The Licence of War (6 page)

By evening, the rain had tapered to a drizzle. He drew up the hood of his cloak, slung his saddlebag over his shoulder, and squelched through water-logged pasture towards the quay where the
fleets of barges moored. Nearer the quay, he stopped short, dismayed by the sight of Parliamentary militia: a troop of them were apparently inspecting goods destined for the City. By their cloth caps and cheap, thin cloaks, they looked to be London Trained Bands; raw fellows, to judge by their unmilitary bearing. He started off once more at a casual pace, keeping to the shadows, and jumped onto the vessel furthest from them. Crouched behind a row of grain sacks, he waited for them to finish, and for the barge to head out on its journey downriver. After a few minutes, he swore at his ill luck: from the loud tramp of shoes on the wooden deck and snatches of conversation, he realised that his barge, out of all those he might have chosen, was to carry not only goods but the militiamen as well. Raw fellows they might be, but he could not afford the risk. He would have to sneak back onto the quay.

He was contemplating his move when a voice cried, “Who’s there?”

The best defence is attack, Laurence reminded himself. He stuffed his pistols into his saddlebag and emerged, to stare into the barrel of another pistol, held by a nervous militiaman. “What the hell are you doing – put aside your weapon,” he told the man, and gestured at the sacks. “Has duty been paid on this cargo?”

“Duty?” said the man, lowering the pistol.

“Excise duty,” Laurence replied, with curt officiousness. “If it hasn’t been paid to Parliament, I must have it from the owner of the barge. Where can I find him? Come on, come on, answer me.”

“I don’t know, sir, you must talk to Corporal Draycott. He’s in charge.”

“Where’s Draycott, then?” said Laurence, wondering how long he could maintain his performance.

The man went over to a section of the barge where his companions stood bunched, their caps and cloaks dripping. Rain was falling heavily again, and Laurence seized the excuse to bury his face deep into his hood. “Where’s the Corporal?” the man asked them. “Is he on board yet?”

The crew were loosening the ropes that secured the barge to the quay. Laurence calculated the gap in between, as well as his odds of fooling the Corporal, which he decided were slim to negligible. He clutched his saddlebag to his chest, sprinted for the edge, and leapt. Though he cleared the distance, the ground was slippery, and he landed on his knees. “Stop him!” yelled a chorus of voices. A shot whizzed past as he scrambled to his feet. He ran, boots slithering, lost his balance, and fell face down in the mud. When he lifted his head, he saw that he was hemmed in by militia. They dragged him up, crowding round in fascinated silence as he spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Give me your saddlebag,” said the man who had accosted him. Laurence obeyed. The man searched inside, and produced Laurence’s pistols. “Excise, eh?” He whistled admiringly at them. “Not with a pair of flintlocks like these.”

L
aurence sat shivering, knees drawn to his chest, head bowed against the wind, cursing himself under his breath. He had been hauled unceremoniously onto the barge, where the militia had confiscated, along with his pistols and saddlebag, his cloak and doublet, and the knife he always kept in his doublet’s breast pocket. They had tied his wrists and ankles with a rope and fastened it to an iron ring embedded in the deck. As the barge nosed its way through murky fog, they had left him alone, in spite of his repeated demands to talk to their corporal. A brutal interrogation probably awaited him, and God only knew which of his severed parts Lord Digby might receive in a package. He should have ignored his instinct, and travelled with Violet.

At last a man approached carrying a lantern. He wore a buff coat, the orange sash of Parliament, high boots, and a good beaver hat. “I am Corporal Giles Draycott of the London Bands,” he informed Laurence, in a courteous, educated voice. “Who are you and what were you doing on this barge?”

“Corporal Draycott, there’s been a mistake,” Laurence said, in a brusque though somewhat friendlier tone than he had used with the militia. “I applaud the vigilance of your troops, but they’ve arrested the wrong man.”

Draycott set the lantern on the deck, and squatted down. In the flickering light, Laurence discerned intelligence and gentleness in his face, and a likeable straightforwardness in his eyes. They were perhaps the same age. “Pray explain, sir,” he said.

“You must keep what I tell you between us. I’m an agent of Parliament returning from Oxford. I was in haste to report vital news to the Committee of Safety at Derby House. That’s why I took passage on your barge. Don’t bother to ask my name – I’ll give you a false one, on the instruction of Mr. Pym himself.”

“Heavens above,” murmured Draycott. “But why did you claim to be an excise officer, and then try to flee?”

“Why would I admit who I am to a common trooper? I tried to flee because I knew I’d be delayed and questioned.”

“If you won’t give your name, are you carrying any credentials?”

“
Credentials?
Sir, there are enemy spies everywhere, including among our militias, who would not hesitate to cut my throat if they found me out. I’ve put my cover at risk by telling you even this much. I’m not well known yet in England, which has been an advantage to me thus far,” Laurence went on, inspired by Digby’s portrait of the butcher. “I was away, fighting in the wars abroad. Now, untie me, and you must let me off as soon as the barge docks.”

“How can I, when for aught
I
know,
you
might be an enemy spy?”

Laurence sighed, thinking. “Corporal, did you hear of the King’s plot for a revolt in London this spring?”

“The whole City heard.”

“I helped to detect it, when I first came back from the Low Countries. If you want proof of who I am, ask me anything you want about it.”

Draycott seemed to consider. “Tell me how Lady d’Aubigny and Lady Murray smuggled in the King’s Commission of Array authorising the revolt. Their coach was thoroughly searched when it entered London.”

Laurence could provide a bit of the truth for a change. “The document was hidden down the front of Lady d’Aubigny’s dress, where she assumed no gentleman would search, and none did. I was warned she had it on her, and I followed her, the day she delivered it,” he added, less truthfully.

“To Sir Edmund Waller’s brother-in-law.”

“No, to a man named Chaloner, who later passed it on to him.”

“The ladies were fortunate to be spared a public trial,” Draycott remarked.

No idle observation, Laurence suspected. “They were saved by their rank and their sex,” he said, feigning scorn.

“Yes – for so-called rebels, we behaved ourselves scrupulously towards them. They were shielded from the common view throughout, to the disappointment of most Londoners. Lady d’Aubigny was rumoured to be exquisite in appearance – tall and flaxen-haired,” Draycott said, his eyes watchful.

“Lady d’Aubigny
is
exquisite, though she’s small in height, and her hair is dark brown,” said Laurence, amused: he could have offered a more intimate description of her charms. “Rumour confused her with Lady Murray, who is tall and blonde, and less exquisite.” Draycott’s face relaxed, hinting to Laurence that he had survived a test and won a measure of trust. “I’d be pleased to satisfy your curiosity at length on another occasion,” he went on, “but I swear, if you don’t free me tonight, there may be grave consequences. Where is the barge to dock?”

“Lambeth,” Draycott said. “I must convey the troops to Captain Harper, who’s in charge of the fort at St. George’s Fields. I’ll ask his permission to accompany you back across the Thames, to confirm with Pym that you are his agent.”

“And blow wide my cover? Pym won’t thank you for it.”

“Then supply me with some token of proof to take to Pym, in confidence. You’ll be kept but a few hours at the fort. You have my word, sir.”

It was more than Laurence could have hoped for: Lambeth was not far from Mistress Edwards’ house; and during those hours at the fort he might exert his powers of persuasion on the Captain to release him before Draycott could reappear and unmask his lies. “Very well, Corporal. Until we dock, please ensure that none of my property goes astray – especially my pistols.”

“They are a splendid brace – they must be worth a great deal.”

“They were a gift from a friend who was killed in battle at Newbury. I value them as a memorial of him, not for their worth,” Laurence said, with absolute honesty, thinking of Falkland.

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I heard it was a terrible fight, though I did not witness it.” Draycott settled back on his heels and cast Laurence a rueful smile. “I haven’t seen action, thus far. I was a lawyer before I enlisted this summer. I dealt mostly with crimes of fraud, cheating spouses, petty theft – and the odd murder.”

“You moved fast through the ranks, to be made a corporal.”

“My learning and profession got me where I am. For how long did you serve abroad?”

“S-six years,” said Laurence, his teeth beginning to chatter.

“You must be cold, sir,” said Draycott.

“Frozen would be closer to the truth.”

“We thought you might have messages sewn into your cloak or your doublet. I’ll have them returned to you.” Draycott rose, picking up the lantern, and walked away; and a militiaman soon came with the garments. After Laurence put them on, his bonds were refastened, and again he was left alone.

As the barge neared Lambeth, he could distinguish the imposing silhouette of the Abbey and the outlines of Westminster Hall and the Palace of Whitehall across the river. The men were jostling for a view, talking more cheerfully among themselves, obviously keen to get home after their day’s patrol in bad weather.

“Who’s for a flagon at the Dog and Duck tomorrow?” one of them shouted out.

“Can’t afford it on our pay,” grumbled another.

“What pay? We’re owed since August.”

“Hush and ready yourselves, boys,” Draycott told them.

Laurence braced himself, hanging onto the iron ring as the barge lurched to a standstill. A militiaman freed him and cut the rope from his ankles, leaving his wrists tied, and hustled him onto the pier where
Corporal Draycott was supervising the stragglers. Then they marched along empty streets, meeting a sole nightwatchman who saluted them with his torch. Ahead Laurence saw more lights, and the fort, a new, solid construct with bulwarks on all sides.

“Corporal,” he said to Draycott, at the entrance, “I’d appreciate your discretion about me.”

“Captain Harper will want to know why we took you prisoner.”

“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? Be economical with the facts.”

Draycott chuckled. “I’ll do my best.” He guided Laurence down a chilly passage to a room where an officer was warming himself by the hearth. “A good evening to you, Captain Harper,” Draycott said, in a different, rather hostile tone.

Harper had a bulbous nose, his gut overhung the orange sash about his waist, and his mouth was pinched tight as an arsehole. His piercing close-set eyes resembled a pair of currants stuck in a bowl of dough; and they fixed at once on the rope around Laurence’s wrists. “Who’s he?” he said, jerking a hand at Laurence.

“He was apprehended on our barge, as we were setting out from Chelsea,” Draycott replied. “I told him we would have to keep him here while I go to Derby House and confirm his account.”

“What account?”

Draycott glanced at Laurence, half apologetically. “He informs me that he is an agent in Mr. Pym’s service, on vital business for the Committee of Safety, and can reveal no more about it. He can’t even state his true name, on Mr. Pym’s command.”

“Scurvy, black sort of a rogue, isn’t he,” said Harper, studying Laurence up and down. “Mongrel blood, I’d wager.”

“Untie my hands, and give me a pen and paper,” Laurence said to Draycott. “I’ll write you a message for Mr. Pym.”

Draycott obliged, and Laurence scribbled out some meaningless lines of code; he was starting to fear that he would not convince Harper. Sure enough, as he was giving Draycott the message, Harper said, “Lock him up before you go, Corporal.”

“You’ve no need to place me under restraint,” Laurence objected. “I pledged to Corporal Draycott that I would wait for him.”

“He answers to me, sir. And you shall wait in one of the cells.”

Draycott led Laurence out, along a flight of stone stairs, to a cell bare except for a necessary bucket. “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said.

Laurence’s stomach constricted as the door closed and the outer bolt squealed shut, leaving him in total darkness. It brought back memories of his hellish weeks imprisoned in Oxford Castle where he had suffered torture almost to breaking point. He had only just managed to keep silent, then, to protect Lord Falkland from calumny. He felt no such allegiance to the present Secretary of State.

Diego Sandoval could pass for English, with his curly auburn hair and freckled complexion. He was short in stature, and though well proportioned, a trifle round-shouldered, as befitted a scholar. Neatly apparelled in his dark suit and hose, a small white ruff at his throat, he looked the picture of a keen young valet, yet the impish gleam in his eyes hinted at a wayward streak as dangerous as his collection of banned books.

“Don Antonio,” he said, “I cannot express my gratitude to you for this opportunity to broaden my horizons.”

“You are not travelling with me for your own pleasure but for mine.” Antonio locked the door of his private office; he wanted no interruptions. “I hope your bags are packed, because we leave at dawn.”

“It’s been a while since I was last in Madrid,” Diego commented, smiling.

“We are not bound for Madrid.”

Diego’s smile faltered. “But my uncle told me—”

“Shut up and listen. And if you breathe a word of what
I
am about to tell you, I’ll have the Inquisition on you like a pack of hounds before you can say a Hail Mary. Is that clear?” Diego nodded. “We’re to ride for Cádiz, instead, from whence we’ll take ship for England.”