The Licence of War (12 page)

She resumed her smile, though it was now forced. “Do you claim to know him better than I?”

Tread delicately
, Digby warned himself. “I may care more for your future than he does. You suggested that I ask Dr. Seward to cast your horoscope.
I
would suggest, Isabella, that you consult the Doctor about Beaumont’s inner nature.”

“You have accused the Doctor of lying to me. Why would I get an honest opinion, this time?”

“Lies can be as revealing as the truth.”

“Trust you to say such a thing,” she remarked insouciantly, but he could read the hurt in her eyes.

“O Lord, may thy heavenly angels guide me in my search,” prayed Seward, his chest fluttering, like the beat of an angel’s wing.

Tonight he had filled his scrying bowl not with plain water, but with a decoction of herbs and roots that he had gathered at the appointed dates and times, some in the dead of night, and others under the noonday sun. He had recorded the recipe years ago, and then misplaced it until recently among his books. It was from Robert Fludd, as was the bowl, bestowed on him shortly before Fludd died.

Fludd had passed it to him, saying, “William, remember: all truth lies in the harmony of microcosm and macrocosm.”

“Might the truth one day free us from ignorance and superstition?” Seward had asked. “I do believe it, but do you?”

Although Fludd had not answered him, Seward maintained his faith. At his great age, he might never see the day when enlightenment dawned upon the world, and nor would he find a student to pass on his store of occult learning. He had made a dire mistake, once, in thinking that Bernard Radcliff might be worthy of the latter privilege, and had taught him too much. Radcliff had desired earthly power,
not spiritual enlightenment, and his ambition had led to his death.

Seward shook off the memory, and slowed his breathing, gazing into the dark liquid. “What will be His Majesty’s fate?” he whispered. “How will
he
die?”

For a long time, Seward saw only his own reflection. Then a mist floated across the surface, his nerves began to tingle, and a vision appeared. Two figures, their backs to him, were walking side by side, swaying as if drunk, their cloaks rippling and billowing in a powerful wind. The shorter man clutched his hat tight, while his companion gestured extravagantly with both hands. In the next second, a sudden gust blew away his own hat before he could catch it. He turned, and Seward had a clear view of his face. As rapidly, the vision evaporated, leaving Seward shocked and mystified: had he seen the present, or far into the future? At least he understood the men’s strange gait: they were on the deck of a ship.

“What’s that you’re eating?” Antonio asked Diego, between gritted teeth. In the last few days their vessel had hit rough waters and he had been wretchedly seasick, unable to stir from their miserable berth below deck; and he was still furious about losing his prized cocked hat in a wind.

“Ginger, Don Antonio,” Diego replied, chewing as contentedly as a cow on its cud. “A root very efficacious for nausea. I had the presence of mind to buy myself a small supply before we left port.”

“Why in hell have you waited so long to give some to
me
?”

With his pocket knife, Diego sliced off a section of the dry, knobbly root and offered it to Antonio, who crunched at it, grimacing at the taste. “I’ve been thinking,” Diego said, in the deliberate tone Antonio had come to recognise.

“Yes, Diego?”

“As you have at last confided in me that we’re not on a mission to bring funds to King Charles, and as I realise that we have no
diplomatic papers to protect us, other than the ones I forged, we’ll want help upon our arrival in London.”

Antonio glowered at this piece of wisdom, as unpalatable to him as the ginger root. He had been driven to show the forgeries when the ship’s captain had asked for their travelling documents. To Diego he had explained that he had deceived everyone about the purpose of his journey so as not to be bothered by questions. “And all you need to know is that I am seeking to re-establish a family connection in England.” To his annoyance, Diego had crowed with laughter. “I knew from the start that your pretext was false, Don Antonio! As if King Philip has money to spare for Charles of England.”

“You might like to find yourself a friend,” Diego now continued, “such as … the Spanish ambassador.”

“I should also like to be twenty years younger and rich as Croesus,” scoffed Antonio.

Diego stopped chewing. “His name is Don Alonso de Cárdenas.”

“Who told you that, my clever monkey?”

“I’ve been following events in England ever since I began to learn the language. You said you have friends at King Philip’s Court – well I have friends in Madrid. Don Alonso has been King Philip’s envoy in England for about the past five years,” Diego breezed on. “From what I managed to glean, he encountered many difficulties early in his appointment, the first being his greatest disadvantage: he spoke practically no English.”

“Is that so,” said Antonio, mastering his temper; the ginger was working magic on his queasy stomach. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“He may be no friend to King Charles. Queen Henrietta Maria is French, and we are at war with France. Or should I say, losing our war with France.”

“As I am perfectly aware. Have you a better reason?”

“The English royals have been seeking aid from the Protestant House of Orange, in the Netherlands, to which Spain is equally
hostile. And our King Philip has a strong interest in limiting the influence of his French and Dutch enemies abroad. In short, Don Alonso may be more kindly disposed to the English Parliament than to King Charles,” Diego concluded, popping another slice of ginger into his mouth.

“Kindly disposed to a bunch of rebels?”

“Yes – on the instruction of
our
king.”

Antonio pondered: this did not fit with the tone of Don Miguel’s letter. How could Diego know more about English affairs than Don Miguel’s sons? “Surely neither our king nor Don Alonso can afford to be openly hostile to King Charles.”

“You’re right, Don Antonio. It’s my guess that they’ll preserve a polite façade of diplomacy until they see how the civil war unfolds.”

“
Civil war?
” Antonio shook his head in amazement. “Are you suggesting that King Charles might be defeated?”

“You’re a soldier, Don Antonio – you have experienced the vagaries of warfare,” said Diego. “I’ve only studied them. But history teaches us that rulers
can
be defeated by their subjects, and I’d venture to predict that whichever side in this conflict has the most money and is least plagued by internal strife will win.”

“In that case, Diego,” Antonio said, “you will write me an introduction from His Majesty King Philip to Don Alonso stating simply that I am in England to visit a dear friend of my maternal aunt: John Digby, Earl of Bristol.”

L
aurence ran a hand along the window frame, feeling in the dark ness for the midpoint, where the inside latch was situated. Prying the blade of his knife between window and frame, he teased at the latch until it came free, and pushed open the window. Barlow would be amused, he thought, as he hoisted himself onto the sill and crawled though. Sliding his feet over, he dropped to the kitchen floor. Instantly his heart jolted in his chest: a ghostly figure was looming up at him wielding a brass candlestick, poised to strike. “Lucy, put that down,” he whispered.

“Mr. Beaumont! Why’d you have to break in?” she said angrily, though she did as he asked.

“I lost my key. I tried throwing stones at your windows, and nobody heard.” Laurence tossed aside his saddlebag, went to grab a tinderbox from the mantel, and bent to light the fire.

She was shivering in her nightgown. “Shall I call the mistress?”

“No.” As the flames began to crackle in the hearth, he stripped off his wet cloak and sank onto a chair to remove his boots. Cold and unutterably tired, he wanted to go straight to bed; but he was also dirty, stinking of sweat, and ravenous. He dragged himself to his feet again, fetched the heavy copper, and poured water into it from a pail. “How is she?”

“She’s been worried to death about you. More than a fortnight since you left.”

He hung the copper over the flames. “Have we any food or drink in this house?” Lucy disappeared into the pantry and returned with a
wine jug and a half-eaten pie, dumping them on the table. “Thank you, Lucy,” he said. “You may go.”

“Don’t forget to douse the fire.”

He paid no attention, cramming pie into his mouth and chasing it down with wine, and eventually she stalked away. After he had washed and followed her instruction, he wrapped a towel around his waist and hurried upstairs to Isabella’s chamber. She lay on her side beneath the covers; he could just distinguish her dark hair spread out, against the whiteness of her pillow. Then her hair moved, eerily, as if of its own accord, and separated into an independent form: a cat! The animal scampered past him, brushing against his ankles, and darted from the room.

“My God, whatever next,” he murmured, closing the door behind it.

Isabella rolled over to face him. “Beaumont! Do you know what agony you’ve put me through?”

He climbed into bed and pressed against her, luxuriating in the warmth of her body. “I’m sorry, Isabella – I wanted to tell you that I was leaving, and what for, but—”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Digby forbade me.”

“Liar.” With impressive speed, she reached back and slapped him hard on the cheek. “You deceived us both.”

Swinging himself on top of her, he pinned her by the wrists. “And I promise to explain my reasons. But not now.”

In the morning, Laurence woke before her. He examined her face, and was pained to see an unhealthy cast to her complexion, and circles under her eyes. And he remembered that for the first time ever in the ten months of their tempestuous yet all-consuming relationship as lovers, she had denied him the pleasure of satisfying her. It was altogether an inauspicious welcome.

Slowly her lashes flickered open. “What are these?” She touched a finger to his forehead. “Traces of a woman’s paint?”

“I had to escape from the City in female disguise.”

“Were you inspired by my example?”

He laughed; he had once scolded Isabella for dressing as a boy, to run from Parliament troops. “No. The owner of the house where I took refuge, Mistress Edwards, suggested it.”

“So there
was
a woman.”

“She’s an old friend of mine, more than sixty, and very ill. She’s sheltered me on several occasions, at considerable risk to herself.”

“Oh,” Isabella said, in a slightly mollified tone.

“Did Digby inform you that he had intended anyway to send me to London?”

“Yes, on the morning after your departure when I went in search of you to his offices.
He
had no issue with you telling me.”

“Now he’s the one who’s lying,” Laurence protested. “I lied to you in only one respect – about having supper with the Queen, who
had
invited me. I’d decided to disobey him by leaving early and by myself. Obviously I didn’t want him to find out. But when he ordered me on this mission, he expressly commanded me not to talk of it with you. Had I disobeyed him in that regard we wouldn’t be arguing.” She frowned dubiously, which hurt Laurence far more than her slap. “Would you take Digby’s word over mine?” he asked, staring into her eyes.

“Why would he lie to me about such a matter?”

“To cause trouble between us. It was you who warned me he’d try to break us apart.”

“Yes, I know,” she admitted. “So why
did
you not wait to go with Violet?”

Laurence repeated to her the reasons he had given Digby. “I’m not even sure if Violet was in London.”

“He was. He brought his lordship a detailed report on the quarrels within Parliament, and … other useful intelligence.”

“Good for him.” Laurence took her in his arms; he felt no softening of her attitude. “What else is bothering you, my love?”

“Her ladyship your mother paid a second visit here, before her departure for Chipping Campden.”

“Ah,” he said, releasing her. “You must have had a delightful exchange.”

“It was most delightful, and I am beginning to agree with her: I might prefer the role of mistress to that of wife,” Isabella said, brightly. “We would be wise to recognise our limits, don’t you think?”

“Is that her view or yours?”

“Be honest, Beaumont – can you picture me at home with her ladyship, grumbling about the servants over our embroidery?” Laurence was silent; he could not. “She hinted that our marriage would be the death of your father.”

“Nonsense – he married for love.”

“Whatever the case, you neglected to tell me that you’re considering the betrothal she has arranged.”

Laurence sat up in bed. “That is false.”

“You promised her not to marry me until you had spoken to Lord Beaumont about it,” Isabella rushed on. “And you pledged to do your duty to him, which,
clearly
, is to wed the girl they have picked out for you.”

“Did my mother also pay a visit on Digby?” Isabella nodded. “I suppose this creative version of the facts came from him.”

“Then what is your version of the facts?”

“I have promised to speak to my father,” Laurence said, without shifting his eyes from hers. “I would be … undutiful to marry without his knowledge, although had you accepted when I proposed to you, I’d have overlooked my duty to him. But I haven’t changed my mind. I want you for my wife, Isabella. In the past, he accepted that I should be free to choose, as he did. I believe the more he gets to know you, he’ll understand,” he concluded, uncomfortably aware that he knew little himself about Isabella’s life prior to meeting her. She disliked talking of it, and had told him only that her mother had died when she was a girl, and that after she was seduced and endured an abortion, she had become Digby’s ward.