The Licence of War (29 page)

“
What it means
, Diego, is that the Lady Elena has a son who must be my very image.” Antonio felt simultaneously stunned and thrilled: he could guess which of the two sons it must be.

He was less thrilled the next morning when he and Diego were dragged from their sleeping spot by a gang of bullies who beat them soundly and then hauled them up before the justice of the peace. The woman he had accosted was no whore, but the tavern keeper’s wife. Diego pleaded Don Antonio’s case eloquently in court, stating that they were French mercenaries by the names of Antoine Desorme and Jacques Sand, come to serve in His Majesty’s army. Antonio spoke no English, Diego explained, and had made a genuine mistake, thinking the woman had invited his attentions. The justice was not won over. He sentenced Antonio to five weeks in Oxford Castle gaol, and ordered them both to enlist in the ranks once the sentence was served, or else be hanged as deserters.

“So I must stew in gaol with you, Don Antonio, though I’ve done nothing to deserve it,
and
I saved you from worse punishment,” Diego said afterwards. “In exchange you owe me the truth, about you and the Lady Elena.”

“When you bow, do not flourish your hat as if you are hailing a coach in the street,” Digby reminded Price. “And as you leave the chamber, you must back away facing His Majesty. Modulate your voice and guard your enunciation. I still hear traces of Cheapside in your vowels. Quayle, you need not accompany us – this cold will bring on your catarrh,” he said, as Quayle assisted him with his cloak.

“My lord,” said Price, “what if His Majesty asks us about Beaumont?”

“Let me respond.”

As they walked through the snow to Christ Church, Digby congratulated himself on the improvement he had wrought in Price: a week of intense training and those gauche mannerisms were beginning to fade. Price had also demonstrated courage and ingenuity in London by inveigling himself into the service of Clement Veech, and by reporting that man’s suspicions about Mr. Devenish. Could Price eventually replace Beaumont? Price’s memory and wits would never rival those of Beaumont, who possessed not only the skills and experience for his role, but an abundance of God-given talent.
It would be a shame to lose him
, Digby had admitted to his father, when Beaumont had slipped off to London in October. An understatement; and now there was even less chance of his return.

The King acknowledged Digby and Price with a faint nod. “I have received a perplexing c-communication from Lieutenant-Colonel Mosely,” he said to Digby. “He wants Rupert to d-defer the strike on Aylesbury for a couple of days. Why might that be?”

“I cannot imagine, Your Majesty, unless he is concerned about the weather,” said Digby. “There is talk of a thaw, which would certainly impede the progress of any troops along the roads. But we cannot postpone the advance, at this late juncture.”

The King stroked his beard, frowning. “Should we alert M-mosely of our refusal to delay?”

“Why worry! Rupert has never failed you, thus far. He advised, however, that the Lieutenant-Colonel be dispatched some means of blowing up the garrison’s powder magazine, in case the rebels learn that the town is about to be surrendered to us. Then,
in extremis
, the Prince would take it by storm. Knowing him, I am sure this has been done.” The King looked a trifle reassured. “Your Majesty, might I introduce my intelligencer, Mr. Edward Price, who helped in our arrangements for Aylesbury and Windsor.”

“Ah … How long have you been with my Lord Digby?” the King asked Price.

“Since the autumn, Your Majesty,” Price replied, in an awed tone.

“It was he who facilitated Major Ogle’s journey to Oxford and warned us that Mr. Devenish is suspected of being our ally. Devenish must fear for his life,” Digby added.

“We should arrange
his
escape to us,” said the King. “He will merit a knighthood for his service. Have you news of poor Violet?”

Digby had not, much to his anxiety, but he was saved from having to answer; the doors flew open and Quayle rushed in. “Your Majesty, my lord, forgive me – Mr. Beaumont is come to his lordship’s quarters with an urgent report from London, but he’s badly wounded in the shoulder and fast weakening.”

“Oh no, dear God,” groaned Price, heedless of the King’s presence.

“You must hasten to him, my Lord Digby, and I shall send him my surgeon,” the King said, with evident distress.

Beaumont lay beneath piles of bedcovers, eyes shut, his face blistered raw. When Digby spoke his name, his lashes fluttered, and he regarded Digby as through a mist. “Rupert is in … 
danger
,” he said hoarsely.

“Fetch him spirits,” Digby told Quayle, and hovered until Quayle brought the cup, which he held himself for Beaumont to drink.

Beaumont choked down a small amount. “Aylesbury is a … a trap. When Rupert enters the garrison he’ll be taken … hostage.”

“Hostage?” cried Digby.

“Yes – Mosely is true to Parliament, and so is Devenish. You must …” Beaumont let out a ragged breath. “You must warn Rupert.”

“This morning Mosely asked that Rupert delay the strike on Aylesbury.
Why?
”

Beaumont screwed up his eyes, obviously attempting to think, through pain and exhaustion. “Because of Essex … He must be waiting for … for Essex to get there. Essex will seize the Prince, and cut his army off from Oxford, if it … if it tries to … retreat.”

“Who gave you this information?” Beaumont’s head flopped back against the pillow. “Tell me, tell me,” begged Digby, shaking him in vain.

The King’s surgeon and his assistant were hurrying in with their bags of medical instruments. “My lord, is he …?” queried the surgeon.

“He is alive,” Digby said, “but in sorry shape.”

The surgeon rolled down the bedclothes, and he and the assistant moved Beaumont onto his side. His doublet and shirt were so encrusted with blood that the surgeon called for a bowl of water and a pair of scissors, first softening the cloth and separating it from the skin, and then snipping it away. When the garments were off, Digby wanted to avert his eyes: the flesh around Beaumont’s wound was swollen and dark purple, and from the upper arm to the wrist, an inflamed red. “Even if I extract the ball, my lord, infection has entered his blood, which is most often fatal,” the surgeon said. Widening the hole in Beaumont’s shoulder with a pronged tool, he delved inside with his fingers. Almost immediately he pulled out the bloodstained ball. “It cannot have been travelling at great speed, to be so near to the surface – a blessing it struck meat and not bone.”

“A
blessing
, when he will die anyway of infection?” shrieked Digby. He could watch no more. Staggering to his office, he plumped down at his desk, his mind in a whirl: Beaumont’s news contradicted a slew of correspondence and Major Ogle’s stout assurances as to Devenish and Mosely’s good faith, to say nothing of his own and his father’s expert judgment. How could they both be mistaken? He thought of Beaumont, his doubting Thomas, and tears sprang to his eyes. When had Beaumont been wrong?

But then he remembered: Mosely was not due to surrender the town until midnight of the following day. A courier on a fast horse could reach Rupert’s camp by tonight. He yelled for Price. “You must take a letter to Prince Rupert. He is quartering at Ethrop House, not two miles from Aylesbury. Your speed is of the essence, sir.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Price.

Digby hunted out the book of figures that Beaumont had designed for his and Rupert’s correspondence. Without preamble he wrote of Beaumont’s shocking news, though he urged the Prince to send scouts to verify it, since it might be the error of a confused and dying man. Next he prepared himself reluctantly to inform the King.

Ingram estimated that the sky had dropped on the Royalist troops every conceivable variant of frozen water, from pellets of hail to thick snow, to a wet downpour of flakes that melted on contact, chilling man and beast alike. From time to time he lost sensation in his fingers, and had to pull off his gloves and rub the blood back into his hands. The men’s noses dripped icicles, beards and moustaches were white with frost, their faces red and chapped. They were travelling without their helmets and breastplates, on the Prince’s orders: he said the steel would make them colder. At least twenty beasts had slipped and broken a leg, and been shot and abandoned in the fields; some men were riding two to a horse. Ingram most pitied the foot soldiers, wading waist-high in snow, burdened by heavy muskets and pikes. Behind them, oxen lowed in protest as they were whipped on to drag the heavy artillery carts.

Tireless as ever, and as solicitous of his men, Rupert had been galloping up and down the ranks, shouting encouragement. “That’s Quainton Hill,” he bellowed at last, pointing at a snowy rise in the distance. “We’re not far now from a hot supper!”

In afternoon darkness they trailed through the gates to Ethrop House, family seat of the Countess of Carnarvon. Officers and other gentlemen would sleep in the house, and the troops would bivouac in outbuildings, stables and surrounding cottages. The prospect of a cooked meal cheered them, above all: they had marched on rations of biscuit and cold beef.

“The Countess is the Earl of Pembroke’s daughter,” Tom reminded Ingram, as they rode into her courtyard. “She lost her
husband at Newbury field. I wonder how she stomachs her father siding with the rebels.”

Ingram thought grimly of what Beaumont had said about his political convictions. “So many families have been split. We’re lucky yours isn’t one of them.”

He and Tom followed the Prince into the hall where the Countess and her household had assembled. She was surveying with some apprehension the crowd of men in their snowy cloaks and slush-covered boots. Ingram thought her round face handsome, despite her unfeminine aquiline nose. At her side was a blond-haired boy whose eyes were riveted on the Prince. “Your Royal Highness,” she said, with a curtsey, “it is my honour to accommodate you. My late husband would have wished you to consider his home as your own.”

Rupert bowed, and touched his lips to her outstretched hand. “Madam, I thank you for your hospitality. And who is this young man?”

“My son, Charles, His Majesty’s namesake.”

“I’d ride with you, Your Royal Highness, if I were old enough!” the boy piped up.

“Your mother must thank God that you are not,” the Prince said, smiling at her.

“I hope His Majesty wins this war before my Charles is of an age to fight,” she said, dignified in her sorrow.

Rupert’s officers chose the best part of the hall, nearest to the fire. Tom insisted that Ingram share his place there, and slowly and painfully they thawed out; Ingram felt as if his limbs were ablaze. When food arrived, everyone gorged themselves on mutton, pease pudding, hunks of oven-hot bread, and barrels of ale; and afterwards, Ingram sat smoking his pipe while Tom left dutifully to check on his troopers in the outbuildings. Although the Prince and her ladyship had not yet retired, many of the men began settling crushed in rows on the floor, wrapped in their cloaks like bundled lovers, moisture steaming from
their damp clothes. Their collective warmth and snores lulled Ingram into a slumber. He was nodding off when Tom came back and jabbed a finger in his ribs.

“See over there, Ingram – Price, the fellow who was at your wedding.”

“And he’s in conference with His Royal Highness, no less.”

Rupert and Price stood alone together; Rupert was reading a paper in his hand. He stared from it to Price, shaking his head, spoke again to Price, and strode from the hall.

“What can that be about?” Tom asked Ingram.

“Whatever it is, it’s alarmed the Prince.”

Price was scanning the recumbent men. When his eyes fell on Ingram and Tom, he walked over without a trace of the breezy cheer he had shown at the marriage feast, and knelt down beside them. “Mr. Beaumont, Mr. Ingram. Your brother was wounded carrying us a report from London, sir,” he said to Tom. “His Majesty’s surgeon is tending to him, but there was little hope when I set out to come here, and by now …”

“What sort of wound had he?” demanded Tom.

“He took a ball in the shoulder.”

“In the shoulder? Oh, he’s survived worse in the past. It’s sure to heal.”

“No, sir: the wound has poisoned his blood.”

“Sweet Jesus,” murmured Ingram.

Price rose, frowning at Tom. “Excuse me, now. I must take a reply from the Prince to His Majesty.”

He left Ingram and Tom without much to say to each other. “We should try to sleep,” said Tom in a strained voice.

Ingram reached out to clasp him in a hug, but Tom pulled away.

Late into the night, Tom could hear Ingram’s muffled sobs and feel him quivering as they lay back to back. Tom could neither sleep nor cry.
Many times he had contemplated the possibility that Laurence might not be alive, over the six long years his brother had vanished abroad without a word home. Laurence had again evaded death, after his imprisonment last year. Tom did not dare imagine him dead now. And yet in the corner of Tom’s mind lurked old, guilty thoughts of a different future for himself, as heir to the Beaumont estate and title. His child would inherit, if Mary bore him a son. More important still, he had yearned throughout his life to have his father’s unmitigated love and respect; and for what seemed most of his life, Laurence had stolen these effortlessly away from him. He recalled scrapping with Laurence as a boy, when the five years between them had given Laurence the advantage in strength and size. He used to wriggle from Tom’s grip like a fish and pin Tom on the ground, pretending he was about to drool in Tom’s face. He never did; he was always too overcome with laughter.

On the morning that the King opened his Oxford parliament, Seward received a desperate summons from Lord Digby and hurried to his lordship’s quarters. He felt torn between worry and anger: Digby could have sent for him when Beaumont had first arrived injured. He was aghast to discover Beaumont delirious with a raging fever; in spite of repeated bleedings, the royal surgeon informed him. The wound leaked discharge through a plaster of red lead boiled in oil, and around the hole where the ball had been extracted, flesh was blackening and dying. Seward asked the surgeon to leave. Then he set about cleaning the wound, fretting away the dead flesh with a razor, and dabbed into it his own poultice of honey, sage, alum, turpentine, and rye flour mixed with water. For three days Beaumont alternately raved and fainted, and Seward watched and prayed. He had nursed his friend back to health after more extensive damage from torture, yet on this occasion he had to contend with the adverse effects of bloodletting and the surgeon’s nostrum on a body weak and infected. Beaumont was in no less peril.