The Licence of War (45 page)

Tom scowled and dipped into his pockets. He withdrew a gold unite, which was all he had. Rupert’s officers had not been paid in a month. “It’s the last time, sir.”

“Thomas,” de Zamora reproached him, “I am only here for your sake. I might have sailed for Spain, had you not urged me to show Jorge’s confession to your brother.”

“Oh yes? How would you afford the passage?”

De Zamora roared with laughter. “Such wit, just as I had begun to doubt whether you possessed a sense of humour. When shall
we
next meet?”

Never again
, Tom wanted to say. De Zamora was a liability to him in Oxford. And what if Laurence arrived early, and by chance met de Zamora before Tom had spoken to Laurence himself? “Stay
close by the Inn,” he said. “You’ll hear from me when my brother gets to town.”

“I look forward to that, Thomas,” de Zamora said, and he sallied on down the street, whistling.

Tom still could not believe what Lord Digby’s servant had told him. Why would someone so averse to marriage charge off in the midst of the spring campaign to wed a girl in whom he had demonstrated not the slightest interest? And how could the Beaumont family leave rebel troops at the house to attend the ceremony? No, thought Tom: Digby must have sent Laurence on a clandestine mission. And there was one man who might be able to confirm this.

“Come in, Thomas.” Seward stepped aside for Tom to enter, and shut the door. “Might I assume that you are looking for your brother?”

“I rode from Shrewsbury to find him. Lord Digby’s servant said he’s away – getting married.”

“So he is. Pray you sit.” Tom fell into a chair. “He may be as astonished as you are that he has taken a wife,” Seward said, with a wheezy chuckle, “but when we spoke before he set out, he was very happy.”

“I am as happy, for him and our family,” said Tom, pondering uncomfortably if it could signify a change in Laurence’s attitude towards the inheritance.

Seward settled into the other chair, and knotted his bony hands in the lap of his soiled robe. “You wrote to him of a family matter that you wished to discuss. Does it concern a visitor from Spain? From your mother’s family?”

Tom quivered with rage. “Ah, so her ladyship confided in Laurence about the letter, and he gossiped about it to
you
.”

Seward’s eyes bulged, behind his spectacles. “What letter?”

“The one she had at Christmastide from the Spanish Envoy in London. Please, Doctor, don’t pretend ignorance.”

“I swear, neither Beaumont nor I knew about that letter.”

“Then how did you know de Zamora was in England?”

“De Zamora – is that his name?” A guarded expression crossed Seward’s face. “Back in January, a man was seen in Oxford who markedly resembled your brother. He found out about it himself only this month. Who else could the fellow have been, other than a relation of her ladyship’s?” Tom kept silent; he had feared a similar encounter today. “And you, Thomas, what do you know of him?”

“I met him at Prince Rupert’s camp,” Tom said, resenting Seward’s inquisitorial manner. “He is our mother’s cousin from Seville. It was he who told me the Envoy had written to her on his behalf. I’ve brought him to town with me. He’s eager to consult both of us brothers on this matter, which pertains to our family alone, and which has prevented him, up to now, from calling on her ladyship.” Tom sprang to his feet and paced to the door. “That’s all I have to tell you.”

Seward’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Thomas, while I have scant evidence to rely upon except my instinct, I am absolutely sure that he intends harm to your family. Beware of trusting him, and do not let him create strife between you and your brother.”

Every hair on Tom bristled. “I can trust my own instinct. And you are not a part of our family.”

“Nonetheless,” Seward said, in the same chilling voice, “I was tutor to your father, your brother, and to you for a brief time, and your brother is my dearest friend. I would give my life for him, as he almost gave his for me. Whoever would harm him is therefore my enemy, also. May I remind you, Thomas,” he continued more softly, “how in the not so distant past,
you
could have done him great harm, though without intending it. You must cleave together, from now on.”

“My thanks for your unsolicited advice, Doctor,” said Tom. “Should you speak with Laurence before I have the opportunity, please direct him to Prince Rupert’s quarters. Goodbye.”

Tom left feeling like a drunken man hit by a blast of arctic air. The future he had described to de Zamora, in which Laurence gratefully conferred on him the privileges of heir, now appeared to him an
outrageous dream, provoked by that deathbed confession. But would it appear to Laurence more like a betrayal?

On the crest of a hill, screened by a copse of trees, Laurence dismounted and tied his horse to a branch. He had a clear view for a good three miles all around; no sign of rebel troops near the Furnival house. He should have called there instead of sending a message for Catherine to meet him in this secluded spot, as if they were illicit lovers rather than husband and wife. Selfishly he had wanted her alone. And yet afterwards, as he had warned her in his note, he would have to leave her again with her family and make haste for Oxford.

Finally he spied her in her plain gown, her head and shoulders wrapped in a shawl, toiling towards him, not alone but with Will. They were carrying the magpie’s cage between them, possibly as a pretext for her excursion, he thought. He ran to grab her side of it, and she dropped behind.

Not until they had reached the copse of trees, and he and Will had set down the cage, did he notice the dark purple welts on both of her cheekbones. “Catherine, what happened? Did you have a bout of your sickness?”

“No, sir, it was my father’s gift to me on our marriage day,” she said dryly. “Once those troopers had hunted for you in vain, they ordered him to empty his coffers. He had to surrender Pen’s dowry and more, to get rid of them. He struck me because I told him it was his fault he’d been robbed.”

“Has he done this to you before?” Laurence demanded, ready to leap on his horse and dash over to give Sir Harold a taste of his own medicine.

Will spoke for her. “He doesn’t often mark her as badly, sir, but he was in a tantrum. She wasn’t to stir outside ’til the bruises had gone, so I had to swear to her ladyship that we were off to free the bird, and would come straight home.”

Catherine bent on one knee to open the cage. She scooped up the magpie, released it onto the ground, and watched it tread tentatively through the grass. “Fly,” she whispered. “I pray you,
fly
.”

Laurence might have prayed had he any faith. He examined her, in her huntress pose; her dark eyes, clouded and inscrutable above the bruises, were riveted on the bird. Then it startled him with a piercing squawk, and spread its wings. A strong breeze began to blow, billowing out their clothes, and the magpie was wafted clean into the air. They tracked its progress as it soared majestically over the trees and became a gleaming mote on the horizon.

Catherine’s shoulders slumped, and she covered her face with her hands.

“Catherine,” said Laurence, “I’m taking you to my father’s house. It’s only five miles south of here.”

She stared up at him. “I know where it is, but you can’t put yourself in danger again for my sake.”

“I’ve got a fast horse – we won’t be caught. Remember,” he added, with teasing severity, “as my wife you promised to obey me.”

“So you ought, Mistress Catherine,” said Will.

Laurence hoisted her to her feet. “Will, inform Sir Harold that his bird has flown. If he causes you any trouble, ask at Chipping Campden for Jacob, Lord Beaumont’s Master of Horse. Tell Jacob from me that he has a new groom.”

“Yes, sir, bless you, sir,” exclaimed Will. “Goodbye, sir, goodbye, Mistress Catherine.” He retrieved the cage, and sped away down the hill.

Laurence led Catherine into the copse where his Arab stallion stood swishing its tail. He had his hands on either side of her waist, to lift her into the saddle, when she held back. “There is one thing, before we go. I’m not yet your wife.”

How Catherine reminded him physically of Juana, with her narrow hips and small, firm breasts, and a similar animal scent to her skin. Accustomed as he was to practised sexual partners, it had required
some patience, self-restraint, and not a little art to bring her to climax. When at last she arrived, however, he felt that she had given herself not to him but to the pleasure of her own body, which had aroused him far more.

“My mother and her gentlewomen told me that you would hurt me, and that I would find no joy in it,” she said, as they tidied their clothing. “I know they wanted me to be afraid.”

“Hmm …” said Laurence. “Perhaps they were speaking from their experience.”

“Then I’m sorry for them. And I’m sorry, in a different way, for Pen.”

“As am I, the poor wronged creature. Should I exchange you for her?”

“I’m not
that
sorry,” replied Catherine, and she began to laugh so spontaneously that he joined in; it was the first time he had heard her laughing.

Eventually they mounted, and Laurence spurred the Arab to a gallop. Avoiding the road, they cut across fields dotted with sheep suckling their new lambs and ploughmen driving oxen through the freshly tilled earth; still not a sign of rebel troops. At the northern border to Lord Beaumont’s property, he slowed the horse to a trot; looming ahead were the high drystone walls that surrounded his lordship’s park. “We must part company at the gatehouse,” he told Catherine. “The gatekeeper will go with you up to the house.”

“No, let me down here,” she said, loosening her arms, which had been snug about his waist, but he urged the horse on, until they were almost at the gates.

He reined in; he could hear male voices and the rumble of wheels on gravel. “Wait.” He swung a leg over his horse’s neck, slid off, and ventured closer. Lady Beaumont was descending from his lordship’s coach, aided by her driver and the gatekeeper. Since their conversation suggested no immediate peril, Laurence decided to show himself.

“Laurence,” she gasped.

“Is everyone well at the house?” he asked, pained to see new threads of silver in her hair and deeper lines around her eyes and mouth.

“Yes, yes,” she said, speaking rapidly, “though Purefoy’s men stole so much from us, we shall have a hard year ahead. Our sole consolation is that none of his lordship’s treasures were discovered. And the troops left us, the day before yesterday. Governor Massey ordered them back to the garrison.”

“Ah … So is it safe for me to stay?”

“It is most
un
safe – Purefoy sent that raiding party to Lower Quinton on the day of your marriage, and has paid informers in Chipping Campden town to alert him if you are spotted in the neighbourhood. But, Laurence, Sir Harold wrote to us that you refused Penelope to marry her twin, Catherine. Why? And you gave away half the bridal portion. What folly – we were counting on the money.”

“I’ll compensate you for it. There is something I should tell you about Catherine. She has the—”

“Great heavens,” interrupted Lady Beaumont. “Why did you not say that you had brought her with you?”

Catherine was coming towards them leading the Arab. “Good day to you, your ladyship,” she said, curtseying. “I am Catherine Beaumont.”

Lady Beaumont surveyed Catherine’s grass-stained gown, her bruises, and her tousled hair. “You are welcome. Bid a swift farewell to your husband, and attend me in the coach.”

Laurence kissed Catherine on the forehead and said, under his breath, “Her bark is worse than her bite.” Catherine smiled, and went dutifully to the coach.

“Wonders will never cease,” said Lady Beaumont, as the driver helped Catherine inside. “I am impressed by the latitude of your taste in the female sex.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

Lady Beaumont walked him to his horse. “Now, you must go. Are you returning to Oxford?”

“Yes.” He hesitated to mount, fingering the reins. “I can’t leave without asking: have you seen or heard from your cousin, Antonio de Zamora?”

Her eyes flickered, in a way he could not read. Then she said, too easily, “I have not. How come you know of him?”

Laurence brushed aside the question. “
You
knew since December that he was in England. You had a letter from the Spanish Envoy, around the time you were sick. Was it the letter that brought about your illness?”

“I can assure you, Laurence, I would not fall sick because some member of my family chose to visit us. Yes, I heard from the Envoy, but not from Antonio. Answer me: how did you learn he was here?” She frowned when Laurence explained what Ingram had told him. “So that is why he has not yet appeared on our doorstep: he was sniffing out Thomas first.”

“What do you mean by sniffing? And why Tom? Why not sniff
me
out, if he was reluctant to come straight to you?”

“Perhaps he could not find you.”

“Why is he here?”

“I suspect for financial reasons. He never had a penny to his name. If he thinks he will profit from his lordship, he’s sorely deceived, especially after what we have lost to the rebels, and your reckless behaviour over the marriage portion.”

Laurence heaved an exasperated sigh. “Tom said he’s just like me.”

“And so? Our looks are common in my family: his mother and mine were sisters more alike than the Furnival twins. Be warned if you cross paths that he is an inveterate liar. Allow me to deal with him, should he appear, though by Thomas’s account he has been invisible for almost two months. He may have perished from the English cold. It would be a rude shock, after Seville,” she concluded, sardonically.

“Then … he’s no threat to you?”

“Antonio a threat? How you exaggerate. He may well prove an annoyance, but I am far more worried about our fortunes, his lordship’s
fragile constitution, my sons who are fighting in a war … even the gatekeeper’s wife whom I came today to visit, who is in agony with her ulcers. Now ride out at once, or you’ll bring us even greater worry by getting yourself captured.”