The Licence of War (33 page)

“I can lay claim to neither advantage.”

“You are modest, sir.”

“No, my lady. I am honest.”

“An honest lawyer. You are of a rare species.”

Greenhalgh entered carrying a tray with three glasses on it, followed by Lucy with a crystal flagon. They placed them on a table near Lady Isabella, then Lucy perched on the cushioned ledge by the window, and Greenhalgh disappeared through the gallery doors.

Lady Isabella poured, and as she handed Draycott his glass, he could smell her perfume, delicate yet intoxicating. He could not remember ever being as close to a woman so beautiful. “A rise in duties will be unavoidable because of the war,” she was saying. “Are there further changes that Parliament wishes to negotiate?”

“There are, as I must discuss with Sir Montague.” He lifted his glass. “This is a treat for me: I seldom indulge in wine or spirits.”

She pointed to the black band on his hat. “You are in mourning.”

“My … my wife and I lost our eldest son to the phthisic. He was nine years old. It was as if he were drowning in his own blood and spittle. Oh my lady, forgive me for mentioning these details,” he added, embarrassed. “We should thank God he is delivered from suffering.”

“How trivial everything else must appear, in comparison, and how grossly unfair his death,” she said, with such sympathy that his throat choked.

“Have … have you and Sir Montague children?”

“No, nor shall we.” Draycott frowned: she could not be much over twenty-five. “He has sons and daughters from his previous two marriages, and grandchildren,” she elaborated. “He has no need of a third family, at his time of life.”

“That must be a sacrifice for you.”

“Not at all, sir: it simplifies my existence.”

Draycott heard a rattling outside the doors, and Greenhalgh came in pushing a chair constructed on small wheels, with a footrest that extended downwards from the seat. Its occupant was a gentleman in his sixties who must once have been good-looking but had run to fat. His noble Roman nose was speckled with the veins of a drinker, and his blue eyes glinted shrewdly beneath thick white brows. His
mouth, framed by a clipped beard and moustache, was full and sensual. He wore a cap over his curled grey hair, a suit of dark red velvet with a broad lace collar, silk hose, and on one of his feet a black kidskin shoe decorated with rosettes. The other foot was bandaged.

“Good day to you, Mr. Draycott,” he said, in a mellifluous voice. “My apologies for presenting myself in this absurd contraption – I’m not always confined to it, but today I am bothered by my gout. Bella, I shall dare a drop, though, to drink our guest’s health.”

After Lady Isabella had poured for him, she beckoned to her maid and whispered in her ear, while Draycott produced the new licence from his document case. When he looked up, Lucy had gone, but Lady Isabella showed no inclination to follow her.

Sir Montague unfurled the paper. “Exorbitant duties, Bella, as we had thought. Mr. Draycott, why should Parliament care to inspect our empty barrels? Has Parliament not weightier matters to attend to, such as the defence of London?”

Veech had told Draycott how to answer. “Since His Majesty’s designs on the City last month, we are bound to inspect
all
goods for contraband. We know you as an honoured member of the City Corporation, and a loyal ally of Parliament – it is merely procedure.”

“I thank you for reassuring me, yet I might argue that barrels sent back to us void of their contents are no longer goods,
per se
, but receptacles.”

“I shall have to consult a colleague on the definition, sir. Pardon my ignorance, but why
are
the barrels returned to you?”

“They are made of English oak by skilled coopers. Inferior wood and poor construction result in spoilage. And the more a barrel is used, the more it tends to flavour the wine it contains, improving even a thin vintage.” Sir Montague shook his head at his wife. “Can you believe the pettifogging, when we are in the midst of war?”

“We must applaud Parliament for its strict adherence to procedure,” said Lady Isabella, with slight irony. “When will the inspections begin, Mr. Draycott?”

“As of the first of March, when the old licence expires, my lady,” Draycott replied, bemused that a woman should participate so confidently in their talk. “Any sooner would be illegal.”

“Then Parliament has broken the law,” said Sir Montague. “A cargo of empty barrels sent a week ago from Oxford was searched in the docks by a servant of Mr. Oliver St. John, Mr. Clement Veech. It is not the sole instance, my agents tell me, and some of the barrels were badly damaged.”

Draycott felt a stab of indignation. “Upon my honour, sir, I had no knowledge of it. I shall investigate the matter.”

“What is past is past, yet these
legal
inspections may delay our shipments. You must insert a clause into our contract that any financial losses incurred will be compensated to us by Parliament. My lawyers can supply the monetary amounts, which will depend on the extent of the delay. What think you of the Burgundy, sir?”

“It is delicious.”

Lady Isabella replenished their glasses. “Let us drink to all the lawyers who will be gainfully employed in drawing up a second draught of your contract, gentlemen.”

Sir Montague chuckled and winked at her. Unsettled by their complicity and by her teasing, Draycott put down his glass after a small sip, and rose to bid them good day.

Lady Isabella accompanied him downstairs. As Greenhalgh was helping him on with his cloak, she said softly, “It was wrong of me to joke, when you are in distress at home.”

“Please, my lady, think nothing of it.”

“Lucy,” she called out, “Mr. Draycott is about to go.”

Lucy hurried out from some other room on the ground floor; she was holding a basket which she proffered to Draycott. Packed neatly inside were a roasted chicken wrapped in parchment paper, a loaf of new-baked bread, a cake, nuts, and dried fruits, and even a fresh lemon. “My condolences to your wife, sir,” said Lady Isabella.

Draycott thanked her and left, more miserable than when he had entered. He desired her, and he despised himself for it.

——

“You made me look a fool,” he railed afterwards to Veech, at their table in the Saracen’s Head. “You should have told me about those barrels.”

Veech paid no attention. “Did you meet his new wife?”

“Yes. Lady Isabella was very … gracious.”

“Gracious, eh?” Veech laughed. “In two days, you’ll take him an amended version of the licence.” He waved a finger at the black band on Draycott’s hat. “What’s that?”

“It’s in memory of my son. He died.”

“Be rid of it before you call on Sir Montague. The licence doesn’t interest me any more: I want you to become friends with Lady Isabella –
good
friends, if it won’t tax you. From what I gather, she’s not hard on the eyes.”

“I am a married man, Mr. Veech.”

“And
that
is an order, sir.”

“What is your interest in her?”

“You’ll know, presently,” said Veech, scanning the taproom as if he owned it.

“Did Parliament accept my terms?” inquired Sir Montague; this time he had hobbled into the gallery leaning on an ebony cane.

“The rate of duty will be reduced by a quarter of the previously stated amount, if the Vintners’ Company will let us inspect all barrels sent back to you,” Draycott said, handing him the contract. “You’ll be recompensed as you stipulated for delays to your trade. Mr. St. John sends his apologies for the illegal search, but asks why Mr. Veech should have discovered traces of sulphur in your empty barrels.”

Sir Montague raised his bushy eyebrows. “Neither gentleman can know much about my trade. Sulphur is often added to preserve wine from mildew on a voyage, especially if it is being shipped from warmer climes.”

“You must understand their concern: sulphur is a component of gunpowder.”

Sir Montague was studying the licence. “I wish Bella were here to look it over with me.” He signed, and then beamed up at Draycott. “I know you are puzzled that I refer to her in my commercial dealings, yet her wits are sharper and her education broader than mine, in many respects.” He laid a hand on Draycott’s arm. “Sir, while she and I are dear companions, she has few young people to entertain her. Would you sup with us now and again, at your leisure – as a friend, and not as the representative of Parliament?”

Draycott experienced another wave of self-disgust. “I should be honoured,” he said.

Sir Harold welcomed Laurence into the hall with a veneer of heartiness, thinly disguising impatience. “Ah, Mr. Beaumont, we have been asking ourselves when you might next grace us with a visit. How is your shoulder?”

“Better than it was, thank you,” replied Laurence. “Sir, we had news at home that Colonel Massey has increased his raids to supply the Gloucester garrison. I can’t afford a brush with rebel troops, so I must ride for Oxford as soon as I’ve presented my respects to your wife and daughter. I came to tell you that a date for the marriage—”

“Yes, yes, we must fix upon a date,” Sir Harold cut in. “Her ladyship your mother agreed for us to host your wedding banquet – we’re safer here from Massey’s incursions. We’ll just have time to prepare. Today’s the fifth of March, and she was planning for a ceremony in the month of April.”

“Forgive me, sir, but if you would kindly listen: a date can’t be set until I’ve resolved a certain business in Oxford.”

“Do you hear that?” cried Sir Harold to Lady Margaret and Penelope, who looked as disgruntled as her father. “What business is delaying you?” he asked Laurence.

“A matter of my employment with the Secretary of State,” Laurence said, which shut Sir Harold up.

“It is a shame, Mr. Beaumont,” Lady Margaret said, “but God willing, you and our Pen won’t be apart for long.”

“I thank you for your understanding. And now if you’ll excuse my rude departure, I must bid you all goodbye.” Laurence bowed shortly and turned on his heel.

Pen ran after him. “You are lucky to be going back to Oxford, Mr. Beaumont,” she chattered on. “It is so dull in the country – I can’t bear it, myself. I had thought that after our marriage, we might seek lodgings in the city. I have wonderful friends in Her Majesty’s retinue, and Lord Jermyn is—”

“These decisions must wait, Mistress Furnival – and I
must
leave.”

“I can’t but remark how you have altered towards me,” she exclaimed. “When we were introduced by Her Majesty, you were sparkling with wit and merry conversation, and you were so amiable at your sister’s wedding feast. Aren’t you pleased to be marrying me?”

“The truth is that I have too much on my mind to think very far into the future,” he replied, pitying her. “And I really can’t stay to talk.”

“Sir,” she said in a sterner tone, as they reached the doors, “I know you had a mistress in Oxford. I trust you have ended your relations with her?”

“Our relations are at an end. Goodbye, Mistress Furnival,” he said, and kissed her hand.

“Don’t I merit a kiss on the lips?” He obliged, as politely as he could. “Goodbye, sir,” she said.

Not bothering to call for a groom to fetch his horse, Laurence went into the stables. In the darkness he almost tripped upon a boy who was crouched on the ground. “What the …?” he muttered.

“Sorry, sir, sorry,” the boy whispered back.

“Quiet,” said a girl’s voice. “And don’t come closer, sir, or you may scare it.”

As Laurence’s eyes adjusted, he saw her, in the same pose as the boy. They were concentrating on a creature that rustled and fluttered about in the straw. “Scare what?” he asked.

“A magpie. We must catch it before the cats do. Oh look!”

The magpie waddled out of the straw, one wing drooping. The girl straightened slowly; her face was a serious, leaner version of Penelope’s. She was the sister he had glimpsed on his last visit. Today her hair fell loose over her shoulders, her gown was stained at the front, and there was a smudge of dirt on her forehead. She reminded Laurence of someone, but whom? “You must be Catherine, Penelope’s twin,” he said.

“Yes, I am, Mr. Beaumont. Would you help us save the bird, sir? A hawk dived to snatch it, and in its fright it flew into the stable door.”

“Have you somewhere to put it?”

The boy hunted about and brought forth an empty grain sack. Laurence moved nearer to the magpie. As if it knew that he meant it no harm, it made no attempt to escape, and he picked it up and placed it in the folds of the sack, where it sat glaring at him beadily.

“Please, take it into the courtyard,” said Catherine.

Laurence carried out the sack, and the three of them peered at the magpie. He extended the damaged wing and stroked his fingers along the fine bone. “Here’s the break. You could bandage the wing, and hope it mends.”

“Would you do that for me?”

He raced to the stables for his saddlebag, where he kept a spare roll of the same muslin he had used for his own wound, and searched in the hay for a thickish stalk. He came back, and as Catherine held the magpie, he splinted the broken bone with a piece of the stalk, and wrapped the muslin around the wing and gently around the bird’s body, avoiding its feet. “Change the bandage when it’s soiled, but don’t fasten it too tightly – the bird has to breathe. Do you know what magpies eat?”

“Seeds and worms.”

He nodded, impressed. “In three or four weeks, you should be able to tell if the bone has knitted.” He had not the heart to say that even if it did, the bird might never fly.

“I’ll keep it safe in my chamber.”

“Then you should hide your jewels. Magpies are reputed to steal whatever shines.”

She smiled; one of her front teeth was chipped at the corner. “I have no jewels,” she said. Then it struck him: though she was blonde and light-skinned, her dark eyes were wild like Juana’s; but in their depth, they were like those of the African seer, Khadija. When he passed her the sack, his hand touched hers. “Thank you, sir. Such mercy towards a dumb creature is uncommon among men.” Hastily she drew away, as if there were something improper in that brief, accidental contact.