The Licence of War (31 page)

“Common practice in the Low Countries,” said Beaumont, “though he’d better watch out – they may be more of a nuisance to him than an asset. And you should keep an eye on your belongings.”

Ingram drew from his doublet his letter and Tom’s, to their respective wives. “These are for you to take home.”

“Why didn’t Tom come with you?”

“He sent his regrets. He’s been busy buying supplies for the troop.”

“What nonsense. He shares my mother’s unjustified dislike of Seward. Although I know you both tried to visit me at Digby’s quarters,” Beaumont added, as if he had been unfair to Tom. “I’d like to say goodbye to him before you ride out with the Prince. Seward would
leave us to talk.” When Ingram hesitated, Beaumont went on, “Ah, so it’s
me
Tom doesn’t want to see. And I thought we were getting along quite well together, over Christmas.”

“It’s not to do with you,” Ingram said, untruthfully. “He’s been in a strange state ever since that business of Aylesbury.”

“What could be the cause?”

Ingram thought of what Tom had said after he heard that Beaumont’s life was out of danger.
My brother is indestructible. Alas for the rest of us mere mortals
. “Perhaps he at last realised that Rupert is not superhuman, and could fall prey to the enemy just like any other man. But his spirits are sure to lift on the march. When will you set off for Chipping Campden?”

“In about a week, I hope.”

“You could be there by St. Valentine’s Day, to make your addresses to Mistress Furnival.” Beaumont did not smile. “What are you writing?” Ingram asked, to change the subject.

“A letter to the King.”

“I gather from your tone that you can say no more.”

Beaumont pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up. “Give Tom my love, and take care of yourself. Remember,” he muttered in Ingram’s ear, as they embraced, “you’re also my brother now, and I don’t want to lose you in some Welsh bog.”

Laurence had scarcely greeted his astonished family and explained the circumstances that had brought him home when Lady Beaumont ordered him to lie down in his bedchamber. He was so stiff and worn out from the ride that Geoffrey had to help him up the stairs. But a few hours later, the valet roused him from deep sleep. “His lordship and her ladyship would like to talk with you in the library, sir.”

Lady Beaumont wasted no time in preliminaries. “Laurence, we have had a visit from rebel troops.”

Laurence sank into an armchair beside his father’s. “When was that?”

“Last week. Their discipline impressed us: they asked only for a meal of bread and cheese, and a farrier to shoe their horses.”

“They were Gloucestershire boys,” said Lord Beaumont. “By chance I knew their officer: he had appeared before me at the County Assizes many years ago. It was a poaching offence, and he a decent man with children to feed. As he reminded me, I had spared him from the rope, and let him go with a small fine that I later reimbursed to him. He said he had not forgotten, and promised out of gratitude to keep his men in check, and to request the same of Governor Massey. But we would be foolish to depend on his good will alone.”

“As soon as his troops had left, we took your advice,” said Lady Beaumont.

“You hid your plate?” Laurence asked.

“Not our pewter, but all of the gold and the silver along with our best jewels are buried under the dovecote floor. Sundry other items dear to his lordship are dispersed elsewhere, in the outbuildings.”

“How many of the servants know?”

“We could not have accomplished the digging unassisted. Although the work was done at night and by our closest servants, the rest were bound to wonder how come our fine pieces had disappeared. We elected to be honest, rather than let them believe that we had any less faith in them.”

“And they have pledged their loyalty to us,” put in Lord Beaumont.

“You were right,” Laurence told them, though he knew the threat of retribution might loosen the tongues of even the most devoted members of their household.

“If the rebels decide to pillage the estate, we stand to lose everything else,” said Lady Beaumont, in her brusque manner. “We cannot hide our sheep and cattle, or the game in his lordship’s park.”

“You would have to hide
me
. I was selfish to come here and put you at risk,” Laurence said. “Let’s hope word doesn’t get to the Gloucester garrison.”

Lord Beaumont cheered a little. “We’ve our own means of collecting intelligence, on that score. Our neighbourly spies in Chipping Campden town are on the alert, and will report post haste to the gatekeeper any rumours of approaching troops.”

“With sufficient notice, you could ride north across the Warwickshire border,” Lady Beaumont suggested to Laurence. “You would do well to ride there whatever the case. We might conclude the details of your betrothal this month, so that the marriage can be solemnised when Lord Digby next grants you leave.”

“I might have to beg leave of Lord Wilmot. I tendered my resignation to Lord Digby. I only need His Majesty’s approval for it.”

“Was there an argument between you and his lordship?” she inquired accusingly.

“No, I’ve had enough of serving him, that’s all.”

“Thank heavens, my boy – he is a pernicious fellow,” exclaimed Lord Beaumont, surprising both Laurence and his wife.

“My lord, how can you speak so?” she said.

“He is what Parliament says of him, my dear: an evil influence on our King. He has encouraged His Majesty to neglect the duties of a monarch towards his people. I might well ask you: how can His Majesty portray himself as a peacemaker, after these disgraceful schemes in London?”

“We read a broadsheet composed by the rebels, my lord. I am disappointed that you should give credit to their lies. Now, pardon me. I have accounts to draw up in my office.”

When she had gone, Lord Beaumont cast his eyes towards the ceiling. “I cannot discuss political affairs with your mother. She has a vein of extremism in her, much like the Queen’s. Her Majesty has been as malign an influence upon the King as Digby. And it is hard for me to accept that their obduracy in the face of Parliament’s
grievances may rob me of my sons, and land cultivated for six centuries by my ancestors.”

“Do you ever think you chose wrongly, in siding with the King?” queried Laurence.

“Yes, but in conscience I could not do otherwise. I would be more wrong yet to change sides now.”

Laurence sensed that his father was about to ask him the same question and would be saddened by a truthful answer, so he remarked, “Ah well, there must be pernicious rascals on both sides.”

“And noble souls, such as Lord Falkland. Were he still alive, and Secretary of State, he might have convinced His Majesty to chart a wiser course.”

“Oh no,” said Laurence, unable to conceal his bitterness. “He had given up all hope. That was why he died.”

Lady Beaumont unlocked her cabinet and drew out the letters from Don Alonso de Cárdenas. The most recent she had received two weeks ago, mercifully unbeknownst to anyone but the local carrier; it described Antonio’s flight from the Envoy’s house, and his probable involvement in the slaying of an officer in London.

She closed her eyes and leant against her cabinet for support. Should she confide in her husband and her son, or await further news of Antonio? If she spoke out, they would ask why she had kept silent about the first letter. She might invent an excuse her husband would believe, but Laurence would not be fooled. She remembered his sceptical look when she had dismissed her illness at Christmastide as a passing ague; he would connect it to the letter. And there were so many obstacles that might forestall Antonio’s arrival: capture by Parliament, death in a fight or from the cold. He could already have succumbed to one of these; it was now over a month since he had fled the Spanish embassy. Why prejudice the peace within her household for nothing?

A
mong the first in gaol to be selected by Prince Rupert’s recruiting officers was a pair of French mercenaries, Antoine Desorme and Jacques Sand. On the eve of their march to Shrewsbury, Diego explained to the officers that Antonio had served most of his sentence and he himself had been convicted of no crime. Might he absent himself briefly from camp to purchase some supplies in town, for the road?

He came back exultant, and reported to Antonio, “I found Lord Digby’s offices and inquired about Mr. Beaumont of his lordship’s servant, pretending to be a friend from the Low Countries. Mr. Beaumont is at his father’s house recuperating from a wound. The house is as the Envoy told us, some thirty-five odd miles northwest, near a town named Chipping Campden.”

“How fortuitous,” said Antonio. “We’re heading that way tomorrow. We can escape from the ranks once we get closer to our destination.”

Diego seemed not to hear him. “I also asked after Mr. Beaumont’s brother. Major Thomas Beaumont serves in Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard. He rode out of Oxford about a week ago with the Prince, and must now be at Shrewsbury.”

“So what? Shrewsbury is over a hundred miles away.”

“Don Antonio,” said Diego, “while the prospect of travelling such a distance in this brutal climate with a bunch of thieves, drunks, turncoats, and deserters is anathema to me, and I’m tired of posing as a Frenchman, the fact is that if
we’re
captured as deserters, we’ll face a hanging. I didn’t waste a month of my life locked up with you, sharing
the blame for your stupid offence, only to lose it because you haven’t the patience to wait until we get to Rupert’s camp.”

“Why must I wait, you impudent boy?”

“You know almost nothing about the Beaumonts. You would confront a united force on home ground, without intelligence as to its weaknesses. You may think it convenient that Mr. Beaumont is there at the house, yet it’s the opposite. He’s a spy, and his expertise lies in detecting mischief. I propose, instead, that you open your campaign with his brother.”

Again, Antonio had to concede to Diego’s wisdom. “Mr. Beaumont may be skilled in detecting mischief, Diego, but I happen to know that he has a mischievous past. I’ve been saving up a story for you, about him and a gypsy from Andaluz. I believe we could put it to good use.”

Price timed his arrival at Chipping Campden to coincide with the supper hour, hoping that Beaumont would not dispatch him to the town inn as soon as he had delivered his news. He further hoped somehow to catch Elizabeth alone, although even if she received him warmly, Lady Beaumont’s opposition was predictable, judging by her disdainful attitude at the wedding banquet. More alarming was the thought that Beaumont might have revealed to Elizabeth the details of Price’s past. Yet nothing ventured, nothing gained, Price told himself, as the manservant took his cloak in the entrance hall.

“The family is at table in the parlour, sir,” the servant said. “Shall I announce you?”

“No, I thank you,” said Price, in his best imitation of Lord Digby’s accent. “You may whisper in Mr. Beaumont’s ear that I bring him news from Oxford.”

He waited, one elbow propped against the stone nymph’s shapely hip, listening to the genteel murmur of conversation and the clink of cutlery. When Beaumont emerged from the parlour, Price felt reassured by his amiable air; he wore a sling to support his right arm, but
looked in much better health. He guided Price into the Hall, which appeared more spacious and austere on this occasion. “So, what news have you got?”

“We’ve heard from Lady Hallam, through Violet’s wife.” Beaumont’s face became alert. “Violet’s still in the Tower, confined indefinitely at Parliament’s pleasure. Thanks to his City friends, he hasn’t been ill-treated, but his estates in Essex have been sequestered.”

“Goodbye Violet,” Beaumont said, in a tone that disturbed Price.

“At any rate,” Price went on, “about the barrels: she and Sir Montague predicted they would be searched by Parliament, and organized for them to be emptied beforehand. She wished to convey her thanks to you, nonetheless, for your warning.”

“
Has
the powder been smuggled in?”

“Yes, inside coffins. They were brought by river for burial to a crypt near Vauxhall. The authorities were too respectful to interfere with dead bodies. The powder will stay underground until it’s needed.”

“Vauxhall is a bad choice: the land’s marshy. The powder will spoil if the crypt floods. And that could well happen before a march on London. What else?”

“That’s all I have to tell you,” answered Price, now distinctly piqued. “I should be getting back to Oxford.”

“No, sup with us, Price, and stay the night here,” said Beaumont. “I’ll ask for a chamber to be prepared.”

Tonight’s was an intimate gathering, with none of the extended family members or dependents that Price would have anticipated in a noble household. Despite hunger, he restrained his appetite and said little. Lady Beaumont struck him as paler and thinner, her expression stern and withdrawn, and Lord Beaumont as benevolently vague. Price tried to keep his eyes from straying too often towards Elizabeth, but whenever he did venture a glance, she responded with a gratifying flush to her cheeks.

After the meal Beaumont excused himself and his visitor, and escorted Price upstairs and along a corridor to the chamber where he
would sleep. A fire blazed invitingly in the hearth, and a jug of steaming hot water, a washing bowl, towels, and a ball of fragrant soap were arranged on a side table. “I must write a message for you to deliver to Digby tomorrow,” Beaumont said. “We can talk more, in a bit. I’ll bring us up some wine.”