Digby plucked off a glove, then hesitated. The occasion was not right; they would duel another day. “My lord,” he said, “at the banquet held in Oxford to celebrate our victory at Marlborough, in December of ’42, you accused me of trying to steal Mr. Beaumont away from you. He said he had no owner that he knew of. He was wrong. He answered to Lord Falkland then. And now he answers to me. By the bye,” Digby murmured, “you have been heard to declare that His Majesty cannot win this war, and that a settlement should be negotiated with my Lord Essex to end it.”
“Many of us feared defeat before the King slipped out of Oxford.”
“I’d no more submit to Essex than would His Majesty.”
Wilmot laughed in his face. “If you wish to talk so valiantly, my lord, you shouldn’t have resigned your military commission last year. You didn’t stake your life in the field today, as I did. And your pygmy barbs can’t hurt me. I can take Beaumont from you at the drop of a hat. Just ask him where his loyalties lie.”
XI.
“I hope to God this works,” Laurence said to Price. He had rinsed the stallion’s wound with a solution of vinegar and water, and was now smearing on a remedy of Jacob’s: a poultice of mashed-up stinging nettles and ground willow bark. “Price, were the scouts sure of their information about the enemy reinforcements? You should have dispatched them again to confirm it: three hundred rebel cavalry can’t vanish into thin air.”
“I know,” said Price, in a sheepish voice. “I was so confused that I forgot. I might have cost us the battle.”
Laurence eyed him coolly. “Don’t exaggerate your own importance. Send the boys north tonight, to see what they can find out.”
“Mr. Beaumont! Mr. Price!” Quayle was riding towards them from the main camp. “His lordship wishes to speak with you.”
Laurence gave his stallion’s nose a last affectionate caress, wondering what punishment Digby had devised for him. He and Price went with Quayle, past a smaller, roped-off section of the field crowded with enemy prisoners. Some were pleading for their wounds to be dressed, yet the field surgeons would only come to them after the Royalist injured had received care, by which time more dead would be heaped upon the pile of naked corpses.
“Sorry buggers,” jeered Price.
Quayle led them to a tent where Digby was sitting on a travelling coffer, reading a thick volume: a Bible. He looked up and smiled. “Gentlemen, we may have another fight on our hands tomorrow. Waller remains camped on the other side of the river, and he has declined His Majesty’s offer of grace and pardon if he and his officers and soldiers would lay down their arms. He claims that he cannot negotiate without Parliament’s blessing.”
“I was unaware of the offer, my lord,” Laurence said.
“You were distracted from events while nursing your horse. I trust it will recover. Those Arabians are hardy beasts. And I must congratulate you both, sirs, on your conduct today. His Majesty made special note of your gallant rescue of Lord Wilmot, Mr. Beaumont. I acknowledge my error, in trying to prevent you from taking to the field. If we engage once more in the morning, I shall be pleased to put you again at Lord Wilmot’s disposal.”
“I thank you, my lord.”
“Oh, you shall soon repay me, sir,” Digby told him.
——
There was no action, and throughout the next day, both armies held their ground. At an open-air ceremony of thanksgiving, the King knighted several officers, among them young Robert Howard, for his part in Wilmot’s rescue. Then around six o’clock, Price rushed in with intelligence confirmed by several sources: about four and a half thousand Parliamentary troops from London had occupied Buckingham and were aiming to join up with Waller. At this, the King drew off his army, crossed over the Cherwell, and marched for the Cotswolds, where he could await news from the north of Prince Rupert’s progress.
On the second of July, the Royalists established their camp on the rolling hills by Moreton-in-Marsh, a bare six miles from Chipping Campden. Laurence was pondering whether to ask Digby’s leave for a quick visit, until Digby announced to him, “Essex and Waller claimed that they could not respond to His Majesty’s overtures without the agreement of Westminster. His Majesty is therefore sending a message of peace and good faith, and terms of pardon, to the rebel Parliament. Monsieur Sabron, the French agent, is to deliver it, and you shall travel with him. You will be protected from arrest on the way by his diplomatic credentials, and in London you will be as immune, lodged with him at the French embassy. I believe you know what you must accomplish for me, while you are in the capital. Save her, sir.”
“My lord, I’ll do everything I can, but please may I first say goodbye to my family?” Laurence begged, knowing how little protection the French ambassador would afford him. “It may be our farewell.”
“No, sir. Monsieur Sabron sets out today for Oxford, where he will rest overnight at Governor Aston’s house before carrying on to London. Your order is to accompany him. And you are not to discuss our business with him or with any officials at the embassy – or with anyone,” Digby added, his face solemn and unyielding, rather like the King’s. “I cannot have His Majesty hearing of it. He would accuse me of wasting my best agent on a hopeless mission of rescue. If he does hear, after the fact, I shall insist that you engaged alone on it and that I was unaware of your intentions. You are on your own, although I’ll provide you with funds, from my pocket. Now go, sir, and make yourself ready.”
Laurence considered writing to Lord Beaumont, yet what would he say about a venture that even Digby knew was all but hopeless? He thought of Catherine; he could not tell her, either, that he was about to risk his life for the woman he still loved, above her. Nor could he tell her that the faint prospect of seeing Isabella again filled him with longing.
XII.
Stretched out on his back amid tall, thick grass, Tom could hear the echo of fire from the battlefield. If he turned his head in that direction, he glimpsed sporadic, dazzling little explosions; the other direction, in contrast, seemed an impenetrable darkness. He was vaguely aware of whispering around him, and furtive rustling noises. He nearly called out: he could not be the only man hiding here, of the thousands who had fled, Royalists, and men from the Scots and Parliament forces alike. But he was unarmed and defenceless. Who might come, if he raised his voice?
Tom closed his eyes, and tried to remember how he had been shot. It had all been such a chaos. When Rupert had sounded the order to withdraw, Tom had ignored it. Never had they caved to the enemy. One charge would win the day; his idol could not be vanquished. Yet everywhere around him had been a swarm of men, cavalry wheeling their horses about and infantry stumbling through the muck, over dead and wounded; and he had no choice but to follow. He had jerked so violently at his reins that his mount bucked and threw him, and joined the stampede. Struggling to his feet, he had seen Smith gallop to his aid and reach out a hand to pull him up behind. Tom had grasped it just as a musket ball skimmed past, effortlessly splattering apart Smith’s face. Tom had stared at the gobbets of flesh and bone, and the singed hair on Smith’s skull. Then out of instinct he had thrust Smith forwards and leapt into the saddle, determined to carry his friend from the field. The body was impossibly awkward, sliding and bumping against the horse’s neck and breast; in the end, Tom had heaved it to the ground. Had he waited a fraction longer, the next ball, from a pistol, would have ploughed into Smith’s right thigh and not his. The searing pain had torn through his muscle and spread, as if along a fuse, into his groin and lower spine. All he could do was cling to the animal’s mane as it chased after the panicked hordes. He must have tumbled a second time to the ground, because he could not recollect anything else, until a few moments ago.
Tom pressed his fingertips gingerly to his head and felt no contusions; it was the bleeding and the shock that had knocked him out. He rolled onto his left hip and peered down at the ragged, oozing hole in his thigh. The pain had dulled, and his leg was tremendously heavy and stiff. Wrestling off the sash that Adam h
ad tied proudly across his breastplate as they had prepared to ride into action, he bound the fabric over his wound, knotted it, and lay back once more, his sweating brow cooled by the breeze rippling through the grasses. He wanted to sleep. Footsteps, muttered talk, and the slow thud of hooves jolted him awake again. In the moonlight he distinguished clumps of figures, some leading horses. Two separated and walked towards him: they were bare-headed, and their faces must have been black with smoke; as they approached he could see only the whites of the eyes. “Tom?”
“Ingram?” Tom still could not recognise his brother-in-law’s features beneath the grime, but he knew the voice. “How did you find me?”
The other man was Adam, who started to cry, in great choking gulps. ‘Thank God you’re alive, sir.”
“We’ve been searching at least an hour for you in the moors.” Ingram squatted beside Tom. “Where are you hurt?”
“I took a ball in the thigh, from a pistol,” Tom said, wishing Adam would be quiet. “Did the Prince charge again? Did we rout the enemy?”
“They routed us. It was a defeat,” added Ingram, unnecessarily.
“The Prince wasn’t captured?”
“No, he’s gathering what remains of his cavalry to press on to York, where we’re to seek refuge. There are lots of us hereabouts. But we have to move – those of us who are able.”
“Who’s left on the field?”
“Newcastle’s Whitecoats. They’ve refused to surrender, though they’re out of ammunition. They’ll be slain to the last man, unless Parliament shows them mercy.”
“Oh Christ. Smith is dead.”
“And Curtis. I’m sorry, Tom.”
“Why say you’re sorry? You always hated them both.”
“It’s no time to argue,” Ingram said impatiently. “Adam, help me.” He and Adam gripped Tom under either arm, and hoisted him into a sitting position. “You must stand on your good leg, and we’ll put you on the horse. When we get to York, I’ll fetch you a surgeon.”
The pain flared in Tom’s thigh and rage swept over him, as in childhood when he and Laurence would play games together, and he would be about to lose. The odds were unfair and he did not care to play on. “Leave me to die, Ingram. I’ll die all the same, if they have to cut off my leg.”
“Don’t be a fool: you have Mary to live for, and your child.”
They attempted to lift him onto his sound leg, but he howled and wrested himself free. “Go, both of you.”
“Please, sir, please,” sobbed Adam, “don’t give up hope. I’ll take you to Chipping Campden, same as Master Laurence did for Mr. Ingram after the fight at Edgehill, when he broke his leg.”
Tom almost laughed. “Edgehill was a stone’s throw from home. We’re hundreds of miles away.”
Ingram snatched Tom roughly by the front of his collar. “I never thought you were a coward. Now put your arms round my neck, and stand up, God damn you.”
“Everything’s finished, everything,” Tom mumbled; but he gritted his teeth, and obeyed.
Part Four
England and Spain, July–September 1644
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I.
Monsieur Sabron resembled to Laurence an intelligent ferret, with his pointed nose and shrewd, humorous eyes. Rather than talk of war and politics on the road, they discussed French and English mores, Sabron’s estate in Gascony, and horseflesh. Sabron commented admiringly on the two mounts Laurence had brought with him: Pembroke’s, and the Arab stallion. “What a waste to ride that beautiful creature into battle,” Sabron remarked of the Arab, and Laurence agreed; he had already decided to entrust it to Seward’s care.
When they arrived in Oxford, he left Sabron at Governor Aston’s house, declining to stay there overnight, saying that he would rejoin the diplomatic party in the morning. The more he knew Aston the more he disliked the man, who reminded him of Catherine’s father; and it annoyed him to be in Aston’s debt for conveying Elizabeth home. He rode the thirteen miles to Clarke’s house, where he discovered Seward and Clarke in far better spirits than on those last days of May when Oxford had verged upon disaster. Unlike the discreet Sabron, they both peppered him with questions as they sat together after an evening meal in Clarke’s hospitable front room.
“The King’s fortunes have improved,” Clarke observed, of the battle at Cropredy Bridge, and His Majesty’s peace overtures to Westminster. “What will he do now?”
“That will depend on Prince Rupert’s fortunes,” Laurence said. “A victory over the Scots and Generals Fairfax and Manchester could swing the balance of the war, and will certainly determine the King’s strategy in the south. If he retreats his forces to Oxford, he could still be trapped into a siege. Waller’s army is depleted but not broken, and he’s been granted reinforcements by Parliament. And Essex is a threat to the Queen in the southwest: she and her child could become his hostages.”
Seward was peering at Laurence keenly through his thick spectacles. “Why should Lord Digby ask you to go with Monsieur Sabron to London?”
“He has a private business he wants me to settle with the French ambassador,” Laurence replied, which satisfied Clarke; but not Seward, he could tell.
Once Clarke had lumbered up to bed, Seward invited Laurence out to the kitchen garden, where rows of vegetables and herbs were sprouting their summery green leaves. “Let’s have the truth, Beaumont,” he said as he filled his pipe.
Laurence explained about Veech’s most recent package of the hand, and Isabella’s arrest; and how he had fought by Wilmot’s side in battle, angering Digby; and his order from Digby.
“I am amazed at his lordship sending you on such a fool’s mission. The moment you quit the French embassy, you will be seized by Veech. And what is the chance that Lady Hallam would be condemned, even on her husband’s evidence?”
“Digby can’t take that chance, and nor can I.”
“Have you any idea how to accomplish this impossible task?”
“Not as yet. If only I could rely on Barlow for help. Seward, you didn’t happen to bring with you any of your sleeping draught?”
“Yes, as it happens.”
“And … the witch’s poison?”
Seward lit his pipe and exhaled a violent puff of smoke. “I’ve never used that particular receipt. It would require some time to find the ingredients and to distil.”
“It was just a thought,” Laurence said gloomily.
“Any news from home?” asked Seward, in a gentler voice.
Laurence told him about Catherine’s illness and her belief in the powers of her ring; and about the Spaniards, and his revelatory conversation with Lady Beaumont. “We may have opened a fresh chapter between us. To borrow one of Ingram’s favourite sayings, there’s a silver lining to every cloud.”
“So there is. And you must have no more doubts as to your paternity.”
Laurence smiled; a hint of doubt remained. “We have to wait upon the Spanish Envoy, her deus ex machina. I dispatched her letter to him when I was last in Oxford. Ah, but there’s more – your bowl is at Chipping Campden.”
“I pray she comes to no harm by de Zamora’s valet,” said Seward, when he heard of Catherine’s desire to steal it back. For a while they both contemplated the night sky, festooned with stars; a barn owl ghosted past them, like an enormous moth. “The symbol of wisdom,” he murmured. “When will you grow wise? Catherine is your wife and deserves your full affection, yet it’s plain to me that you are still in love with Lady Hallam.”
“You’re right, Seward: though I’ve tried hard to banish those feelings. And the truth is that I volunteered to go to London before Digby sent me. Isabella may not be condemned in court, but I’m afraid of what Veech might do to her. If I see an opportunity, I intend to kill him or have him killed. I owe it to Barlow, among others.” He gave Seward’s bony shoulder a squeeze. “You were worried about me riding into the fray. This is no more dangerous.”
“You are well aware that it is.”
&n
bsp; Laurence looked across the garden to the field where Pembroke’s mount was grazing alongside his Arab. “I really should return that horse to its master.”
“Would you enlist his help again?”
“I’m low on friends in the City, and he was my trump card last time. By the way, I wrote to inform the King how Pembroke’s intelligence saved Rupert from capture at the gates of Aylesbury, and received not a word in answer.”
“Do you expect His Majesty to thank the man who plotted his death?”
“You’re right again. I did warm to old Pembroke, however.”
“He might not be thrilled to see you a second time. Beaumont,” Seward recommenced, “on the morning you advised me to flee Oxford, I had been telling Clarke about a dream that had visited me in the night, of a vast expanse of moorland strewn with hundreds upon hundreds of wounded and dying men. Clearly a huge battle had been waged, and as clearly lost, though by which side I could not tell. Might it have been Cropredy, where you were?”
“Not by your description. There was no expanse of moor, and the losses weren’t huge, even if the rebels fared worse than we did. Have you dreamt of it since?”
“If I have, I can’t recollect. My dearest boy,” Seward said suddenly, “I fear that next I shall have nightmares of some … some part of you, sent in a package to Lord Digby.”
“I hope it would be a piece of my mind,” said Laurence. “I’ve never yet told him exactly what I think of him. Now, Seward, I want to know all about your sleeping draught.”
II.
A wagon harnessed to a pair of cart horses stood outside Sir Montague’s house, from which Greenhalgh was directing a procession of servants laden with rolled-up carpets and tapestries, boxes, chests, piles of linen, and various canvases, among them those of Sir Montague’s disapproving parents. “Good morning to you, Mr. Draycott,” he said, bowing imperturbably.
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