The Licence of War (55 page)

“Are you certain, sir?” asked Digby.

“Yes, my lord. When I got a report of his movements, I went in person to confirm it, and ever since I’ve been shadowing his forces with the scouts.”

“What now?” the King inquired, of Council.

“Mr. Beaumont, have we yet superior numbers in this immediate area, as compared to rebels?” Forth wanted to know.

“For the time being, yes, my lord,” Beaumont replied, “but should Waller learn that His Majesty and the princes are here, he’ll dispatch his cavalry for a lightning raid to capture them.”

Forth addressed the King. “We must hasten back to Oxford, Your Majesty, though with our large party we cannot expect to get there much before dawn. Our infantry must be drawn off from the defences to rendezvous with us on the road, in the very early morning. They can keep Waller at bay until we are inside the city.”

“If our plight is so desperate, would it not be the best course to surrender to Essex, Your Majesty, on conditions?” Secretary Nicholas said timidly.

“I may be f-found in the hands of the Earl of Essex,” the King responded, tilting up his chin, “but I shall be dead first.”

“In that case, Your Majesty,” said Forth, “our chief business upon our return will be to effect your escape.”

Digby stared from Forth to the King; and lastly at Beaumont, in whose eyes he read no emotion save an immense weariness.

The gatekeeper’s wife died of her ulcers late in the night, and her putrid corpse required swift burial. In the morning, her husband and family laid her to rest in the churchyard at Chipping Campden while Lady Beaumont took the coach to the gatehouse with Martha and a bevy of servants. She supervised a meticulous cleansing of the sick room, burnt the spoilt linen, and arranged a repast for the funeral party, which by afternoon was in a state of happy oblivion thanks to Martha’s elderflower wine. “Our work is done,” Lady Beaumont said. “Let us go home.”

Geoffrey ran out to the coach as it drew up in the courtyard. “Your ladyship, we have guests, from Spain. Your cousin, Don Antonio de Zamora, rode in at midday accompanied by his valet. They are in the Hall with his lordship and the young mistresses.”

“Goodness me, your ladyship,” Martha exclaimed, as if Geoffrey had announced a visitor from the skies. “Why did we not see them pass by the gatehouse?”

“We were otherwise occupied,” said Lady Beaumont crisply. “I must refresh myself, before I attend them.”

She went straight up to her chamber, where she applied rosewater to her temples, neatened her gown and hair, and pinched her cheeks to bring the blood to them, wishing that her finest jewels were not under the dovecote floor: she was riding into battle without her best weapons. She thought of Antonio’s keepsake, the two-faced medallion locked inside her cabinet. He could have it back, and that was all he would wring out of her, she decided, on her way downstairs.

Near the open doors to the Hall, her courage faltered. How unchanged was Antonio’s voice: as she listened to the cadence of his rapid speech, it seemed as yesterday that she had last heard it. But she had not bargained on his fluency in English; she would have preferred
him stammering and clumsy in the language she had prided herself on mastering. She could see her husband on the edge of his armchair, rapt, while Antonio talked and made expansive gestures with his still supple hands. Anne and Mary were as entranced as his lordship, although Catherine was studying Antonio as might a card player waiting for a cheat at the tables. A fresh-faced youth stationed behind Antonio’s chair was watching everyone with avid interest.

Lord Beaumont rose when Lady Beaumont entered. “My wife, can you believe it? Did you ever imagine that you might be reunited with your cousin here in England?”

Antonio sprang up, one hand pressed to his heart, his face suffused with affection, and bowed to her. “
Mi querida Elena, está usted tan bella como la última vez que la vi.”

“I thank you, Don Antonio,” she said in English. She would not pamper his vanity by returning his compliment, though he was annoyingly well-preserved, with his plentiful head of hair and slender figure; and his eyes glittered with the same old arrogance. His complexion, however, looked to her unhealthy beneath his weathered tan. He was dressed in a stained leather coat and breeches, a less distinguished costume than the olive green suit of velvet that she always remembered on him, and his boots were worn at the heel. As she had suspected, he needed money; and she knew precisely how he would attempt to swindle it out of her.

“Why was I the last to learn of his visit to our country?” Lord Beaumont demanded, surveying the two of them with mixed joy and confusion. “He said that the Spanish Envoy wrote at Christmastide to tell you, my dear. And he has met both Thomas and Laurence, who said nothing of it in their letters home. He could not explain the omission, so I must ask you.”

“It was for our security, my lord,” she said, as the two men resumed their seats. “Had Colonel Purefoy somehow discovered that we were to receive a foreigner – a Catholic and a Spaniard – we might all have been endangered.”

“How right you were,” said Lord Beaumont. “What would we do, my lady, without your forethought? Don Antonio has kept for you his family news, but he has had many tales to relate to us of his adventures in England. He is recovering from a violent attack, and a wasting sickness that was nearly the death of him.”

“I was set upon by Oxford thieves who stole my purse and sword,” Antonio said. “For close on a month, I could not move without excruciating agony from my broken ribs, and then on top of it, I was delirious with fever and riven with pains from the flux. I commended my soul to heaven more times than I can count. But God in His infinite mercy spared me,” he finished, “and here I am.”

“We are as infinitely grateful to God, Don Antonio,” she said, wondering how much of his tale was true, though it did excuse his pallor. “Might I inquire as to the length of your visit?”

“That will depend upon your hospitality, my sweet cousin, and that of his lordship.”

“Our hospitality will depend upon the rebels, sir. Should we have the smallest fear that they may encroach again on our part of the county, you will have to go from this house.”

“I would never dream of endangering you,” Antonio said. “My Lady Elena, you do not appear to share my bliss at our meeting.”

“Don Antonio, please forgive her,” said Lord Beaumont, and to her, “You took so much upon yourself, nursing that poor woman, and then arranging her funeral.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, “it was a tiring and dispiriting business.”

“I pray Elizabeth is not so tired by it, and will come down to us soon? Don Antonio is anxious to meet all of our children.”

“Elizabeth? She was not with me.”

“But she asked my leave to walk over to the gatehouse, after the coach had departed. I saw her set out, carrying a basket on her arm. She must have had a change of mind, and turned for home.” Lord Beaumont shook his head indulgently at Antonio. “You have daughters of your
own, Don Antonio – you must sympathise: how difficult it is, for a father to understand their moods.”

“Years ago, I surrendered that impossible task to my wife, Teresa, bless her heart,” laughed Antonio.

Lady Beaumont turned to the young women. Mary and Catherine appeared no more than puzzled. Anne looked aghast. “Anne,” she said, “Elizabeth may be in her chamber. Let us go and see.” They left the Hall at a dignified pace. On the stair she grabbed Anne’s arm and they raced up to Elizabeth’s bedchamber. It was empty, and a note lay on the pillow. “Read it,” she told Anne.

“ ‘To my dearest family: it grieves me to distress you, but I could wait no longer to be with Mr. Price, to whom I consider myself betrothed. You must not fear for my honour or for my safety. His trusted servants are to escort me from Chipping Campden to Oxford, where he and I shall be joined in wedlock. I pray you will look well upon us as a married couple, wanting my happiness as I desire yours. He has pledged to provide for me and cherish me more than his life, and he is a man of his word. I remain your loving daughter, Elizabeth,.’ ” Anne concluded weakly.

Lady Beaumont’s mother used to comfort her that God in His omniscience had measured every burden placed upon His children on earth, even if they could not comprehend why they must suffer; and that He would give them just due in heaven for their trials. Yet today Lady Beaumont felt that God had pushed her too far. She sank onto Elizabeth’s bed. “Did you know of this?”

“I swear not. She was angry on the day of Catherine’s fit, but then she talked no more to me of Mr. Price. I thought she was reconciled to the impossibility of the match. She had become more cheerful recently. She must have had a message from him, though how it was delivered I’ve no idea. I ought to have asked her.” Anne began to cry. “I blame myself.”

“It is
he
I blame, the dissembling knave.” Lady Beaumont spoke with new determination. “Geoffrey may yet catch her and these
trusted
servants
on the Oxford road. Failing that, he must find Laurence in Oxford, and they must deal with the rogue together. I want to keep the truth from his lordship and from my cousin for as long as possible,” she added, picturing Antonio’s glee if he learnt about Elizabeth’s disobedience in the name of love; he would call it more evidence of bad blood. “Go down to the Hall and say that she left word of her intention to visit friends in town. And say that I was all of a sudden overwhelmed by the surprise of seeing my cousin again, and wish to rest undisturbed until supper. Then have Geoffrey come to me in my upstairs office.”

Laurence had galloped back from Woodstock with Lord Forth’s command that the Oxford Foot were to meet His Majesty’s Troop some miles north of the city defences. Afterwards, in a state beyond fatigue, he had collapsed upon his bed at Digby’s quarters and slept like the dead. Shortly after dawn, a travel-worn Quayle had woken him to say that the royal party had marched through the night and was now safely inside the defences. Laurence feted this event by washing and shaving, and changing his linen.

“Lord Forth has been created Earl of Brentford by the King in reward for his service,” Digby announced, when Laurence emerged from his chamber, “and in view of yours yesterday, the Earl wishes you to play a crucial role in His Majesty’s escape. Once dusk falls, His Majesty, Prince Charles, and the Council of War – myself included – will slip out through our northern fortifications where our Horse is stationed. We must delude Essex as to our movements, so you are to spread word through your informers in his camp that we intend a strike on Waller in Abingdon. A troop of our Foot and some of our artillery shall then march south with full colours, in the hope of forcing Waller back from Newbridge to defend his garrison.”

“You’ll need sound intelligence from
his
camp,” said Laurence, deciding quickly who should be assigned to which place.

By afternoon, Laurence’s scouts reported that Essex knew of these Royalist troops marching on Waller, and was continuing his assault on the eastern side of Oxford; and Waller had indeed retreated from Newbridge to protect Abingdon. So far, so good, Laurence thought. The same Royalist troops could now withdraw again to Oxford, and launch a second feint on Waller tomorrow morning, to keep him distracted while the King’s party rode further from the city.

Digby was packing at his quarters. “You will come with us tonight,” he said to Laurence. “Mr. Price has volunteered to stay behind and supervise the destruction of my correspondence, should the rebels invade.”

“Brave fellow,” Laurence observed. “He’ll face a hanging if he’s caught.”

Towards afternoon he sought out Price, who was across the street at their usual tavern, eating. Immediately Price set down his spoon, as if he had lost his appetite. “I hear you won’t come north with us,” said Laurence, “and I wanted to tell you: I admire your courage.”

“Thank you,” said Price, lowering his eyes.

“You’ve done yourself proud in his lordship’s service, and you’ve been very patient with me. Forgive me my short temper, on numerous occasions. Well, Price, if … if we don’t see each other again before I leave, I wish you the best of luck.”

“And good luck to you, Beaumont,” muttered Price.

Around nine o’clock in the evening, the King and Prince Charles hugged young Prince James goodbye; the boy would remain in the city, under the protection of Governor Aston. Laurence knew that it must have been a heartbreaking decision to divide the royal family once more, when the Queen was far away at Exeter awaiting the birth of her child, yet His Majesty had accepted it as necessary, lest he and Prince Charles be taken hostage. With his Council, his servants, his personal Troop, and various others who felt their lives in imminent danger, he set off quietly through Oxford’s northern defences, where five thousand
Royalist cavalry were readying to follow him. Laurence rode beside Digby and the civilian members of Council, behind the royals; Wilmot’s Horse provided the vanguard; and Forth joined His Majesty’s advance with two and a half thousand musketeers purposely bereft of their regimental colours, and no heavy artillery or baggage trains to slow them down.

At dawn they reached the village of Yarnton, where the King had met up with his Foot twenty-four hours earlier. Although this stage of the escape had been accomplished in good order, Laurence was holding his breath for reports on enemy movements. Scouts galloped in to warn that Essex had at last crossed the Cherwell, and some of his men were as near as Woodstock. Part of Waller’s army had spread up from Newbridge and were not five miles from Yarnton. His Majesty would soon be hemmed in, unless the two Parliamentary generals were still deceived into thinking he had not left Oxford. Laurence sent the scouts back to investigate, and His Majesty regrouped his forces to carry on marching northwest. By nine in the morning, as they assembled on Hanborough Heath, near the market town of Witney, news came that Essex and Waller were in pursuit, infuriated that the King had eluded them. To maintain his advantage, he could not rest.