The Licence of War (56 page)

Price stood paralysed in Digby’s main office, cringing at the memory of Beaumont’s words:
I admire your courage
. After Lady Beaumont’s insulting behaviour, Price had felt amply justified in arranging for Elizabeth’s flight, yet he had not known then how perilous her journey could be, with the fighting so close, nor in what straits he would find himself. He might be dead when she arrived, if the rebels breached the defences. If Oxford held for the King, he would face the Beaumonts’ collective wrath. And he had not just wrecked his friendship with Beaumont: as a consequence of breaking his word to the man, he had prejudiced his entire future with Lord Digby. Now he cursed his hot temper. He should have swallowed his pride and waited.

He began to sort through the stacks of confidential papers he must destroy, his hands sweating and smudging the ink. But gradually it came to him: in the very last resort, they might buy him his neck. He could claim to be a double agent working for Parliament, a mole within the offices of the Secretary of State. While he hated the idea of betrayal, he feared death still more; and what had he to lose?

A rap on the door gave him a nasty start, as though he had spoken his thoughts out loud. He did not at once recognise the man on the threshold: Geoffrey, Lord Beaumont’s valet. They surveyed each other for a moment. Then Geoffrey said coldly, “I must see Mr. Beaumont.”

“He’s gone. He rode out of Oxford last night.”

“Where is Madam Ormiston?”

“Is she not at his lordship’s house?”

“Not since yesterday morning. She left a note saying she intended to join you here.”

“That is a complete shock to me,” said Price.

“How can it be, when she wrote that
your
servants would escort her from Chipping Campden?”

Price hesitated, dismayed; why had she included this most unnecessary detail? “I might have remarked to her that if she wished to visit Oxford, Mr. Beaumont and I had scouts in his lordship’s neighbourhood who could provide a guard for his coach on the road. I was not encouraging her to quit his house.”

Geoffrey stepped towards him. “Where are you hiding her?”

“I am not hiding her anywhere.”

“By God I’d strike you down, were you not a gentleman,” hissed Geoffrey, with a dubious emphasis on the last word.

Unwittingly, by invoking rank, he gave Price the advantage. “I cannot help what Madam Ormiston has chosen to do,” Price said, in a haughty voice. “I would have advised her in the strongest terms against it. You may tell his lordship that if I have any news of her, he will hear from me. Now I must return to my work for the Secretary of State.”

Geoffrey was in a fix, Price knew; he had experienced the same impotence faced with Lady Beaumont. When Geoffrey retreated, Price shut the door, and ran to the window. He watched Geoffrey mount his horse and trot off a way down the street, passing another man riding in the opposite direction: one of the scouts that Price had paid to assist Elizabeth.

Price bolted out to him. “Where is she?”

“With the ladies, sir, though we had a rough time of it getting her through,” the scout said. “She begs for you to visit.”

The apartment, on the upper storey of a draper’s shop, seemed smaller to Price than when he had first come to rent it, before the guardians of Elizabeth’s honour had moved in. The floor was now covered in mattresses, and the air ripe with sweat, stale milk, and unemptied chamber pots. Mrs. Giddens and Mrs. Connell, both officers’ wives, rose to greet him. Mrs. Giddens had been nursing her infant and shielded her breast modestly with a shawl, and Mrs. Connell gathered up her little boy to make room for their visitor.

Elizabeth sat in a corner, with a miserable expression that lifted when she saw Price. The skirts of her gown were wet and muddy, and her hair windblown. He felt abashed: how could he have imagined turning coat and sacrificing such a brave, lovely girl? “Mr. Price, thank God,” she said, holding out her arms.

“She had a dreadful journey, poor lamb,” put in Mrs. Connell.

Price edged round the mattresses to Elizabeth, and knelt before her. “Dearest, how frightened you must have been.”

“I was,” she said, stealing both of her hands into his. “We could hear the roar of guns from far off, and then right by us as we were riding through the defences. And the smoke, and the stink, and those ugly trenches … But I shan’t be afraid any more, with you. Please,” she murmured in his ear, “tell me I won’t have to stay for long in this squalid place, with these strangers.”

“I am sorry, but you must, for now,” he whispered. “Although not
of your station, they are kind, decent women. Elizabeth, the King has fled north out of Oxford. Lord Digby and your brother went with him. The city may fall to Parliament, by tomorrow or the next day.” Her face drained of colour. “You mustn’t fret, my darling. Even if the rebels invade, you should be well-treated – these ladies have little children, after all.” He reverted to more personal matters. “Did you confide in anyone at home that you were to join me?”

“No, but Anne might have suspected it.”

“Your father’s valet was in town looking for you.”

“Geoffrey? So soon? Then we
must
be wed.”

“There’s no chance of that, at present.”

“Yes: if Oxford falls, our whole world will crumble,” she sighed. “We should have joy of each other, for however short a time. Let me be with you, married or not.”

“I refuse to dishonour you,” said Price. He would not surrender her if he could help it, yet nor would he throw away his hard-won position with Digby and his friendship with Beaumont if this could possibly be avoided. And there might still be a chance of her thousand pounds. “Elizabeth, you must tell everyone that you eloped of your own volition. Your family will forgive you that, but they won’t let me near you again if they believed I had encouraged you.”

“But you did! And I thought we would be married by the time they came after me.”

“I thought the same,” Price said honestly. “How could I have foreseen that Oxford would be so suddenly threatened? You must write to his lordship that you are safely accommodated with two virtuous married ladies who can bear witness to my faultless conduct. I’ll write to express my consternation at your arrival, and pledge to bring you home the instant that circumstances permit, without mark upon your honour. My scout will deliver our letters post haste to his lordship.”

“You would have me go home without making me your wife?”

“I must! Please, my sweet, do you want your father’s health to suffer, for worrying about you?”

“You had no thought for his health when you wrote entreating me to come to you. Perhaps you would like me to ride back
post haste
, along with your scout.”

“I would, but tonight it’s far too dangerous for you to make the journey,” Price said, clinging to her hands. “Do as I bid you and all will be well.”

“I’m not a child, to be pacified by facile assurances,” said Elizabeth with a hint of her ladyship’s reproof. “But I shall defer to you, since I am in your power.”

Soaked by a blinding rainstorm, the royal army had pushed westwards into the Cotswolds through thick mud. They could comfort themselves that the enemy would be even more hampered, as both Essex and Waller were travelling with bigger guns and with baggage trains. After a halt in Burford, they headed on through the spring dusk across the River Windrush to Bourton-on-the-Water, and camped in the fields and meadows surrounding the village. Mindful of Parliamentary patrols from the Gloucester garrison, Laurence then led his scouts on a reconnoitre northwest, fanning them out across the Cotswold Hills. They returned dirty and half asleep in their saddles as the eastern horizon began to glow. One fellow had barely escaped arrest on the outskirts of Tewkesbury, where the King had hoped to quarter by the following night: Parliament had occupied the town. The Royalist army would have to change course and make speed for Evesham, about as long a ride away, through more barren countryside. By the next day, they had covered the nearly twenty miles to Evesham, relieved at least that Oxford was temporarily spared a full siege while Essex and Waller were busy chasing the King. He himself would not be secure until he reached his stronghold at Worcester, another fifteen or so miles to the northwest.

On the sixth of June, Laurence’s thirty-second birthday, the royal army arrived there, to a fervent welcome. Although the Royalists’
spectacular pace had left Waller and Essex trailing behind them, they were incapable of further action; and he was far too tired himself to celebrate either the anniversary of his birth or the relative safety of the King’s new haven.

Two days after, Digby called Laurence to his billet and asked him to encode a letter to Prince Rupert. It was uncharacteristically bleak: “Essex comes upon us one way,” Digby wrote, “Waller likely to go about us on the Welsh side by Gloucester, Massey and the Lord Denbigh towards Kidderminster, both with considerable forces; and when to all this I shall add the uncertainty of your brother’s succeeding before Lyme, and that Oxford is scarce victualled for a month, and for aught we know blocked up in a manner by the enemy’s horse, Your Highness will easily frame for yourself an image of our condition … all the hopes of relief depend upon Your Highness’s happy and timely success.”

Once the courier had ridden out with his dismal communication, Digby told Quayle to fetch wine. He and Laurence sat brooding and drinking, until he broke the silence. “Why is it I have never seen you pray, Mr. Beaumont? Are you not a religious man?”

“Not particularly, my lord.”

“I didn’t think so. Isabella hinted to me that you were an atheist – not something you would want publicly known.” When Laurence merely shrugged, Digby went on, “I wonder whether, in times of adversity, God might listen with greater interest to the prayers of His less observant children than those who pester Him daily with their trivial requests.”

“Are you asking me to pray?”

“It could not hurt, though I’d hazard a guess that there as many men praying in the enemy camp.”

“Rather more,
I
would hazard a guess. Do you believe that God is a Royalist?”

“His Majesty believes himself anointed by God to rule, so it would appear logical that God should be on his side. What is your view of that doctrine, sir?”

“Why do you care to know, my lord?”

Digby had no chance to reply. One of the scouts had burst in, red-faced and breathless. “My lord, Mr. Beaumont, I’ve come from reporting to His Majesty: Essex is on the move! He’s preparing to march south, to the relief of Lyme Regis.”

Digby and Laurence leapt up from their chairs. “How could this be? When did you find out?” babbled Digby, his voice shrill with eagerness.

“This morning we were spying in his camp, my lord, and saw him loading his heavy cannons onto carts. We learnt that he and Waller had held a conference at Burford with their chief officers, the day before yesterday. It was then that they decided the armies should split up.”

“There’s no shadow of a doubt?” asked Laurence. “You confirmed the reports from several sources, as you were taught?”

“Oh yes, sir,” the scout said, flushing with professional pride.

“Essex must underestimate our strength, to leave the chase to Waller alone, but nevertheless …” Digby beamed incredulously at Laurence, who was as stunned: how could these experienced generals commit an error of such magnitude, when their prey, the greatest prize in the kingdom, was virtually trapped and ready for the taking? “Now we have only Waller to contend with,” Digby chortled, clapping his hands together. “Damn me, Mr. Beaumont, God
is
a Royalist, after all.”

R
eclined upon her bed immersed in a book, Lady Hallam looked to Veech as if she were spending a quiet afternoon at her house in the Strand, except that she had not been able to change the high-necked gown in which she had arrived at the Tower, and wore no jewellery save her wedding ring; and her hair was simply dressed. She neither moved nor raised her eyes when he entered.

“What are you reading today, my lady?” he inquired.

“A work of Suetonius about the emperors of Rome. Do you enjoy the study of history, Mr. Veech?”

“To me, all history is the same: the victory of force.” He crossed to the window. “What a clear view you have from here of Traitors Gate.”

“How very subtle you are. Have you come again with your proposition?”

“I’m giving you a last chance to consider it. A few lines in your hand to Lord Digby, and you and your maid can go free. Or you’ll go to trial, and Barlow’s confession will condemn you both.”

“Why have you not shown me this fulsome confession, as I asked you?”

Veech heaved a sigh. In truth, he had not got a single useful thing out of Barlow, and he had admired the man’s fortitude. “You can hear it in court, my lady, if you wish.”

“You must be pleased he’s not alive to bear witness to the falsehoods you extracted from him.”

“On the contrary, his death was tragic – gaol fever is an awful way to perish. And I worry about that sick maid of yours.” Veech glanced
around the cell. “
She
has no featherbed, no fireplace, no bowl and jug for washing, no close stool for her privy needs. And her cell is below ground and damp, and often floods.”

“I have petitioned the governor of the Tower, who promised to bring her to my cell.”

“He won’t. He can’t afford to spread the contagion among his wealthier inmates.”

At last Lady Hallam looked up. Veech caught a shade of fear in her eyes, although none in her voice. “I demand to see my husband’s counsel.”

“He has declined your case, just as your husband has withdrawn his support from you. I told you: we found no proof against
him
in that house, other than of past immorality. And Barlow named you and you alone as Lord Digby’s agent.”

“Then I must be allowed some other counsel to advise me.”

“Perhaps Mr. Draycott could offer his services.”