The Licence of War (63 page)

“Have you any idea who her father was, my lord? She doesn’t know to this day, as far as
I
know.”

“I assume it was someone in the Digby family. Gossip suggested that she was George Digby’s half-sister, yet I’d swear Bristol did not father her: he was too proper for adultery. Mr. Beaumont, what tidings do you bring for me, from the King?”

“He was most thankful that you saved his nephew from capture by Essex,” replied Beaumont, after another, significant pause. “As to his forgiveness, you may have to wait.”

“Until hell freezes over,” said Pembroke.

Veech caught Oliver St. John on his way into Westminster Hall; St. John did not slacken his pace, forcing Veech to hurry, dragging his bad leg. “I know what you are about to tell me,” St. John said brusquely. “Mr. Beaumont is at the French embassy. He may be a criminal and a malignant, sir, but we have no power to root him out of there.”

“He left the embassy last night, almost as soon as he arrived,” Veech said, relishing St. John’s consternation as he spoke. “One of the ambassador’s equerries is in my pay, and reported to me this morning how Monsieur Sabron pleaded with the ambassador to keep Beaumont’s disappearance from public knowledge.”

St. John pursed together his old crone’s lips. “I trust your men are searching for him.”

“Yes, sir, but our best chance is to catch him red-handed at the Tower. I shall place an extra detail of guards outside Lady Hallam’s cell.”

St. John stopped and turned on Veech. “If you apprehend him, he must be questioned not by you alone but by a delegation from the Committee of Both Kingdoms, and he must be tried and sentenced according to the
due process of law
. I should not have heeded your advice about him. He came to London of his own accord, and now we have
dirtied our hands in trying to bargain with Lord Digby. Your judgement was clouded by vindictiveness. Good day to you, sir.”

Veech grinned after St. John’s upright back, and pushed through the usual crowds of Members, lawyers, clerks, petitioners, and hawkers towards Westminster Stairs. He took a skiff, the route so familiar to him that he could estimate how long his journey would take by the colour and flow of the water. Today he felt exhilarated, sitting in the bow, watching the boatman toil away as he had once toiled over his oar in the crystal seas of the Mediterranean, and beyond. He was inspired to send a third package to Lord Digby: a reminder of Lady Hallam. And then, finally, he and Beaumont would meet face to face.

Laurence’s message, delivered to Sarah by Pembroke’s potboy, was answered the next morning after Pembroke had left for the Upper House. A young costermonger appeared at the kitchen door with a basket of cherries, and on a discreet sign from Laurence, the cook invited him to step in. He and Laurence were both tearful, speaking of Barlow. Jem explained that on the day of his uncle’s arrest Lady Hallam had sent for him in the small hours to collect something from her. He was delayed by a bellyache, and in the end Barlow had gone in his stead, but not until afternoon. “He’d still be alive if not for me, sir. Sarah fetched his corpse at the gaol. She could hardly rekkernise him, he was so banged about! She had him laid near Mistress Edwards and Jane in St. Saviour’s yard.” Jem sniffed, and mopped his eyes on his dirty sleeve. “She says the old mistress would have been proud of him, though. He didn’t just die a thief – he struck a blow for His Majesty’s cause.”

“So he did,” said Laurence, thinking how much the King owed to his humblest subjects, and how little he would mourn a dead thief.

“We want vengeance, sir. Sarah won’t stop ’til she gets it. Have you come to do away with the fiend what killed him?”

“I swear to you I will, Jem. First I need your help. I have to free Lady Hallam from the Tower.”

“God’s bodkin! If she was a common sort, that’d be easy. A noblewoman like her won’t pass unnoticed.”

“Veech will know I’m in London, to make things harder for you. But she can be disguised as a boy. She’s had some practice at it.” Laurence described his flimsy scheme, and gave Jem the bottle containing Seward’s narcotic potion, and a large advance from Digby’s funds. “I wish I could take on the risk myself.”

“You can’t,” said Jem. “You was an ugly old woman once, but for this job of work we need pretty women, and a young fellow of about my size.”

Around midday, Jem returned. “We’ll have her out tomorrow tonight, sir. Sarah went round the Tower with Barlow’s cousin’s wife, Ruth, selling cherry pies, and they found out where Lady Hallam’s being kept. Veech put a special watch on the cell – boys from the Trained Bands. The guards don’t like these newcomers. And Sarah and Ruth have won over the guards. Sarah promised them a feast tonight, meat pies and ale, and plenty of ladies for their entertainment. Sarah’s cousin Tim will have a boat at the dock, to get us to his house in Bermondsey.”

“What about Veech?” asked Laurence.

“He’ll be drawn out on a hunt, sir, looking for you – in
Cripple
gate,” Jem added, with a malicious smile at his own witticism.

Lord Digby must have been angelic in youth, Draycott thought, but his cheeks had become pouched like a squirrel’s; and his blond hair, neatly curled, was thinning at the crown. The robin’s-egg shade of his eyes matched the gloves in his left hand. In his right, he held the letters that he had been reading at his desk, one from Oliver St. John and the other from Lady Isabella. He addressed Draycott in an icy tone. “Before we speak of these, how is she?”

“When I last saw her five days ago, she was regaining her health. She had contracted a fever from her maid, who died of it.”

“Poor Lucy,” said Digby, gazing at him as though he were responsible.

“My lord, we can still save
her
life.”

“At the cost of Mr. Beaumont’s? The very notion is odious.”

“It is,” said Draycott. “And I am not here to obey Mr. St. John, or Clement Veech, the man who encouraged him to make you this proposition. I detest Veech more than words can express. I wish he were dead.” Draycott pulled two books from his pocket and gave them to Digby. “Please go to the note in the margin, on the twentieth page of
Remedia Amoris
. She has written a note for Mr. Beaumont, in the other book.”

Digby flicked through to that page, read, then closed the book, and placed both volumes on his desk. “How can you prove to me Lady Hallam was not coerced into penning those lines insisting on your honesty, and that Veech has not overlaid one proposal with another, more cunningly framed, to lure Beaumont to
his
death? Why should he or I believe you, Mr. Draycott, when you and Veech serve the same master?”

“I am not asking Mr. Beaumont to come to London. What I require is his expertise, and if he has people there who could assist me—”

“Who you would then surrender to Veech.”

“No, my lord. Allow me to speak with Mr. Beaumont or at least show him what she wrote. We’ve bought some time to plan the rescue. Even if she is condemned, St. John will not allow her sentence to be carried out until he has your answer.”

Digby hesitated, twirling a lock of his blond hair round and round his fingertips. “What is inside that basket you brought with you, sir?” Draycott set it upon the desk, unhooked a latch on top, and lifted the lid. “Bless me – Niger!”

“She asked me to bring it to you, my lord. Sir Montague would have let it starve, and she feared to keep it at the Tower, lest Veech torture it in front of her.”

“I thank you, sir.” Digby called for his servant and murmured
something to him. The man nodded, picked up the basket, and left them.

A moment later, a young man swaggered in; Draycott recognised him at once, despite his broken nose. He bowed to Digby, and sneered at Draycott, “How’s Mr. Veech? Are you still tied to his apron strings?”

“Apparently not,” said Digby. “Mr. Draycott tells me that he is prepared to betray Veech
and
his masters in Parliament by procuring Lady Hallam’s escape.”

“The liar,” said Price. “He’s Veech’s man. He was sent to her house to winkle information out of her and Sir Montague.”

“I was, against my will, as she knows,” countered Draycott.

Digby held up his hand, like a schoolmaster before two unruly pupils. “Mr. Draycott, your brave offer is too late: Mr. Beaumont has already gone to London, to Lady Hallam’s aid.”

“Then he and I can work together! I have access to her cell, and the trust of her gaolers. And Veech shares the same mistaken opinion of me as Mr. Price. No matter how resourceful Beaumont is, he can’t succeed alone.”

“Don’t listen to him, my lord,” said Price.

“I have listened, and … no, Mr. Draycott,” Digby said. “You shall be taken under guard to Oxford, and detained there as my prisoner until further notice.”

Lady Beaumont felt glad of Antonio’s slothful habits: he had not yet descended from his bedchamber by half past nine of the morning, when she went out to greet a party of three riders who came galloping into the courtyard leading a couple of spare mounts. One of the party, dark and thickset, wore a ruby red velvet suit and matching cloak; the others wore livery.

The gentleman dismounted and bowed. “My Lady Beaumont, Capitán Enrique Iturbe, at your service. Don Alonso de Cárdenas dispatched me from London, in answer to your letter.”

“Heaven be praised,” she said, and dropped him a weak-kneed curtsey.

“It is your genius that deserves praise, my Lady Beaumont.” Iturbe switched to Spanish as Jacob came to take the horses. “Following your suggestion, I have with me a document for Don Antonio de Zamora that purports to be from the Royal Court of His Majesty King Philip: an offer of employment that Don Antonio should find irresistible. He will not discover that it is fictitious until he lands on Spanish soil.”

“May God bless the Envoy!”

“My lady, he is more than pleased to remove any potential threat to the harmonious relations between Spain and Westminster. And he told me that he will derive a certain
private
pleasure from sending Don Antonio home.”

“Sir, you shall soon meet my husband, who is out walking with our daughters. For various reasons I have kept from him and from our household the truth about Don Antonio’s misbehaviour in London, and the favour that I solicited from the Envoy. I must ask your discretion on those matters.”

“You have it, my lady.” They went together into the Hall, and when they were seated, Iturbe produced a scrolled document from the satchel he was carrying. “The offer, suitably travel-worn. The copy of the royal seal is an exquisite piece of work.”

Lady Beaumont hesitated to take it; she could hear the clatter of boots on the stair. “It is him. He must have spied on us from his chamber window.”

Antonio strode in, shadowed inevitably by Diego. “My Lady Elena, who have we here: a fellow Spaniard, if I am not wrong!”

Iturbe rose to introduce himself and performed a low obeisance. “I am speechless at the honour of your acquaintance, Don Antonio – hero of a hundred battles, famed throughout Spain for your courage in the Imperial cause. How well you merit the title by which you were known:
El Valoroso
.”

Perhaps Antonio had not been vainly boasting, Lady Beaumont thought; or was Iturbe flattering him? “The Captain is come with unexpected tidings for you, Don Antonio,” she said.

“No less well merited, sir, than your military reputation.” Iturbe gave Antonio the scroll. “It is with supreme joy that I deliver this to you. I feared it would never reach you. I was months travelling over land, and by sea, and when I got to England I could not be sure that King Charles’s enemies would respect my safe conduct. I also feared that I might be robbed of the advance payment I have for you, in the event that you accept our king’s offer.”

Antonio was reading with an ostensible mixture of bewilderment, pride, and greed. “From the Escorial Palace! On behalf of His Majesty King Philip … A commission to train his regiment of cavalry for a campaign in …” He frowned up at Iturbe. “Who suggested that His Majesty should call me out of my retirement, to so honour me?”

“A comrade in arms of yours in Madrid, Don Antonio. I cannot recollect his name, but he insisted to His Majesty that only you were capable of leading this onerous mission. Our ambassador in London was as hearty in his recommendation of you.”

“Don Alonso? But we did not part on the best note.”

“So he told me. You know these diplomats – caution runs in their blood. He has since forgiven you your improvident flight from his house. Now, our ship departs for Cádiz in about a week, and there will be no direct passage to Spain for another month. You will have to bid a hasty goodbye to the Lady Elena and her noble family, and ride with me for Oxford this afternoon. We shall then proceed straight to London, from whence we are to embark. But … I should first ascertain: will you accept His Majesty’s commission?”

“Of course I accept,” replied Antonio.

“It is all so sudden, Capitán,” Lady Beaumont said to Iturbe, feigning regret. “His lordship will be as sorry as I am that Don Antonio must leave us.”

“It causes me equal grief,” said Antonio, straightening his shoulders, “but if His Majesty calls, I must obey. Diego, we shall prepare our baggage.”

Diego’s canny eyes sought her out, and she detected a marked suspicion in his face. Then he smiled politely. “At your command, Don Antonio.”

As they were alone, Iturbe winked at Lady Beaumont. “When a man gives you a free horse, you do not look into its mouth to count its teeth.”

“I pray he will not, though I am more worried about his sly valet. Is it true what you said about his reputation?”

“Oh yes – he was singularly brave, though on occasion too reckless of his life, and those of his soldiers. On the issue of prayer,” Iturbe continued more quietly, “did you renounce our Holy Mother Church, when you married his lordship?”

“Why yes, or else his parents would have rejected me as his bride.”

“Might I implore your discretion, for a secret of my own?” She nodded. “I am an ordained priest, unbeknownst to Don Alonso. I came to London, not from Spain, but from Brussels, to supply financial aid to my Franciscan brethren in England. If you desire, I could receive you back into the Church, and hear your confession.”