From the window of his bedchamber, Laurence looked out at a forest of stars above the roof of Whitehall Palace. Whatever they might portend was no less of an enigma to him than the transformation in Pembroke. A man who had attempted last year to kill him was risking everything to save him and Isabella. Was it for the letters, or did Pembroke seek the forgiveness of a higher power than the King’s for his past treachery? Or had loneliness and boredom drawn him again into flirting with danger?
Laurence heard his door creak open. He turned to see a phantom drift through, shut the door, and glide into his bed. Without a word, he threw off his clothes and lay down beside her. Neither of them spoke, until the stars faded and the sky had lightened to a pale silvery grey.
How fragile she was, he thought, without her lush curves; and how bereft of worldliness, without her luxuriant hair and her exotic perfume. Yet her spell was as strong over him. “It’s dawn,” he murmured, “and we’ve been awake all night.”
“I slept all day.” She caressed the scar on his shoulder. “This is new. Where did you come by it?”
“I was wounded escaping from London, in January. Isabella,” he went on, after a short silence, “Pembroke has offered to smuggle us out in his coach. You must wear your boy’s disguise and sit next to his driver. I’ll be hidden inside the coach, under his lordship’s seat.”
“Oh thank God. I am so eager to leave. But what will happen to us, Beaumont, if we succeed?”
“We’ll go to Oxford. Then I must return to His Majesty’s camp.”
She exhaled a quick, impatient breath. “What will happen between us? No other man has lain with me, since we bade each other goodbye. I want none other than you. Oh Beaumont, why did I let Digby persuade me into that counterfeit of a marriage? Could we somehow undo my mistake?”
Laurence groaned and rolled over, covering his face with his hands. “You have a husband, and I have a wife.”
“As Digby wrote to me – the girl your mother had chosen.”
“No, I married her sister, Catherine.”
“Catherine Beaumont.” Isabella spoke as if tasting the name. “For these last hours you were able to forget her.” Laurence said nothing: Isabella was right. “Are you in love with her?”
“No. But I am extremely fond of her, and I owe it to her to make her happy. I chose her because … she’s the opposite of her sister. She’s had a hard life. She has the falling sickness, and she was mistreated by her family.”
“And you pitied her.”
“I don’t pity her in the least. I admire her. She has a free spirit and a brave heart, like you.”
Isabella shifted in bed and took away his hands. “Then you still love me.”
“With all my heart and I always will.”
“Have you been faithful to her until now?”
“Yes, though to be frank, I haven’t yet spent an entire night with her. The war has intervened. But my marriage is not a counterfeit. I can’t leave her, Isabella.”
“Will you tell her about us?”
“She knows of you. About this, I won’t, unless she asks.”
Isabella studied him, as though tracing every inch of his body and recording it to memory; and beneath the heat of her gaze, he felt the blood rush into his groin. “Beaumont,” she said, “we’re not done with each other.” She knelt over his hips and took him inside her. As they moved together, he seemed transported to that fateful moment, on a cliff near Cádiz at the very end of Spain; he was aiming a pistol at his own temple, staring down at jagged rock and swirling tide where the gulls soared and swooped. He depressed the trigger and the ball blasted past, deafening him. And he saw Isabella’s eyes widen at exactly the same time, as if she too had heard the explosion of fire.
II.
After the initial, tantalising news of Prince Rupert’s northern victory, the King’s camp at Evesham had received uncertain, often conflicting messages, some optimistic and some alarming. Digby had read that cartfuls of dead and dying Royalist soldiers had been seen trundling through the gates of York, but he refused to believe this possible. Meanwhile, the King fretted about his wife, lying weak and helpless with her little daughter at Exeter: scouts brought word that Essex was within two days’ march of there. His Majesty had written urging Rupert to go to her aid, yet in the absence of any communication from the Prince, he could wait no longer to address the threat.
The royal army pressed into the southwest, travelling in one day a full seventeen miles to Coberly, a village not far from Cheltenham. Digby was settling to bed when a royal page summoned him to an impromptu midnight meeting of Council. He dragged himself over, yawning, to find the King ashen-faced. “An express has c-come from my n-nephew, and others who f-fought in the n-north,” His Majesty stammered, and asked Culpeper to read the reports aloud.
A major defeat had been inflicted on the Prince by the allied armies of Parliament and the Scots on the moors outside York. He had lost much of his Foot and heavy artillery, his cavalry had been scattered far and wide, and he himself had narrowly avoided capture. They could not precisely estimate the number of dead, but it might be close to four thousand. After the battle he had withdrawn to York, but that garrison would soon have to surrender. Short of powder and weapons, he was nonetheless gathering his regiments of Horse, and would retreat through Lancashire, with the aim of seeking safe haven at his headquarters in Shrewsbury. In a poignant aside to the King, Rupert mentioned that his faithful companion, Boy, had perished on Marston field.
None of the King’s Council dared state the obvious: that it had taken almost ten days for the King to learn that the north was all but lost to him; a stunning failure of intelligence. For the rest of the night, Digby lay awake bemoaning the disaster, and not solely for the Royalist cause: his own assiduously planned scheme to pit Rupert against Wilmot and drive Wilmot from power was unravelling.
III.
“As soon as I have seen my family, Capitán, I’ll ride for Madrid to take up my commission,” Antonio said to Iturbe. “How pleased my Teresa will be to welcome her Odysseus home from his travels. She must have wondered at my fate.”
From the deck of the ship, they were staring out towards the mouth of the Thames, while Diego investigated the berths below. Diego had moped peevishly for a while after his outrageous conduct at Chipping Campden, but Iturbe’s genial company on the road had forced him to behave; and the Envoy had shown them all unstinting hospitality once they had arrived in London.
“Don Antonio,” said Iturbe, “I regret to announce that an unanticipated business will prevent me from sailing with you. I must stay in England until it is arranged to my satisfaction. I heard of it only yesterday, and I did not wish to spoil our last evening together. Now, keep that purse I gave you safe, on the voyage. There are often thieves among the crew.”
“I’ve experience of English thieves to last me a lifetime,” Antonio said. “And the Envoy gifted me a fine rapier that I won’t hesitate to use, should any brigand cross me.”
“Then I need not worry for you, El Valoroso,” laughed Iturbe. After more courtesies, they parted. He strode off along the gangplank, and became lost from view in the crowds upon the dock.
Today the sun shone down out of a cloudless sky, as though to augur Antonio’s swift passage to Spanish shores; and the scent of fish and seawater in the air, and the mewing cries of gulls, reminded him of the port at Seville. He began to dream of the happy surprise with which Teresa would receive news of the honour King Philip was bestowing on him.
“Did you say goodbye to the Captain?” Diego had returned very quietly to the upper deck, his bag slung over his shoulder. “If so, it’s time for us to do the same.”
“What rubbish are you talking?” asked Antonio.
“I’m not going with you. I confided in the Envoy about my situation, and he offered me a place at the embassy as his clerk.”
“Your situation?”
“Don Antonio, the immortal Petronius tells us, Qualis dominus, talis et servu
s – like master, like servant. You’ve been my master, but I am not like you. In fact,” Diego continued, “I’m your superior, and you’ve become a millstone around my neck. The Envoy has promised to further my career. I shouldn’t be amazed if one day I hold high office as a diplomat. And if by chance we meet again, which I sincerely hope may never be the case, please don’t expect me to acknowledge our acquaintance.”
Antonio unsheathed his rapier. In a trice, a bunch of ragged sailors encircled him, and a stout, smartly clad gentleman of weather-beaten countenance hurried up to stand in front of Diego. “Sir, as captain of this vessel, I command you to put away your weapon and let this young man leave unharmed.”
“Certainly, sir,” Antonio said, and slid his rapier into its sheath. “Goodbye, Diego, and I wish you the future you deserve, in this godforsaken country,” he added, in Spanish.
“Más vale maña que fuerza,” taunted Diego. He bowed mockingly, and sallied away.
Antonio looked round agreeably at the men. “I shall translate, for those of you unfamiliar with my language. How do the English say it – brains are worth more than brawn.”
IV.
Although a hole had been cut into the floor of Pembroke’s coach for Laurence to breathe, he was fainting and soaked in perspiration when the coach stopped towards midday, less than ten miles from Westminster. But they had passed through the defences. After he had shaken off his cramp, he and Isabella bade a grateful goodbye to Pembroke.
“My lady,” said Pembroke, “were every boy like you, I should turn sodomite.”
“Your lordship flatters me,” said Isabella, with her old arch smile.
“I swear it is the truth. And remember, sir,” he said, in a private aside to Laurence, “my assistance is not free of charge. How should we communicate?”
“Through the code you used in those letters you want back,” Laurence suggested. “If all goes well, I intend to leave Lady Hallam at Governor Aston’s house. I’ll get a message to her, once I have news for you.”
He and Isabella walked on until nightfall, when they searched out a dry spot in a hedgerow to sleep. Isabella’s feet had bled into her ill-fitting boy’s shoes, and she had been limping towards the end, yet nothing could depress her mood. He felt as blissfully complete. The sight of her face, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her body next to his, gave him delight both agonising and exquisite, because it could not last. In the morning, he managed to buy a horse at extortionate cost. Driving the animal harder than he thought fair with its double burden, he cut across country to Oxford, which they reached in darkness. Governor Aston invited him to rest a while, but he stayed just to scribble a note for Aston to send on to Chipping Campden, and kissed Isabella on the hand; the Governor was watching. Then, with a fresh horse from Aston’s stables, he travelled southwest nearly eighty miles, tracking the King’s army into Somerset.
He rode into His Majesty’s camp muddy, reeking of sweat, saddle-sore, and so worn that he could barely think. At the cottage where Lord Digby was billeted, he received a frigid welcome. His lordship looked unwell, his eyes puffy, his mouth trembling. “I should felicitate you upon returning alive, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “though I surmise that you did not succeed in your endeavour.” From his pocket he produced a diamond ring. “I received this with Isabella’s finger inside. I presume it was cut off before she burnt to death.”
Laurence started to laugh, to Digby’s manifest horror. “My lord, as you may have guessed, Veech cut the finger – from Lucy’s hand when she was already dead. And he took the ring from Isabella before her escape from the Tower. She’s now at Governor Aston’s house, alive and well, with all ten of her fingers.”
Digby gave a little cry, and dissolved into tears.
When he had dried them, Laurence recounted to him the events at the Tower, omitting the names of those involved in her rescue. “And as to who assisted in our flight from London, my lord, I must remain as silent. These people ventured far more for Isabella than I, and their lives are still in danger, as a consequence. Did her legal counsel, Mr. Draycott, come to you?”
“Yes, at our camp in Evesham over a week ago, with some unlikely tale about wishing to go to her aid. He begged me for your help – to deliver you to Veech, if I am not mistaken. Mr. Price recognised him as Veech’s accomplice. He is being held in Oxford Castle.”
“God damn,” swore Laurence. “If I’d known when I was there … He was telling you the truth, as Isabella will confirm. He’s an honest man who was forced against his will to spy for Veech. He must be freed at once.”
“You say he is honest, and yet you cannot be honest with me, sir, as to how you effected Isabella’s escape and yours. I financed the operation – I deserve to know.”
“Is it not enough for you that she was rescued?” Laurence asked, thinking his lordship more deserved a punch in the face.
“I believe you are shielding the same friend in Parliament who gave you intelligence last January of the plot to seize Prince Rupert hostage, and I would like to have his name. It’s an issue of trust between us,” Digby added, in a threatening tone. “Comply with my request and I will send Aston an order to free Draycott. Until you do, I see no reason to let him out.”
“Then if you will pardon me,” said Laurence, “I must seek an audience with the King, before I succumb to my fatigue.”
“I hope you remember, sir: we agreed you would accept full responsibility for your venture to London. Should you discuss it with His Majesty, do please make clear to him that it was your idea. After all, the credit should be entirely yours, for your gallant and intrepid deed.”
“Thank you, but I am unworthy of such lavish praise.”
“My dear Mr. Beaumont, has no one ever told you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?”
“I can imagine no one better than you to remind me, my lord.”
“Touché,” exclaimed Digby. “If only you were as skilled with a rapier – it would give me great pleasure to spar with you. And now, sir, you would do well to avail yourself of soap and water, lest you offend His Majesty’s nose. He is quartered in town at the house of a Mr. Dawes.”
Without consideration for His Majesty’s nose, Laurence went straight to the royal quarters. The King was exercising his dogs in Mr. Dawes’ garden, and graciously agreed to see Laurence. He listened while Laurence described a somewhat different version of the events in London, telling him of Pembroke’s exceptional courage. “Your Majesty, Lady Hallam and I are in debt to him for our lives, and I know he’s filled with remorse for his past treachery.”
“I am heartened by that, Mr. Beaumont,” the King said, as he threw a ball to his frolicking dogs. “Were he to renounce his aff-fection to Parliament and join me here, I would be more heartened still.”
“Yes I’m sure of it, Your Majesty, but he’s of the opinion that he can better serve you by representing the interests of the peace party at Westminster,” Laurence said, creatively.
“They must be a s-sorry bunch, these days,” murmured the King.
“He did request a favour, in exchange for the immense risk he undertook for us, your agents.”
One of the dogs had raced back with the ball, and deposited it at the King’s feet. He bent to pick it up, examining it with a meditative air as the dog wagged its tail, panting, eager for the game to recommence. “What f-favour, sir?”
“If it please Your Majesty, he desires the return of those letters between him and Sir Bernard Radcliff, that weigh so heavily on his conscience.”
The King fixed on Laurence his liquid brown eyes. “Mr. B-beaumont, you were the man who found him out. And as I remember, you were of the view that he should have been b-brought to trial, and that I showed him undue mercy.”
“I did, Your Majesty. But, like the Earl, I have had a change of heart.”
“I cannot accede to his desire. When, by God’s grace, peace is restored to my kingdom, and I to my city of London, I shall consider a p-pardon to those who have unlawfully rebe
lled against me, my Lord Pembroke included. That is my answer, unless, as I told you, he will come unto my camp, in open proof of his fealty to me.”
“I thank Your Majesty,” said Laurence. “And if I could suggest to Your Majesty, he may be able to offer you further assistance in London, so long as he’s not discovered by the Committee of Both Kingdoms, or by anyone in Your Majesty’s camp who might inadvertently expose him to Parliament as your friend.”
“Are you asking me to k-keep his name from my Secretary of State?”
Laurence met the King’s eyes. “I am pleading with Your Majesty to keep his name a secret between us.”
“Very well, sir, you have my promise.” Laurence reiterated his thanks, and bowed; the King had turned back to his dogs. “Good boy, good girl,” he crooned, as they gambolled about his ankles.
How to trust the promise of this king, Laurence wondered, as he walked away. Then he saw Digby coming towards him, evidently bound for the garden. Digby stopped to inquire, “Was your audience satisfactory, sir?” Laurence did not answer, brushing by so close that his lordship had to step hastily out of his path.
V.
Pembroke watched the troop of guards file in ceremony through the doors of the House of Commons; they were carrying the Royalist standards seized at Marston Moor. Once proud, the banners were now stained and tattered; pieces must have been torn from the cloth by greedy soldiers as trophies of war. “Alas for Rupert,” he muttered, recognising the Prince’s standard: black and gold for the Palatinate, and blue and silver for Bavaria.
He was about to leave when Oliver St. John came stalking purposefully in his direction. “My lord,” St. John said, “we must praise God for this proof of our victory: forty-eight colours in all.”
“I shall take your word for it – I have not yet had occasion to count them,” said Pembroke, unwilling to show him any politesse.
“I gather you were absent from the Upper House this week.”
The Licence of War Page 52
