends with Sue.”

  “Well, then … If I’m not up before you leave, God speed. And goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Beaumont,” said Price.

  III.

  Laurence and his father were sitting in the Hall, gazing up at Van Dyke’s magnificent portrait of his lordship. “Now that we have stripped ourselves of smaller treasures,” Lord Beaumont said, in a conspiratorial tone, “might more items be preserved from the rebels, such as my canvasses, and my bronze statuettes from Venice? Or am I becoming greedy?”