The Licence of War (21 page)

Digby called late at Isabella’s house. She answered the door, her eyes swollen and wretched. “My darling,” he said, “I am so dreadfully sorry.”

“Please do not add hypocrisy to your list of defects.” She swept into the parlour. “Lucy and I will be ready to leave at dawn. Have you the samples?”

“Yes,” he replied, following her. “Our powder maker insists that they are of the highest quality. Once I get your message that Sir Montague is satisfied, I will ship him the barrels.” He handed her the two little oilcloth bags. “Be sure and keep them dry.”

“Did you receive any word from Violet or Mr. Price?”

“Not as yet. When you reach London, you should make contact with them as I told you.”

“Beaumont must not hear of our plans until after my marriage, or he may embark on some impulsive quest to stop me – from both endeavours.”

Digby hesitated. “Is it … truly finished between you? You have no second thoughts? No lingering doubts?”

Isabella’s eyes now glittered dangerously. “As you like to say, the die is cast.”

“Then I have something else for you.” Digby felt into his doublet pocket and produced a slim, purple-bound volume: his own copy of Ovid’s
Remedia Amoris
. “You might consider it an early wedding gift.”

A
ntonio was disappointed in Don Alonso de Cárdenas, who seemed to him an odd, ugly little man, not the imposing figure he had expected to represent King Philip of Spain’s interests in England. “Near on two months, you say, from the port of Cádiz?” Don Alonso asked, as they sat in the dark-panelled reception chamber of his London house.

“Yes, Don Alonso, and we weathered many a storm.”

“Hardships must suit you, then: you don’t look a day over forty.” Don Alonso crossed his small feet in their tasselled Cordovan leather shoes, and stabbed a pudgy finger at the letter Diego had taken such pains to forge. “I needed no introduction to the ancient de Zamora family – I am acquainted with it by reputation, and yours is a long and brilliant record of service. It is also stated here that, eight years ago, you lost your eldest son Isidro to the Imperial cause.”

Antonio nodded, genuinely sorrowful. “My wife Teresa and I mourn him to this day. I have but one son left to me, our youngest child. Thank heaven Felipe is only twelve and not old enough to fight, though I joined the ranks when I was not much older.”

“You named him after our King. Is this your first visit to England?”

“Yes, Don Alonso.”

“Do you speak any English, sir?”

Antonio heard Diego clear his throat; the valet stood beside the Envoy’s equerry, near the doors. “I flatter myself that I have a talent for foreign languages,” said Antonio. “English was not among them until I boarded ship. During the voyage, however, I gained some fluency.”

“When
I
arrived, I could barely put together a phrase,” said Don Alonso. “How I fumed over the irregularities of its grammar. It is even worse than … 
French
,” he added, delicately.

“Unlike French, it’s a language easy to grasp in its essentials, and hard to master at a higher level of discourse,” Antonio observed, stealing Diego’s words to him. “And the accent is more of a challenge than that of French. Yet if a man doesn’t make an effort to replicate the sounds of a foreign tongue, he becomes an object of ridicule to native speakers,” he went on, remembering James Beaumont’s villainous mispronunciation of Spanish, which he had delighted in aping for his pretty de Capdavila y Fuentes cousins.

“Foreigners are often mistakenly judged to be fools,” the Envoy agreed, his sharp eyes fixed on Antonio.

“Yes, but we are sometimes in want of information, when we travel abroad. I myself had no idea that matters between King Charles of England and his rebel Parliament had grown so violent. Can you go about safely, as a Catholic and a Spaniard, in this city governed by heretic zealots?”

“They are not all zealots, Don Antonio, and they are bound to respect the immunity of my office. I keep to my private chapel for worship, and I am careful not to engage in any unwise correspondence with the Royalist camp. His Majesty King Philip wishes for Spain to present a strictly neutral stance towards both sides. We cannot tell what will be the outcome of the war.”

That clever monkey Diego was right again, Antonio noted. “Is it possible the rebels could defeat King Charles?”

Don Alonso did not respond at once; a servant had entered with Venetian glass goblets and a silver flagon of wine. “To His Majesty King Philip, long may he reign and prosper,” he proposed, after the wine was poured, and Antonio seconded the health. Don Alonso merely wet his lips with the wine, studying Antonio over the rim of his glass. Antonio waited for his answer, gulping the delicious Alicante. “It is not
impossible
, Don Antonio,” he said, at last. “But they have lost
their greatest champion in Parliament, John Pym – hence the windows draped in black and the crowds in mourning that you may have seen in the streets. He will be difficult to replace: he was an astute negotiator among the factions in Parliament. As a sign of the esteem in which he was held, he was buried yesterday in Westminster Abbey, after lying there in state for two days. The Abbey is where English royals and people of rank or other distinction are laid to rest. King Charles cannot have been pleased that Pym should be so honoured. If the Royalists recapture London, I would not be surprised if they were to disinter his body, chop off his head, and stick it on the end of a pike for public display, in warning to all would-be traitors. As one passes over to the south end of London Bridge, one may behold at least thirty of these severed heads thus displayed in various states of decomposition, with sightless eyes.” Don Alonso shivered and took a minute sip of wine. “The juiciest morsels are picked out early by carrion birds.”

“Eyeballs can be the tastiest part of a fish,” laughed Antonio. “So, is there no chance of a peace?”

“A faint chance,” the Envoy allowed, “but the conflict is not just in England. The Scots are reportedly bringing Parliament an army this spring, and King Charles has already fetched some of his regiments back from Ireland, mostly Protestants who had been serving against the Catholic tribes in that godforsaken isle, and were more inclined to fight for Parliament. The new shipments will probably be Irish Catholics, who are detested as much by Protestant Royalists as by Parliament. Those Irish live in bogs and go about half-naked, and their version of our faith is steeped in heathen lore.”

“
Dios mío!
Will the armies not break from campaign, now that winter has come?”

“They will have to, because of the cold, even if the regime in London disapproves of traditional festivities to mark the occasion of our Lord Jesus’s birth.”

“Then it might be less dangerous to travel out of London, at this time of the year?”

“That would depend upon the traveller.” The Envoy set aside his glass. “Don Antonio, pray tell me, what is your connection to the Earl of Bristol?”

Antonio recollected Diego’s question to him on their voyage: “How well do you know the Earl?” “About as well as I know the Emperor of Japan,” he had admitted. “So tell the Envoy the truth, or he may suspect you of some political motive in coming to England,” Diego had advised.

Still, Antonio could not resist embroidering a bit. “While ambassador to Madrid over thirty years ago, he became close friends with my late maternal aunt, Doña Cecilia de Capdavila y Fuentes. He arranged a match between her eldest daughter, Elena, and an English nobleman, James Beaumont.” Don Alonso was silent, his ugly face bland. “Beaumont bore his bride home, and my aunt never heard from her again. She went to the grave disconsolate. For her sake, I wanted to learn of Elena’s fate, and, if she yet lives, to bring her tidings of her brothers and sisters.”

“Did they remain in Seville?”

“The girls, yes – they took the veil. As for the boys, James Beaumont had purchased them military commissions, for when they came of age.”

“They followed your illustrious career?”

“And were all slain in battle like my Isidro, God rest their souls,” finished Antonio.

The Envoy paused respectfully, before inquiring, “Are you aware that the Earl of Bristol is a man of influence with King Charles and that his son Lord George Digby, now Secretary of State, stands impeached by Parliament as a traitor for urging the King to wage war against his people?”

This was more recent news than Antonio had received in Don Miguel’s long-winded letter. “Why no,” he said.

Don Alonso spoke in a voice as sharp as his eyes. “Don Antonio, shall we drop the pretence? I believe you were sent by our enemies the
French to stir up discord between Spain and the English Parliament.”

“I was
not
, I swear by the Holy Church,” cried Antonio, leaping to his feet.

“Then what
are
you doing here? Beware of lying to me. I can have you arrested and handed over to Parliament.”

Antonio sank back into his chair and uttered a groan, secretly thanking God for Diego’s warning. “It humiliates me to confess, but I have come here as a beggar.”

“A
beggar
?”

“The Earl of Bristol and Lady Elena Beaumont may be my last hope of saving the house of de Capdavila y Fuentes from penury and disgrace.” Antonio threw up his hands in a poignant gesture of despair. “Her brothers had children who now rely upon me for their daily bread. I have nothing left to give to them. I am struggling, as it is, to support my own family on my meagre officer’s pension. Sometimes I envy Isidro his glorious death in the field – better to die a hero than live in ignominious poverty.” He found himself weeping; it was not wholly a performance, for he loathed being poor. He let the tears run down his face until they tickled his cheeks, and he had to dry them on his sleeve.

Don Alonso considerately refilled Antonio’s glass. “I shall assist you to find your cousin, the Lady Elena Beaumont, in exchange for two promises. You must have no communication whatsoever with the Earl of Bristol or his son. For the reasons I gave you, it would be most prejudicial to our embassy and to Spain. And I must forbid you or your servant to quit my house, until I grant you permission. If you cannot give me your word, you may go whenever you like, but I will not come to your aid if you fall foul of Parliament – or of King Charles.”

“As to the Digbys, you have my word of honour,” said Antonio, pleased that he could skip a potentially troublesome step in his quest. “But I had hoped to roam a bit about London.”

“Let me explain what happened this very day,” said Don Alonso. “An English priest, Father Bell, was hanged, drawn, and quartered at
Tyburn, the main place of execution here. He was a Franciscan who had been in Spain and our territories in the Netherlands. He was apprehended with a torn fragment of a letter written by him in Spanish addressed to
me
, which was sufficient grounds for his arrest. I tried to intercede on his behalf while he was in prison.
He
preferred a glorious death – as a martyr to our faith. In consequence, though the authorities cannot trespass on my immunity, I am under their watch, along with every member of my staff. Do you understand why I cannot permit you to leave the confines of this embassy?”

“I do,” Antonio assured him, “and again I pledge my word: neither I nor my valet will set a foot outside. But might I request one more favour? I should write to my wife and inform her of my safe arrival.”

“I have a diplomatic packet leaving for Spain tomorrow morning,” his host said. “Your letter can be included with my correspondence.”

“The low son of a whore,” Antonio expostulated to Diego in the privacy of their bedchamber. “How dare he accuse me of spying for the French? Were I not dependent on his hospitality, I would have drawn out my rapier and thrashed his ambassadorial arse.”

“He’s not as silly as he looks, and none of his remarks were idle, Don Antonio,” said Diego, stooping to help him off with his boots. “You must abide by his rules. Why risk arrest, torture, and an agonizing death when you have come so far, and are so near to your goal? It’s a stroke of luck that you needn’t approach the Earl of Bristol. You can rest in the comfort of the embassy and let Don Alonso work for you. And I won’t have to forge you an introduction to the Lady Elena. He’ll provide a more convincing one. Besides, we don’t even know the location of Lord Beaumont’s estate. We could be stumbling about for months between two hostile armies in abominable weather, whereas Don Alonso might give us papers of safe conduct and a map.”

“All right, all right,” said Antonio, defeated by his barrage of arguments.

“I’m so glad you confided in him your financial troubles. Your eloquence had me on the verge of tears.” Diego looked up at Antonio. “But what else do you want of the Lady Elena?”

“A loving reunion with my cousin.” Antonio unlaced his breeches and dug a hand inside to scratch his balls. “Now go to sleep, while I write to Teresa.” To Teresa, and also to Gaspar, he thought: if he and Diego were Don Alonso’s prisoners, the gypsy and her son must remain his.

Later, as he sat down at a side table and inked his quill, he heard Diego’s voice, from out of the shadows. “Might I suggest, Don Antonio, that you put nothing in your letter that our host might deem … compromising.”

Antonio turned round to glare at the youth; Diego was invisible beneath the bedclothes, apart from the top of his curly head. “Why the devil should I not?”

“If you do, I would bet you a thousand escudos that your letter will not leave his house,” Diego said sweetly.

“Fuck your goddamned impudence,” Antonio muttered, but he followed Diego’s counsel.

Ingram felt happier than he had in months. It was the beginning of his yuletide leave, he was with Beaumont again, and every mile of his journey brought him closer to Chipping Campden, where Anne awaited him. In four days, she would be his wife. He and Beaumont had fallen a few yards behind Tom and Adam, who was leading a packhorse laden with gifts that Tom had purchased for the family; and as they rode, Ingram took simple pleasure in the tranquil Cotswold fields blanketed with fresh snow that glittered in bright sunshine. Over the muffled tread of their horses’ hooves and the jingle of their harnesses, he could hear the familiar cawing of rooks in the bare tree-tops, and the twitter of smaller birds in hedgerows thick with holly. He might forget that England was a country at war.