The Licence of War (66 page)

“Your
situation
?”

“Don Antonio, the immortal Petronius tells us,
Qualis dominus, talis et servus –
like master, like servant. You’ve been my master, but I am not like you. In fact,” Diego continued, “I’m your superior, and you’ve become a millstone around my neck. The Envoy has promised
to further my career. I shouldn’t be amazed if one day I hold high office as a diplomat. And if by chance we meet again, which I sincerely hope may never be the case, please don’t expect me to acknowledge our acquaintance.”

Antonio unsheathed his rapier. In a trice, a bunch of ragged sailors encircled him, and a stout, smartly clad gentleman of weather-beaten countenance hurried up to stand in front of Diego. “Sir, as captain of this vessel, I command you to put away your weapon and let this young man leave unharmed.”

“Certainly, sir,” Antonio said, and slid his rapier into its sheath. “Goodbye, Diego, and I wish you the future you deserve, in this godforsaken country,” he added, in Spanish.

“
Más vale maña que fuerza,”
taunted Diego. He bowed mockingly, and sallied away.

Antonio looked round agreeably at the men. “I shall translate, for those of you unfamiliar with my language. How do the English say it –
brains are worth more than brawn
.”

Although a hole had been cut into the floor of Pembroke’s coach for Laurence to breathe, he was fainting and soaked in perspiration when the coach stopped towards midday, less than ten miles from Westminster. But they had passed through the defences. After he had shaken off his cramp, he and Isabella bade a grateful goodbye to Pembroke.

“My lady,” said Pembroke, “were every boy like you, I should turn sodomite.”

“Your lordship flatters me,” said Isabella, with her old arch smile.

“I swear it is the truth. And remember, sir,” he said, in a private aside to Laurence, “my assistance is not free of charge. How should we communicate?”

“Through the code you used in those letters you want back,” Laurence suggested. “If all goes well, I intend to leave Lady Hallam
at Governor Aston’s house. I’ll get a message to her, once I have news for you.”

He and Isabella walked on until nightfall, when they searched out a dry spot in a hedgerow to sleep. Isabella’s feet had bled into her ill-fitting boy’s shoes, and she had been limping towards the end, yet nothing could depress her mood. He felt as blissfully complete. The sight of her face, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her body next to his, gave him delight both agonising and exquisite, because it could not last. In the morning, he managed to buy a horse at extortionate cost. Driving the animal harder than he thought fair with its double burden, he cut across country to Oxford, which they reached in darkness. Governor Aston invited him to rest a while, but he stayed just to scribble a note for Aston to send on to Chipping Campden, and kissed Isabella on the hand; the Governor was watching. Then, with a fresh horse from Aston’s stables, he travelled southwest nearly eighty miles, tracking the King’s army into Somerset.

He rode into His Majesty’s camp muddy, reeking of sweat, saddle-sore, and so worn that he could barely think. At the cottage where Lord Digby was billeted, he received a frigid welcome. His lordship looked unwell, his eyes puffy, his mouth trembling. “I should felicitate you upon returning alive, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “though I surmise that you did not succeed in your endeavour.” From his pocket he produced a diamond ring. “I received this with Isabella’s finger inside. I presume it was cut off before she burnt to death.”

Laurence started to laugh, to Digby’s manifest horror. “My lord, as you may have guessed, Veech cut the finger – from
Lucy’s
hand when she was already dead. And he took the ring from Isabella
before
her escape from the Tower. She’s now at Governor Aston’s house, alive and well, with all ten of her fingers.”

Digby gave a little cry, and dissolved into tears.

When he had dried them, Laurence recounted to him the events at the Tower, omitting the names of those involved in her rescue. “And as to who assisted in our flight from London, my lord, I must remain
as silent. These people ventured far more for Isabella than I, and their lives are still in danger, as a consequence. Did her legal counsel, Mr. Draycott, come to you?”

“Yes, at our camp in Evesham over a week ago, with some unlikely tale about wishing to go to her aid. He begged me for your help – to deliver you to Veech, if I am not mistaken. Mr. Price recognised him as Veech’s accomplice. He is being held in Oxford Castle.”

“God damn,” swore Laurence. “If I’d known when I was there … He was telling you the truth, as Isabella will confirm. He’s an honest man who was forced against his will to spy for Veech. He must be freed at once.”

“You say he is honest, and yet you cannot be honest with
me
, sir, as to how you effected Isabella’s escape
and
yours. I financed the operation – I deserve to know.”

“Is it not enough for you that she was rescued?” Laurence asked, thinking his lordship more deserved a punch in the face.

“I believe you are shielding the same
friend
in Parliament who gave you intelligence last January of the plot to seize Prince Rupert hostage, and I would like to have his name. It’s an issue of trust between us,” Digby added, in a threatening tone. “Comply with my request and I will send Aston an order to free Draycott. Until you do, I see no reason to let him out.”

“Then if you will pardon me,” said Laurence, “I must seek an audience with the King, before I succumb to my fatigue.”

“I hope you remember, sir: we agreed you would accept full responsibility for your venture to London. Should you discuss it with His Majesty, do please make clear to him that it was your idea. After all, the credit should be entirely yours, for your gallant and intrepid deed.”

“Thank you, but I am unworthy of such lavish praise.”

“My dear Mr. Beaumont, has no one ever told you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?”

“I can imagine no one better than you to remind me, my lord.”

“
Touché,”
exclaimed Digby. “If only you were as skilled with a rapier – it would give me great pleasure to spar with you. And now, sir, you would do well to avail yourself of soap and water, lest you offend His Majesty’s nose. He is quartered in town at the house of a Mr. Dawes.”

Without consideration for His Majesty’s nose, Laurence went straight to the royal quarters. The King was exercising his dogs in Mr. Dawes’ garden, and graciously agreed to see Laurence. He listened while Laurence described a somewhat different version of the events in London, telling him of Pembroke’s exceptional courage. “Your Majesty, Lady Hallam and I are in debt to him for our lives, and I know he’s filled with remorse for his past treachery.”

“I am heartened by that, Mr. Beaumont,” the King said, as he threw a ball to his frolicking dogs. “Were he to renounce his aff-fection to Parliament and join me here, I would be more heartened still.”

“Yes I’m sure of it, Your Majesty, but he’s of the opinion that he can better serve you by representing the interests of the peace party at Westminster,” Laurence said, creatively.

“They must be a s-sorry bunch, these days,” murmured the King.

“He did request a favour, in exchange for the immense risk he undertook for us, your agents.”

One of the dogs had raced back with the ball, and deposited it at the King’s feet. He bent to pick it up, examining it with a meditative air as the dog wagged its tail, panting, eager for the game to recommence. “What f-favour, sir?”

“If it please Your Majesty, he desires the return of those letters between him and Sir Bernard Radcliff, that weigh so heavily on his conscience.”

The King fixed on Laurence his liquid brown eyes. “Mr. B-beaumont, you were the man who found him out. And as I remember, you were of the view that he should have been b-brought to trial, and that I showed him undue mercy.”

“I did, Your Majesty. But, like the Earl, I have had a change of heart.”

“I cannot accede to his desire. When, by God’s grace, peace is restored to my kingdom, and I to my city of London, I shall consider a p-pardon to those who have unlawfully rebelled against me, my Lord Pembroke included. That is my answer, unless, as I told you, he will come unto my camp, in open proof of his fealty to me.”

“I thank Your Majesty,” said Laurence. “And if I could suggest to Your Majesty, he may be able to offer you further assistance in London, so long as he’s not discovered by the Committee of Both Kingdoms, or by anyone in Your Majesty’s camp who might inadvertently expose him to Parliament as your friend.”

“Are you asking me to k-keep his name from my Secretary of State?”

Laurence met the King’s eyes. “I am pleading with Your Majesty to keep his name a secret between
us
.”

“Very well, sir, you have my promise.” Laurence reiterated his thanks, and bowed; the King had turned back to his dogs. “Good boy, good girl,” he crooned, as they gambolled about his ankles.

How to trust the promise of this king, Laurence wondered, as he walked away. Then he saw Digby coming towards him, evidently bound for the garden. Digby stopped to inquire, “Was your audience satisfactory, sir?” Laurence did not answer, brushing by so close that his lordship had to step hastily out of his path.

Pembroke watched the troop of guards file in ceremony through the doors of the House of Commons; they were carrying the Royalist standards seized at Marston Moor. Once proud, the banners were now stained and tattered; pieces must have been torn from the cloth by greedy soldiers as trophies of war. “Alas for Rupert,” he muttered, recognising the Prince’s standard: black and gold for the Palatinate, and blue and silver for Bavaria.

He was about to leave when Oliver St. John came stalking purposefully in his direction. “My lord,” St. John said, “we must praise God for this proof of our victory: forty-eight colours in all.”

“I shall take your word for it – I have not yet had occasion to count them,” said Pembroke, unwilling to show him any politesse.

“I gather you were absent from the Upper House this week.”

“Yes: I made a journey to Woburn, to call upon the Earl of Bedford.”

“On a political matter?”

“No, sir, it was to discuss some alterations that he is planning for his house.”

“My lord, when you passed through the redoubt at Constitution Hill on your way out of the City, the patrol on duty saw a young boy sitting up beside your coachman. When you returned yesterday, via that route, he was not with you. Who was he?”

Pembroke feigned bemusement. “You show an uncommon interest in my comings and goings, sir.”

“Not I, my lord – my agent Mr. Veech brought this to my notice. Mr. Veech is attempting to recapture Lady Hallam, who escaped from the Tower in the guise of a boy, two days before you departed for my Lord Bedford’s house. He fears she may have slipped by our defences.”

“Would he imply she did so in
my vehicle
?” asked Pembroke, so scathingly that St. John blushed. “The boy is kin to my steward, who had been training him in the duties of a page. I’ve no room for more servants in my small quarters at the Cockpit. Bedford offered to accept him into his household, and I conveyed him thence. Your agent can go himself to Woburn, if he is still curious.”

“My lord, were you not acquainted with Sir Montague Hallam?”

“He was my wine merchant.”

“And were you ever introduced to Lady Hallam?”

Pembroke laughed, shaking his head. “It is not my habit, sir, to keep company with tradesmen or with their good lady wives.”

Ignoring St. John’s embarrassment, he carried on towards the street doors. A dark bulky-figured man in a long coat blocked his exit. “My Lord Pembroke,” the man said, in a sonorous voice, “I am Clement Veech. I apologise to your lordship if Mr. St. John and I caused you inconvenience with our questions.”

Pembroke’s fingers twitched on his cane. “Mr. St. John is a lawyer, sir. Before you cause me more inconvenience, you should inquire of him the penalty for defaming a peer of the realm.”

“I only seek the truth, my lord, to bring criminals to justice, whosoever they may be. It’s a virtue of this country that no man, not even the King, can be above the law.” Veech retreated, and Pembroke went out swearing to himself.

Buffeted by wind, the Royalist army stood massed on Dartmoor as the King and Prince Charles rode forward to acknowledge the knots of local onlookers. “Not many recruits to be had among these Somerset yokels, though they can boast to their grandchildren that they once saw His Majesty in the flesh,” Digby observed to Laurence, whom he was keeping close to his side during the march southwest, and out of Wilmot’s purview. His lordship had been all warmth and cordiality since their discussion of Isabella, as though repenting of his own ingratitude, which did not deceive Laurence.

Today Prince Charles presented himself with a new, adult dignity. Nothing like war to turn a youth into a man, Laurence thought, although his nightmares reminded him how vulnerable the Prince was still, as a boy of fourteen. The King, meanwhile, appeared in a sanguine mood: his beloved wife had eluded capture by Parliament and sailed from Falmouth over a week ago, leaving the baby princess in care of the Governor at Exeter, where the army was now headed.

“The King talks of demolishing Essex’s forces, as he threw Waller’s into chaos,” Digby said. “Even our northern defeat has not cast him low – it has only endeared Rupert the more to him.”

“ ‘I shall conclude with this promise to you,.’ ” the King’s messenger was declaring, reading from His Majesty’s script, “ ‘that I shall look upon your cheerfulness in this service as the greatest expression of your loyalty and affections that you can make or I receive, which I shall requite, if it be in my power. If I live not to do it, I hope this young man, my son, your fellow soldier in this expedition, will, to whom I shall particularly give it charge..’ ”