The Licence of War (52 page)

“Yes, though it took longer than I’d expected. Let’s hope our boys haven’t drowsed on their watch.”

“Nay, sir, they’ll be chafing for action. I’ll join them, if I may.”

“Good luck to you, and until soon,” said Laurence. He headed for Merton, where the porter was snoring away on his chair in the gatehouse. “A quiet night?” Laurence shouted in his ear.

He stirred, and mumbled, “Very quiet, Mr. Beaumont.”

“Some fellows will come by asking for me in a while.” Laurence gave the scouts’ names. “Direct them to Seward’s rooms.” He paid the
porter a coin, and carried on across the Front Quadrangle, swinging the sack in one hand.

The buildings were shrouded in an inky pall, but he could have negotiated the familiar route blindfolded. All he could hear was the crunch of his boots on the gravel path and the clink of his spurs. Yet as he passed under the Fitzjames Arch he felt a minuscule breeze on his left side, and before he could dodge, a sharp blow stung him on the temple. A harder blow struck the same side of his skull. Pain translated to dizziness, and his legs folded beneath him. He hit the ground, and swift fingers wrested the sack from him. “
Duerme bien,”
whispered his assailant.

Antonio forged on through the desolate streets, shedding more sad tears: he was again
unjustly thwarted in his heart’s desire
, as his Lorenzo had phrased it. He had hoped to begin a new chapter in the autumn of his life. “Lorenzo begged me to bring him home,” he had imagined saying to Teresa. What priceless vengeance it would have been to steal the cuckoo from James Beaumont’s nest! He had envisaged the pair of them, he and his Lorenzo, arm in arm together in the warm sunshine of his courtyard. They would be the talk of Seville, with their matching looks. He had even dreamt of them united on a crusade to restore the twin houses of de Zamora and Capdavila to their former glory. And then, humiliation! He had laid bare his soul, only to be rejected by a man made in his own image, yet with a heart of stone: upon parting, not an embrace but a frigid clasp of the hand; a palm dry and cool to the touch; and an impassive face.

Halting to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, Antonio saw the glow of lights from the Green Dragon’s windows. A couple of men were engaged in conversation on the other side of the street, beneath the crooked overhanging fronts of the timbered houses. They strolled towards him, their manner leisurely; they might have been apprentices in their coarse clothes. One was holding an unlit pipe, and called
out, “Have you tinder, sir, and a flint?” Antonio paid no attention. Then came a series of low whistles behind his back, and he knew he was surrounded.

“The brutes were skilled in their criminal trade,” moaned Antonio, as Diego rinsed out a blood-soaked cloth. “They were so fast I had no time to draw my sword. One of them punched me
here
, on the site of an old break in my ribs, and after that I was easy prey. He may have punctured some vital organ, in which case I’ll be dead by tomorrow. It took the last of my strength to get up the stairs to our chamber.” Antonio inhaled a cautious, shallow breath. “And they stole my sword, along with the purse. It’s your fault for not being with me, you idiot, and I would throttle you were I not in such agony.”

Diego reapplied the cloth, dabbing at a cut in Antonio’s forehead. “Don Antonio, they would still have beaten the hell out of us,” he said, in a consoling tone. “And now we have the bowl, we can ransom it again. Beaumont will pay, for the old man’s sake.”

“That bowl has cast a spell on you,
maldito
! We could pay with our lives after what you did to him, and if so, I pray
you
go straight to hell.” Antonio pushed Diego away, and struggled to sit up on the bed. “We must escape from Oxford tonight.”

Finally the desperation of their plight appeared to sink into Diego’s brain. He dropped the cloth and clasped his wet hands together. “How? We have no money, and you’re weaker than a newborn lamb!”

“You’re the genius – you think of a way.”

Antonio was disgusted at himself: twenty or even ten years ago, he might have slain a couple of the brigands before they took him down. They had suffered not a scratch. Experience told him that his cracked ribs would not heal for weeks. And all he had left in funds was a bit of change from Thomas Beaumont’s gold unite, and what he might get for that accursed wizard’s bowl.

The scouts came upon Laurence lying beneath the arch, in a daze. “His valet sneaked by the porter and attacked me,” he said, as they helped him to his feet; they did not know about the bowl, nor would he mention it. “Hurry over to the Green Dragon and take them both.”

“But sir, he’ll go nowhere after our night’s sport,” one of the scouts assured him, flourishing the purse and de Zamora’s sword.

“Just to be safe, throw them in the nearest gaol until tomorrow morning.”

They assisted Laurence to Seward’s door, gave him their trophies, and then went away, leaving him tottering on the threshold. He could not see out of his left eye, his ears rang, and he felt as though a giant mallet were hammering inside his head.

“Beaumont, who did this to you?” exclaimed Seward, as he stumbled in.

“Diego,” he said, slumping into a chair. “He stole back the bowl from me, and I suspect he wasn’t acting on de Zamora’s order. He coveted it for himself.”

“So we are where we began!”

“I have to trust my scouts will get it back, yet again. What a farce, worthy of the stage. And there’s more to tell you, Seward, if you can dig me out some remedy for my headache. You’ll never guess who’s come back to haunt me: Juana.”

While Seward went and searched in his cupboard, and began measuring and mixing, Laurence related his extraordinary conversation with de Zamora. “The man is utterly deluded,” Seward cried, once Laurence had finished. “How could he believe that you would run off with him to Spain?”

“Because he
is
my father,” answered Laurence, wincing as Seward applied a poultice to his swollen temple, “and you should have told me he said so, when you both spoke.”

“I did not want to encourage you in a falsehood that is his chief
delusion, and must not become yours. Talk to your mother, Beaumont, and she will confirm the truth to you.”

“Why would she, after all this time, unless circumstances made it impossible for her to keep her secret?” Laurence squinted at Seward through his one good eye. “You may find it odd, but I don’t honestly care who engendered me. Perhaps if I were younger I might, but at this stage of my life, I am who I am.”

“That you are,” Seward agreed.

“Yet I still have to know what truly happened between her and de Zamora. It wasn’t her habit to lavish affection on any of us children, but she’s always been coldest towards me, and when I was young, I’d catch her looking at me as if I disturbed her in some profound way. I want to understand why.”

“I did not know you as a child, Beaumont, but you were a profoundly disturbing youth, and you are still no less vexatious to everybody, me included. How did you receive the Spaniard’s news about the gypsy and
her
child? Your son, I mean. It must have awoken strong feelings in you.”

“He described the coincidence as miraculous. To me, it was almost as great a surprise as Diego hitting me on the head. And he guessed, rightly, that I’d been in love with her. But if he’d hoped to reawaken
those
feelings, or stir in me some fatherly instinct, he was wrong.”

“Are you being quite honest with yourself?” Seward inquired, softly.

“Oh yes. I only found out from Juana that she was pregnant on the night she rejected me, to return to her people. She confessed to me then that she had lied to them, saying I had taken her against her will – she was afraid
they
would otherwise reject her. Even so, I offered to do anything for her and our child. She wasn’t moved. She said she’d never loved me, and that I was unclean, not being of her people. When I asked if the child was also unclean, she said it was
hers
. I don’t blame her for lying, or thieving, or whatever else she might do to
survive – her people are treated viciously everywhere, and she’d seen her whole family slaughtered. I admire her resilience and I wish no harm on either of them. I’ve no more feeling than that. If de Zamora is so besotted with the boy, he may continue to provide for them. Juana can be trusted to take full advantage, as she did of me,” Laurence concluded. “Seward, my head is killing me.”

Seward passed him a small cup. “Drink – it’s the very last of my poppy.”

“Thank you – much appreciated.” He downed it and licked his lips. “The question is: what to do with de Zamora and his resourceful valet? In your words, cold-blooded murder would pile crime upon crime. I won’t pay them to leave England, and I can’t hold them indefinitely in gaol. So we must think of something else.” A loud knock at the door startled them both. “Let’s hope it’s the scouts with that damned bowl.” He tugged a pistol from his saddlebag, cocked it, and rose to open.

Outside was the youth who had waited for him at St. Martin’s Church. “I’m sorry, sir,” the youth said, “but the Spaniards have gone – vanished clean into the night.”

Antonio stuffed the fabric of his cloak deeper into his mouth; he could hear Diego retching quietly beside him. This was hell, he thought: to be submerged in human shit, although the warmth of it calmed the stabbing pain in his ribs. Yet as the driver urged on the withered nag pulling the cart loaded with night soil, and it jolted and bumped along, he had to bite down hard on the cloth to stop from crying out. At last the cart halted. He was afraid to move or breathe. Then he felt Diego’s hands scrabbling for his shoulders, and together they lifted their heads to peer out of the muck. They were both coated in it, and he could distinguish only the whites of Diego’s eyes. Around them were open fields, and above them a clear starlit sky. The driver stomped off a short distance, humming a tune, and returned carrying a shovel.

“Stay,” Diego whispered. He slithered to his knees, and hoisted himself nimbly from the cart. And when the man came in range, he dived for the shovel.

“W
e’re too close,” Laurence yelled to Wilmot, over the ear-splitting boom of mortars, as rubble landed like scatter-shot a mere pace away, alarming their horses. They wheeled about and galloped to safer ground, coughing and spitting from the clouds of powder. “What a massive waste, to build up walls and then blow them to pieces.”

Wilmot looked as excited as a small boy watching his first fireworks. He and Lord Forth had argued against Prince Rupert’s strategy to maintain the circle of garrisons around Oxford, and twelve days after Rupert rode back to Shrewsbury, Council had acted on this advice: the Royalists were moving out of Reading, their nearest stronghold to London. “We had to slight the garrison, Beaumont,” he shouted. “We can’t allow Essex to reap the benefits of our labour, once we withdraw.”

“Now you explain it to me, my lord, it makes excellent sense, though
slight
is an odd word to use for all this destruction.”

“You sarcastic bastard, I gather you disapprove.”

“I do. We should have stuck to Rupert’s plan.”

“It wasn’t practical, with our scant numbers and provisions. You haven’t told me, what brings you here?”

“Digby and I have to make sure that no compromising documents are left behind to entertain the enemy.”

Wilmot pointed at Laurence’s left temple; the skin around his eye was still bruised from Diego’s attack nearly a fortnight ago. “I hope the other fellow came off worse than you did.”

“I hope so, too,” said Laurence, wondering again what had happened to the Spaniards: he had been unable to trace them, nor had he any news of them from home. A cacophony of bangs and blasts echoed through the air, followed by another hail of rubble. He and Wilmot retreated further, brushing fragments of masonry from their cloaks. “How about a wager?” he asked. “I’ll bet you any sum you care to name that Abingdon will be the next to go.”

“Why Abingdon?”

“It’s the logical choice. Our three other garrisons have their own castle walls to protect them. Just Banbury, Wallingford, and Faringdon – that’s a thin line of defence between Oxford and the combined armies of Essex and Waller.”

“They’re sworn rivals. They won’t unite.”

“If they do, His Majesty might be wise to cut his losses and negotiate.”

“Would you say that to His Majesty’s face?”

“Yes I would.”

“You don’t give a damn, do you – one of the many reasons I miss your company, and your counsel. And I’d have to agree: in those circumstances, a settlement would prevent more waste – of materiel
and
of life. But don’t breathe a word to anyone that I said so.” Wilmot pointed out a rider trotting towards them. “Here’s Mr. Price.”

“At last,” said Laurence. “He’s been away recruiting informers in Gloucestershire.”

Price reined in, and removed his hat. “My Lord Wilmot, good day. Mr. Beaumont, his lordship wishes us to attend him.”

“Your lord and master calls,” said Wilmot. “Perhaps I’ll catch you later, Beaumont, and we can
slight
a bottle or two.”

Digby was quartered at a farmhouse about a mile beyond the fortifications. On the way, Laurence asked Price about affairs in Gloucestershire. “Colonel Massey’s troops are staying very near Gloucester garrison these days,” he said, his tone and demeanour distinctly restrained. “He must be on the defensive.”

“How were you received at Chipping Campden?” Laurence inquired, suspecting that Lady Beaumont might be the cause of his mood.

“Her ladyship told me she would discuss my suit with his lordship.”

“You didn’t speak to my father?”

“He was resting and couldn’t be disturbed.”

“Ah … Did my family give you any letters for me?”

“None.”

“Had they any visitors staying at the house?”

“Not as far as I know,” Price replied shortly, and Laurence asked him no more.