The Licence of War (37 page)

The next day, he rode with a vanguard of Stawell’s cavalry into the nearby village, expecting a skirmish with the London brigades. Yet Waller had foxed them again by withdrawing his army to higher ground. Hopton ordered his forces up onto the slopes opposite, and vainly tried to lure Waller onto the plain below. Then scouts reported that Waller’s vanguard of Horse, commanded by Balfour, was heading for the town of Alresford, about seven or eight miles from Winchester and in a crucial position on the main road to London. Stawell’s regiment galloped off to occupy the town first, with the enemy cavalry thundering beside them. It was like some absurd horse race. They beat Balfour to the target, and had next to barricade the town as rapidly as possible to keep him out while they awaited reinforcements. Laurence toiled with Stawell’s men to drag out carts, sacks, and bales of hay that could be torched; and they chopped down trees and ripped doors from
barns and stables to block the streets. Not until long past nightfall did the main body of the army tramp in. They made camp on open ground between Alresford and the village of Cheriton, on the border of a wood, separated from Waller’s army less than two miles away by a small hill and a vale.

At sunrise, Laurence woke to a man pissing so close to him that he had to leap up to avoid being wetted by the stream. Risking a fine, he commented disparagingly on the size of the man’s member, and they came to blows. Laurence ducked a couple of punches and hit the man squarely in the jaw, sending him to the ground. “Wilmot’s fart catcher,” he taunted Laurence, through bloodied lips. “You should watch your back today.”

“Go and fuck yourself,” Laurence told him, “though it may be a challenge with that little prick of yours.”

In a rebellious frame of mind, Laurence went out on sortie with a party of Stawell’s Horse; they were to harass the enemy in the intervening ground between the two armies. But Waller released as few troops as Hopton, and no battle would be had that day. Towards dusk, although the Royalists captured another hill with a direct view of Waller’s quarters in a hedge-enclosed field, they would have to spend the night in nearly the identical position as before. Hopton had ordered every man to stay by his horse, every foot soldier to keep his weapon near, and every officer to hold his place; and he had issued them with white tokens to wear in their hats, so that they could identify friend from foe.

Cold and bored, Laurence slipped away, leading his horse up the slope to the front lines where Hopton’s musketeers were stationed to keep watch. Trees hid the enemy ranks down in the valley, but he could hear the faint echo of voices, the lowing of oxen, and the rumble of wheels. He tethered his horse to a branch and crawled on hands and knees to the crest of the ridge, wondering if anyone else had noticed these signs of movement. Then he tensed, catching a rustle in the undergrowth. “God with us,” hissed a brusque young voice; it was the Royalist
password, and Laurence answered in kind. “What in hell are you doing here?” the boy snarled at him. “You’re not one of us scouts.”

“Waller may be quitting the field.”

“That’s for me to report. Get to camp.”

Laurence turned to fetch his horse. Mist obscured the valley, perhaps muffling the sounds of an army on the retreat. He was half inclined to ride straight to Wilmot and relay the news that Waller had once more dodged a fight. But he thought it best to stay, and see Hopton and Forth in the morning to deal diplomatically with any repercussions from Wilmot’s unsolicited offer. It was sheer luck for the Royalists that Waller had chosen to withdraw. As for himself, he felt a cowardly relief.

“Waller had not withdrawn, as we learnt the next day.” Beaumont fell silent, staring at the floor. He looked remarkably smart in his black clothes, his hair damp from a bath, and his face properly shaved. “You did not tidy yourself up to visit
me
,” Seward had observed on greeting him, but he had made no response. He needed to talk about the battle, so Seward had held back his own distressing news and listened.

“The mist was thicker at dawn,” continued Beaumont eventually, “and by the time it dispersed, we saw that Waller’s musketeers had occupied the wood. Our armies were only separated by the ridge he had seized, and by a valley that we couldn’t enter except by a narrow lane bordered with tall hedgerows. He’d lined up infantry and guns behind the hedges. He knew our Horse couldn’t push through to attack the main part of his army without suffering heavy losses. On a second try, Hopton recaptured the wood, and then we waited for hours and hours. And the men grew impatient. One of his commanders of Foot dashed out and launched an unexpected sally on the Parliament Horse.”

“Poor discipline,” said Seward.

“Extremely poor,” said Beaumont, “and in the disorder, Balfour’s cavalry swooped down upon our infantry. His Majesty’s cousin, Lord
John Stuart, was sent to their aid, without success. Then it was the turn of my regiment, to run the gauntlet of those infantry and guns hidden in the hedgerows.”

Seward shuddered as Beaumont described the scene: enemy guns burning great gaps in the spring hedges; men trapped, struggling to free themselves as their mounts collapsed beneath them; the stew of mud and gore; and the chaos of smoke and whistling shot and screaming.

“Stawell pressed all the way through with his vanguard. The rest of us were stuck and had to reverse down that narrow lane. When those of us who weren’t killed or wounded escaped, we were ordered to keep charging. But with each charge, the enemy Foot drove us back up to the top of the hill, again and again. There was no point in fighting on.” Beaumont smiled bleakly at Seward. “Hopton and Forth deserve credit for extricating the cannon, the baggage train, and the remaining troops. I heard that Forth commanded the final rearguard of Horse, and was the last to abandon the hill, in the company of his page.”

“Brave man,” said Seward.

“Nonetheless, it was a serious defeat – some three or four hundred dead, including a great number of officers. During the night I saw cartfuls of wounded roll in to Basing House, where we’d sought refuge. Stawell was captured, as was the leader of that mad infantry offensive. Every man from
his
regiment who hadn’t been cut down in the valley was taken prisoner. His Majesty’s cousin died of his wounds – Lord d’Aubigny’s brother, twenty-two years old. That was Cheriton Field,” concluded Beaumont. “Now a great part of our southern army is pretty much destroyed.”

“Might Wilmot have saved the day, had he been there?”

“He would have improved our numbers and he might have put the fear of God into Waller’s troops. But in my view, Seward, we shouldn’t have engaged Waller to begin with – we were at a huge disadvantage. And Wilmot has thrown me from the frying pan right into the fire. This afternoon I must testify to the Council of War in support of his charge that Hopton’s incompetence lost us the battle.”

“By Jesus, he is a vainglorious fellow. His accusation is unjustified, and you must say so.”

“I can’t, or he may be stripped of his command. Although he has powerful enemies in Digby, Rupert, and Hopton, and the King openly dislikes him, he’s as skilled an officer as Rupert. And his men are fiercely loyal to him. If they were to mutiny, the King would be in a catastrophic position.”

“What sort of a friend is he to you – asking you to lie to Council?”

“It’s not entirely a lie, and God knows as do you, I’ve told many more egregious falsehoods. I’ll visit you later, Seward, and apprise you of the outcome,” Beaumont said, turning for the door. “Wilmot is to meet me at Christ Church, before the other members of Council arrive.”

“Beaumont, wait. I had a letter from his lordship, your father.” Seward drew it from the sleeve of his robe and held it out. “His house has been occupied for Parliament.”

Beaumont took the letter and read, chewing on his lower lip. “Written over a week ago. By now, the house may be in ruins.”

“He says Purefoy is a gentleman—”

“The war is no longer
an affair of gentlemen
.”

“Then we shall have to pray that Gloucestershire will soon be liberated.”

Beaumont threw up his hands. “My dear Seward, can’t you grasp the significance of our late defeat? Parliament has no more opposition in the southeast, and London is absolutely secure. When the Earl of Essex rebuilds his forces, he’ll march on Oxford. The King will be cornered into a defensive war, unless Prince Rupert can subdue the North and the midlands, and rush to his aid. Rupert has wrought miracles in the past, but he has the Scots to contend with, as well as Parliament’s northern armies. I suspect the King will be on his own.”

“His Majesty’s Oxford forces could repulse an attack by Essex.”

“
If
we hang onto our surrounding garrisons, but as it is we’re short of troops to provision them. I’d bet you money the Queen will be sent away for her confinement, and possibly the princes for their own
safety. You should get ready to flee yourself. You’d be better off at Clarke’s house in the countryside, even if his part of Oxfordshire falls to Parliament. Would you do that for me,
please
?”

“His Majesty is not defeated yet, and Oxford was retaken once before from the enemy.”

“After the battle at Edgehill, but it wasn’t a rout like Cheriton. Oxford may endure a long and bitter siege. And in the worst event, His Majesty would have to flee, rather than risk death or capture.”

“His death is not imminent, according to the horoscope.”

“Yes, well,” said Beaumont, dubiously, “your visions may be more reliable than your astrological projections.”

Seward frowned at him. “How do you mean?”

“My double you saw is flesh and blood. Someone I know almost mistook him for me, in Oxford. And I may have heard about him beforehand, from Pembroke.”

Wilmot was storming up and down by the closed doors of Christ Church’s Great Hall. “Council has been postponed, Beaumont. Forth is too gout-ridden to rise from his bed, so I’ve asked for us to address His Majesty in private. What’s the matter?” he said next. “You look as if you’ve had the wind knocked out of you.”

“I have,” said Laurence; he had anticipated enemy troops at Chipping Campden, but he had not reckoned on feeling such a burning, visceral desire to protect his family. “My father wrote to say that his house has been occupied by Colonel Purefoy, of the Gloucester garrison.”

They were interrupted by a cough; Digby was sailing along the staircase that led to His Majesty’s reception chamber. “Were you hoping for a royal audience, gentlemen? I doubt that His Majesty will acquiesce: he is very tired, and in no mood to hear your rants about his chief generals, my Lord Wilmot.”

“He must, or lose the war,” shouted Wilmot. “Forth is a bloody invalid, and Hopton has himself to fault that he’s got no army left to
command.
I
shall be bound to absorb the sorry scraps of his men into my Oxford regiments.”

“Mr. Beaumont,” said Digby, “you should have counselled his lordship on the perils of slander.”

Laurence took a pace towards Wilmot, whose hand was straying to the hilt of his sword. “Please, my lord, let’s ride for your headquarters.”

“Why not settle our differences now?” murmured Wilmot, his eyes on Digby. Then he hesitated; an equerry in royal livery was clattering down the steps.

“My lords, His Majesty requests a word alone with Mr. Beaumont,” the equerry said.

“It appears that our case may be heard,” Wilmot sneered to Digby. “I’ll see you back at Abingdon, Beaumont.”

“How very uncouth he is,” said Digby, as Wilmot swaggered off. “But what else can one expect from the son of a soldier of fortune ennobled only in the last century for his Irish campaigns. You have made a grave mistake, Mr. Beaumont, in transferring your loyalties to him. Good day to you, sir.”

Laurence bowed to him politely, and followed the equerry upstairs.

In the royal chamber, the Queen lay on a daybed, her arms draped over her rounded stomach. With her were Jermyn and a lady-in-waiting, though not her husband. “Sir,” she said to Laurence, after they had exchanged courtesies, “forgive me my ruse. Neither His Majesty nor Lord Digby knows of it, and no one else shall know of it, if we do not reach a solution to our problem. I am certain, however, that we shall. My Lord Wilmot is a friend to all of us here, and yet he has offended his king by threatening to impugn the conduct in battle of Sir Ralph Hopton. You are an astute man, Mr. Beaumont – you must understand that it is not in Lord Wilmot’s interest to levy his charge. Surely you can persuade him to refrain.”

“I’m flattered by your faith in me, Your Majesty,” Laurence said, “but would not Lord Wilmot be more powerfully swayed by a direct
address from one he holds in far greater esteem, such as yourself?”

He noticed her glance sidelong at Jermyn; they had covered this issue. “There are some who perceive me as exerting too much influence upon my husband’s business,” she replied. “And I did not fight at Cheriton – and neither did Lord Wilmot. If you who did were considered responsible for assuaging his lordship’s fears as to the professional abilities of General Hopton …”

“Mr. Beaumont,” said Jermyn, “we are depending on you.”

The Queen extended her hand for Laurence to kiss. “A note from my Lord Wilmot would suffice, as confirmation. Bring it to us as swiftly as you can. And pray tell him that I have intervened for his sake, and cannot do so again.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Laurence; he did not like the Queen, but she had demonstrated singular diplomacy today.

On the ride to Abingdon, he tried to shut out an insidious despair that had begun to colour his thoughts about everything, from the King’s fate in this war to his family’s predicament, to that of Isabella, and to his own situation. It was a mild, sunny afternoon, and all around him the countryside burgeoned with signs of spring. Yet as he veered his horse away from a line of treacherous mole hills that resembled little fresh-dug graves, he found himself contemplating death; and he wondered if men slain in their prime tasted any different to a worm than those who died peacefully of old age.