The Licence of War (36 page)

Laurence thought of Madam Musgrave’s worldly advice to him. “You never know, my lady – life always has its surprises.”

“Are you coming in to supper?”

“You must excuse me, but I have to rise early tomorrow,” he said, feeling lazy after their energetic coupling; and their entrance together might provoke gossip.

“You have risen superbly tonight.” Lady d’Aubigny kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye, sir, and pray you keep safe that evidence of yours.”

“Goodbye, my lady, and thank you for showing me that instructive book.”

Seward had gone to bed, but Pusskins was still abroad in the front room, and snuffled at Laurence’s clothes with avid prurience as he stretched out by the dying fire. “You’ve a nose on you like a hound,” he told it, yawning, and drifted off to sleep.

“M
y lady, I am Colonel William Purefoy of the Gloucester garrison,” the officer said, doffing his hat. “You must excuse our early arrival.”

From her position on the top step, Lady Beaumont looked down at him. Only thanks to the gatekeeper had her family been warned in time to hurry out of bed and dress, and she was not in a forgiving mood. She saw the same emotion in the faces of Jacob and the grooms, who stood ranged defensively by his lordship’s stables while about sixty of Purefoy’s men dismounted in the courtyard.

Purefoy climbed the steps, obliging her to retreat into the entrance hall. As he walked in, his eyes settled upon Lord Beaumont’s statues. “May I speak with his lordship?”

“I shall take you to him,” she said.

“Have the men wait in good order,” Purefoy called out to his adjutant.

She led him upstairs to the library, where Lord Beaumont sat in his armchair. The Colonel bowed and introduced himself, while she closed the doors behind her, and adopted a protective position by her husband’s side.

“My lord and lady,” said Purefoy, “as you must be aware, my troops occupied the town of Chipping Campden ten days ago, on the orders of Governor Massey.”

“It puzzled us that you were so long in calling here,” said Lord Beaumont, in a reserved tone.

“Governor Massey has granted me authority to provision my
troops from your stores, and if need be to quarter my men on your land. Although your sympathies are not with Parliament, I shall try to limit the damage to your property, but that will depend upon your compliance.”

“What manner of damage are you planning to inflict on us, Colonel?” asked Lady Beaumont. She had promised Lord Beaumont to keep a civil tongue, yet Purefoy’s supercilious attitude was more than she could bear.

“You must pardon my wife her outspokenness, Colonel,” interjected Lord Beaumont, “but lately women have assumed new roles in the defence of their households.”

“How right you are, my lord,” said Purefoy. “In August of ’42, my wife Joan had to defend my seat of Caldecote Hall against attack by Princes Rupert and Maurice, whilst I was away. With but eight men and twelve muskets at their disposal, she, her maids, and my son-in-law struggled to hold the princes off. They failed, and in the end Rupert burnt my house to the ground. In his generosity, he left my family unharmed. He even invited my son-in-law to join his regiment – an offer that was refused.”

“As I can well understand,” said Lord Beaumont. From the tightening of his grip on the arms of his chair, Lady Beaumont could see that he had caught Purefoy’s veiled threat. “You were a Member of Parliament, Colonel, were you not?”

“First for Coventry, and then for Warwick. I presume you sat in the Upper House, my lord.”

“Yes, though I did not attend as often as I should have, over the years.”

“None of us were allowed the privilege, since His Majesty ruled without a Parliament for the greater part of his reign.”

“True, sir: had he paid more heed to the voice of his people, this conflict might never have broken out.”

“I am glad you acknowledge his fault,” Purefoy said, with a sarcasm that infuriated Lady Beaumont: it was bad enough that her husband
should criticise the King to a rebel, but worse that Purefoy should mistake a genuine opinion for sycophancy. “My lord, you recognise His Majesty’s injustice, yet you have contributed to his coffers, and thereby to the war he is waging against his people. And you have given your sons into his service. If not for the intervention of your friends in this county and a certain officer at our garrison, your property might have suffered the ruin that befell mine.”

A flush rose in Lord Beaumont’s cheeks. “Sir, let me correct you on one point: I did not give His Majesty my sons. They are grown men with consciences of their own who freely picked – one more easily than the other – the cause for which they risk their lives. Had they decided to fight for Parliament, I would not have prevented them, though it would have grieved me. But it grieves me that they must fight at all.”

“My words were poorly chosen,” said Purefoy, in a somewhat chastened voice. He paused, examining the shelves laden with books. “You are renowned for your learning and your interest in the arts, my lord. I was most struck by those statues in your entrance hall. Did you acquire them abroad?”

“Indirectly, sir: I purchased them through an agent and had them transported from Milan.”

“At enormous expense, I would reckon. They must weigh several tons.”

“It was a complicated business,” admitted Lord Beaumont. “Have you an interest in the arts, Colonel?”

“Yes, but I cannot turn my mind to idle luxuries at such a time as this.”

“There we differ: for me, they are not idle luxuries. They are evidence of man’s capacity to create, rather than to destroy, which is a solace to me, especially at such a time as this.”

Lady Beaumont was losing patience with both of them. “Colonel,” she said, “we have fired no muskets at you, and nor shall we impede the provisioning of your troops. May I remind you, lest you do not know,
that his lordship’s health is fragile, and we have our two daughters here, and our daughter-in-law who is with child.”

“I pledge my word to respect your family, your ladyship,” said Purefoy. “However, if any of you or your servants attempt any violence against my men, or should we learn that you are hiding from us plate or jewellery or coin or other valuables that might be used to further His Majesty’s tyrannical assault on the lives and liberties of his people, I shall not hesitate to treat your house as Rupert treated mine.”

“Together again, my old cock, and you’ve joined me when I need you most,” Wilmot said to Laurence, over breakfast at his Abingdon headquarters. He bit into a slice of thickly buttered bread, and carried on talking with his mouth full; a contrast to Lord Digby’s scrupulous table manners. “The King had promised me in Council that if Rupert succeeded in relieving our garrison at Newark, I would be sent to combine forces with Hopton in the south and take on Waller’s army. But then it appears he had a change of mind and gave command to Lord Forth, who is of course Hopton’s
great friend
.”

“And His Majesty’s Lord Marshal, your senior in rank. Isn’t Forth already at Winchester?”

“He is, and yesterday we got a dispatch from him: he’s so ill with gout that he can barely walk, let alone supervise an army in the field.”

“Then Hopton will assume command.”

“Exactly my concern.” Wilmot banged a fist on the table, making their plates jump. “I saved Hopton’s arse at Roundway Down and beat Waller soundly. Now my enemies in Council wish to deny me another triumph. They seem not to understand that if Waller triumphs, we could lose our entire southern army and a clear path to march on London.” He shot Laurence an ominous look. “We may have to engage any day, though Waller’s been dodging us while building up his own strength. He’s had reinforcements from the Earl of Essex: Balfour’s crack regiment of Horse. He could decide to sit down outside our
garrison and prolong the stalemate, or he could strike while we’re unprepared and far inferior in numbers. We’re in damnable straits, Beaumont.”

Laurence had to agree: this was not just an instance of Wilmot’s injured vanity. “There’s not much you can do about it yourself.”

“I can still go to the rescue. The garrison is about fifty miles due south of us – you should reach it by tonight or early dawn tomorrow, depending on the roads.”

“
I
should …? But—”

“Listen to me, man,” said Wilmot, seizing Laurence’s sleeve. “You must address Forth privately on my behalf, to urge Hopton to call for my aid. The moment you bring me word, I’ll be on the move, with my Lifeguard and three hundred of my Oxford Horse.”

“You can’t approach Forth without permission from the Council of War. You’d be up before a court martial.”

“Not if I save our army from defeat. I am relying on you to bend the old man’s deaf ear.”

“Oh Christ, Wilmot! Even if he accepts your offer, what will happen when the King learns that you’ve vanished from your headquarters?”

“A raiding party took me a little out of my way,” Wilmot said, with his confident grin. “When he finds out the truth, it will be too late.”

“And should Forth refuse you?”

“He won’t, if you put it to him as the lesser of two evils.” Wilmot tossed back his mug of ale and stood up, signalling an end to their breakfast and to any more protests from Laurence. “Why didn’t I see you at Their Majesties’ banquet?” he asked, steering Laurence out to the yard. “Jermyn said you’d be there.”

“I was reading in the library, and forgot the hour.”

“You must have been buried in some captivating tome.”

“Yes I was – a … treatise on strategic manoeuvres by a French author.”

“Hmm. Has he any new ideas?”

“In fact he had some penetrating insights – and I’d thought the subject thoroughly explored. But they might be hard to execute
without considerable skill and endurance on the part of the troops involved.”

“Typical French,” said Wilmot. “All very fine on paper, but totally useless in practice. Well, good luck to you, Beaumont. I picked a comrade of ours from my Lifeguard to ride with you. Be discreet – all he knows is that you’re delivering a message from me to the Lord Marshal.”

The man waiting for Laurence was Dick Mawson, a veteran from the foreign war who enjoyed his wine and women, and his ribald anecdotes. This morning he was noticeably solemn. “Were you seeing double last night after a few too many rounds?” Laurence teased him, as they mounted their horses.

“No, Beaumont, though it’s odd you should say that,” he replied, “because on a night late in January I mistook another man for you, until I had a close look at him. He would be about twenty or so years older, with cropped hair and a beard.” Laurence remembered the Spaniard in Seward’s vision; and he felt the prickling in his scalp that always warned him of danger. “Otherwise, as God is my witness,” Mawson said, “he
was
your double.”

After some inquiries at Winchester camp, Laurence and Mawson were directed to a large tent crowded with officers. Laurence left Mawson outside, and walked in to find Sir Ralph Hopton poring over a map. Now in his late forties, Hopton had fought in the Low Countries alongside his friend Waller, the man who had been his opponent at Roundway Down, and might be again if it came to a battle. Such were the ironies of civil war, Laurence mused, as he presented himself to the General and requested to speak to Forth.

“Lord Forth is ill and resting in his coach,” said Hopton. “He has delegated authority to me. What is it you have to say?”

“My Lord Wilmot heard of the Lord Marshal’s indisposition, sir, and is offering to bring reinforcements—”

“Lord Wilmot’s offer is tardy,” cut in Hopton. “We are to raise camp in a matter of hours and march towards the enemy lines. By tonight we should be within three miles of them, and in the morning we’re to invade the village where the London brigades are billeted. Are you an officer in Wilmot’s Horse?”

“I’m in his Lifeguard.”

“Have you any fighting experience, or are you just one of those roaring boys he keeps for his entertainment?”

“I served six years abroad before entering His Majesty’s ranks.”

“Then I’ll second you to Sir Edward Stawell’s cavalry. We need every good man we can get.” Hopton beckoned to a younger officer, whose proud, upright bearing reminded Laurence of Tom. “This is Mr. Beaumont, Sir Edward. He’ll ride with you today.”

“I have no breastplate or helmet, sir, and Lord Wilmot is expecting me at his headquarters,” objected Laurence, but Hopton had turned back to his map.

“We can equip you,” said Stawell. “Come with me.” Laurence swore, more loudly than he had intended. “Mr. Beaumont,” Stawell snapped, “the rules against blasphemy are strictly enforced here: twelve pence for every curse word. We don’t approve of the vicious behaviour that Lord Wilmot allows in his Horse.”

“Pray excuse me. I’ll dispatch my companion with a message for Lord Wilmot while you calculate my fine.” Laurence simply told Mawson to inform Wilmot that it was too late, and they parted after a hasty goodbye. “What’s Waller’s strength?” he asked, as Stawell took him through the camp.

“Our scouts estimate that he has some three thousand of his own Horse, and five thousand Foot, plus dragoons. And he has two regiments from the London Bands, and Balfour’s cavalry. That’s near on five thousand additional Horse.”

Laurence swallowed more blasphemies: Waller had about twice the Royalist numbers. “How much do I owe you for my improper language?”

“I shall let it pass, on this occasion,” Stawell said, in a cool tone. “Be warned, Lord Wilmot is not favoured by my men, and you may bear the brunt of their dislike.”

“Then I’ll be glad of a helmet and breastplate,” Laurence said, as coolly.

That night Laurence lay rolled up in his cloak among the thousands of other soldiers bivouacked across the hilly countryside. He might as easily have been alone. Stawell’s troops had given him a wide berth, responding with surly indifference to his attempts at conversation. He did not much care, preoccupied by Mawson’s flabbergasting encounter with his double. He had never quite believed what Seward had told him about the Spaniards on board ship; was this now concrete proof of Seward’s occult powers, or coincidence? He thought also about the odds of victory on the morrow, against a far superior force. His borrowed bits of armour were thin and dented, his right arm was still weak, and his shoulder muscle tender to the touch. After his musket wound abroad, he had happily exchanged active duty for the role of a spy. Had he made a bad decision in returning so soon to the field?