The Licence of War (61 page)

“No, he’s gathering what remains of his cavalry to press on to York, where we’re to seek refuge. There are lots of us hereabouts. But we have to move – those of us who are able.”

“Who’s left on the field?”

“Newcastle’s Whitecoats. They’ve refused to surrender, though they’re out of ammunition. They’ll be slain to the last man, unless Parliament shows them mercy.”

“Oh Christ. Smith is dead.”

“And Curtis. I’m sorry, Tom.”

“Why say you’re sorry? You always hated them both.”

“It’s no time to argue,” Ingram said impatiently. “Adam, help me.” He and Adam gripped Tom under either arm, and hoisted him into a sitting position. “You must stand on your good leg, and we’ll put you on the horse. When we get to York, I’ll fetch you a surgeon.”

The pain flared in Tom’s thigh and rage swept over him, as in childhood when he and Laurence would play games together, and he would be about to lose. The odds were unfair and he did not care to play on. “Leave me to die, Ingram. I’ll die all the same, if they have to cut off my leg.”

“Don’t be a fool: you have Mary to live for, and your child.”

They attempted to lift him onto his sound leg, but he howled and wrested himself free. “Go, both of you.”

“Please, sir, please,” sobbed Adam, “don’t give up hope. I’ll take you to Chipping Campden, same as Master Laurence did for Mr. Ingram after the fight at Edgehill, when he broke his leg.”

Tom almost laughed. “Edgehill was a stone’s throw from home. We’re hundreds of miles away.”

Ingram snatched Tom roughly by the front of his collar. “I never thought you were a coward. Now put your arms round my neck, and stand up, God damn you.”

“Everything’s finished, everything,” Tom mumbled; but he gritted his teeth, and obeyed.

M
onsieur Sabron resembled to Laurence an intelligent ferret, with his pointed nose and shrewd, humorous eyes. Rather than talk of war and politics on the road, they discussed French and English mores, Sabron’s estate in Gascony, and horseflesh. Sabron commented admiringly on the two mounts Laurence had brought with him: Pembroke’s, and the Arab stallion. “What a waste to ride that beautiful creature into battle,” Sabron remarked of the Arab, and Laurence agreed; he had already decided to entrust it to Seward’s care.

When they arrived in Oxford, he left Sabron at Governor Aston’s house, declining to stay there overnight, saying that he would rejoin the diplomatic party in the morning. The more he knew Aston the more he disliked the man, who reminded him of Catherine’s father; and it annoyed him to be in Aston’s debt for conveying Elizabeth home. He rode the thirteen miles to Clarke’s house, where he discovered Seward and Clarke in far better spirits than on those last days of May when Oxford had verged upon disaster. Unlike the discreet Sabron, they both peppered him with questions as they sat together after an evening meal in Clarke’s hospitable front room.

“The King’s fortunes have improved,” Clarke observed, of the battle at Cropredy Bridge, and His Majesty’s peace overtures to Westminster. “What will he do now?”

“That will depend on Prince Rupert’s fortunes,” Laurence said. “A victory over the Scots and Generals Fairfax and Manchester could swing the balance of the war, and will certainly determine the King’s strategy in the south. If he retreats his forces to Oxford, he could still
be trapped into a siege. Waller’s army is depleted but not broken, and he’s been granted reinforcements by Parliament. And Essex is a threat to the Queen in the southwest: she and her child could become his hostages.”

Seward was peering at Laurence keenly through his thick spectacles. “Why should Lord Digby ask
you
to go with Monsieur Sabron to London?”

“He has a private business he wants me to settle with the French ambassador,” Laurence replied, which satisfied Clarke; but not Seward, he could tell.

Once Clarke had lumbered up to bed, Seward invited Laurence out to the kitchen garden, where rows of vegetables and herbs were sprouting their summery green leaves. “Let’s have the truth, Beaumont,” he said as he filled his pipe.

Laurence explained about Veech’s most recent package of the hand, and Isabella’s arrest; and how he had fought by Wilmot’s side in battle, angering Digby; and his order from Digby.

“I am amazed at his lordship sending you on such a fool’s mission. The moment you quit the French embassy, you will be seized by Veech. And what is the chance that Lady Hallam would be condemned, even on her husband’s evidence?”

“Digby can’t take that chance, and nor can I.”

“Have you any idea how to accomplish this impossible task?”

“Not as yet. If only I could rely on Barlow for help. Seward, you didn’t happen to bring with you any of your sleeping draught?”

“Yes, as it happens.”

“And … the witch’s poison?”

Seward lit his pipe and exhaled a violent puff of smoke. “I’ve never used that particular receipt. It would require some time to find the ingredients and to distil.”

“It was just a thought,” Laurence said gloomily.

“Any news from home?” asked Seward, in a gentler voice.

Laurence told him about Catherine’s illness and her belief in the
powers of her ring; and about the Spaniards, and his revelatory conversation with Lady Beaumont. “We may have opened a fresh chapter between us. To borrow one of Ingram’s favourite sayings, there’s a silver lining to every cloud.”

“So there is. And you must have no more doubts as to your paternity.”

Laurence smiled; a hint of doubt remained. “We have to wait upon the Spanish Envoy, her
deus ex machina
. I dispatched her letter to him when I was last in Oxford. Ah, but there’s more – your bowl is at Chipping Campden.”

“I pray she comes to no harm by de Zamora’s valet,” said Seward, when he heard of Catherine’s desire to steal it back. For a while they both contemplated the night sky, festooned with stars; a barn owl ghosted past them, like an enormous moth. “The symbol of wisdom,” he murmured. “When will
you
grow wise? Catherine is your wife and deserves your full affection, yet it’s plain to me that you are still in love with Lady Hallam.”

“You’re right, Seward: though I’ve tried hard to banish those feelings. And the truth is that I volunteered to go to London before Digby sent me. Isabella may not be condemned in court, but I’m afraid of what Veech might do to her. If I see an opportunity, I intend to kill him or have him killed. I owe it to Barlow, among others.” He gave Seward’s bony shoulder a squeeze. “You were worried about me riding into the fray. This is no more dangerous.”

“You are well aware that it is.”

Laurence looked across the garden to the field where Pembroke’s mount was grazing alongside his Arab. “I really should return that horse to its master.”

“Would you enlist his help again?”

“I’m low on friends in the City, and he was my trump card last time. By the way, I wrote to inform the King how Pembroke’s intelligence saved Rupert from capture at the gates of Aylesbury, and received not a word in answer.”

“Do you expect His Majesty to thank the man who plotted his death?”

“You’re right again. I did warm to old Pembroke, however.”

“He might not be thrilled to see you a second time. Beaumont,” Seward recommenced, “on the morning you advised me to flee Oxford, I had been telling Clarke about a dream that had visited me in the night, of a vast expanse of moorland strewn with hundreds upon hundreds of wounded and dying men. Clearly a huge battle had been waged, and as clearly lost, though by which side I could not tell. Might it have been Cropredy, where you were?”

“Not by your description. There was no expanse of moor, and the losses weren’t huge, even if the rebels fared worse than we did. Have you dreamt of it since?”

“If I have, I can’t recollect. My dearest boy,” Seward said suddenly, “I fear that next I shall have nightmares of some … some part of
you
, sent in a package to Lord Digby.”

“I hope it would be a piece of my mind,” said Laurence. “I’ve never yet told him exactly what I think of him. Now, Seward, I want to know all about your sleeping draught.”

A wagon harnessed to a pair of cart horses stood outside Sir Montague’s house, from which Greenhalgh was directing a procession of servants laden with rolled-up carpets and tapestries, boxes, chests, piles of linen, and various canvases, among them those of Sir Montague’s disapproving parents. “Good morning to you, Mr. Draycott,” he said, bowing imperturbably.

“Is your master at last well enough to receive me?” asked Draycott.

“Yes, sir: he is in the gallery. May I announce you?”

“You are busy – I shall announce myself.”

Draycott felt glad that the wall where the tapestries had hung was now blank; the spyholes had been plastered over. Sir Montague looked sicklier than before, in his wheeled contraption, his gouty foot
swathed in bandages, shoulders sagging, hands clasped across his rounded belly, his face powdered white like a mask. His mouth appeared sunken, as if teeth had been drawn from both sides. “Have you come to reproach me, sir?” he greeted Draycott, with a cheerful smile.

“I came for a book of Lady Isabella’s:
Remedia Amoris
, if you did not surrender it to Veech as evidence of her guilt.”

“Oh no, it is in the guest chamber with the rest of her belongings. Go and select whatever you wish, and then we shall talk.”

Draycott did not trouble to pretend ignorance of the room.

Her property lay mounded on the bed: shimmering satin gowns in pieces, her fur-trimmed cloak and muff, and flimsy undergarments. He picked up a lace shift and held it to his nose, inhaling her exotic scent. How crude and treacherous the body was, he thought next, upset with himself, and tossed aside the shift to rifle through a stack of books. Most were damaged by Veech’s rough handling, but two were intact: the slim, purple volume and another by Ovid. There was no inscription inside
Ars Amatoria
, only a date in her writing: the seventh of October, 1643. On impulse, Draycott stuck both books in his doublet pocket. He heard a faint mew from beneath the bed and her black cat slinked out, horribly thin, its ribs protruding, coat dull, eyes crusted with dried mucus. He remembered the day they had found it under the parlour table, and how he had declared his love for her.

“Judith, forgive me,” he said. He had spoken those words to his wife earlier in the day, at her mother’s; after Veech’s threat, he had arranged for her and the children to quit London by nightfall and go to the house of a legal colleague in St. Albans. “I will soon be free of Veech,” he had assured her, and she had told him, most surprisingly, “I pray you kill the man.”

“Bella’s four-footed friend,” remarked Sir Montague, when Draycott came back into the gallery cradling the cat to his breast. “I have seen neither hide nor hair of the beast since she and Lucy were arrested.” Draycott was silent, repulsed by his apparent indifference to the women’s plight. “Do please sit down, sir. I hear from Oliver St. John
that you are going to Lord Digby with a bargain to exchange her for the elusive Mr. Beaumont. I am shocked that St. John should engage in such dishonourable dealings.”

“Veech persuaded him.”

“Even the loftiest souls can be corrupted in time of war,” joked Sir Montague. “I must say, Veech is one of the strangest men I have ever met. I feel sure that some tragedy in his past has affected his brain.”

“His hunger for vengeance is certainly out of proportion to the hurt Beaumont inflicted on him.”

“I would tend to agree. After he questioned me, I asked him why he should so hate a man who shot him quite by accident. He told me of an old Arab proverb: that it is the last straw which breaks the laden camel’s back.” Taking a handkerchief from his sleeve, Sir Montague dabbed at his forehead and cheeks, smearing the powder; underneath were blood vessels the colour of dark wine, and skin the texture of parchment. “Who will Digby choose to sacrifice: his darling Bella or his chief agent?” he resumed. “It is an awkward business, choosing between love and expediency.”

“It did not seem so very awkward for
you
,” Draycott said.

“She would have done the same in my place,” Sir Montague said, impenitently. “As for
you
, sir, she and I planned your seduction to glean what intelligence we could about Parliament’s spies. You might have noticed how rarely I was at home whenever you visited. I never did witness you two together, if it’s any consolation. She feared that I might be swept away by my enjoyment of the scene, and that you might discover me frigging myself in my hiding place. Lucy was her accomplice. And Lucy’s paramour from the Trained Bands was a spy in Lord Digby’s employ, a man named Price, also an associate of the late thief, Barlow. You knew him, I believe.”

“Yes,” said Draycott, staggered.

“Ah well, it is history. You are an honest fellow, unlike me, so let me warn you: should Bella go free, she will have no further use for you.
And you will have given that devil Veech the greatest satisfaction, by facilitating his revenge.”

“When do you depart for The Hague?” Draycott inquired, eager to terminate their exchange.

“Next week, sir. Niger is
your
friend, now,” said Sir Montague, as Draycott stood up to leave; the cat had fastened onto the front of his doublet with its claws, and was burrowing its head in his underarm. “Please accept him as a gift, and for your convenience ask Greenhalgh for his travelling basket. And farewell to you, sir – I doubt we shall see each other again.”

“We could expect no less of the Prince,” Digby gloated to Culpeper, as they walked through Evesham marketplace, skirting the piles of dung left from the day’s brisk trade in livestock. That afternoon, Council had erupted into spontaneous applause: the King had received an express message that Rupert had crushed the combined forces of Parliament and the Scots three days ago outside York. “The north is all but lost to the rebels,” Digby went on, batting away a fly with his kidskin gloves, “and here in the south Waller’s men are deserting in droves.”