The Licence of War (20 page)

“He was tireless in his efforts to restore peace to your kingdom,” said Laurence. “If that is the result, Your Majesty, he will rest easier in his grave.”

The King inclined his head in agreement. “The assembly will re-establish to my people that I am the source of law and order, and a peacemaker more dedicated to their welfare than to triumph in battle. But, since we
are
at war, I am not averse to combining peace with a triumph. To mark the opening of my assembly, I shall announce that Prince Rupert has occupied the Aylesbury garrison. Mosely will have opened the gates to him, on the eve of our first sitting.”

“Then he will march on London.” Laurence kept silent about the obvious: this triumph depended entirely upon Mosely’s good faith.

“Quite so. Your brother Thomas will share in my nephew’s glory, as an officer in his Lifeguard. And his lordship your father can take pride that both of his sons have distinguished themselves in my cause.” The King stood, and rearranged the folds of his cloak. “Upon my soul, we must put more braziers in here come January, or the members of my parliament will have numb backsides.”

As they were leaving, he touched his small, fine-boned hand to Laurence’s shoulder. There was roughly a foot in height between them; and how fragile he seemed. Laurence could easily have picked him off his feet and tossed him through the doors. “I hope I can count on you, sir, as I have in the past.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Laurence.

The King dropped his hand. “What day is your sister to marry?”

“The seventeenth, Your Majesty.”

“Your family will want you home to assist in these preparations. I shall ask Lord Digby to free you from your duties in plenty of time.”

“Why thank you, Your Majesty,” said Laurence. He felt like a dog that had been tossed an unsavoury bone. Digby must have relayed to the King his seditious speech about playing off one overture against another, and the King had not appreciated it, convinced as he was that he could do no wrong. This overture to Laurence, laced with fond
references to the Beaumonts, was a reminder that he should shut his mouth and obey.

“Be there, be there,” Laurence muttered, as he rounded the corner into Isabella’s street. Although the bells were chiming five of the afternoon, the short winter twilight had long since turned to darkness. It might as well be the dead of night: perishing cold had kept most of Oxford’s citizens indoors.

To his joy, candles glimmered in her front window, and he smelt wood smoke from her chimney. He did not wait to knock, and let himself in. By the door, he saw her travelling chest; she must not have had occasion to unpack. He shed his cloak and saddlebag, and hastened into the parlour where Isabella sat reading, her cat curled on her lap.

She looked as startled as the cat, which jumped off her skirts and streaked out. “Beaumont, when did you get to Oxford?” she asked, setting aside her book.

“Today.” Lifting her bodily from the chair, he buried his face in her neck and inhaled the scent of her. “How I’ve missed you, my love.”

“I can’t breathe,” she said, in his ear.

He released her, and inspected her hungrily. Her pallor had gone, as had the shadows of sickness around her eyes; but her expression was ambiguous, neither hostile nor welcoming. “And you, when did you return?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“Is Mr. Cotterell any better?”

She sat down again and folded her arms around her waist. “A little, though he knows it is only a temporary reprieve.”

“I’m sad to hear that.
You
look in much better health.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Isabella,” he said, “what have I done this time to earn such an indifferent reception? It’s true, I left the house in less than pristine order, but at least your cat didn’t starve.” He knelt before her and ran his hands up along her thighs. “Speak to me, please.”

Isabella took his hands in hers, not as a lover, but to stop his caresses. “There’s a note for you on the mantel, from a Madam Weston. I think you should read it.”

“Madam …” He frowned. “I don’t know of her.”

“I believe you know her intimately,” said Isabella, in a strained voice.

The note was signed “Cordelia.” In a childish, painstaking script, she wrote that she, Perdie, and Barlow had come to Oxford. The women had called at Lord Digby’s quarters for Laurence, while Barlow waited in the street. They had brought news of Mistress Edwards’ death on the fifteenth of November: she had been buried beside Jane in the yard of St. Saviour’s Church.

He glanced over at Isabella. “The lady who hid me in London has … has …”

“I am aware.”

Laurence read on. Cordelia and Perdie had debated staying in Oxford to ply their trade, but in the end decided against it: Cordelia did not want to have her baby in a strange town, far from friends, and Perdie would not be left there alone. Cordelia blessed Laurence for his past kindness, and prayed they would soon meet again, if Mistress Edwards had her wish and His Majesty drove the rebels out of London. “She was a courageous soul,” Laurence said.

“Was she also a bawd?”

“A highly successful bawd, until Parliament ruined her business.”

“I gather you were her patron since the mid-thirties, and more recently availed yourself of her merchandise, on your last excursion to the capital.”

He sank into a chair, annoyed at himself and at Digby. “How did Digby manage to extract that piece of intelligence?”

“It was accidentally volunteered. Oh Beaumont, a tumble with a whore I could forgive,” she said, less caustically. “I should be thankful to her, given that she went to such lengths to help you. But you weren’t honest with me when you came back to my bed. And you slipped fast, you who claimed that you were prepared to fight all society and your
own family to wed a woman some people would judge not far above a whore.” He tried to interrupt, but she cut him off. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, and it did not upset me as much as Digby might have hoped. Yet it is a symptom of what’s wrong between us.”

He knelt once more by Isabella’s feet, though he did not attempt to touch her. He had known her ecstatic, tender, enraged, sorrowful, and sarcastic. Today her face frightened him: she was resigned. “What is that?” he asked.

“Let’s see if you can guess. You must have spoken to his lordship your father and her ladyship about us, and about the girl to whom they would betroth you?”

“I didn’t speak to her ladyship on either score. In a whole week, she let the subject pass – I was astounded by her self-restraint. My father did inquire. I told him that I’d be very fortunate to have you as my wife, and that I wouldn’t retract my proposal to you.”

“Did you make any concessions?”

“I … agreed to meet the girl when I’m home over Christmas to attend my sister’s wedding.”

“So
we
could not be married before then.”

Flooded with happiness, he seized her hands. “Then you’ll accept me?”

“What I meant is that you have agreed to wait, to choose your wife,” she said, pulling away from him.

“I’ll go through the motions, Isabella – for my father’s sake. I haven’t the least intention of marrying her.”

Isabella regarded him pityingly, as when he had told her about Khadija’s prediction. “No, my dear friend. You shall pay her court, and wed her, and do your duty as your father’s heir.” Laurence gaped at her, speechless. “Beaumont, our problem is that we can’t be honest with each other, as a married couple should, and our lies and evasions would eventually kill the love between us. We could fight society, and even your family, though it would be a war of attrition. But we cannot fight our natures.”

“I swear I’ll be honest with you, Isabella, from this day on. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Remember what secret I asked you to reveal?”

“That’s not about us,” he said, infuriated by her logic. “It’s a matter of state which has no bearing on
us
.”

“You think I might tell Digby. You think I can’t be trusted as far as he is concerned, and you have always thought so.”

She was entirely correct, although Laurence could not bring himself to confess it to her. “I won’t allow Digby to break us apart.”

“Another evasion,” she said; correct again. “He will not break us apart, Beaumont, because
I
am breaking with you, of my own accord.”

“No, no,” he exclaimed. “You can’t.”

“I did not reach my decision lightly.” Isabella looked past him, as if to concentrate. “I was so muddled that I sought the advice of two wise, elderly men. I told you that Mr. Cotterell is my Seward. As a girl, I was conveyed to his house more dead than alive after my ordeal, and I’d have embraced death if not for the loving support of him and his wife. While he understands my feelings for you and took an instant liking to you on the night we visited his house, he counselled me to think of my future and of what women such as I must contemplate: that as my attractions fade and I remain childless, you will wonder why on earth you burdened yourself with me.”

“Isabella, I promise you—”

“Let me finish. I was still undecided on my return. Yesterday, before I learnt from Digby about Madam Weston, I called on
your
Seward. We talked of you, and of me. I confided in him my barren state, and what your African prophetess had foreseen. He was as surprised as I that you should believe her, though he gave weight to her words. He thought as I did, however, that the great queen’s name cannot be mine.”

“How could you listen to his advice?” Laurence burst out. “He’s ignorant about women. He fears and despises them, for the most part.”

“In fact, he refused to counsel me on the issue of marriage. But
from what he told me about you, I made up my mind. And what Digby told me afterwards confirmed my resolve.” Isabella slid from her chair and knelt, hands clasped as though she were praying; their faces were separated by a scant inch. “I love you, Beaumont, as I have never loved any man, and I think I always shall. But I would not be content as your wife, and my discontent would soon become yours. We would quarrel, as we have in the past – as we have in only two months under this roof – and we would grow to hate each other. I could not bear ever to hate you, and I want you to be happy with the girl you marry. And I would like you to be faithful to her, in as far as you can, which means that we must also part as lovers.”

A terrible silence descended.

“Have you … told Digby of your decision?” Laurence asked finally.

“You are the first to know. You need not leave the house,” she went on, more briskly, “but I would prefer that you spend tonight elsewhere. Tomorrow I’m going away again, and may not return to Oxford for a long time. I am sick of it,” she added, with a vehemence he shared.

“Where will you go?”

“I’d rather not say. I’ll be well provided for.”

“I won’t let you,” he insisted, grasping her by the shoulders. “I can’t live without you, Isabella. I don’t want to live without you. We’ll … we’ll start anew. I can change. I
will
, as soon as I’m free of this … this vile, deceitful occupation that has made me into something
I
hate. We’ll go abroad together, and leave the past behind us.”

“It would follow us, Beaumont.”

“Why should it? Please, please, Isabella, let me change
your
mind. I did twice before, when you tried to part with me. Let me do so again.”

He hugged her to him and kissed her, and felt her body relent; and as they fumbled aside their clothes, he willed her mind to relent also. He would prove to her that he could be as honest and open in his heart as in his physical desire for her, and they would stay as tightly bound, flesh to flesh.

Afterwards they lay panting, still locked. Then she ran her fingers through his hair, and over his face. “My beautiful love, speak another word and you will spoil our precious moment. Let this be our goodbye, for the present. And when next we meet, it will be as old friends.”

Laurence blundered down the street, scarcely conscious of putting one foot in front of the other. Although his head reeled, the truth was increasingly plain to him. Not Digby or his loathsome occupation as a spy, or his family, or even the world was to blame. It was his fault: he had withheld his trust from Isabella, who deserved it as Juana had not. Nor had he told Isabella what else the African had prophesied:
A woman has poisoned you
, Khadija had warned him, of Juana; and of the woman with the name of a queen,
if you do not spit out the poison, you will lose her
.

Since his insouciant youth, Laurence had adopted the habit of evasion as naturally as he had memorised his lessons, or learnt to cheat at cards. And he had been able to swim through life without getting badly caught on any shoals, until his years of soldiering and spying in the Low Countries, an experience which had nourished his suspicion of others, and his cynicism. He had suspended these instincts with Juana, and had paid the cost. His love for Isabella was strong and pure, and greater than himself, but he had not spat out the poison in his character; and because of that, he had poisoned his future with her.

He stopped, crumpled against a wall for support, and vomited into the snow what resembled to him a pool of blood. He was shaking in every nerve, and his teeth were chattering. Where to go? He could predict what Seward would say:
It would never have been a happy marriage. Your father could not have borne the disappointment. Mistress Savage recognised her proper place, and decided what is best for both of you. And your wounded heart will heal, as with the gypsy
.

On a cliff top near Cádiz, Laurence had almost blown out his own brains in his despair over losing Juana. He felt no such impulse today. Somehow, somehow, he might win Isabella back. And if not, to
commit suicide would be another evasion; the mistake Falkland had made, though for nobler reasons. Laurence remembered how Wilmot had comforted him after Falkland’s death. With grim purpose, he marched to the stables to fetch his stallion, saddled up, and rode for Abingdon, headquarters of the King’s Lieutenant General of Horse. Whatever the future might bring, tonight he would seek refuge in Wilmot’s bluff company, and drown his sorrows in drink.