The Licence of War (42 page)

“To think that Their Majesties have had less than a year together since her return from The Hague,” he lamented to his father.

“I pity those boys, as much,” said Bristol. The two eldest Princes stood beside Her Majesty’s carriage, Charles fighting bravely for composure, with ten-year-old James sobbing on his arm. “I heard that Her Majesty consulted her astrologers, and was told she would be reunited with her sons – but not in England.”

“And what about her husband?”

“The stars were silent on that issue.”

“The stars, or the astrologers?”

“Who would have the temerity to predict that she might never see him again?”

“A fool or an honest man, if they are not the same thing.” Digby bustled through the crowd towards Jermyn. “Jermyn, shall we write?”

“Yes, but of innocent matters,” Jermyn said. “And do beware of disputes in Council, especially with Rupert and with Wilmot, whose late fit of pique might have cost the King dear. Her Majesty will not be there to pour oil on troubled water – though Mr. Beaumont deserves much of the credit on that last occasion. I should like to have said goodbye to him.”

“He and Wilmot must be in attendance.” Digby peered about. “Wilmot is so very fond of the Queen.”

“Wilmot is here, but not Beaumont. Prince Charles told me he has gone into Warwickshire to visit his betrothed.”

“Ah,” said Digby thoughtfully.

“And now,” said Jermyn, embracing him, “our time has come for a parting of ways.”

“I shall pray for you, and for Her Majesty in her confinement.”

Digby watched Jermyn take up his position at the head of the Queen’s Lifeguard, while footmen lifted Her Majesty into her carriage and shut the door. The King stayed beside the window, clinging to her hand. As the vehicle picked up speed, he had to step back with the utmost reluctance, tears streaming down his cheeks. A second carriage followed, occupied by her ladies-in-waiting, her lapdogs in their straw baskets, and the dwarf, Jeffrey Hudson; and the procession was tailed by more mounted troops dressed in Her Majesty’s bright livery. Digby waited no longer. Blowing his nose into his handkerchief, he turned for his quarters; Jermyn had inspired him with a plan.

Laurence and Prince Charles were alone among the trees, where the King lay dead on a bracken bier. The forest rang with the yelping of hounds, coming closer and closer; and somehow Laurence knew they were after human prey.

Charles fell to his knees by the corpse and struggled to drag it from the bier. “We must take him away or they will tear him apart!”

“No, we have to save ourselves,” cried Laurence. He grabbed the boy and thrust him towards a giant oak. “Climb, for your very life.” They clambered into its lower boughs, but the Prince could not find a foothold on the mossy bark higher up: the soles of his boots kept slipping, and he was panting for breath. The dogs were crashing through the undergrowth on all sides. Some slavered and pawed at the base of the tree, while others leapt growling upon the bier, jerking their heads to and fro to rip flesh from bone. “Don’t look down, just climb,” Laurence urged the Prince, pulling him by the arms. The boy’s cloak had snagged on a branch, and as he wriggled to free it, he began to slide inexorably from Laurence’s grip. He
hung by the wrists, then hands, then the tips of his fingers, screaming, “Help me, Mr. Beaumont! Help me!” until Laurence lost him altogether.

“Beaumont!” Laurence started awake. “Out of bed, my man,” yelled Wilmot, through the doorway. “The King wants to see you.”

His Majesty and Prince Charles were at breakfast in the reception chamber. Both appeared to Laurence as if their sleep had been as haunted as his. The King sipped gingerly from a cup, a plate of oatcakes and cold meats before him. Charles, his eyes reddened and sore, was tossing scraps beneath the table to his dogs, whose loud masticating sent a shiver along Laurence’s spine.

“You m-must excuse our gloom, sir,” said the King. “We are missing our She Generalissima.”

“Lord Wilmot told me she departed yesterday, Your Majesty. I regret that I wasn’t there to wish her God speed.”

The King nodded, unsmiling. “Mr. Beaumont, you have proved yourself devoted to my cause in the past, and you were instrumental in resolving the differences between my Lord Wilmot and General Hopton. I understand your d-desire to serve in his lordship’s Lifeguard, yet we are about to enter upon a n-new stage in our war against the rebellion. And I am persuaded that your talents would be best employed elsewhere.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?” Laurence queried, deeply apprehensive.

“Since we may soon take to the field, my Lord D-digby has proposed that you be given charge, under his aegis, of training scouts to reconnoitre for our armies. We have not yet s-spoken of this to Lord Wilmot – I thought it only right to ask you first if you will accept such an important responsibility.”

“We know we can count on you, Mr. Beaumont,” said the Prince.

Laurence could not argue. “I thank you for the honour.”

“You should thank Lord Digby,” said the King. “He considers you indispensable.”

“His lordship should at least spare Mr. Beaumont to attend his own wedding before we open our campaign,” Prince Charles said to his father.

“On what d-day are you to marry, sir?”

“A week today,” said Laurence, “or so I had hoped.”

“I gather that, for a distressing reason, you will be unable to celebrate at your father’s house. In consolation, I shall insist that Lord Digby grant you a brief honeymoon.”

“Thank you again, Your Majesty, and Your Royal Highness.”

Laurence was retreating to the doors when the King said, “On second thought, sir,
you
may inform Lord Wilmot of your change in assignment, and lay to rest any objections that he might raise. I have neither the time nor the patience to hear them, myself. Lord Digby expects you to report to his quarters by the hour of curfew.”

“The snake,” Wilmot raged, as Laurence packed his saddlebags. “Digby was just waiting for the Queen to leave, to pull off his trickery. She would have championed my part.”

“No, my lord, not again. She overreached herself already to protect you.”

Wilmot seized Laurence’s arm and swung him round. “Don’t you forget, Beaumont: you promised to stand by me as my friend. Whatever fresh tricks Digby has up his sleeve, whatever anyone is plotting against me, I must be the first to know. You’re still my champion, as I am yours. I demand the same loyalty as you gave to Falkland. Swear to me that I shall have it, through thick and thin.”

“I swear,” said Laurence, with a sense of profound foreboding.

Laurence stopped on the corner of Digby’s street; a vaguely familiar figure in a leather jerkin and cloth cap was sauntering towards him. “Beaumont, don’t you recognise me?”

“I almost didn’t,” said Laurence, with perfect honesty.

“Were you coming to see his lordship?”

“Yes. As of today, he’s taken me back into the fold.”

“I
am
pleased to hear. He went with Quayle to be fitted for a new pair of boots. I got back to Oxford this morning, and was about to grab a bite to eat at the tavern. Why don’t you join me?”

Laurence accepted, wondering uncharitably whether Elizabeth’s infatuation would survive the man’s transformed appearance. When they had settled themselves at a table and Price had ordered a meal from the serving boy, he asked, “Who broke your nose?”

“Sue did, when I broke with
her
.”

“She should fight for money.”

“I gave her money, and this is how she thanked me for it. And next thing I was thrown into the Fleet. Barlow rescued me and whisked me to the good old house. Oh I know what you’re thinking, Beaumont,” Price gabbled on, “but he said it was quite safe. And Sarah did a fine job of work on me.” He plucked off his cap to reveal his polled head. “Can you believe, I passed muster with Draycott and a Corporal from the militia when they caught me at Sir Montague’s house.” He guffawed, describing the incident.

The serving boy had brought him ale and a platter of bread and cheese. As he reached for the bread, Laurence stayed his hand. “You shouldn’t have risked another visit to the neighbourhood, after one arrest.”

Price shook off Laurence’s grip. “I had to talk to Lady Hallam, on his lordship’s order.”

“What was Draycott doing there?”

“He’s become a friend of Lady Hallam’s. She’s … entertaining him.” Price reached again for a piece of bread, and crammed a wedge of cheese into it. “Once she has him by the short hairs, she’ll find out from him if Veech is getting suspicious. And I’ve set her up with Barlow and Jem, to act as her couriers.”

With a mixture of fear and distaste, Laurence listened on. His day had started badly; how much worse could it get? “Veech will have Jem tailed to Blackman Street,” he said, when Price fell silent.

“Tail a baker’s apprentice?” Price drained his cup. “I doubt it. What’s the matter with you, Beaumont? You look as if you might be sick. Does it upset you that Lady Hallam’s playing games with Draycott?”

Laurence controlled a mighty impulse to add to the damage Sue had wrought on Price’s nose. “Veech must have told Draycott about Sir Montague and those barrels. Draycott is a novice spy, but as a lawyer he’s trained to hunt for information.”

“And so?”

“Veech may have sent Draycott to play the same game with Isabella as she’s playing with him.”

“Well I’d like to know what game you and Digby are playing with
me
,” said Price, in a hurt tone.

“What do you mean?”

“Thanks to Perdie and Cordelia, he heard about my past. He’s known since November. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t give a shit about your past. I’m more concerned about the future.” Laurence rose, searched for some coins in his pocket, and threw them on the table. “You can help me send a message to Sir Montague’s house – for Lucy, from her lover in the Trained Bands.”

“Are you asking me to take it to London?”

“To Aylesbury, to the London carrier.”

“Aylesbury is held by Parliament.”

“You’ll pass muster, in your disguise. You might even get yourself recruited.”

Lord Digby was still out when they returned. Laurence sat at his lordship’s desk and selected the bluntest of quills, the most clotted pot of ink, and a sheet of paper.

“I thought you were left-handed,” Price said.

“I am,” said Laurence, holding the quill in his right. “Deer harrte,” he began, in clumsy script, “I pray thou arte in gude helthe, as am I, prayse Godd, though mie shoon are worne from marching so farre on the high waie. We gott to Aielsberrie towne on the eighttenth daye of Aprill and I tekk this oppertunity to paie a frend to rite. How
sadde I was forst to leve thee, my sweate. I have no caues of complaynt to goo for a soldier, butt ewer since I did quitt Londonn I have missed thee lyke mie rite hand. Tell hr laidieshipp I spied a grate bigge ratt when I was in hr kitchin. Tis the clement wether which bringes out his kinde. Ewen if he doe seeme harmlesse suche rattes bite and scrat pepell. Shee shude bewear and have hm cott befoar he bringes hr woars veerminn. And tell hr nott to buie anie moar bredd from that lowe prentiss boie. I herde his shoppe gott veerminn as welle and his bredd int fitt to eate.” He closed with more endearments, and signed, “Thy love, Hennery Illingsworth.”

“What’s in the name?” asked Price.

“I once borrowed it from a dead boy and it brought me luck. It might again.” Laurence blotted the ink with sand, then went over to the fireplace, rubbed some ash on his hands, and decorated the paper with smudged fingerprints. He folded it, and sealed it with a big splodge of wax. He did not know Lucy’s surname, so on the outside he put: “For my Laidie Hallammes mayde, Lucy,” and the direction in the Strand.

When Price had left with it, Laurence sank his aching head onto the desk and thought of Isabella. During their long, lazy talks at her house in the Woodstock Road, she had shared his cynicism about the royal cause, though she had often said she could not afford to bite the hand that fed her; Digby’s, presumably. Marriage had removed any financial worries, so why was she continuing to risk herself as Digby’s agent, knowing that the entire London network had become a shambles, and Veech was breathing down her neck? “Try just for one day being a woman in a world ruled by men,” she had told Laurence, before they had become lovers. When he had proposed to her, she had refused, saying that marriage to him would entail fighting everyone, and that she would always be afraid with him because he was not the sort of man to lead a quiet life. Yet
she
did not want a quiet life: she had ignored the warning he had sent from Pembroke’s house, and she might ignore his latest, if ever it arrived. Perhaps she liked the distraction of intrigue.
Perhaps she felt immune to death, a sentiment Laurence understood intimately but which might be her nemesis. And he knew in his heart, with acute guilt, that were she to reply to him begging him to come and spirit her out of London or indeed out of England to a new life, he would do it, despite his commitment to Catherine, who needed and deserved so much love.

He sat up and tucked the quill into place, and used the cuff of his shirt to mop away a few specks of ink. As he was shuffling the sheets of blank parchment together and stacking them neatly where they belonged, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. He retrieved it, and read the single line written there, in Digby’s script: “Sir Harold Furnival of Lower Quinton, Warwickshire.”

“Why are you here?” demanded Draycott, ready to slam the door in Veech’s face.

“For the pleasure of an introduction to your wife.” Veech limped past him into the kitchen, where Judith was stirring a pot of caudle over the fire. She inspected Veech hostilely; Draycott’s emotions must have been obvious.

“Judith,” he said, “may I present Clement Veech, agent to Mr. Oliver St. John.”

Veech appraised her with utter indifference. “Has your husband told you that we are working together?”

“No, sir,” she said, “though he has spoken of Mr. St. John.”