“Your stories are plagued with coincidences.”
“Our whole lives are thus plagued, my son, as you will learn. It was on a Sunday, as my wife Teresa and I were leaving the great Cathedral of Santa María de la Sede after Mass.” De Zamora leant forward. “A gypsy girl was begging outside. She had a babe with her, a boy with our green eyes.” Laurence caught his breath, as though the tip of a knife had probed beneath his skin. “When questioned, she said that his father was an English mercenary who had formed an attachment to her in the Low Countries and had journeyed with her to Spain. There he had forced her to be his mistress, and abandoned her when she became with child. She named Laurence Beaumont as her son’s father – and she called the boy Lorenzo. Imagine: Beaumont was a name I had not forgotten. Of course, she recognised you in my features. I could not let them go. I provided shelter for them at a friend’s hostel, where they remain to this day. Lest you were wondering, it was she who told me of your exploits in the Low Countries.”
“Ah,” said Laurence, now too thunderstruck to frame a better response.
“I knew then that God had put her and Lorenzo in my path to answer my prayer. For over thirty years, I had sworn revenge on James Beaumont.”
Laurence was exerting all of his expertise, as cardsharp and as spy, to hide his inner turmoil. “Please, continue,” he said, focusing on the gap between de Zamora’s slanted brows, to avoid his distracting stare.
“As for the truth about your mother,” said de Zamora, “she and I were in love, but we could not marry. The house of de Capdavila was mired in debt, and I had no fortune to my name but a half-derelict castle – the de Zamora family seat. When James Beaumont came courting Elena, I was still working to establish my reputation as an officer.” He broke off, and frowned. “You appear to find my story tedious, sir.”
Laurence shrugged in a semblance of boredom. “It’s a familiar tale, Don Antonio: the poor yet noble lover unjustly thwarted in his heart’s desire.”
De Zamora’s eyes blazed at him. “You are cold, my son. It must be the effect of your rotten climate.”
“Then it’s my turn to apologise. You were saying …?”
“The challenge of money, in itself, would not have prevented me from winning Elena,” de Zamora resumed. “There was another obstacle. Her father, Don Giraldo de Capdavila, loathed me, as I did him. Before embarking on his final voyage to the Indies, where to my immense delight he subsequently perished of ague, he forbade me to visit his house. In his absence, I persuaded my aunt Cecilia to lift his interdiction, for the sake of her deceased sister, my mother. Yet she would sooner have sold her soul to the devil than let us cousins marry. When she knew of our mutual love, she decided to sacrifice Elena to the heretic Englishman, even though it tortured her that she would not see her child again. Thank God she could not take from Elena and me that ultimate night, on which you were conceived.” De Zamora hesitated. “You must want to know if I forced myself on Elena.”
“To me, what’s past is past,” said Laurence, though he yearned to know. “You’ve lost her, and you’ll never have her back.”
“That may be, but what of you and I?” De Zamora lunged across the table to grip Laurence’s arm. “Can you honestly deny that you are of my seed?”
“My true father is the man who raised me.”
“I hear doubt in your voice. You know you haven’t a drop of English blood in your veins. You belong in Spain, with me. Thomas shall have his estate, and all of us will be happy. We’ll reunite blood with blood! Would you not enjoy watching your son Lorenzo grow up? He is a beautiful boy. We could watch him together, my Lorenzo.”
The idea was so absurd that Laurence nearly laughed. Then he saw the extreme seriousness on de Zamora’s face. Years of obsessive brooding had poisoned the man’s brain, Laurence thought, almost pitying him; but that rendered him more of a danger. “No, Don Antonio, I belong here, in England.” Laurence detached himself politely. “You should beware of the child. He may turn out a liar and a thief, like his mother.”
“Did she lie when she said you raped her – repeatedly?”
“Is that what she said? Yes, she lied.”
“Then it is my guess that you must have been in love, to travel so far and to stay such a time with her,” de Zamora concluded, with an edge of victory.
“I had a lust for her, Don Antonio, but now I care nothing for her, or for the boy. He must be one of many bastards I’ve sired, here and there.” Laurence stood up and slung his saddlebag over his shoulder. “We should get you your money. It’s with the owner of a more respectable tavern near St. Martin’s Church, less than a mile away.”
“What? You don’t have it on you?”
“I wouldn’t carry ten pounds on me in this neighbourhood of cutpurses, let alone three hundred.”
“You are luring me into a trap.”
“If I’d wanted to entrap you, sir, you would not be at liberty tonight.”
Laurence walked out to the taproom, with de Zamora in pursuit calling for Diego. “The lazy fellow must have gone to bed,” he told Laurence agitatedly. “Let me wake him. I will not leave without him.”
“We haven’t the time,” said Laurence. “We must finish our business before the other tavern closes.”
“I’m a fool to trust you,” growled de Zamora, but he went along. When they gained Cornmarket Street, Laurence drew him towards a modest house, its windows heavily shuttered. “If this is a tavern, why is there no sign outside?” he demanded.
“Its patrons are mostly town officials who can’t be seen breaking the curfew laws,” Laurence replied, which was the truth.
The crowd of well-heeled drinkers seemed to assuage de Zamora’s fears. He sat down at an empty table while Laurence fetched the leather purse that he had left with the tavern keeper. Neither of them spoke as de Zamora unfastened it and poured out the coins into the skirt of his cloak, beneath the table. “Three hundred,” he said with a grudging smile, when he had counted them back into the purse. “Diego thought the bowl must be worth much more to the Doctor, for his visions.”
“Seward is an adept: he can see visions in any common looking glass.”
“Then why did he fight me for the bowl?”
“It’s a talisman bequeathed to him by his mentor – in the black arts,” Laurence added; he had surmised from Seward’s account that de Zamora might be superstitious.
“Thank God I am rid of it,” said de Zamora, crossing himself. “Diego did not want to let it go. He has studied alchemy, and other subjects that our Church condemns as witchcraft. He was eager to test his powers of divination.”
Laurence pressed a little further, in case Diego had any plans to retrieve the bowl. “He had a lucky escape, Don Antonio. Without knowledge of the appropriate rituals and incantations, he would have invoked evil demons and become possessed.”
“Sometimes he is too clever for his own good. Sir, what now?” de Zamora asked, tucking the purse into the front of his doublet.
“We must say goodbye,” Laurence said, picking up the sack.
“That makes me sad. I feel more affinity to you than to my other sons – not that I should be surprised: your blood is thicker with mine than you know.”
This last comment disturbed Laurence. He had the impression that de Zamora had tossed it out as bait, so he ignored it. “When you decide to sail home, don’t try the enemy ports,” he said. “You might find a ship from Bristol, which is held for the King.”
“How far is Bristol?”
“About seventy miles from Oxford, to the southwest.”
“Should I greet Juana for you, on my return?”
“If it pleases you.”
They quitted the tavern, each with his prize. Laurence’s nerves jangled in anticipation of a setback, and he drew away instinctively when de Zamora opened his arms wide. “Does an English son not embrace his father, on parting?” de Zamora inquired, his cheeks glistening with tears.
“We clasp hands,” said Laurence, a
nd so they did.
“Que Dios te bendiga, hijo mío. I pray that I may see you again in this world.”
“Adiós, Don Antonio.”
As de Zamora’s footsteps retreated, Laurence blew out an exhausted sigh and sagged against the tavern wall. The words still echoed: your blood is thicker with mine than you know. He had an urge to chase after the Spaniard and ask what it meant. And to think of Juana, and a child: no mystery there as to the true father.
Laurence whistled to the scout posted by St. Martin’s Church. “All well, sir?” the youth said cheerily, bounding out from the darkness like an angel sent to dismiss the unclean spirits of night.
“Yes, though it took longer than I’d expected. Let’s hope our boys haven’t drowsed on their watch.”
“Nay, sir, they’ll be chafing for action. I’ll join them, if I may.”
“Good luck to you, and until soon,” said Laurence. He headed for Merton, where the porter was snoring away on his chair in the gatehouse. “A quiet night?” Laurence shouted in his ear.
He stirred, and mumbled, “Very quiet, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Some fellows will come by asking for me in a while.” Laurence gave the scouts’ names. “Direct them to Seward’s rooms.” He paid the porter a coin, and carried on across the Front Quadrangle, swinging the sack in one hand.
The buildings were shrouded in an inky pall, but he could have negotiated the familiar route blindfolded. All he could hear was the crunch of his boots on the gravel path and the clink of his spurs. Yet as he passed under the Fitzjames Arch he felt a minuscule breeze on his left side, and before he could dodge, a sharp blow stung him on the temple. A harder blow struck the same side of his skull. Pain translated to dizziness, and his legs folded beneath him. He hit the ground, and swift fingers wrested the sack from him. “Duerme bien,” whispered his assailant.
VIII.
Antonio forged on through the desolate streets, shedding more sad tears: he was again unjustly thwarted in his heart’s desire, as his Lorenzo had phrased it. He had hoped to begin a new chapter in the autumn of his life. “Lorenzo begged me to bring him home,” he had imagined saying to Teresa. What priceless vengeance it would have been to steal the cuckoo from James Beaumont’s nest! He had envisaged the pair of them, he and his Lorenzo, arm in arm together in the warm sunshine of his courtyard. They would be the talk of Seville, with their matching looks. He had even dreamt of them united on a crusade to restore the twin houses of de Zamora and Capdavila to their former glory. And then, humiliation! He had laid bare his soul, only to be rejected by a man made in his own image, yet with a heart of stone: upon parting, not an embrace but a frigid clasp of the hand; a palm dry and cool to the touch; and an impassive face.
Halting to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, Antonio saw the glow of lights from the Green Dragon’s windows. A couple of men were engaged in conversation on the other side of the street, beneath the crooked overhanging fronts of the timbered houses. They strolled towards him, their manner leisurely; they might have been apprentices in their coarse clothes. One was holding an unlit pipe, and called out, “Have you tinder, sir, and a flint?” Antonio paid no attention. Then came a series of low whistles behind his back, and he knew he was surrounded.
“The brutes were skilled in their criminal trade,” moaned Antonio, as Diego rinsed out a blood-soaked cloth. “They were so fast I had no time to draw my sword. One of them punched me here, on the site of an old break in my ribs, and after that I was easy prey. He may have punctured some vital organ, in which case I’ll be dead by tomorrow. It took the last of my strength to get up the stairs to our chamber.” Antonio inhaled a cautious, shallow breath. “And they stole my sword, along with the purse. It’s your fault for not being with me, you idiot, and I would throttle you were I not in such agony.”
Diego reapplied the cloth, dabbing at a cut in Antonio’s forehead. “Don Antonio, they would still have beaten the hell out of us,” he said, in a consoling tone. “And now we have the bowl, we can ransom it again. Beaumont will pay, for the old man’s sake.”
“That bowl has cast a spell on you, maldito! We could pay with our lives after what you did to him, and if so, I pray you go straight to hell.” Antonio pushed Diego away, and struggled to sit up on the bed. “We must escape from Oxford tonight.”
Finally the desperation of their plight appeared to sink into Diego’s brain. He dropped the cloth and clasped his wet hands together. “How? We have no money, and you’re weaker than a newborn lamb!”
“You’re the genius – you think of a way.”
Antonio was disgusted at himself: twenty or even ten years ago, he might have slain a couple of the brigands before they took him down. They had suffered not a scratch. Experience told him that his cracked ribs would not heal for weeks. And all he had left in funds was a bit of change from Thomas Beaumont’s gold unite, and what he might get for that accursed wizard’s bowl.
IX.
The scouts came upon Laurence lying beneath the arch, in a daze. “His valet sneaked by the porter and attacked me,” he said, as they helped him to his feet; they did not know about the bowl, nor would he mention it. “Hurry over to the Green Dragon and take them both.”
“But sir, he’ll go nowhere after our night’s sport,” one of the scouts assured him, flourishing the purse and de Zamora’s sword.
“Just to be safe, throw them in the nearest gaol until tomorrow morning.”
They assisted Laurence to Seward’s door, gave him their trophies, and then went away, leaving him tottering on the threshold. He could not see out of his left eye, his ears rang, and he felt as though a giant mallet were hammering inside his head.
“Beaumont, who did this to you?” exclaimed Seward, as he stumbled in.
“Diego,” he said, slumping into a chair. “He stole back the bowl from me, and I suspect he wasn’t acting on de Zamora’s order. He coveted it for himself.”
“So we are where we began!”
“I have to trust my scouts will get it back, yet again. What a farce, worthy of the stage. And there’s more to tell you, Seward, if you can dig me out some remedy for my headache. You’ll never guess who’s come back to haunt me: Juana.”
While Seward went and searched in his cupboard, and began measuring and mixing, Laurence related his extraordinary conversation with de Zamora. “The man is utterly deluded,” Seward cried, once Laurence had finished. “How could he believe that you would run off with him to Spain?”
“Because he is my father,” answered Laurence, wincing as Seward applied a poultice to his swollen temple, “and you should have told me he said so, when you both spoke.”
“I did not want to encourage you in a falsehood that is his chief delusion, and must not become yours. Talk to your mother, Beaumont, and she will confirm the truth to you.”
“Why would she, after all this time, unless circumstances made it impossible for her to keep her secret?” Laurence squinted at Seward through his one good eye. “You may find it odd, but I don’t honestly care who engendered me. Perhaps if I were younger I might, but at this stage of my life, I am who I am.”
“That you are,” Seward agreed.
“Yet I still have to know what truly happened between her and de Zamora. It wasn’t her habit to lavish affection on any of us children, but she’s always been coldest towards me, and when I was young, I’d catch her looking at me as if I disturbed her in some profound way. I want to understand why.”
“I did not know you as a child, Beaumont, but you were a profoundly disturbing youth, and you are still no less vexatious to everybody, me included. How did you receive the Spaniard’s news about the gypsy and her child? Your son, I mean. It must have awoken strong feelings in you.”
“He described the coincidence as miraculous. To me, it was almost as great a surprise as Diego hitting me on the head. And he guessed, rightly, that I’d been in love with her. But if he’d hoped to reawaken those feelings, or stir in me some fatherly instinct, he was wrong.”
“Are you being quite honest with yourself?” Seward inquired, softly.
“Oh yes. I only found out from Juana that she was pregnant on the night she rejected me, to return to her people. She confessed to me then that she had lied to them, saying I had taken her against her will – she was afraid they would otherwise reject her. Even so, I offered to do anything for her and our child. She wasn’t moved. She said she’d never loved me, and that I was unclean, not being of her people. When I asked if the child was also unclean, she said it was hers. I don’t blame her for lying, or thieving, or whatever else she might do to survive – her people are treated viciously everywhere, and she’d seen her whole family slaughtered. I admire her resilience and I wish no harm on either of them. I’ve no more feeling than that. If de Zamora is so besotted with the boy, he may continue to provide for them. Juana can be trusted to take full advantage, as she did of me,” Laurence concluded. “Seward, my head is killing me.”
Seward passed him a small cup. “Drink – it’s the very last of my poppy.”
“Thank you – much appreciated.” He downed it and licked his lips. “The question is: what to do with de Zamora and his resourceful valet? In your words, cold-blooded murder would pile crime upon crime. I won’t pay them to leave England, and I can’t hold them indefinitely in gaol. So we must think of something else.” A loud knock at the door startled them both. “Let’s hope it’s the scouts with that damned bowl.” He tugged a pistol from his saddlebag, cocked it, and rose to open.
Outside was the youth who had waited for him at St. Martin’s Church. “I’m sorry, sir,” the youth said, “but the Spaniards have gone – vanished clean into the night.”
X.
Antonio stuffed the fabric of his cloak deeper into his mouth; he could hear Diego retching quietly beside him. This was hell, he thought: to be submerged in human shit, although the warmth of it calmed the stabbing pain in his ribs. Yet as the driver urged on the withered nag pulling the cart loaded with night soil, and it jolted and bumped along, he had to bite down hard on the cloth to stop from crying out. At last the cart halted. He was afraid to move or breathe. Then he felt Diego’s hands scrabbling for his shoulders, and together they lifted their heads to peer out of the muck. They were both coated in it, and he could distinguish only the whites of Diego’s eyes. Around them were open fields, and above them a clear starlit sky. The driver stomped off a short distance, humming a tune, and returned carrying a shovel.
The Licence of War Page 41
