The Licence of War (43 page)

“Has he told you of our work?”

“It is legal work, sir, is it not?”

“Mostly legal. We’re bringing to justice some citizens of London who would create mischief for Parliament.” Veech sat down near the fire on the polished oak settle that had belonged to Judith’s father, and extended his bad leg. “You mustn’t worry if he keeps late hours from time to time. He’s better off in my employ than he was in the army.”

“In
your
employ?”

“Yes, madam. Where are your children?”

“They are upstairs with their nurse.”

Veech yawned and now gazed pointedly at Draycott, who said, “Judith, leave us, please.”

She shifted the pot from the fire, and went out.

“Small thanks from her, considering how well I’ve treated you,” Veech said. “When were you last in the Strand?”

Draycott waited to reply until he heard the creak of the stairs, and then of the floorboards overhead. “Six days ago.”

“Did Lady Hallam receive you alone again?”

“Yes, Sir Montague had gone to bed early. I stayed only an hour.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I believe it was the Queen’s flight from Oxford. Lady Hallam expressed pity for her, having to travel in her … condition …” Draycott broke off and stared: Veech had plucked a knife from his capacious pocket; it was more like an old-fashioned dagger, with a crown on the top of the hilt.

“And?” said Veech.

“She thought it a sign of the King’s … Mr. Veech, what on earth are you doing?”

Veech was busy whittling at the arm of the settle with his blade as a delinquent youth might carve his initials on a church pew. “I am bored, Mr. Draycott. I’ll stop when you say something of interest.”

Draycott could only watch a moment more. “I … found a book in the gallery. I read an inscription on the … on the flyleaf: ‘In the hope that you may be inspired to forget the past and embrace the future. I remain, as ever, your faithful George, Lord Digby, Christmastide, 1643..’ ”

Veech stilled his knife and dropped it into his pocket. “And what did you make of that, sir?”

“I presume the book was a gift to Sir Montague, and the inscription referred to his new life with Lady Isabella. He has Royalists among his customers. Lord Digby must be one of them.”

“The book is hers. Lord Digby was her guardian, and he arranged her marriage to Sir Montague.” Veech rose ponderously and joined Draycott by the hearth. “So to what past, you might inquire, was Digby referring?”

“You tell me, since you have all the answers.”

“To the past she shared with her lover, Laurence Beaumont.”

“By God.” Draycott shook his head, dumbfounded. “How and when did you hear of this?”

“Sir Montague’s old valet was overheard gossiping, in December. It seems the affair was no secret in Oxford.”

Draycott remembered walking Beaumont to the fort; with his lanky stride and amiable calm, he had behaved like a man out for a breath of fresh air rather than a captured spy. Draycott also remembered his smile: not a trace of fear, and dazzling, on a face as seductive as Lady Isabella’s. And a fresh image crept into Draycott’s mind, of her and Beaumont intertwined.

“Judith must wonder at that look in your eyes,” said Veech. “I don’t blame her.” He dipped his thick forefinger in the caudle, tasted it, and spat into the fire. “Your wife is too mean with her honey pot.”

“Any more of your insolence and I’ll strike you down,” Draycott said, between his teeth.

“You wouldn’t have the guts.” Veech limped towards the door. Then he swerved about. “Lady Isabella is Lord Digby’s agent, as is her cripple of a husband. Had I told you earlier, your honest face would have betrayed you to them. Now I must have a watertight case for their arrest or the charges of treason may not stick in court. In a week or so, you are to hide a packet of correspondence in Sir Montague’s house.”

“What if I refuse?”

Veech cast a slow glance around the kitchen. “You can’t value them more than this little haven.”

“Are you threatening my family?”

“I will do what’s necessary to get the man who crippled
me
. If the
Hallams are condemned, Digby will send Beaumont to her aid. And I’ll be waiting for him.”

“Mr. St. John cannot approve of your tactics, sir.”

“Complain to him, and see what happens.” Veech unlatched the door. “My regards to Judith,” he said, as he departed.

Draycott tossed the caudle into the flames. He was standing frozen, holding the empty pot, when Judith charged back in and dashed it from his grip. “Giles, you lied to me about your visits to the Strand.”

“And you should not have eavesdropped. I was on confidential business.”

“It is a foul business. This evil man Veech thinks you lust after Sir Montague’s wife. Do you?”

“No,” yelled Draycott, feeling his cheeks burn. “But you are right about Veech – he is a most evil man. I’ve decided, Judith: I shall speak to Mr. St. John today and tell him everything.”

Judith met his eyes as though he were a stranger. “I’m taking the children to my mother’s. You may come to me when you are free, of Veech – and of that woman’s spell.”

She ran from the kitchen, and he did not attempt to go after her. Grabbing his cloak off the peg at the door, he stumbled out of the house.

“Mr. Draycott!” Draycott heard Lady Isabella’s voice and stopped to look round; he had been blundering down her street in a panic of indecision, torn as to whether he should confront St. John or confide in her. She and Lucy were a few yards behind him, the hoods of their cloaks pulled over their heads; and behind them was a footboy carrying several parcels. “I called you twice, sir,” she said. He reached for his hat, then realised he had left it at home. “Thank heavens Lucy and I dressed for this awful weather – but you’re wet to the skin. Were you coming to visit my husband?” Draycott had no reply. “He is not here, sir. Greenhalgh took him to spend the afternoon at his son’s, in Chelsea Fields. Please, step inside out of the rain or you’ll catch your death of a cold.”

Draycott shivered in the entrance hall while Lucy fetched towels for him; he had declined the offer of one of Sir Montague’s robes, and of a glass of spirits. “I apologise for the fuss,” he said to both women, when she returned.

“May I write my letter now, your ladyship?” she asked.

“Yes, you may do so in my chamber,” said Lady Isabella. “Lucy received a note yesterday from her sweetheart,” she explained to Draycott, as the maid went ahead of them upstairs. “He had someone else pen his message, unschooled fellow that he is, and even then we were hard pressed to decipher the script.” She led Draycott more slowly up to the gallery, and waved for him to sit beside her, by the fireplace. “You are perturbed, sir. Is there more illness in your family?”

Draycott opened his mouth, intending to talk about Veech. “I have … fallen in love with you,” he murmured, instead.

“Oh, Mr. Draycott, is it love, or loneliness and confusion? Because
I
am as confused. I have been pretending that I’ve not a care in the world, when I am desperate for your advice. Will you listen to my trouble?”

“Yes,” he said, dreading what might surface; would she speak of Beaumont?

“You know that my one-time guardian is Sir Montague’s friend. He is a Royalist, and an esteemed counsellor of His Majesty. Towards the winter of last year, he asked my husband to help him with a certain scheme that the King had in mind for London.” She hesitated, lowering her eyes. “Sir Montague was fortunate to avoid discovery of what was in his barrels.”

“Ah, then … it was as St. John’s agent Veech suspected.”

“My husband will not risk himself again. The stress upon his health almost killed him.”

“So he is out of danger, as are you,” said Draycott, enormously reassured: he would report an expurgated version of this to St. John and put an end to Veech’s investigations.

“No, Mr. Draycott,” she said. “The truth is … 
I
am still helping His Majesty.”

Draycott stiffened; she might have closed her fingers over his heart. “Surely Sir Montague would advise you to cease whatever you are doing, for your safety and his.”

“It is the opposite, sir: he wants me to continue, out of loyalty to the King and to my guardian. You see, my guardian had always inspired me with a fascination for politics, and when the war erupted, I undertook to assist him in purveying news from Oxford to London. Since I am now established here, he wishes me to act as a conduit for messages to various Royalists within the City. I owe to him my education and my marriage – all I have. I readily accepted to do this work for him. How can I stop?”

“Oh, my lady,” sighed Draycott, “I am as compromised, by Clement Veech. I accepted to enter
his
service, to my infinite regret. He holds himself above the law, and has hinted that my family may suffer if I don’t do his bidding. He ordered me to insinuate myself into your husband’s good graces, and yours – to spy on you.”

“But I thought … I thought you were my friend,” she said, with a little catch in her voice.

“I am, I swear, which is why I am confiding in you. I could not have borne the deception, and I will not obey him, whatever the cost to me. I won’t … I won’t!”

“Then what is to become of us?” She leant forward and touched her hand to Draycott’s knee. Instinctively, he rested his head against the smooth curve of her shoulder. When she did not move away, he started to kiss her neck, and cheek, and her lips. Not for years had he kissed Judith so passionately, and Lady Isabella seemed to be surrendering to his caresses.

A sneeze made them jump apart.

Draycott leapt to his feet. “Who was that? Lucy?”

“It can’t be – it came from the parlour.” She hurried from her chair, and he followed. They found the parlour vacant. The portraits
stared down at him, taciturn and immobile. Then he detected the ripple of a shadow under the table, and a slender black cat peeped out.

“You naughty boy,” she exclaimed. “Here’s the culprit, sir: Niger – as in the Latin.”

Draycott burst into laughter, from sheer nerves. “What a handsome devil, with his beautiful green …” But he left the word
eyes
unsaid, for hers were swimming with tears. Guilt overwhelmed him. “My lady, can you forgive my misconduct? I wronged both you and Judith, and I should go home.”

“You did no wrong,” she said, with such earnestness that he felt himself absolved. “Mr. Draycott, Sir Montague is soon to be absent for some days. Please might you call on me then, and we can decide on a course of action?”

He nodded, terrified: his fate and hers hung in the balance.

“Pinch me, or I’ll imagine that I’m dreaming,” said Seward, as Laurence filled their cups. “Here we are at last on the eve of your marriage. A health to you and to Catherine – may she have the patience of Job.”

“To Catherine,” said Laurence.

“Clarke would swoon if he tasted this wine. Where did you obtain it?”

“I stole it from Lord Digby’s cellar.”

“How appropriate, to drink to a bride you robbed from under her sister’s nose. Has his lordship allowed you a honeymoon?”

“A week’s leave.”

“He is magnanimous in victory, as you were graceful in defeat. What will you do with Catherine, Beaumont?”

“I know you’re a bachelor, Seward, but must I acquaint you with the facts of life?”

“I mean,” said Seward testily, “where will she reside, after the
ceremony? By your description of her family, she might be happier at Chipping Campden.”

“She might, though
I
can’t take her there. I may not be able to stay at her father’s house if Massey’s troops are in the neighbourhood. In that event, I’ll use the rest of my leave to visit Tom. Rupert’s camp is about seventy miles northwest – a couple of days’ ride.”

“Have you been speculating as to his delicate family matter?”

“Yes, and it’s still a mystery to me.”

Seward pottered over to his cupboard. “I have something mysterious for you that I have been saving for years.” He rummaged about the dusty shelves. “Where is it, where is it. Aha! Catch, my boy.” He threw over to Laurence a leather pouch.

Laurence opened the pouch and shook out a ring of coppery gold set with a dull red stone. “For Catherine? Thank you, Seward.”

“Look closer, at the inside.” Holding it to the flame of Seward’s candle, Laurence saw minute symbols engraved in a continuous line all around its inner surface. “They are in no language that I read,” Seward said, coming to lay a hand on Laurence’s shoulder. “The ring must be of ancient origin, and could have magical properties. It may help Catherine with her falling sickness.”

Laurence frowned up at him. “You always gave me to believe that was nothing to worry about.”

“In a man, it is less worrying, but if Catherine suffered a severe fit while pregnant, she might slip the child.”

“Why would the ring help her?”

“I inherited it from a friend of my mother’s, a wise woman versed in herbal lore and spells. She had the gift of healing people and animals, and probably of cursing those who offended her. She was drowned as a witch in the reign of King James, when I was not much older than you are now. I recorded a number of her receipts before she died, and there is only one of her concoctions that I have
not
yet tested: a deadly poison. As for her poultices and sleeping draughts, they have never failed me – or you, Beaumont,” Seward added gently. “Her sleeping
draught weaned you off your beloved poppy tincture on two occasions: after your beatings in Oxford Castle, and after your recent wound.”

“Well, well,” said Laurence. “Then I have more cause to be grateful to her.”

Seward pointed at the ring. “Try it.” Laurence tried; it stuck at the second joint of his ring finger, but slid neatly onto his little finger. “Will it be Catherine’s size?”

Laurence pictured her hands, grubby from touching the magpie. “It might be a bit large.”

“If so, she can wear it on a chain about her neck. You must not alter it, or you will lose the inscription. Wear it yourself, for security’s sake, until you have pronounced your vow.”

“Should I tell her your story about the witch?”