“Sue did, when I broke with her.”
“She should fight for money.”
“I gave her money, and this is how she thanked me for it. And next thing I was thrown into the Fleet. Barlow rescued me and whisked me to the good old house. Oh I know what you’re thinking, Beaumont,” Price gabbled on, “but he said it was quite safe. And Sarah did a fine job of work on me.” He plucked off his cap to reveal his polled head. “Can you believe, I passed muster with Draycott and a Corporal from the militia when they caught me at Sir Montague’s house.” He guffawed, describing the incident.
The serving boy had brought him ale and a platter of bread and cheese. As he reached for the bread, Laurence stayed his hand. “You shouldn’t have risked another visit to the neighbourhood, after one arrest.”
Price shook off Laurence’s grip. “I had to talk to Lady Hallam, on his lordship’s order.”
“What was Draycott doing there?”
“He’s become a friend of Lady Hallam’s. She’s … entertaining him.” Price reached again for a piece of bread, and crammed a wedge of cheese into it. “Once she has him by the short hairs, she’ll find out from him if Veech is getting suspicious. And I’ve set her up with Barlow and Jem, to act as her couriers.”
With a mixture of fear and distaste, Laurence listened on. His day had started badly; how much worse could it get? “Veech will have Jem tailed to Blackman Street,” he said, when Price fell silent.
“Tail a baker’s apprentice?” Price drained his cup. “I doubt it. What’s the matter with you, Beaumont? You look as if you might be sick. Does it upset you that Lady Hallam’s playing games with Draycott?”
Laurence controlled a mighty impulse to add to the damage Sue had wrought on Price’s nose. “Veech must have told Draycott about Sir Montague and those barrels. Draycott is a novice spy, but as a lawyer he’s trained to hunt for information.”
“And so?”
“Veech may have sent Draycott to play the same game with Isabella as she’s playing with him.”
“Well I’d like to know what game you and Digby are playing with me,” said Price, in a hurt tone.
“What do you mean?”
“Thanks to Perdie and Cordelia, he heard about my past. He’s known since November. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I don’t give a shit about your past. I’m more concerned about the future.” Laurence rose, searched for some coins in his pocket, and threw them on the table. “You can help me send a message to Sir Montague’s house – for Lucy, from her lover in the Trained Bands.”
“Are you asking me to take it to London?”
“To Aylesbury, to the London carrier.”
“Aylesbury is held by Parliament.”
“You’ll pass muster, in your disguise. You might even get yourself recruited.”
Lord Digby was still out when they returned. Laurence sat at his lordship’s desk and selected the bluntest of quills, the most clotted pot of ink, and a sheet of paper.
“I thought you were left-handed,” Price said.
“I am,” said Laurence, holding the quill in his right. “Deer harrte,” he began, in clumsy script, “I pray thou arte in gude helthe, as am I, prayse Godd, though mie shoon are worne from marching so farre on the high waie. We gott to Aielsberrie towne on the eighttenth daye of Aprill and I tekk this oppertunity to paie a frend to rite. How sadde I was forst to leve thee, my sweate. I have no caues of complaynt to goo for a soldier, butt ewer since I did quitt Londonn I have missed thee lyke mie rite hand. Tell hr laidieshipp I spied a grate bigge ratt when I was in hr kitchin. Tis the clement wether which bringes out his kinde. Ewen if he doe seeme harmlesse suche rattes bite and scrat pepell. Shee shude bewear and have hm cott befoar he bringes hr woars veerminn. And tell hr nott to buie anie moar bredd from that lowe prentiss boie. I herde his shoppe gott veerminn as welle and his bredd int fitt to eate.” He closed with more endearments, and signed, “Thy love, Hennery Illingsworth.”
“What’s in the name?” asked Price.
“I once borrowed it from a dead boy and it brought me luck. It might again.” Laurence blotted the ink with sand, then went over to the fireplace, rubbed some ash on his hands, and decorated the paper with smudged fingerprints. He folded it, and sealed it with a big splodge of wax. He did not know Lucy’s surname, so on the outside he put: “For my Laidie Hallammes mayde, Lucy,” and the direction in the Strand.
When Price had left with it, Laurence sank his aching head onto the desk and thought of Isabella. During their long, lazy talks at her house in the Woodstock Road, she had shared his cynicism about the royal cause, though she had often said she could not afford to bite the hand that fed her; Digby’s, presumably. Marriage had removed any financial worries, so why was she continuing to risk herself as Digby’s agent, knowing that the entire London network had become a shambles, and Veech was breathing down her neck? “Try just for one day being a woman in a world ruled by men,” she had told Laurence, before they had become lovers. When he had proposed to her, she had refused, saying that marriage to him would entail fighting everyone, and that she would always be afraid with him because he was not the sort of man to lead a quiet life. Yet she did not want a quiet life: she had ignored the warning he had sent from Pembroke’s house, and she might ignore his latest, if ever it arrived. Perhaps she liked the distraction of intrigue. Perhaps she felt immune to death, a sentiment Laurence understood intimately but which might be her nemesis. And he knew in his heart, with acute guilt, that were she to reply to him begging him to come and spirit her out of London or indeed out of England to a new life, he would do it, despite his commitment to Catherine, who needed and deserved so much love.
He sat up and tucked the quill into place, and used the cuff of his shirt to mop away a few specks of ink. As he was shuffling the sheets of blank parchment together and stacking them neatly where they belonged, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. He retrieved it, and read the single line written there, in Digby’s script: “Sir Harold Furnival of Lower Quinton, Warwickshire.”
VI.
“Why are you here?” demanded Draycott, ready to slam the door in Veech’s face.
“For the pleasure of an introduction to your wife.” Veech limped past him into the kitchen, where Judith was stirring a pot of caudle over the fire. She inspected Veech hostilely; Draycott’s emotions must have been obvious.
“Judith,” he said, “may I present Clement Veech, agent to Mr. Oliver St. John.”
Veech appraised her with utter indifference. “Has your husband told you that we are working together?”
“No, sir,” she said, “though he has spoken of Mr. St. John.”
“Has he told you of our work?”
“It is legal work, sir, is it not?”
“Mostly legal. We’re bringing to justice some citizens of London who would create mischief for Parliament.” Veech sat down near the fire on the polished oak settle that had belonged to Judith’s father, and extended his bad leg. “You mustn’t worry if he keeps late hours from time to time. He’s better off in my employ than he was in the army.”
“In your employ?”
“Yes, madam. Where are your children?”
“They are upstairs with their nurse.”
Veech yawned and now gazed pointedly at Draycott, who said, “Judith, leave us, please.”
She shifted the pot from the fire, and went out.
“Small thanks from her, considering how well I’ve treated you,” Veech said. “When were you last in the Strand?”
Draycott waited to reply until he heard the creak of the stairs, and then of the floorboards overhead. “Six days ago.”
“Did Lady Hallam receive you alone again?”
“Yes, Sir Montague had gone to bed early. I stayed only an hour.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I believe it was the Queen’s flight from Oxford. Lady Hallam expressed pity for her, having to travel in her … condition …” Draycott bro
ke off and stared: Veech had plucked a knife from his capacious pocket; it was more like an old-fashioned dagger, with a crown on the top of the hilt.
“And?” said Veech.
“She thought it a sign of the King’s … Mr. Veech, what on earth are you doing?”
Veech was busy whittling at the arm of the settle with his blade as a delinquent youth might carve his initials on a church pew. “I am bored, Mr. Draycott. I’ll stop when you say something of interest.”
Draycott could only watch a moment more. “I … found a book in the gallery. I read an inscription on the … on the flyleaf: ‘In the hope that you may be inspired to forget the past and embrace the future. I remain, as ever, your faithful George, Lord Digby, Christmastide, 1643..’ ”
Veech stilled his knife and dropped it into his pocket. “And what did you make of that, sir?”
“I presume the book was a gift to Sir Montague, and the inscription referred to his new life with Lady Isabella. He has Royalists among his customers. Lord Digby must be one of them.”
“The book is hers. Lord Digby was her guardian, and he arranged her marriage to Sir Montague.” Veech rose ponderously and joined Draycott by the hearth. “So to what past, you might inquire, was Digby referring?”
“You tell me, since you have all the answers.”
“To the past she shared with her lover, Laurence Beaumont.”
“By God.” Draycott shook his head, dumbfounded. “How and when did you hear of this?”
“Sir Montague’s old valet was overheard gossiping, in December. It seems the affair was no secret in Oxford.”
Draycott remembered walking Beaumont to the fort; with his lanky stride and amiable calm, he had behaved like a man out for a breath of fresh air rather than a captured spy. Draycott also remembered his smile: not a trace of fear, and dazzling, on a face as seductive as Lady Isabella’s. And a fresh image crept into Draycott’s mind, of her and Beaumont intertwined.
“Judith must wonder at that look in your eyes,” said Veech. “I don’t blame her.” He dipped his thick forefinger in the caudle, tasted it, and spat into the fire. “Your wife is too mean with her honey pot.”
“Any more of your insolence and I’ll strike you down,” Draycott said, between his teeth.
“You wouldn’t have the guts.” Veech limped towards the door. Then he swerved about. “Lady Isabella is Lord Digby’s agent, as is her cripple of a husband. Had I told you earlier, your honest face would have betrayed you to them. Now I must have a watertight case for their arrest or the charges of treason may not stick in court. In a week or so, you are to hide a packet of correspondence in Sir Montague’s house.”
“What if I refuse?”
Veech cast a slow glance around the kitchen. “You can’t value them more than this little haven.”
“Are you threatening my family?”
“I will do what’s necessary to get the man who crippled me. If the Hallams are condemned, Digby will send Beaumont to her aid. And I’ll be waiting for him.”
“Mr. St. John cannot approve of your tactics, sir.”
“Complain to him, and see what happens.” Veech unlatched the door. “My regards to Judith,” he said, as he departed.
Draycott tossed the caudle into the flames. He was standing frozen, holding the empty pot, when Judith charged back in and dashed it from his grip. “Giles, you lied to me about your visits to the Strand.”
“And you should not have eavesdropped. I was on confidential business.”
“It is a foul business. This evil man Veech thinks you lust after Sir Montague’s wife. Do you?”
“No,” yelled Draycott, feeling his cheeks burn. “But you are right about Veech – he is a most evil man. I’ve decided, Judith: I shall speak to Mr. St. John today and tell him everything.”
Judith met his eyes as though he were a stranger. “I’m taking the children to my mother’s. You may come to me when you are free, of Veech – and of that woman’s spell.”
She ran from the kitchen, and he did not attempt to go after her. Grabbing his cloak off the peg at the door, he stumbled out of the house.
“Mr. Draycott!” Draycott heard Lady Isabella’s voice and stopped to look round; he had been blundering down her street in a panic of indecision, torn as to whether he should confront St. John or confide in her. She and Lucy were a few yards behind him, the hoods of their cloaks pulled over their heads; and behind them was a footboy carrying several parcels. “I called you twice, sir,” she said. He reached for his hat, then realised he had left it at home. “Thank heavens Lucy and I dressed for this awful weather – but you’re wet to the skin. Were you coming to visit my husband?” Draycott had no reply. “He is not here, sir. Greenhalgh took him to spend the afternoon at his son’s, in Chelsea Fields. Please, step inside out of the rain or you’ll catch your death of a cold.”
Draycott shivered in the entrance hall while Lucy fetched towels for him; he had declined the offer of one of Sir Montague’s robes, and of a glass of spirits. “I apologise for the fuss,” he said to both women, when she returned.
“May I write my letter now, your ladyship?” she asked.
“Yes, you may do so in my chamber,” said Lady Isabella. “Lucy received a note yesterday from her sweetheart,” she explained to Draycott, as the maid went ahead of them upstairs. “He had someone else pen his message, unschooled fellow that he is, and even then we were hard pressed to decipher the script.” She led Draycott more slowly up to the gallery, and waved for him to sit beside her, by the fireplace. “You are perturbed, sir. Is there more illness in your family?”
Draycott opened his mouth, intending to talk about Veech. “I have … fallen in love with you,” he murmured, instead.
“Oh, Mr. Draycott, is it love, or loneliness and confusion? Because I am as confused. I have been pretending that I’ve not a care in the world, when I am desperate for your advice. Will you listen to my trouble?”
“Yes,” he said, dreading what might surface; would she speak of Beaumont?
“You know that my one-time guardian is Sir Montague’s friend. He is a Royalist, and an esteemed counsellor of His Majesty. Towards the winter of last year, he asked my husband to help him with a certain scheme that the King had in mind for London.” She hesitated, lowering her eyes. “Sir Montague was fortunate to avoid discovery of what was in his barrels.”
“Ah, then … it was as St. John’s agent Veech suspected.”
“My husband will not risk himself again. The stress upon his health almost killed him.”
“So he is out of danger, as are you,” said Draycott, enormously reassured: he would report an expurgated version of this to St. John and put an end to Veech’s investigations.
“No, Mr. Draycott,” she said. “The truth is … I am still helping His Majesty.”
Draycott stiffened; she might have closed her fingers over his heart. “Surely Sir Montague would advise you to cease whatever you are doing, for your safety and his.”
“It is the opposite, sir: he wants me to continue, out of loyalty to the King and to my guardian. You see, my guardian had always inspired me with a fascination for politics, and when the war erupted, I undertook to assist him in purveying news from Oxford to London. Since I am now established here, he wishes me to act as a conduit for messages to various Royalists within the City. I owe to him my education and my marriage – all I have. I readily accepted to do this work for him. How can I stop?”
“Oh, my lady,” sighed Draycott, “I am as compromised, by Clement Veech. I accepted to enter his service, to my infinite regret. He holds himself above the law, and has hinted that my family may suffer if I don’t do his bidding. He ordered me to insinuate myself into your husband’s good graces, and yours – to spy on you.”
“But I thought … I thought you were my friend,” she said, with a little catch in her voice.
“I am, I swear, which is why I am confiding in you. I could not have borne the deception, and I will not obey him, what
ever the cost to me. I won’t … I won’t!”
“Then what is to become of us?” She leant forward and touched her hand to Draycott’s knee. Instinctively, he rested his head against the smooth curve of her shoulder. When she did not move away, he started to kiss her neck, and cheek, and her lips. Not for years had he kissed Judith so passionately, and Lady Isabella seemed to be surrendering to his caresses.
A sneeze made them jump apart.
Draycott leapt to his feet. “Who was that? Lucy?”
“It can’t be – it came from the parlour.” She hurried from her chair, and he followed. They found the parlour vacant. The portraits stared down at him, taciturn and immobile. Then he detected the ripple of a shadow under the table, and a slender black cat peeped out.
“You naughty boy,” she exclaimed. “Here’s the culprit, sir: Niger – as in the Latin.”
Draycott burst into laughter, from sheer nerves. “What a handsome devil, with his beautiful green …” But he left the word eyes unsaid, for hers were swimming with tears. Guilt overwhelmed him. “My lady, can you forgive my misconduct? I wronged both you and Judith, and I should go home.”
“You did no wrong,” she said, with such earnestness that he felt himself absolved. “Mr. Draycott, Sir Montague is soon to be absent for some days. Please might you call on me then, and we can decide on a course of action?”
He nodded, terrified: his fate and hers hung in the balance.
VII.
“Pinch me, or I’ll imagine that I’m dreaming,” said Seward, as Laurence filled their cups. “Here we are at last on the eve of your marriage. A health to you and to Catherine – may she have the patience of Job.”
“To Catherine,” said Laurence.
“Clarke would swoon if he tasted this wine. Where did you obtain it?”
“I stole it from Lord Digby’s cellar.”
“How appropriate, to drink to a bride you robbed from under her sister’s nose. Has his lordship allowed you a honeymoon?”
The Licence of War Page 34
