The Licence of War (49 page)

“As you observed, our women enjoy more freedom than in Spanish society. Virginity is prized, yet if I were to count how many noble ladies in England have a dalliance before marriage, I’d imagine that half are guilty to a degree. And in the reign of King James, when my parents made their vows, the number would have been higher yet. His Court was notorious for its libertine habits.”

“Jorge confessed to worse than a dalliance. And what if his lordship discovered that she had been taken against her will?”

“That’s the plight of some women even in marriage.”

“A husband cannot rape his own wife!”

Laurence shrugged again, as if the point were not worth disputing. “Don Antonio,” he said, in a patient tone, “I hate to make light of your brother’s confession, since you have come so far, but …” He glanced at Tom, who now had the look of a man sitting on hot coals. “To be honest with you, our father’s chief concern these days is to keep his estate from plunder and destruction. His house has been sacked once by enemy troops. On the next occasion, for all we know, they might reduce it to a pile of rubble.”

“So his fortunes have been greatly depleted,” de Zamora commented, with studious sympathy.

“Greatly,” echoed Laurence.

“
Qué barbaridad.”
De Zamora replenished his and Laurence’s cups; Tom’s was hardly touched. “Thomas, you did not exaggerate when you said your brother spoke my tongue like a native,” he said, in English. “And I thank you for advising me to consult him about this document. I had qualms about it disturbing your family, and he has laid them to rest. Now, let us get acquainted. I know a bit about your history, sir,” de Zamora continued in English, to Laurence. “It reminds me of a picaroon romance: you deserted from the Spanish ranks, then from the Protestant forces, and you’ve been a cardsharp, and a spy! And you’re something of a libertine yourself, as concerns the fair sex.”

Laurence wanted to kick his brother beneath the table: who else could have been the source of these details? “I’m guilty as charged,” he said airily, to de Zamora.

“Thomas was struck by the peculiar similitude between your character and Jorge’s. It was he who encouraged me to speculate—”

“You’re lying,” burst in Tom, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

Laurence placed a restraining hand on his arm. “To speculate …?”

“How such things must run in the family,” de Zamora finished, with a significant smile.

“There are black sheep in every family – it’s human nature. Don Antonio,” Laurence went on, “our mother will be pleased to receive you, but do be careful. When in the neighbourhood of Chipping Campden five days ago, I had a near escape from Parliament troops. If you were captured, the fact that you’re Spanish would probably hang you. Or you might be mistaken for Irish, which would most definitely result in a hanging. Or you might be mistaken for me, in which case you’d be questioned – rather painfully, I suspect – and then hanged. Tom may not have informed you: His Majesty’s enemies have put a high price on my head.”

“I am no coward. I have faced death in battle for more years than you have been alive.”

“So you must know the difference between a reasonable and a foolhardy risk.”

“Perhaps your Prince Rupert may drive the rebels out,” de Zamora said to Tom.

“No, sir,” said Tom. “We’re soon to leave for his camp at Shrewsbury, and then we march for the north.”

“But I do not wish to delay my visit.”

“You must be afraid that your health might fail you, before you have the opportunity to be reunited with our mother,” said Laurence, solicitously.

“Er … no: mine is a slow disease.”

“Not one that runs in the family?”

“It’s the result of a wound that I sustained in Flanders. I thank you for your warning, but Diego and I shall press on, nevertheless, to Chipping Campden.”

“Ah well, the best of luck to you.” Laurence rose, and Tom leapt to his feet.

De Zamora stood up, hesitating. “I could be persuaded to visit you again in Oxford, should all go according to plan with my cousin.”

“According to plan?” Laurence repeated.

“Forgive my English. I meant to say, should the meeting be as pleasurable as ours,” de Zamora said, with an elegant bow.

“You think I told him those things about your past, but I swear, it wasn’t me,” insisted Tom, on their way from the inn. “I have no idea how he found out.”

Laurence turned to look at Tom and believed that much was true; his brother was a bad liar. “Come with me to Seward’s rooms. We’ll speak there.”

Seward had a fire blazing in his hearth, and as they threw off their cloaks, he drew up to it his two chairs. Laurence chose to sit cross-legged on the hearthstones at a judicious distance from Seward’s cat, which lay basking somnolently in the heat.

“How did it go?” Seward demanded of them.

“He and Laurence jabbered away in Spanish as if they were the dearest of friends,” Tom said.

“We did, most unnecessarily,” said Laurence. “I was as impressed by his command of English as by the forged deathbed confession.”

Tom emitted a gasp. “Forged?”

“I’d bet my life that the priest’s script and Jorge’s are by one author.”

“How could you possibly know?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Tom, it’s a part of my work to catch telltale strokes of the pen. Did you ever leave Adam alone with Diego?”

“Once, on the same day de Zamora showed me the confession. Why do you ask?”

“Adam can’t abide me.” Tom said nothing to this. “If it was the same day, however, it can’t have been he who provided that colourful description of my years abroad. Nor was it you. But someone did. And de Zamora modelled Jorge’s character on mine, though, as I hope you’d agree, he embellished on my sins. He wanted to convince you that I’m not our father’s son.”

“Gentlemen,” interjected Seward, “pray recount your conversation tonight.”

While Laurence repeated it verbatim, in English, Tom listened with an increasingly agonised expression. “How could you suggest to de Zamora that our father would not care if our mother had been raped before her marriage?” he exploded.

“Of course he would care. It was a ploy, to make de Zamora doubt the value of his forgery. But if there’s one genuine aspect to de Zamora, it’s his resemblance to
me
.” Laurence took a breath. “Might he have seduced our mother? And could I be his son?”

Tom clutched his hands to his head, as he used to when miserable as a little boy. “Don’t say that, Laurence! Don’t even think of it.”

You must be thinking of it now
, was on the tip of Laurence’s tongue, though he held back the words.

“You are talking illogical rubbish, Beaumont,” said Seward. “Her
ladyship explained to you how her mother and his were like twins.”

Laurence nodded, without conviction. “What did he mean by his reference to the inbred house of Hapsburg: ‘Thank God there were no such deformities in our family’?”

“He’s the one who’s deformed,” shouted Tom. “He’s the lowest of scoundrels, and I’m going to kill him.”

Laurence felt a surge of fraternal love, and a desire to protect Tom from the menace they had just confronted, more insidious and potentially damaging than Colonel Purefoy’s invasion of their home. In his present mood, Tom would reject a hug; and Laurence was himself emotionally shaken, and at risk of losing his composure. So he merely said, “All right, Tom, if you must, but as your brother, I ought to share responsibility for the gruesome deed – although in the interests of self-preservation, I refuse to engage in any swordplay. I’d rather test your witch’s poison, Seward.”

“Cold-blooded murder would pile crime upon crime,” averred Seward.

“More to the point, it’s unoriginal – too many tragedies end that way upon the stage.” Neither Seward nor Tom cracked a smile. “We might find a less dramatic solution,” Laurence suggested. “I never told you, Tom, but this past January a Parliamentary officer was slain in London by a pair of Spanish-speaking gentlemen. Why not hand de Zamora and his valet to the rebels? Or are you still thirsting for their blood?” In reply, Tom sprang from his chair, snatched his cloak and whipped out, slamming the door behind him. “And he accused Ingram of not being able to take a joke,” Laurence murmured.

Seward leant over, and boxed Laurence on the ear with practised force. “How could
you
joke about so grave a threat to your family? And you mocked his devotion to you.”

“I’m sorry, Seward. My humour wasn’t intended to be at his expense. I don’t underestimate the threat. In fact, it petrifies me. It’s all so incredible. You should have seen de Zamora’s face …”

“I
have
seen his face,” Seward said quietly.

“Ah yes – stupid of me to forget.” Laurence sighed, rubbing his ear. “I’ll go after Tom and apologise.”

“No, let him sleep on it, and may you both be wiser in the morning. And do not be infected by de Zamora’s lies, or you will lose this battle against him. You are James Beaumont’s son, and none other. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”
Though I’m not sure
, Laurence added to himself.

When Laurence arrived at Digby’s quarters in the morning, Quayle gave him a letter. “His Majesty and Prince Rupert are to resume their tour of the garrisons around Oxford,” Tom wrote, “and I am to ride with them. As you are determined to handle our problem according to your own judgement, I wash my hands of it. We may not see each other again before I head for Shrewsbury. I sign, your loving brother Thomas.”

Laurence dispatched an abject reply, but he knew Tom would not heed it. Then he sent one of his scouts to make inquiries at the Green Dragon. That day and on the days following, the Spaniards were still in residence. Could he have changed de Zamora’s mind about a visit to Chipping Campden?

The atmosphere in Oxford was becoming more and more fraught, with the King undecided as to his next manoeuvre; and Laurence now had to concentrate on his work. Based on the concise illustrated manuals used to teach military drill, he started to assemble a similar handbook for the new scouts he was recruiting with Price’s help. He wanted to ensure consistency and accuracy in gathering information, and to instruct the youths in building a chain of local people who could supply regular intelligence: commoners of both sexes and of varied age, preferably illiterates. In Laurence’s experience, those who could neither read nor write often used their ears and memories to better effect than educated people; and they were more likely to pass unnoticed.

He had been engrossed in this project for less than a week when he was summoned early to an unexpected audience in Digby’s inner sanctum; his lordship had been as preoccupied recently by Council meetings. “I am amazed at the speed of your progress with those young fellows,” Digby declared. “I think Mr. Price is ready to take some of them into Gloucestershire, to test out their skills as you suggested, among the populace.”

“But
they
aren’t ready, my lord.”

“You are too much of a perfectionist, sir! Besides, he has already gone with them, on my order and on his special request.”

“You might have consulted me first.”

“You borrow my words to you in our last, rather heated exchange. At any rate, he wished to address your father, for your sister Elizabeth’s hand in marriage. Apparently you said you had no objection to his courting her, as long he obtained his lordship’s blessing.”

Laurence wished he could deny this. “When did he make his request?”

“A couple of days ago. He did not like to bother you by mentioning it. He confided in me how very short-tempered you are grown, of late.”

“If only he
had
bothered me, my lord. I would have given him a letter to take to Chipping Campden.”

“Would you have written him an unfavourable reference?” Digby asked, with a provoking edge. “His past is a mite shadowy. Have you apprised Elizabeth of it?”

“Please do not trouble yourself on her account,” said Laurence, and went fuming back to his desk.

Although Price would face stiffer odds of winning Lady Beaumont’s good opinion than Prince Rupert could expect in his campaign to boot Parliament out of Yorkshire, Price’s duplicity upset Laurence. And how would Price swallow defeat when his suit was refused? Could he be trusted to behave as a gentleman?

“It is a rare, scabrous condition of the skin,” Diego told the porter, who was trying to peek through the veil draped over Antonio’s head. “Dr. Seward may be his last hope. He cannot speak or eat, his lips are so sore.”

“The good Doctor can cure him, if God willing there is a cure,” the porter said, and let them through the gatehouse.

Under a steady downpour, Antonio and Diego squelched across wet grass towards the newer quadrangle. “I am sick of this blasted country in which the sun never shines,” he said to Diego. “Give me a quarter of an hour, and if I am still with the Doctor, return to the inn.”

It was only mid-afternoon, but he saw candlelight in the window Diego had pointed out to him. As he raised his hand to the door, it swung open, as if by its own agency. “Enter,” said a raspy voice.

Antonio strode in and lifted off his veil to behold a skeletal figure in a black cap and gown; the Doctor’s bones would probably snap as easily as a bunch of dried twigs. Thick spectacles magnified blurry eyes in a ghostly complexioned face. Antonio bowed. “Dr. Seward, may I introduce myself: Don Antonio de Zamora y Fuentes, of Seville.”

“An introduction is superfluous, sir,” said Dr. Seward.

“You are a doughty old man, and how well you conceal your shock – far more skilfully than my cousin’s sons, when
they
had their first glimpse of me.”

“This is not my first glimpse of you.”

“Ah, so you have seen me about Oxford?”

Dr. Seward did not answer. “Don Antonio, be seated.”

Antonio sat down and inspected the room; it was a wizard’s den! The walls were hidden by shelves stacked with dusty tomes, and mysterious apparatus. On the large desk in the centre of the room was a silver bowl full of inky liquid. The room smelt of tobacco smoke, a sickly whiff akin to holy incense, and another unpleasant, ammoniac odour.