The Licence of War (75 page)

“He said he was in the East, at about my age,” murmured Laurence, “and had seen converts to the Muslim faith circumcised. I asked him if he was ever converted, and he said no.”

“The truth was far more horrific. It is news to me that castration at that age would in time effect similar physical changes as on a boy.”

“How did he not bleed to death or die of shock?” asked the surgeon.

“In the East they are renowned for the making and keeping of eunuchs,” Seward replied. “Observe what is inserted into the opening of his member: something like a plug. Without it, the opening would narrow, and he would be unable to pass water. He would definitely be incapable of amorous intercourse.”

“What astounding powers of deduction, Seward,” Laurence said. “It’s no surprise he wanted revenge on me: when I shot him, I piled insult upon injury.”

Seward unstrapped the brace on Veech’s knee to expose a lumpy, hairless joint. “The bone is deformed. He would have worn that brace for the rest of his days. Let us turn him onto his front.”

The surgeon helped Seward wrestle the body over, and Seward tore off the coat and shirt. Veech’s back was ridged to the waist with scars from a lash, and on the upper muscle of each shoulder he had been branded with a squiggle of Arabic letters. “His owner’s mark, I would suppose,” Seward said. “He may first have been a slave to others, and then was enslaved by his lust for vengeance. Now we know why he chose to mutilate his victims. And think of what he was planning for you, Beaumont: to make you like him. You should rejoice that you rid the earth of such a tortured soul.”

“I feel no joy,” said Laurence, thinking what strength of will must have been required to carry on living in that emasculated body. Veech had been in the business of secrets, while hiding a secret for which Laurence could imagine no fitting revenge. “Dress him and cover him again, Seward, and let the Governor bury him at once.”

Aston had invited Laurence and Seward to sup with him that evening, an offer Seward told Laurence they could not decline. Before going to table, they requested of the Governor a private talk with Isabella, to apprise her of what had happened at the White Hart, and of the discoveries about Veech.

“You were not so wrong, my lady – he
was
malformed, though not from birth,” Seward said. “I believe Beaumont pities him.”

“Remember his cruelty,” she said to Laurence. “He deserves no pity. In the final moment, he could have killed Mr. Draycott with that shot. We must find a way to tell Draycott you survived.”

“We should have
some
agents left in London who might communicate with him, though I don’t want to know who they are.”

Isabella nodded. “And now, gentlemen, let us join Sir Arthur. He has news, from the King.”

Yet Aston kept silent throughout the meal. Only when it ended, did he announce, “His Majesty wrote a week ago from Cornwall. He is still engaged in trapping Essex’s forces and cutting them off from provisions, by land and by sea. He has some sixteen thousand Horse and Foot, and the Earl under ten thousand, so with God’s grace we may foresee a happy outcome in that part of his kingdom. Mr. Beaumont, he asked me to inform you, on confirmation of your success in destroying Clement Veech: he will limit your term of exile to September of next year – a twelvemonth.”

“How gracious of him,” Seward exclaimed.

“Yes, indeed,” said Laurence, with rather less enthusiasm; was this on Prince Charles’ urging, or was some other, less benign influence responsible?

“There is, however, a condition to his mercy,” Aston said. “You must sail with Lord Wilmot, who is in custody at Exeter. Tomorrow morning I shall have a troop ready to escort you thence – they are the men who recently did you service.”

Laurence thought of Catherine, whom he had altogether forgotten while plotting and executing Veech’s death. “I had promised to pass by Chipping Campden to bid my family goodbye, and my wife wished to travel with me.”

“I cannot allow the delay, sir. You are a prisoner in
my
custody.”

“She can follow you, Beaumont,” said Seward, a mite reproving. “And your family will comprehend. Besides, a twelvemonth will fly by in no time.”

“Let’s drink to that,” proposed Isabella, in a voice so artificial that Laurence could not look at her.

When they had drunk, Aston said, “Why not spend your last night in Oxford at my house, Mr. Beaumont, since you will be departing from here.”

Like Draycott, Laurence decided to refuse the Governor’s hospitality, but for a less noble motive: he might have been tempted to invade Isabella’s bedchamber. “No, thank you, Sir Arthur: I’ll stay at Merton with Dr. Seward.”

“You must report to me, then, by nine of the clock.”

Seward stifled a yawn. “It grows late, Beaumont.”

Laurence turned to Isabella. “Lady Hallam, may I have a quick word before we go?”

“Why yes,” she said, with a bright smile.

As he walked her out to the entrance hall, he felt his head swim as if he had swallowed another dose of belladonna. “What will you do now?” he asked. “How and … and where will you live?”

“I’ll seek temporary lodgings in Oxford. Sir Montague and I are in correspondence to settle upon a modest stipend for me as his estranged wife. As for you, what a marvellous concession from the King.”

“Is it?”

She examined his face more dubiously. “Your exile may be a mere holiday from work. What was it Digby said of you last autumn: His Majesty thought it most ill-advised that he should lack such a good man to assist him.”

“I have precisely the same idea.”

“Still, who can predict where we may be in a twelvemonth. His Majesty’s campaign in the southwest is progressing well and the Governor mentioned to me that Prince Rupert is moving to establish his headquarters in Bristol, to be nearer to the King. He might outweigh Digby’s counsel: the King is devoted to his nephew.”

“The King prefers sanguine advice. What he doesn’t hear from Rupert he’ll get from Digby. Oh, Isabella, this war doesn’t matter to
me – what matters is you,” Laurence confessed, wrapping his arms around her. “At Pembroke’s house, you asked me how we could undo our mistake. We’re not done with each other, are we?”

“No. We are friends for life. But as you said, your marriage is not a counterfeit. I want you to be a true husband to Catherine.”

“How can I be, when I love
you
?”

“Trust me, you will come to love her.” Isabella reached up and wiped away a tear from his cheek; her gold-flecked eyes were dry, yet full of tenderness. “Beaumont, if I don’t rise early to see you off, would you understand?”

“Of course I would. I couldn’t bear it, either: to say goodbye in front of everyone. Especially that bastard Aston,” he added, forcing a smile.

“Then I’ll say it now.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “Farewell, my beloved friend.”

“Not farewell,” he said, and kissed her deeply; a lover’s kiss. “It is
just
goodbye.”

For hours, Laurence lay awake. His thoughts wandered, from that parting scene with Isabella to the whole drama of Veech’s death. He was almost afraid to sleep, lest he be visited by some nightmare of Veech castrating him. But when finally he slept, he dreamt again of the King lying dead in the woods. He and Pembroke were standing by the makeshift bier, and Pembroke was slapping him on the shoulder. “You did it, Mr. Beaumont! Thanks to you, we can crown a new monarch.”

Then young Prince Charles came towards them through the trees. He paused at the bier, and as he studied his father’s body, Laurence saw a startling transformation sweep over him. He grew in height and girth, his complexion sallowed, his hair thickened and darkened into a luxuriant peruke, his youthful cheeks sagged, and his large, molten Stuart eyes acquired a wary, cynical wisdom. Lines of hard experience
furrowed around his mouth, above which sprouted a thin moustache. He looked up at Laurence and Pembroke, and his full lips curved into a smile at the same time humorous, lazy, and sensual; and without speaking, he turned and strolled away, back among the trees.

In the dim light of dawn, Laurence washed and shaved, packed his saddlebag, and sat at Seward’s desk to compose three letters. To Lord Beaumont he described the new terms of his exile, and regretted that he could not go home before sailing for France, where he hoped Catherine would soon join him. He sent his love to the household, and promised to write from Paris. His next letter was for Ingram, and contained much the same information. The third, to Catherine, was the briefest, though it cost him the most effort. He was not pleased, as he reread it. He should have told her that he loved her. Instead, it ended: “I shall be waiting for you.”

Seward had chosen to say goodbye at the door. “I loathe the fuss of partings,” he said.

“As do I,” Laurence agreed. “To be honest, I’m rather glad I can’t go home. And, as you said, a year is but a little while.”

“At my age, a little while is all that I have left.”

“Then you must take good care of yourself – no more working through the night on royal horoscopes.” Laurence nodded at the silver bowl on Seward’s desk. “But you might watch out for me in Paris.”

“I’ll try, Beaumont, though my instinct tells me that I shall see no more visions. Perhaps the bowl’s magic was erased by Diego’s theft. Perhaps I am losing my powers.”

“As
I
told
you
: you don’t need your bowl. You’ll see the future in your dreams.” Laurence considered mentioning his dream of the ageing Prince Charles, but time was short.

“Were Catherine of our sex, and I her tutor, I would teach her how to use the bowl,” Seward said. “She’d be an able student.”

“She’s enough of a witch, as she is. She’s already stolen the affections of my horse.”

“She might bring it, when she comes to you.”

“I asked her to do that, in my letter. Seward, joking aside,” Laurence went on, “
I
have a strange instinct about Isabella – that something is ailing her, and it’s not her old sickness. I know your feelings about her, but will you promise for my sake to look after her?”

“I promise, if you will try to put her out of your thoughts,” Seward advised. “She’s a strong woman, and a survivor of life’s woes. Now, my boy, you must go. May God speed you to France, and don’t forget to write to me.”

“I won’t, my friend – and goodbye.” Laurence slung his saddlebag over his shoulder and gave Seward a last, tremulous hug. As he crossed the quadrangle, he waved, but he did not dare look back.

“I still wish I knew how Governor Aston learnt of your meeting with Beaumont, and sent those troops to arrest him,” St. John said to Draycott. They were examining the pile of papers on his desk, some stained with dried blood.

“From one of Digby’s spies?” offered Draycott.

“It must have been.” St. John indicated the stains. “The Committee asked me to confirm with you that none of Beaumont’s intelligence was extracted under duress, which might impugn its accuracy. In the past, Mr. Veech’s methods had come … into question. I should have asked you earlier: was force employed on Beaumont, and is this his blood?”

“There was no force used, sir – the pages were soiled by my own hands after I was injured, as I transferred them from my saddlebag into my doublet for safekeeping,” said Draycott. He had sworn Veech’s men to secrecy on this score, on the excuse that it would cast a slur upon the dead man’s reputation, and he doubted St. John would trouble to investigate any further.

“Thank the Lord you received no worse than a graze to your shoulder. Alas for Veech – I would never have guessed he had a weak heart.” St. John selected a different page, in crooked script, scattered
with ink blots and smudges. “He must have been in the utmost distress when he wrote these lines.”

“Had I known, I might have sent earlier for help. And if only I could have brought back his body for a Christian burial.”

“You had to leave him behind or be captured by Aston’s militia, in which case we would not have the papers. It is a shame Beaumont was captured, and will be tried and executed for his treachery to the Secretary of State. We would have benefited from such a mole in the French Court.”

“Then his statements are of value, in the Committee’s opinion?” said Draycott.

“At first we could not make head or tail of his writing – it was yet more unintelligible than his letter to me. But once the pages in his hand were copied out by a man skilled in cryptology, the extent of our wealth became clear to us. Lord Digby’s schemes for London beggar belief in their audacity, and we can now break all of his figures. And we were able to confirm that another peer, who sits in Parliament, is not a secret Royalist, as Veech suspected.” Draycott nodded, though he mused to himself: had Beaumont told the truth about Pembroke’s allegiances? “We have decided to publish an abbreviated version of our treasure trove, to stimulate enthusiasm for the war among the London populace,” St. John said gloatingly. “It will appear in the newssheets under the title,
Lord Digby’s Closet Opened
.”

From Westminster Stairs, Draycott took a skiff to Southwark. He disembarked and strode south into Blackman Street, past shops and houses, and a host of unsavoury alleys, until he came to his destination. He knocked at the door and a fat, unkempt girl answered, nursing a baby at the front of her milk-stained gown. “Good day, madam,” he said. “I am in search of Sarah Barlow.”

“I don’t know of any Sarah Barlow,” she said, with tired impatience.

Draycott extracted a coin from his pocket. “She dwelt in your house not long ago with her husband, Peter.”

“You ask the neighbours, sir. We’ve only been lodged here these past three weeks.”

He gave her the coin, and she closed the door. As he was debating which of her neighbours to try, an insolent voice called out, “What’s your business with Sarah Barlow?” The speaker, a pug-nosed youth with crafty, mistrustful eyes, sidled up to Draycott.

“I’ve a message for her.”

“What’s that, then?”

“Tell her Veech is dead.” Draycott felt a hot rush of pride, though in the depths of his conscience he did not like himself for it. “You tell her that Giles Draycott killed Clement Veech, and that Beaumont and Lady Hallam are both safe.”