The Licence of War (46 page)

Laurence felt as though he were banging his head against one of the drystone walls. He considered telling her about the murdered Parliamentarian in London, and about the incident of the woman in Oxford. No point, he thought, looking at her face: she would dismiss them both. “Please give my love to the family,” he said, swinging into his saddle. “And be gentle with Catherine. She hasn’t had any love from hers.”

Laurence left his horse at the Merton stables and walked over to Christ Church. A visit to Seward could wait; first he had to know if Prince Rupert was still in Oxford. Upon inquiring, he heard from a royal equerry that Rupert had gone with His Majesty on a tour of the Abingdon garrison, where Rupert had quartered his men along with Wilmot’s cavalry. “Then His Royal Highness will be here a while longer?” Laurence asked.

“Oh yes, sir: he is to inspect
all
of our surrounding garrisons,” the equerry said, as though it were a herculean task.

This pleased Laurence: he could drop by Seward’s rooms, and find Tom later towards evening, at Abingdon. But he was thwarted near the College gatehouse: Digby and Quayle were coming down Merton Street, and Digby immediately hailed him. “Mr. Beaumont, you are back early from your honeymoon. Were you on your way to my offices? Splendid – we shall go together.” He placed a gloved fingertip on Laurence’s arm to guide him there. “I trust the wedding met with your expectations.”

“Yes, my lord: it was a quiet ceremony.”

“And how did you and your bride like my gift?”

“Like is not the word, my lord: we were humbled by your generosity in parting with such a magnificent work of art.”

“It is you who made the greater sacrifice, sir, in parting with the original.”

“My sacrifice was rewarded,” Laurence replied equably, though the comment irked him.

“Well, to business, sir. We have been holding interminable sessions of Council, to profit from Prince Rupert’s stay in Oxford. He may soon be bound to go to the aid of York, which is under siege by both the Scots and Parliament’s northern forces.”

“That
is
bad news,” said Laurence; York would be a disastrous loss. “When is His Majesty taking to the field?”

“As it turns out, he may not,” said Digby, with a hint of petulance. “Rupert has persuaded him to sit upon our garrisons in the Oxford area, rather than provoke an engagement with Waller or Essex. Rupert believes those generals lack the strength to attack our ring of fortresses, even if they were to combine their armies, which is unlikely, given the animosity between them. Nor – according to Rupert – can they push farther west, with His Majesty so entrenched.”

A defensive war, thought Laurence. “The Prince may be right: His Majesty can’t afford another Cheriton. Parliament would gain control of the south.”

“Lord Wilmot has objected to Rupert’s plan. He has told Council that we have neither sufficient troops nor materiel to furnish the garrisons properly, and Rupert will be taking powder and supplies north with him, depleting our reserves. Besides, the success of Rupert’s strategy depends not only on his relief of York but on his brother conquering the West Country. Yet Prince Maurice is well over a hundred miles away, besieging the port of Lyme Regis to no ostensible result.”

“Has Lord Wilmot a better strategy?”

“He prefers attack to defence,” answered Digby, as Quayle scurried ahead of them to open the door to his lordship’s offices. “He would reduce our garrisons around Oxford to build an army large enough to strike at Waller, while the Parliamentary generals are unprepared and squabbling over command of their southern forces.”
With a dancer’s grace, Digby stepped through the door, handed Quayle his cloak, and beckoned Laurence to his inner sanctum. “What think you of that, Mr. Beaumont?” he said, seating himself at his desk.

“If the strike were repulsed, Oxford would be under siege, and His Majesty and his sons might fall hostage to the enemy. In this instance, I have to disagree with Wilmot: his strategy is too much of a risk. I prefer Rupert’s.”

To Laurence’s surprise, Digby seemed piqued. “You have not seen the growing influence that Rupert wields over the King, and the gargantuan contempt with which he addresses His Majesty’s civilian and military advisors. Lord Forth is bridling at his high-handedness.”

“Tact is not among the Prince’s many attributes, my lord.”

“Tact is not the issue, sir – we predict he will demand political power when the war is done, for himself and for his brother Maurice. They will not trundle home to live in impoverished exile.”

“Wouldn’t they be owed something for their efforts in His Majesty’s cause?”

“What if, God forbid, the cause does not prosper? Rupert is a mercenary: he will urge his uncle to arrive at terms with Parliament.”

“I’d see no wrong in that, my lord, but then I was a mercenary, too, as were Wilmot, Forth, Waller, Essex, and countless others on both sides. It would be unjust of either side to prolong the war – as His Majesty would surely agree, given his sincere pursuit of peace from the outset of this conflict.”

Digby must have caught Laurence’s sarcasm; a flush rose in his cheeks, and for a moment he did not speak. “In the event of our defeat,” he recommenced, “those terms might include a cosy place for Rupert in England. But for myself, I would foresee an
impoverished exile
, at the very best.”

“Your lordship would be wise to go abroad beforehand, as perhaps would I.”

In a typical lightning shift of mood, Digby cast him a glowing smile. “Let us not expend our energies on hypothetic argument. Now
that your conjugal life is so felicitously arranged, you must devote your attention to the duty His Majesty assigned you. Whatever strategy is adopted by Council, we shall require new scouts.”

“I’d propose to recruit more than scouts, my lord. We need better informers in Waller’s and Essex’s camps, and men to reconnoitre a path of escape for the King to Rupert’s headquarters in Shrewsbury, and to secure safe houses along the way for his shelter. Governor Massey has summoned his troops back to Gloucester,” Laurence added. “
His
spies in Oxford must have reported on the King’s preparations for battle. That leaves the northern reaches of the Gloucestershire open to us, for the time being, and Massey’s raids will have alienated the local populace. If we offer them encouragement, they will stick by the King, who may be in desperate need of friends there, should Oxford be threatened.”

“You may write me out an estimate as to the cost. Sir,” said Digby, in a less confident tone, “I am concerned about our London network.”

“Why, what have you heard?” asked Laurence quickly.

“My concern is that I have not heard anything. Since Mr. Price’s return to Oxford, Isabella has failed to communicate with me through the couriers he recruited.”

Laurence remembered Price’s airy optimism about Barlow and Jem; had Veech already seized them? “She may be lying low,” he said to Digby. “I sent her a message over a week ago, through Price, warning her to stop her games with Draycott and Veech.”

“You might have asked my permission, prior to sending it.”

“You would have done the same, my lord, if you knew the danger to her. Price acted rashly when he hired those people.”

“Are they not friends of yours who rendered you excellent service in the past?”

“Yes they are, and for that reason Veech will be watching them. I told Price they might be followed to and from her house. I could waste no time in alerting her.”

Digby pursed his lips. “I would not have objected to your warning her on that score, but it is not for you to put a stop to her activities as my agent.”

“My lord, this is not some trivial issue of authority. Neither of us wants her to be arrested by a brute like Veech. And clearly Veech has a tight hold over Draycott. She and her husband were lucky to escape when they played about with gunpowder. Now she’s playing with fire.”

“It was she who suggested that she win the affections of Mr. Draycott, in order to obtain intelligence on the notorious Clement Veech. And she had a more daring plan in mind, which she may have postponed as a result of your message: to effect the demise of Mr. Veech.”

“I hope she’s abandoned it altogether,” said Laurence, when he could find his voice.

“You underestimate her skills as an agent,” Digby said, but so weakly that Laurence let the rebuke pass.

“What will you do for her, my lord, if she’s taken?”

“I shall rely on
you
to think of something,” Digby answered, in the same hapless tone.

By the hearth in his cottage billet, Tom was sipping at a mug of watery ale, trying to ignore the chorus of snores from the other officers rolled up in their blankets, and the stink of his wet boots and stockings that were laid out on the hearthstones by his equally smelly bare feet. What a day, though it had distracted him from the nagging problem of de Zamora. Here in Abingdon, the King and Prince Rupert had discovered empty casks, rotten food, and ordure scattered about the camp. Loose women had taken up residence among the cavalry, some claiming to be wives, though their rouged cheeks and bold manners hinted otherwise to Tom. And on the faces of Wilmot’s men he had seen open disrespect towards Rupert. The lot of them deserved a court martial.

Tom tossed the dregs of his ale into the fire, and allowed his eyes to close, focusing his thoughts on Mary and their coming child. It would be born in midsummer; but a few months to wait.

“Sir,” he heard Adam say quietly, “your brother is here.” He jerked straight in his chair and opened his eyes; Laurence was stepping round prone bodies, his saddlebag slung across his shoulder.

He squatted down by Tom’s side, and smiled. “I went all the way to Prince Rupert’s camp to see you. Ingram told me we’d passed each other like ships in the night.”

Tom could not return the smile; his jaw was locked. “So, you and Penelope Furnival are husband and wife.”

“I didn’t marry her – I married her sister, Catherine. I stopped by our house to leave Catherine there, though I couldn’t stay. Everyone is in good health. Purefoy’s troops have departed for Gloucester.”

“Thank God for that,” said Tom, a little relieved.

Laurence produced a flask from his saddlebag. “Have you a cup?” He steadied Tom’s shaking hand, and poured him a measure. “Tom, you’re not feverish, are you?”

“No. To you and your bride.” Tom took a large swallow. “By Jesus, this isn’t wine,” he spluttered.

“It’s aqua vitae. We need strong stuff, to match the subject of our conversation – Antonio de Zamora.”

“Damn Ingram – he broke his word.”

“On my prompting. Tell me everything, Tom.”

Tom gulped more of the potent spirit, which marvellously clarified his thoughts: he would talk of the deathbed confession, but not of what he had said to de Zamora about Laurence and the title. If de Zamora raised this with Laurence, Tom would call him a liar and challenge him on the spot to a duel that Tom felt sure he could win. “I kept from Ingram that I met the Spaniard a second time,” he began, holding out his cup again; his hand had ceased to shake.

“If our mother was seduced or … or raped by de Zamora’s brother, it would explain many things, Seward: why she never speaks of her Spanish family, her illness around the time that she heard from the Envoy, and her wish to deal with de Zamora alone, to hide the truth.” Laurence scrutinised Seward’s face in the candlelight; they were sitting across his desk from each other, in the positions they had once occupied as tutor and pupil. “Why do I suspect …” He rephrased his words. “You’re less appalled by this than I was. You didn’t … 
know
?”

“Of course not – and it is a dreadful story,” murmured Seward, his eyes downcast.

“It is, and yet she demonstrated no equivalent emotion when I asked her about de Zamora. Not that she couldn’t be masking her feelings – she’s a woman of steely resolve. But the more I consider his story, the more I mistrust him.”

Seward glanced up. “On what grounds?”

“To begin with, he kept his secret for over thirty years. He was a soldier – he could have been slain at any point, leaving his brother’s request unfulfilled. Then, in his retirement, he did nothing to find my mother. Only when he discovered he hadn’t long to live, did he come to England. Why would a dying man undertake such a risky and arduous voyage?”

“For the benefit of his soul?”

Laurence shrugged. “Once he arrived here, what did he do? If I were him, I’d have headed straight to Chipping Campden without wasting any of my few remaining hours on earth. Let’s follow his movements: he was in London before Christmas, and near the third week of January he assaulted a woman in Oxford.”

“Hardly the behaviour of a dying man,” interjected Seward.

“Unless he feared it might be his last taste of quim. That night Mawson called him ‘Beaumont,’ and the name must have registered. He could have located me then in Oxford without difficulty: I was bedridden with my shoulder wound. Instead he journeyed miles in the
winter cold to catch up with Tom – and not until March did he introduce himself. When Tom told him he resembled me, he behaved as if he were surprised. Yet he must already have guessed from his encounter with Mawson that one of us was his double.”

“He might have,” Seward agreed.

“Then he vanished, and wasted
another
month apparently worrying about the damage his brother’s confession might cause to our family. On his second meeting with Tom, he said God had put Tom in his path before me. It wasn’t Divine Providence. I think he elected to tell Tom, and not me, about
his
double, the reprobate brother. As he may have planned, Tom is now wondering if I am Jorge’s son – with all that
that
entails. And according to Tom, de Zamora still seems in robust health.”

“His entire story may be fabricated. He is here to cause harm, as my bowl forewarned. I should have spoken of the vision to Thomas when he came to me.”

“A good thing you refrained. Tom was sufficiently upset, as was I, though I tried to hide it from him. Poor Tom, I know what he’s thinking: that I have no real desire for what he’s always wanted. And he was right, until not so long ago.” Laurence broke off to calm himself. “I even raised the issue with my father this past autumn. He said to me that Tom could not inherit while I was alive. That was when I understood my duty. And … and when I heard about the troops at our house, it became yet clearer to me.”