The Licence of War (13 page)

“It is the opposite,” she said. “The more your father knows, the less he will understand. Did you intend to reveal to him that I cannot bear you children – and why?”

“No, because I still believe you can.”

She wilted, leaning her head on his chest. “Why do you persist in your delusion?”

Laurence felt again the peculiar awe that crept over him whenever he recollected his night at Yusuf’s house. “Before I returned to England two summers ago, I was in Spain. I met a man on the road to Cádiz who took me to his home. The lady of his house, Khadija, was an African, a seer who spoke to me of my past, of things that she couldn’t possibly have known unless she had a mysterious gift. She also said I would love a woman named after a great queen, and that this woman would give me a child. I am convinced, in my heart, that the woman is you.”

Isabella’s expression struck him as baffled, and pitying. “Oh Beaumont, countless women are named after great queens, your own sister Elizabeth included. I am amazed that you, who are suspicious of everything under the sun and do not even believe there is a God in heaven, should put such faith in a vague prophecy.”

“It amazes me, too, and I can’t explain it, although she made another prophecy, not vague at all, that
was
fulfilled. It concerned a … political affair, here in England.” He saw a gleam of interest in Isabella’s eyes. “I can’t say more about it for reasons of state, but trust me, her prediction was uncannily accurate.”

“If I’m to believe you about one prophecy, and if I’m to trust you, surely you can trust me with the other.”

“It’s a secret that’s not mine to share.”

“Is our friend Dr. Seward privy to it?” Laurence did not answer, irritated by her tone. “I assume he is. And is Digby?”

“Isabella, stop.”

“How you intrigue me, Beaumont – you and the Doctor, and your secrets.” She flung aside the bedclothes with an imperious gesture. “Make love to me, now.”

His desire was so dampened by their conversation that he almost refused. But in the end, it was as easy for him as breaking into her house.

Laurence shaved meticulously for his audience with Digby, and dressed in fresh linen, and a black suit of clothes that he hoped would lend him appropriate gravitas. He had last worn the suit at the trial of the man responsible for his torture, who had been sentenced to hang mainly on his evidence. He was as determined this morning not to give Digby the advantage. Nor would he discuss his relations with Isabella.

“How wonderful that you are safely home to us, sir,” Quayle said, at the door.

“Thank you, Mr. Quayle. Is his lordship in his office?”

“No, sir, he is at fencing practice, with the Prince of Wales and two gentlemen from Her Majesty’s Court.”

Quayle led Laurence out into the adjoining herb garden. The Prince was in combat with a man Laurence recognised as Henry Jermyn, Colonel of the Queen’s Lifeguard. He had heard of Jermyn as an affable and gregarious fellow, liked by everyone; a rare thing these days. Jermyn had been in The Hague with Her Majesty while she was raising funds for the war, and had accompanied her back to England, earning a baronetcy for his devoted service.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Beaumont,” the Prince hailed Laurence. He was tall for his thirteen years, and would grow head and shoulders above his father, judging by his large hands and feet. His swarthy, rather plump cheeks glistened with sweat, and his big dark eyes were full of mischief. “You
are
looking splendid, sir. Have you an important event to attend?”

“Extremely important,” said Laurence, bowing to them all. “I am here to see the Secretary of State.”

The Prince burst into giggles.

“Ah, Mr. Beaumont,” Digby said, puffing a little, “may I introduce Mr. Jeffrey Hudson.” Digby’s partner was a young dwarf, blond like him, flourishing a miniature rapier.

“You’ve taken on a fearsome opponent, my lord,” Laurence remarked.

“Indeed, his stature belies his skill: he’s caught me off guard several times.”

Hudson scowled up at Laurence. “Mr. Beaumont and I met once before, though he failed to allow me the honour of an introduction.”

“I humbly beg pardon for that, sir,” said Laurence.

“Lord Jermyn, Mr. Beaumont,” said Digby.

“I know much about you, sir, from our mutual friend Lord Wilmot,” Jermyn said, with a graceful smile.

“Well,” said Digby, “since Mr. Beaumont has arrived, he and I must go to business. Pray excuse us.”

The Prince lunged forward and rested the tip of his rapier on Laurence’s chest. “You shall go nowhere, sir, until you promise to instruct me in the secret art of breaking codes!”

“With pleasure, Your Highness, if you’ll promise not to run me through,” said Laurence, which set the Prince giggling again.

“Business before pleasure, Your Highness,” Digby told the youth, and guided Laurence inside, to his office.

As he undressed to the waist, Digby called for Quayle to bring him towels and a fresh shirt. His belly reminded Laurence of a child’s, soft and dimpled; and he must have caught Laurence inspecting his embonpoint, for he said, “I was on trimmer form when riding with my regiment. Now I am closeted indoors at Council meetings, and every evening we feast at Court. You can have no sympathy for me, being such a scrawny fellow.”

“It is you who should have sympathy for me, my lord,” Laurence said. “I can never put fat on me, however much I eat.”

Digby let Quayle towel him down, his flesh mottling with the friction, and then assist him to dress once more and comb his hair. Laurence waited, anticipating a stern rebuke; he had not yet been invited to sit. When Quayle left, Digby at last motioned Laurence to a chair, and sat down himself at his desk. “I shall not waste breath on
chastising you for your impromptu departure. Was your journey profitable?”

“In part,” said Laurence. “I learnt that four of the names on Radcliff’s list are also on a memorial tablet in St. Saviour’s Church, in Southwark. They’re of dead vicars.”

“Then the list is a fabrication?”

“Not necessarily – the names could have some other significance. Clement Veech was not on the tablet.”

“He may have been buried elsewhere in the church. Did you look?”

“No, my lord. I couldn’t even visit St. Saviour’s myself.” Laurence told of his arrest by the Trained Bands and the circumstances of his release, and how he had gone into hiding with a price on his head.

“ ‘Intelligencer to the Cruel and Devilish Catiline, the Lord George Digby’!” chortled Digby. “I would have appreciated a copy of that broadsheet.” Then he sobered. “Who carried out your investigations for you?”

“The same friends who hid me.”

“What of Albright, and Pym’s spymaster?”

“I learnt nothing about Albright, but by accident I may have shot and wounded Pym’s spymaster.” Laurence explained about the man taken to Derby House. “That was why I chose to leave so precipitately, before my mission was accomplished.”

“You could have been as dead as those vicars,” said Digby, with a hint of possessive anger. “You cannot return to London.”

“No, but it’s possible that my friends might unearth more intelligence and report it to me here. And Violet should beware if
he
goes back into the City: if he doesn’t pay his taxes, the militia will have a good excuse to arrest him.”

“He has since fulfilled that obligation.”

“Was
his
journey profitable?”

“Oh yes, sir. He says the question on everyone’s lips is who will succeed the ailing Pym as a unifying force in Parliament, which is more and more divided. The independent sects doubt that their freedom of worship will be respected once a Scottish army is on English soil.
Parliament will be beholden to Edinburgh, and there will be Scots Commissioners in Westminster to insist that the rebels keep to the terms of the Solemn League and Covenant.”
Hardly news
, Laurence wanted to say. “Violet made contact with a gentleman, a Major Ogle, who has reported earlier to us on these murmurings of internal dissent,” Digby continued. “Major Ogle is now conducting discreet negotiations with some independents and moderates in both Houses, all of them dismayed by the terms of Parliament’s Scottish alliance. My father and I cherish hope that His Majesty might offer them certain religious concessions, to bring them into our fold.”

“But, my lord, His Majesty has never seen fit to bend, on matters of religion.”

“He has suggested to us that he would consider it.”

Laurence was momentarily confounded. If the King was prepared to accommodate the freethinking sects and the moderates in Westminster, there might be a chance he would bend on other issues. Could a peace be reached, after more than a year of bloodshed, and many rounds of failed negotiations between the two sides?
You can’t stop this war
, Laurence had told Falkland, on the eve of his death; yet might it be stopped? Then an image floated into Laurence’s mind of the King’s face, refined, dignified, and immeasurably obstinate. Some deception was about to be practised here, though by whom and upon whom Laurence was not sure. “A most encouraging development, my lord,” he said to Digby. “Who is Major Ogle?”

“He is an ally of His Majesty, and completely trustworthy, my father assures me. Alas, he is for the present detained by Parliament in Winchester House.”

“Ah,” said Laurence; the Major’s gaol, used mostly to incarcerate prisoners of rank, lay a short distance away from Blackman Street. “And how, exactly, is he able to conduct confidential negotiations while behind bars?”

“With the assistance of the gaol keeper, a Mr. Devenish, who is among the freethinkers disturbed by Parliament’s Scottish bedfellows.
Ogle might soon be … liberated. We shall speak more of him anon. Isabella must have been immensely solaced by your return,” Digby said, in a changed, apparently genuine tone. “She has had a multitude of worries, lately.” Laurence said nothing, thinking of Lady Beaumont. “Did she mention to you that her friend Mr. Cotterell is unwell?”

“No, my lord,” replied Laurence. “I remember him, as a gracious old gentleman who once lodged us at his house.”

“He wrote to her that he may not have long to live, and asked her to visit.”

“I could take her, with your permission.”

“Thrilled as I am to hear you beg my permission for anything, sir, I shall arrange for her conveyance, and a party of guards to accompany her. You two have been so long apart,” Digby added. “Let me not keep you from her today. You may attend me again tomorrow, sir.”

Laurence came home to find Lucy in a panic. “The mistress is sick, sir. After she broke her fast, she brought up her food, and said she felt dizzy. I put her to bed, but she wouldn’t let me fetch a physician.”

A wild hope gripped him as to what these symptoms might portend, and he raced upstairs. Yet when he saw Isabella shivering beneath piles of covers, glassy-eyed and flushed, he realised that she must be suffering from a bout of her recurrent fever; he had witnessed it before, and it always left her completely drained.

He knelt down at her bedside and stroked her burning cheek. “Your enemy is back. How fast it takes hold.”

“Just hours. I knew as soon as I put food in my mouth – it tastes like iron on the tongue.”

“I might ask Seward for that remedy of his – it seemed to help you, last time.” He smoothed the hair from her forehead. “What else can I do?”

“Tell Digby I’ll have to delay my journey. My friend Mr. Cotterell—”

“Yes, yes, I will – Digby spoke to me about him. Are you warm enough?”

“I am either freezing or on fire, in turns. Beaumont, I was unkind to you.”

“Don’t give it another thought, my love,” he said, kissing her, and tucked the bedclothes snug around her.

At Merton, courtiers were strolling in the quadrangles, and a band of musicians were playing viols for their entertainment. As Laurence sped beneath the Queen’s rooms, he felt a distinct relief that his mother was no longer in town. When he got to Seward’s door, he found it ajar. He pushed it wider, and a gust of acrid smoke filled his nostrils. Obscured by the fumes, Seward stood at the hearth, vainly flapping his arms to clear the atmosphere. He wore an apron on top of his academic gown, and his cap was askew. Laurence walked in, and immediately started to cough. “Seward?”

Seward turned with a cry of joy, and shuffled up to throw his arms about Laurence. “Beaumont! I was on tenterhooks wondering what had happened to you in London.”

Laurence pointed at the alembic over the hearth. “What explosive potion are you brewing?”

“It’s for my eyesight.” Seward removed his spectacles to wipe off the steam on his apron. Then he set them back upon his nose and surveyed Laurence. “You appear in fine health. And it has been a while since you wore that black suit.”

“I’m in fine health, Seward, but Isabella has her fever.”

“I suppose you came not to recount your adventures, but to obtain more of my Jesuit’s bark.”

“I came to do both,” said Laurence.

Seward went to his cupboard and searched among the shelves for the vial. “She visited me soon after you had left, to ask your whereabouts – as I had predicted. As predictably, I had to lie to her, which displeased me.” Hence her remark about secrets, Laurence thought.
“I was sorry for her, Beaumont. I gave her a cat rather like you in appearance, and proposed that she call it Niger,” Seward added, still searching.

“As my substitute?”

“No, to deal with the mice in her kitchen. Aha!” He picked out the vial and handed it to Laurence. “Do you recall the proper dose? And have her maid boil some barley in water for her with a little salt and sugar. She must drink as much fluid as she can, while sweating out the fever.”

Laurence stuck the vial in his pocket. “Thank you.”

“In thanks, I want to hear about your exploits.”

“You will. I also have something astounding to tell you about His Majesty.” Laurence sat down and began with the events in London and his flight to Oxford; then he described his audience with Lord Digby and the King’s novel interest in religious compromise.