The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “Thank God,” Laurence murmured. “Is his heart beating?”

  Draycott knelt and inserted a hand into Veech’s shirt. “Yes, and his eyes are wide. He can see me. But … what is he? Part woman?”

  “Quick, show me the pages he wrote.” Draycott fetched them. Laurence wanted to read what Veech had recorded about Pembroke, yet his vision was so distorted that he could decipher not a word. “The quill,” he said to Draycott. Blood was oozing out in a puddle from beneath his wound, soiling the paper. He signed his name, and dropped the quill. “If you can, tell … Sarah, Barlow’s wife that … his death is avenged.”

  “I shall.” Draycott shuffled the pages together and stuffed them into his doublet. “We did it! Now let me free you.”

  “No. Fire his pistol, for Aston’s men.”

  “First let me help you!”

  “No, no, just do as we agreed,” Laurence implored, with the dregs of his strength. “You must get clean away.”

  “Beaumont,” said Draycott, pleading, “you’re not about to die?”

  Laurence saw Draycott’s face shrink, to the size of a walnut. And then it vanished.

  VI.

  Slouched over the table, Beaumont might have been sleeping or dead, so pacific was his expression. He was breathing regularly, however, and that gave Draycott hope. The sooner Aston’s men arrived, the better. Resisting an urge to pull out that ugly knife, Draycott ran back to Veech. He squatted to button Veech’s coat, trying to avoid the staring eyes, retrieved the pistol, pressed it into Veech’s clammy hand, aimed at the ceiling, and fired. He had to leap aside to dodge a hail of plaster; Beaumont did not move. Draycott flew into the kitchen shouting, “Hurry, hurry! Something is the matter with Mr. Veech!”

  He, the landlord, and the two militiamen raced back to the taproom. They surrounded Veech, and the landlord bent and held his cupped hand to Veech’s nose and lips. “His breath is very faint. What happened, sir?”

  “I can’t explain it,” said Draycott. “He … he clutched at his heart, grabbed his pistol, and then fired, though I don’t know why – and next he collapsed! He needs a physician.”

  “There’s none in the village, sir! You’ll have to ride to High Wycombe.”

  “Christ Almighty,” said one of the men, looking over at Beaumont. “Is he dead?”

  “Let him be, and get help for Mr. Veech,” said Draycott.

  The landlord sprang to open the door, and as if he had pulled the trigger on twenty pistols, a volley of shots rang out from the hills around the inn. “Who’s that?” he cried.

  Draycott pretended terrified ignorance. He had perhaps five minutes to escape with his cache of papers before Aston’s men arrived. Loud yells broke out from the yard, and the girl hurtled shrieking from the kitchen and threw herself into her father’s arms.

  Otis burst in, waving his carbine. “A raiding party, sir! They’re coming out of the hills. Must be hundreds of ’em!”

  Draycott lunged for his pistol. “Get our horses – we’ll have to ride through their fire! Tend to Veech as best you can,” he barked at the landlord.

  “And the other? The malignant?”

  “Damn him,” said Draycott, and sped out.

  Aston’s troops were pouring into the valley, their fire closer and closer. A few balls whizzed by, one clipping Draycott’s shoulder as he and Veech’s men mounted and galloped along the track towards the main road. Behind him he heard more explosions of shot, and the shatter of glass. Then abruptly, the shots ceased. He and the others slowed their pace to look back at the yard, where Aston’s men were reining in their horses.

  “Why aren’t they giving us chase?” Otis panted.

  “They can’t be after us,” said Draycott. “They must have come to arrest Beaumont, and with good reason: he was here to betray Lord Digby, the King’s Secretary of State.”

  VII.

  “ ‘Revenge is a kind of wild justice..’ ” Seward smiled down at Laurence, polishing his spectacles with the sleeve of his robe. “Thus wrote the late Baron Verulam, and thus Veech’s revenge backfired upon himself. How do you feel, Beaumont?”

  Laurence was trying to recollect how he came to be lying on Seward’s bed. He had surfaced from unconsciousness, retching and confused, shortly after Aston’s men had carried him there; on Isabella’s instruction, as Seward had told him, while feeding him a soothing mixture for his stomach. Once assured that Draycott had got safely away, he had given Seward a probably muddled account of their ordeal. Then he had slept. His head now throbbed no worse than after a night’s drinking with Wilmot; and though his right hand, encased in bandages, was extremely sore, the pain was a sign of life. “I feel wonderful, Seward – like Lazarus,” he said. “And I owe to the Governor’s men a most efficient rescue.”

  “They might have had no one to rescue, had you not partaken of that stew.”

  “I’ve got Veech to thank there: his suspicion of it saved me. I wonder how long he took to die.”

  “His heart stopped at dawn this morning, according to Aston’s physician.” Laurence sat up, amazed. “Since he was breathing when the men arrived, they decided to bring him with you to Oxford, in case he recovered,” Seward explained. “Who knows how big a dose Draycott administered to him, but all the same, he must have had an iron constitution. I asked the physician to leave his corpse undisturbed, at the Governor’s house, so that I may view it before burial.”

  “You are morbid. Why?”

  “Because of what you said to me, as you were drifting off to sleep.”

  “About his … breasts?”

  Seward nodded excitedly. “I have never set eyes on a hermaphrodite, and at my age I may not have another chance – and nor may you. Will you be fit to venture out with me, towards afternoon, in my scientific quest?”

  “I must admit, I am curious.”

  “And as morbid as I am. What sort of voice had he, Beaumont?”

  “Deep.” Laurence could still hear it in his ears. “Far deeper than yours or mine, and resonant. It would have been a lovely singing voice.”

  ——

  Veech was laid out on a table in an empty room, his body covered by a blanket. Laurence shivered as Aston’s surgeon unveiled his face: his eyes glared up at them with no less intensity than in life.

  “A striking countenance,” remarked Seward. He pried wide Veech’s mouth with his fingertips. “No ostensible discolouration of the gums or tongue. It is a cunning poison – he could well have suffered a natural failure of the heart.” He lowered the blanket to Veech’s thighs and unbuttoned his coat. “Have you a knife, sir?” he said to the surgeon, who supplied one; he seemed as intrigued as Seward and Laurence. Seward slit the shirt to Veech’s navel and exposed his chest. “They are paps, though not like a woman’s. They resemble those of a young girl, or a much fatter man.”

  “And how light the hair grows on his chest and belly – as on his arms,” the surgeon noted, drawing up Veech’s sleeve to look at the skin beneath.

  “Let us investigate further.” Seward unlaced the breeches, and he and the surgeon hefted up Veech’s hips to roll the garment down; Veech’s body was as stiff as the table. Then with the air of a magician, Seward raised the hem of his shirt. Laurence and the surgeon cringed. Where his testicles should have been was a neatly scarred gap, and his penis had been cut to a stub. Laurence recalled that sudden rage. No more than you’d expect to find between a man’s legs.

  “Not a hermaphrodite – a eunuch,” Seward declared. “I am familiar with the snipping of boys’ cods to preserve their sweetness of voice. They remain smooth-skinned, and are reputed to acquire small breasts. But this must have been done to him when he was a full grown male, or he would have been more feminine in appearance, and had a higher voice.”

  “He said he was in the East, at about my age,” murmured Laurence, “and had seen converts to the Muslim faith circumcised. I asked him if he was ever converted, and he said no.”

  “The truth was far more horrific.
It is news to me that castration at that age would in time effect similar physical changes as on a boy.”

  “How did he not bleed to death or die of shock?” asked the surgeon.

  “In the East they are renowned for the making and keeping of eunuchs,” Seward replied. “Observe what is inserted into the opening of his member: something like a plug. Without it, the opening would narrow, and he would be unable to pass water. He would definitely be incapable of amorous intercourse.”

  “What astounding powers of deduction, Seward,” Laurence said. “It’s no surprise he wanted revenge on me: when I shot him, I piled insult upon injury.”

  Seward unstrapped the brace on Veech’s knee to expose a lumpy, hairless joint. “The bone is deformed. He would have worn that brace for the rest of his days. Let us turn him onto his front.”

  The surgeon helped Seward wrestle the body over, and Seward tore off the coat and shirt. Veech’s back was ridged to the waist with scars from a lash, and on the upper muscle of each shoulder he had been branded with a squiggle of Arabic letters. “His owner’s mark, I would suppose,” Seward said. “He may first have been a slave to others, and then was enslaved by his lust for vengeance. Now we know why he chose to mutilate his victims. And think of what he was planning for you, Beaumont: to make you like him. You should rejoice that you rid the earth of such a tortured soul.”

  “I feel no joy,” said Laurence, thinking what strength of will must have been required to carry on living in that emasculated body. Veech had been in the business of secrets, while hiding a secret for which Laurence could imagine no fitting revenge. “Dress him and cover him again, Seward, and let the Governor bury him at once.”

  Aston had invited Laurence and Seward to sup with him that evening, an offer Seward told Laurence they could not decline. Before going to table, they requested of the Governor a private talk with Isabella, to apprise her of what had happened at the White Hart, and of the discoveries about Veech.

  “You were not so wrong, my lady – he was malformed, though not from birth,” Seward said. “I believe Beaumont pities him.”

  “Remember his cruelty,” she said to Laurence. “He deserves no pity. In the final moment, he could have killed Mr. Draycott with that shot. We must find a way to tell Draycott you survived.”

  “We should have some agents left in London who might communicate with him, though I don’t want to know who they are.”

  Isabella nodded. “And now, gentlemen, let us join Sir Arthur. He has news, from the King.”

  Yet Aston kept silent throughout the meal. Only when it ended, did he announce, “His Majesty wrote a week ago from Cornwall. He is still engaged in trapping Essex’s forces and cutting them off from provisions, by land and by sea. He has some sixteen thousand Horse and Foot, and the Earl under ten thousand, so with God’s grace we may foresee a happy outcome in that part of his kingdom. Mr. Beaumont, he asked me to inform you, on confirmation of your success in destroying Clement Veech: he will limit your term of exile to September of next year – a twelvemonth.”

  “How gracious of him,” Seward exclaimed.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Laurence, with rather less enthusiasm; was this on Prince Charles’ urging, or was some other, less benign influence responsible?

  “There is, however, a condition to his mercy,” Aston said. “You must sail with Lord Wilmot, who is in custody at Exeter. Tomorrow morning I shall have a troop ready to escort you thence – they are the men who recently did you service.”

  Laurence thought of Catherine, whom he had altogether forgotten while plotting and executing Veech’s death. “I had promised to pass by Chipping Campden to bid my family goodbye, and my wife wished to travel with me.”

  “I cannot allow the delay, sir. You are a prisoner in my custody.”

  “She can follow you, Beaumont,” said Seward, a mite reproving. “And your family will comprehend. Besides, a twelvemonth will fly by in no time.”

  “Let’s drink to that,” proposed Isabella, in a voice so artificial that Laurence could not look at her.

  When they had drunk, Aston said, “Why not spend your last night in Oxford at my house, Mr. Beaumont, since you will be departing from here.”

  Like Draycott, Laurence decided to refuse the Governor’s hospitality, but for a less noble motive: he might have been tempted to invade Isabella’s bedchamber. “No, thank you, Sir Arthur: I’ll stay at Merton with Dr. Seward.”

  “You must report to me, then, by nine of the clock.”

  Seward stifled a yawn. “It grows late, Beaumont.”

  Laurence turned to Isabella. “Lady Hallam, may I have a quick word before we go?”

  “Why yes,” she said, with a bright smile.

  As he walked her out to the entrance hall, he felt his head swim as if he had swallowed another dose of belladonna. “What will you do now?” he asked. “How and … and where will you live?”

  “I’ll seek temporary lodgings in Oxford. Sir Montague and I are in correspondence to settle upon a modest stipend for me as his estranged wife. As for you, what a marvellous concession from the King.”

  “Is it?”

  She examined his face more dubiously. “Your exile may be a mere holiday from work. What was it Digby said of you last autumn: His Majesty thought it most ill-advised that he should lack such a good man to assist him.”

  “I have precisely the same idea.”

  “Still, who can predict where we may be in a twelvemonth. His Majesty’s campaign in the southwest is progressing well and the Governor mentioned to me that Prince Rupert is moving to establish his headquarters in Bristol, to be nearer to the King. He might outweigh Digby’s counsel: the King is devoted to his nephew.”

  “The King prefers sanguine advice. What he doesn’t hear from Rupert he’ll get from Digby. Oh, Isabella, this war doesn’t matter to me – what matters is you,” Laurence confessed, wrapping his arms around her. “At Pembroke’s house, you asked me how we could undo our mistake. We’re not done with each other, are we?”

  “No. We are friends for life. But as you said, your marriage is not a counterfeit. I want you to be a true husband to Catherine.”

  “How can I be, when I love you?”

  “Trust me, you will come to love her.” Isabella reached up and wiped away a tear from his cheek; her gold-flecked eyes were dry, yet full of tenderness. “Beaumont, if I don’t rise early to see you off, would you understand?”

  “Of course I would. I couldn’t bear it, either: to say goodbye in front of everyone. Especially that bastard Aston,” he added, forcing a smile.

  “Then I’ll say it now.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “Farewell, my beloved friend.”

  “Not farewell,” he said, and kissed her deeply; a lover’s kiss. “It is just goodbye.”

  VIII.

  For hours, Laurence lay awake. His thoughts wandered, from that parting scene with Isabella to the whole drama of Veech’s death. He was almost afraid to sleep, lest he be visited by some nightmare of Veech castrating him. But when finally he slept, he dreamt again of the King lying dead in the woods. He and Pembroke were standing by the makeshift bier, and Pembroke was slapping him on the shoulder. “You did it, Mr. Beaumont! Thanks to you, we can crown a new monarch.”

  Then young Prince Charles came towards them through the trees. He paused at the bier, and as he studied his father’s body, Laurence saw a startling transformation sweep over him. He grew in height and girth, his complexion sallowed, his hair thickened and darkened into a luxuriant peruke, his youthful cheeks sagged, and his large, molten Stuart eyes acquired a wary, cynical wisdom. Lines of hard experience furrowed around his mouth, above which sprouted a thin moustache. He looked up at Laurence and Pembroke, and his full lips curved into a smile at the same time humorous, lazy, and sensual; and without speaking, he turned and strolled away, back among the trees.

  In the dim light of dawn, Laurence washed and shaved, packed his saddlebag, and sat at Seward’s desk to compose three lette
rs. To Lord Beaumont he described the new terms of his exile, and regretted that he could not go home before sailing for France, where he hoped Catherine would soon join him. He sent his love to the household, and promised to write from Paris. His next letter was for Ingram, and contained much the same information. The third, to Catherine, was the briefest, though it cost him the most effort. He was not pleased, as he reread it. He should have told her that he loved her. Instead, it ended: “I shall be waiting for you.”

  Seward had chosen to say goodbye at the door. “I loathe the fuss of partings,” he said.

  “As do I,” Laurence agreed. “To be honest, I’m rather glad I can’t go home. And, as you said, a year is but a little while.”

  “At my age, a little while is all that I have left.”

  “Then you must take good care of yourself – no more working through the night on royal horoscopes.” Laurence nodded at the silver bowl on Seward’s desk. “But you might watch out for me in Paris.”