The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “His son, his son,” objected Antonio. “Why persist in calling him that, when the facts speak for themselves? Laurence was born on the sixth of June, of 1612, and I lay with Elena nine months earlier, on the night before Beaumont took her away. You must know the date of her marriage. In fairness, you should tell me.”

  “She was married in England late in November of 1611.”

  Antonio crowed with triumphant laughter. “Unless by some miracle the boy survived a most premature entry into the world, he is mine.”

  “It’s your conclusion that is premature, Don Antonio. You did not listen to me: I said, married in England. When she arrived here, yes, she was with child. She was also married.”

  “But … how could that be?”

  “She and her husband were wed in Bordeaux, from whence they sailed for England. He knew his parents would oppose his impulsive match with a foreigner and a former Catholic. He decided to present them with a fait accompli. A second ceremony was celebrated at Chipping Campden. She had a pregnancy of eight months, which is not unusual.”

  Antonio felt nonplussed. Then he thought rapidly. “Laurence may yet be of my seed. She would know – women have an instinct for such matters.”

  “She might, she might not. And you had just one night with her, while her husband would have had many. In the end, what does it signify, Don Antonio? You came here on a sordid enterprise. You will go to her and try your mischief, but mark my words: you shall suffer by it.”

  “That has the ring of a prediction, Dr. Seward.”

  The Doctor cast him a sinister frown. “As I told you, today was not my first glimpse of you. I saw you on your sea voyage, walking with Diego on the deck of your ship. You lost your hat to a strong gust of wind.”

  Antonio shivered and crossed himself. “How could you have seen that?”

  Dr. Seward rested his eyes on the silver bowl. “It gives me visions, of past, present, and future.”

  Antonio launched up and stared into the opaque, reflective liquid. He saw himself, afraid. He wheeled round, unsheathed his sword, and brushed the old man’s chin with the edge of his blade. “You practise devilry, sir, and I am about to send you to hell for it.”

  Dr. Seward examined the blade unperturbed, as if Antonio were holding out a flower. “You are the very devil, Don Antonio.”

  “Have you seen into my future, in your magic bowl?”

  “You can slit my throat before I will answer that.”

  Antonio whisked aside his sword and struck the bowl to the floor. It fell with a clang, spilling its contents over the flagstones. He bent swiftly to grab it and tucked it under his free arm. The old man fought to claw it away, but Antonio shoved him sprawling into the dark puddle. “Now the devil has a looking glass. If you would have it back, ask my son to meet me tomorrow night – ten o’clock, at the Green Dragon – with, let us say, three hundred pounds, which I am sorely in need of. A good day to you, Doctor.”

  V.

  “I told you, I tripped on the hem of my gown,” repeated Seward, grimacing from his bed at Clarke and the College surgeon, while Beaumont inspected the bruise on his buttock.

  “You’ve not much padding left down here, Seward.” Beaumont restored his clothing and tucked a blanket over him. “You were lucky not to break any bones.”

  “I offered to mix him a poultice, which he refused,” the surgeon said reproachfully.

  “I did warn you, my stubborn friend, that you needed a new pair of spectacles,” Clarke said in his sententious way.

  “I thank you both, gentlemen. Beaumont, you may show them out.”

  Beaumont obeyed, and shut the door. “Before we talk, can I get you something of your own to put on the bruise, or … or something for the pain?”

  “No.”

  Beaumont sat down on the corner of the bed. “How did you fall?”

  “I was pushed, by de Zamora.” Beaumont opened his mouth to speak, but Seward cut him off. “That is as nought, compared to his crime: he has stolen my bowl! I knew he would come to me – I had even been watching out for him.” In a fit of self-recrimination, Seward tore off his cap and flung it on the counterpane. “I should have been more prepared.”

  “How did you know? Did you see him in the bowl?” Beaumont asked, half sceptical, half wary.

  “There was no magic involved. This morning the porter informed me that a young scholar from abroad might visit, to consult me as to a cure for his sick friend.”

  “And he fitted my description of Diego?” Seward nodded. “Why didn’t you send for me right away?”

  “You would have thought me a nuisance, interfering in your duties for his lordship.”

  “Never, Seward,” said Beaumont gently. “I’d been keeping a watch on the Spaniards until yesterday, when it slipped my mind. So what happened?”

  Seward hesitated; if he revealed the full truth, he would all but confirm Beaumont’s suspicions about his parentage. “I accused de Zamora of forging the deathbed testament, and he admitted as much, without a shade of guilt. I said he had come to England on a sordid enterprise from which he would reap no gain. He observed that my words had the ring of a prediction. I suggested it was, and to scare him I revealed to him my vision – to gratifying result. Then I erred foolishly, in showing him the source. He seized the bowl, and when I tried to wrest it from him, he pushed me to the floor and bolted. I had to send Pusskins to fetch Clarke, who insisted on summoning the surgeon – quite needlessly, I might add. And then I sent Clarke to fetch you.”

  “Why didn’t you send over your cat, instead?” Seward had to smile. “Now Seward,” said Beaumont, “did de Zamora drop any hint as to his plans?”

  “No, but he confessed to being extremely low on funds.”

  “Hmm. That may be why he hasn’t left Oxford. He can’t get any more money from Tom, nor would I give him any.”

  “My boy,” sighed Seward, “how could I have forgotten the worst part.” And he told Beaumont about the ransom.

  “Do you have three hundred pounds?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Well neither do I.”

  “You must raise it.”

  “How, by tomorrow night? At a time like this, I can’t play truant on his lordship to hunt out a rich game of cards. Could it be done through magic?”

  “It’s not a subject for jest. I can no more scry without my bowl than see without my spectacles.”

  “Even if we give de Zamora the money, I don’t trust him to fulfil his side of the bargain and return your bowl. And he’ll be able to travel, and we know where he’ll go. It would be easier for me to arrest him and Diego on a charge of assault, and throw them in gaol.”

  “And risk that they might dispose of my bowl before you take them? Meet him with the money,” Seward beseeched. “Once you have my bowl, you may resort to rougher tactics.”

  Beaumont assumed an air of wounded pride. “I hope you understand what you’re asking of me: I’ll have to crawl on hands and knees to beg a loan from Digby.” He grabbed Seward’s cap, and held it out in the style of a mendicant. “And what should I tell him, when he asks me what the loan is for?”

  “Use your powers of invention,” said Seward, reaching up to bat him on the ear.

  Beaumont jerked away his head. “Strike me again, Doctor, and you can kiss your bowl goodbye,” he threatened, mimicking the Spaniard’s inflected English; and they both dissolved into salutary laughter. When they had recovered themselves, Beaumont announced, “I have a plan, if Digby obliges me with the three hundred pounds: to ransom the bowl, get the money straight back from de Zamora, teach him a lesson without his knowing who arranged it, and have him and Diego seized immediately afterwards. With his lordship’s permission, I’ll take some of our scouts out on a little training exercise.”

  “Beaumont, I called de Zamora the very devil,” Seward said, suddenly panicked by what he had asked of his friend. “And the Devil is the Prince of Lies. He may tell you new lies, but you must on no account be
lieve them.”

  VI.

  Lord Beaumont’s servant had left Price waiting in the entrance, with the two statues; the house seemed to him ominously quiet and still, as though uninhabited. “God damn those rebels,” he swore: the marble nymph’s breasts had been hacked to stumps, and some churl had carved his initials and the year, 1644, on her left thigh. Price felt yet sorrier for the youth, whose genitals were missing.

  He wandered into the Hall. The canvases, including his lordship’s portrait, were gone, as was most of the lighter furniture: the padded footstools and little tables inlaid with ivory and precious woods. Gone also were the Turkey carpets, the tapestries and velvet curtains, the bronze statuettes, and the gold and silver salvers on the sideboard that Price had admired at Anne Beaumont’s wedding feast. Colonel Purefoy might have ravished the room of its valuables, yet he had not deprived it of its grandeur: the magnificent proportions in their stark beauty awed Price more than before. It was like the vacant chamber of a dead king.

  At the click of heels on the stair, he mustered up his courage and went back out. Elizabeth stood poised halfway in her descent, hopelessly desirable in her satin dress and ethereal lace collar. He doffed his hat and bowed. “Elizabeth?” She rushed down to him and searched his face with such sweet anxiety that he felt comforted. “I did worry that you would think me ugly now, though I didn’t suffer as badly as that poor youth,” he added, cocking his head towards the statue.

  “My dear Mr. Price, what happened to you?”

  “I was on a mission to London for Lord Digby, and tussled with the militia. I was thankful to get away with just a blow to my nose.”

  She stroked his shorn locks. “Why did you cut off your hair?”

  “To pass for a rebel. I shaved my moustache, too. At least that’s growing in faster. And I won’t be sent to London again, at any time soon,” he said, more confidently. “When we learnt that Colonel Purefoy’s troops had retreated to the Gloucester garrison, his lordship dispatched me to establish a network of intelligencers in the Cotswolds – of local people faithful to the King.”

  “Will His Majesty avenge what those beasts did to us?”

  “Have they robbed your family of everything?” asked Price, girding himself to accept the loss of her thousand pounds.

  “Of a great deal, sir. My father has been so shaken by our losses.”

  “But might I address him, Elizabeth? I want his leave to court you.”

  Price had predicted elation, but she knitted her brows. “It is an awkward moment to speak to him of marriage, though I do so wish you could.”

  “Elizabeth?” called a peremptory voice. Price turned to see Lady Beaumont gliding out of the parlour; she must have been lurking there all along. She curtseyed minimally to his low bow, and examined his nose rather as had Lady Hallam.

  “My lady,” he said, “I came to request his lordship’s leave to court your daughter.”

  “His lordship sleeps in the afternoon and cannot be disturbed. We may talk, however, so that your journey to us will not have been completely in vain. Elizabeth, you may join us later.”

  Elizabeth’s lips parted as if she would object, but to Price’s disappointment, she went obediently back up the stairs. He followed Lady Beaumont into the parlour; more stripped walls, though all of the furniture was intact. She did not invite him to sit, and remained standing herself.

  “My Lady Beaumont,” he recommenced, “I understand your surprise that I should seek to marry your daughter, on the strength of so short an acquaintance.”

  “Why should I be surprised, sir? You made your attraction to her manifestly evident on both of your previous visits, though she has not spoken much of you since the last occasion.”

  “I asked her not to, until I was sure I could provide for her as my wife. Now, I am happy to say, there is no impediment on that score. And I believe that your son and my friend, Laurence, approves of the match,” Price carried on, perhaps unwisely.

  “Elizabeth shall select her second husband no differently than she did her first, may God rest him. And we know nothing of you or your family.”

  “I’ll supply what information I can, my lady. I was orphaned at a tender age and have but the vaguest memory of my parents. They were of Welsh stock, and rose to prominence with the Tudors,” Price continued, resorting to a favourite version of his origins. “Old King Henry granted their ancestors lands in Sussex, and used to hunt in their grounds, or so I was told as a boy. My father would have been heir to the estate, had he not married for love a woman whose family was in trade. He was cut from his inheritance, and driven to take up with his father-in-law’s business.”

  “What business?”

  “My grandfather was a vintner, a kindly man but extravagant,” replied Price, borrowing from Sir Montague. “He raised me, after my parents died, at his house in the Strand. I was eighteen when he died and left behind him huge debts. I struggled to pay them, and in the end had to sell everything to his creditors, including his house. Then in the summer of ’42, I determined to enlist in His Majesty’s army.” He paused; Lady Beaumont was studying him as if he were transparent, an expression he had seen often in Beaumont. “Fate played on me another cruel trick, my lady: on my way to join his standard at Nottingham, I tumbled from my horse and cracked my spine. I despaired ever of walking again. God took mercy on me, and by October of last year, my injuries were healed. That was when I met your son, who brought me into Lord Digby’s service.”

  “Is that so,” she remarked, still skewering him with her gaze.

  “Your ladyship, my father’s marriage cost me my position in the world, and I have had to win it back through my own efforts. I would not care to repeat his mistake.”

  “In marrying a tradesman’s daughter?”

  “No, my lady: I would not marry Elizabeth without her father’s blessing.”

  “She shall not marry without it, sir. He will give you due consideration, after I have recounted to him your tale.”

  “My lady, please let me speak to his lordship whilst I am here. I do not know when I can next return, given the uncertainties of war.”

  “His lordship’s health is as uncertain, sir, having had his house ransacked and his estate pillaged. I cannot allow it any upset.” Lady Beaumont left the parlour, and once more Price had to follow, enraged by her rudeness.

  Three women were at the head of the stairs: Elizabeth, with a defeated air; Anne, hers sympathetic yet resigned; and a blonde girl. Price thought of the Hall in its glory, and today, naked. Penelope and Catherine were clearly twins, but such was the contrast between them. Had Beaumont married this fey creature to exorcise Lady Hallam’s curvaceous ghost? The women came down, and Anne introduced Price to Catherine, whose eyes were a deep brown, and peculiarly direct. On her ring finger, she wore a slender band set with a dull stone, a cheap-looking trinket compared to Lady Hallam’s opulent jewel. Why had Beaumont not chosen something better?

  Elizabeth gave Price her hand, and he touched it to his lips. “We must bid each other goodbye, madam,” he said. “And goodbye to you, ladies, and to your ladyship.”

  Anne and Catherine gave their goodbyes, but Lady Beaumont did not answer. It was this final insult that resolved him: he would marry Elizabeth with or without her parents’ consent.

  VII.

  Around ten o’clock, Laurence gathered his boys outside the church of St. Martin’s at the Carfax. He ordered one fellow to stay on guard there, while the rest accompanied him to the Green Dragon.

  “He’ll be fast with his rapier,” Laurence reminded them, “and his valet may also be armed.”

  As the youths melted into the shadows, he entered the taproom alone carrying his saddlebag. Tonight the crowd was thinner and less raucous; even the grizzled veteran seemed sober, nursing a tankard of ale with his dog at his feet. Diego stood near the entrance to the eating chamber, and waved Laurence over.

  “How’s your master, Diego?” Laurence asked in English, to see if the valet wo
uld comprehend.

  “Triste, Señor Beaumont – muy triste,” Diego replied obscurely, escorting him to de Zamora’s candlelit alcove, and left them.

  De Zamora addressed Laurence in Spanish, without a hint of his former bravado. “I congratulate you for detecting the forged confession. I had no brother. My mother died in giving birth to me, her sole offspring, and my father joined her in the grave a year later. Sir, let us start afresh. I wish for us to be friends, as well as kin.”

  “Don’t you think it rather too late?” Laurence inquired. “You’ve done your best to pit my brother against me, you injured and robbed an old man who is my friend, and God knows what you’re plotting to accomplish at Chipping Campden.”

  “Was the Doctor badly hurt?”

  “He was, but he’s improving. Where is his property?”

  De Zamora untied a sack on the bench beside him, to give Laurence a view of the bowl, then shifted it out of Laurence’s reach. “Since I am in desperate financial straits, I cannot retract my price for it. Yet I do regret my violence. I lost my temper because of his persistent denials,” de Zamora went on, with a sigh. “As if it is not perfectly obvious that you are my son. As I explained to him, the evidence is plain as day.”

  Laurence fought to keep his expression bland; out of a desire to protect, Seward had erred again by not disclosing this to him. “He told me of your claim, Don Antonio,” he said, carefully.

  “It is no mere claim. Before we make our exchange, mi hijo, here is the full truth about why I came to England, and about my relations with your mother.”

  “Don Antonio, you’re like the boy who cried wolf,” said Laurence, though he was torn between dread and curiosity.

  “Please hear me out,” de Zamora said. “Grant me a chance – not to redeem myself, for I am past redemption for my sins – but to have myself understood. I never expected that my venture would conclude in so precious a discovery – you.” Laurence could read agony in his eyes, and, to his own unease, an intense, passionate craving for affection. “I would not have travelled here except for a miraculous coincidence that occurred last October.”