The Licence of War (67 page)

His audience hurrahed and clapped, drums rolled, and trumpets blared. As the parade broke up, Wilmot cantered his horse towards Laurence and Digby. “My Lord Digby,” he said, in his peremptory manner, “might I speak with Mr. Beaumont? I want to borrow his scouts tonight, to go on a foray.”

“Do not be long, sir,” Digby told Laurence, unctuously.

Laurence felt a quiver of anxiety as he rode after Wilmot, who reined in when they were some distance from the ranks and exclaimed, “Digby seems to think he’s your goddamned wet nurse.”

“He wants me by him because he doesn’t trust me any more,” said Laurence.

“Well he’s stirring up trouble for
me
, spewing slander to the King. Beaumont, are you privy to his correspondence with Prince Rupert?”

“Not recently, though he uses a figure I devised for him.”

“I know he’s conspiring against me, reinventing himself as Rupert’s ally. He may even be encouraging the King to demote me.”

“That can’t be true, not when we may soon engage with Essex,” objected Laurence, appalled by Wilmot’s grandiose fantasies. “The King will be relying upon you, as his best general of Horse.”

“That’s precisely it, Beaumont.” Wilmot urged his mount up to Laurence’s. “Digby has convinced the King that the war can yet be won in the field. He’s a panderer of dreams to His Majesty. We’ve lost the north, most of England’s ports, much of the midlands, and a large part of the southeast. The royal cause is doomed. If it weren’t for Digby and that turd Culpeper, we could end hostilities in a matter of months – or before. Many of us in the army believe that if made the
right offer, Essex will come to an accommodation. He’s no friend to the radical Independents, either in Westminster or in the Parliament’s northern armies. He’d settle for a peace, rather than protract a war that will ruin our country. And if he does, we shall save lives, to say nothing of our estates.”

“Whatever happens to Digby or Culpeper, you know the King will never accept peace on any terms but his own. And Essex will refuse to negotiate without consent of Parliament, as he has in the past.”

Wilmot tapped the side of his nose with a gloved finger. “His Majesty can’t go on fighting without his southern army. And that army is with
me
, Beaumont. Who else has its respect? Not Forth. He must be tossing and turning every night, wondering how quickly the King will have Rupert replace him as Lord Marshal. No surprise Digby has been cuddling up to Rupert: the Prince will have vast power with the King.”

“What evidence do you have of this?”

“Not as much as I would like, which is where
you
can help me. You must be able to get to his lordship’s correspondence.”

Swallowing a stream of invective, Laurence took a moment to compose himself. “You don’t quite grasp my position with our Secretary of State. He was so infuriated after I rode with you at Cropredy Bridge that he sent me on an errand to London from which he must have hoped I wouldn’t come back. And since then, he won’t let me near his private communications.”

“Find a means of reading them, Beaumont.”

“As your friend, Wilmot, I beg you not to ask.”

“I
am
asking. Don’t forget your pledge to me.”

“I can’t promise you any result.”

“There’s my man,” said Wilmot, slapping him on the shoulder.

On the twenty-sixth of July, Digby went with the King, Prince Charles, and the royal Troop to a joyful meeting outside Exeter, where they were greeted by Prince Maurice, Digby’s father Bristol, the city
Governor, and most of the principal gentlemen and Commissioners of Somerset and Devon. An enthusiastic crowd waited cheering at the gates, but the King did not pause for an address; with his eldest son, Digby, and Bristol, he rode to the Governor’s house to see his infant daughter for the first time.

In the afternoon Council assembled, joined by Maurice, whom Digby found even cruder in manner and more tiresomely overbearing than his brother Rupert. It was at length decided that while His Majesty’s army replenished its store of provisions with the assistance of the local gentry and officials, Prince Maurice’s army would serve as an advance guard to chase Essex into Cornwall, which was, in the King’s words, a county most affectionate to the royal cause.

Before supper, Digby and Bristol adjourned to their chamber in the Governor’s house; they had not talked in an age. “His Majesty did not exaggerate: Henrietta is the prettiest babe,” said Digby, averting his eyes as his less fastidious father unlaced and sat down upon the close stool.

Bristol was quiet, concentrating, and then exhaled a contented sigh. “Pray God her mother reaches France safely,” he said, beckoning Quayle to pass him a napkin.

Digby let him finish and restore his clothing, then dismissed Quayle and shut the door. “So, Rupert is heading south again, to his headquarters at Shrewsbury. How admirable he is, to have pulled back together a fighting force even while crushed by the death of his darling Boy at Marston Moor. And at last he has moved on
our
behalf.”

“Ah yes?” said Bristol, as he gave his fingertips a cursory rinse in the water basin.

“He has dispatched General Goring – to the city of Bristol, by coincidence – in search of powder supplies.”

“That is marvellous, George!”

“Marvellous but late.” Digby unlocked the coffer where he stored his correspondence, and produced his copy of the King’s letter. “Written on my advice,” he said, handing it to his father.

“ ‘Nephew,.’ ” Bristol read aloud, “ ‘this is most earnestly to desire you, as you love your own preservation and mine, to send me General Goring with all speed … I hope you will not delay the doing of it, for I assure you the importance of it is no less than as I have said, and for which I am sure you will thank me as soon as ye shall know the particular reasons of it … and so I rest, Your loving uncle and most faithful friend, Charles R.’ This is dated over a month ago. Did the Prince not respond?”

“He did not. Then the battle at Cropredy redeemed Wilmot in the public eye, and the timorous Culpeper, among others, refused to act until we had accurate reports of the Prince’s victory in Yorkshire. When the catastrophic news reached us, I gave up hope that Goring could be spared. And after I had taken inordinate pains to smooth over the differences between Rupert and myself! I have copies of those letters, too, in case
he
ever accuses me of conspiring against him.”

“Keep him kindly disposed to you, George: write tonight, and thank him.” Bristol regarded his son more soberly. “Now tell me about Isabella.” He exclaimed under his breath, when Digby described Sir Montague’s ignominious behaviour. “What a louse, and a traitor both to her and to the royal cause.”

“Somehow Mr. Beaumont extricated her from the Tower, and she is now in Oxford. He said the rescue was not to be credited to him, but to his friends in the City – presumably the same bunch of thieves and whores whom he relied upon in the past. Yet at least one
friend
must be a man of some stature – in Parliament.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Remember how Beaumont forewarned us that Prince Rupert might be taken hostage last winter? He said he got his intelligence from a friend of the King whose name he had to protect. I asked him plainly, on this occasion, whether the same person had helped him, and demanded to know the man’s name. He flew into a temper and refused to supply it.” Digby giggled. “How splendidly handsome he looked, like some Eastern sheikh snubbed by a slave! Then he stormed
off to an audience with the King. I encountered him as he was leaving the royal presence, and he virtually thrust me aside. And when I inquired of His Majesty whether Beaumont had identified our allies in London who had done us such devoted duty, he said it was a matter between him and Mr. Beaumont. I
am
intrigued. I’ll have to ask Isabella, when I next see her. She will tell me.”

“She may not. And George, you must prepare to be hurt. Beaumont will stand by Wilmot.”

“If he does, he shall be sorry for it. But why do you use that word, sir,
hurt
?”

“
Know thyself
was the ancient dictum. You are so busy speculating upon the motivation of those around you, that you neglect to study yours.”

“I confess, honoured father, that I am still at a loss to comprehend you.”

“You fancy yourself a playwright, in your idle hours.” Bristol hesitated. “You might recall a line from a comedy – what is it that poisons
more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth
?”

“
The venom clamours of a jealous woman,”
Digby replied easily, though he felt his cheeks grow hot.

“May it please Your Highness,” he began that night, as he always did his letters to Rupert, “since my last unto you at Bath wherein I stated unto Your Highness the condition of our affairs here …” And he provided a succinct, cheery account of His Majesty’s prospects with Essex. “Our great care at this time is for Your Highness,” he went on, and referred to the supplies of powder Rupert had been requesting from his uncle. Digby continued, with a distinct frisson, “We are very glad to understand that Goring is come so near as Bristol; the business he came for shall be gone through with, the superseding of Wilmot; but till we have spoken with him, I cannot certainly tell Your Highness in what particular manner. As soon as it is done Your Highness shall receive an express; in the meantime, and ever, I beseech Your Highness
to believe that I am Your Highness’s most faithful humble servant, George Digby.”

As he transcribed these lines into cipher, Digby mused over his father’s remarks about Wilmot and Beaumont. He pictured Wilmot insolent, as when he had last demanded to speak alone with Beaumont, and then humiliated, as he would be in short order. What had those two talked about that day? Beaumont had ridden back looking as if Wilmot had asked to borrow his soul, rather than his scouts.

Hurriedly Digby sealed his missive, and woke Quayle, who was dozing on his pallet near the canopied four-poster where Bristol lay asleep. “Find Mr. Price. Tell him to come to me,
without
alerting Mr. Beaumont.”

On the second of August, while the royal army was marching deeper into Cornwall with Prince Maurice’s forces, a courier brought a bag of correspondence for Lord Digby, forwarded by Governor Aston from Oxford. Three of the letters were addressed to Laurence, who felt bound to open his mother’s before those of Isabella and Seward.

Lady Beaumont had good and bad news: thanks to the Spanish Envoy, her cousin and Diego must now be on their way to Spain; and Ingram had survived Marston Moor, and was with Prince Rupert’s army. Tom had fared less well. “Adam brought him home to us grievously wounded from a ball that had struck his thigh. He was spared the leg being cut off, but his wound had festered. I agreed with my lord to summon Dr. Seward, who is still here with us, and Thomas mends slowly.” Laurence thought of her ladyship’s antipathy to Seward; Tom must have been in truly dangerous straits. “We fear he may not be fit again for army service,” she wrote on, “and he has taken this hard, despite the joy he has in his son, James, who thrives …”

Laurence turned to Isabella’s letter. She said that her health was much improved, and that she had visited Draycott in Oxford Castle. “It is a strange reversal of his circumstances with mine. How
I dreaded setting foot in that place again, and the Governor of Oxford keeps his prisoners in the most degrading conditions. I told him Mr. Draycott must be moved to a better cell, which has since been done. Draycott has one aim, to be rid of our enemy, but the fulfilment of this depends upon your advice and his freedom.” Below, she had copied a line in Pembroke’s code. Obviously she had heard from Pembroke, which to Laurence boded ill. Would Veech have the gall to arrest a lord? And how could they plot Veech’s death when Laurence was far away from Oxford, and further yet from London? “I have such memories of us,” she ended.

Seward’s script was brief. “This in haste; her ladyship will write of Thomas. Suffice to say he is recovering. As for recovery, your wife gave back to me what I had imagined lost forever.”

That evening the combined Royalist armies, some sixteen thousand strong, made camp around the market town of Liskeard, near Bodmin Moor. Once Laurence had sent his scouts out to reconnoitre, he transcribed Pembroke’s code: “The limping man knows all, but has no proof. He may get it, should he find your friends.”

By dusk, the scouts began to trickle back with intelligence. Essex’s forces lay about six miles to the west, in the direction of Lostwithiel: he had an estimated ten thousand men, and was hoping for reinforcements by sea from the Parliamentary fleet, and by land, possibly from Waller. “His boys must be hungry, sir,” one of the scouts joked to Laurence. “The local people have refused them provisions.”

“My lord,” said Laurence to Digby, when he had relayed this news, “we could spread a rumour to Essex that His Majesty has twice his actual strength. As long as Essex is so poorly supplied, he’ll try at all costs to avoid an engagement. And the longer we can pin him down and starve him out, the better.”

“Why not come with me and propose this to Council tonight?” Digby asked.

“Thank you, but I must stay and wait for more news from the scouts,” Laurence replied; he did not feel like listening to hours of
debate among the King’s advisors, nor did he want to be collared afterwards by Wilmot. Yet he could see Digby was offended that he should decline.

Over the following days, scouts reported that Essex was stretched thin to control the area around Lostwithiel and defend himself against a force that he now assumed was more than three times the size of his own. The King was also awaiting reinforcements: he had called for the only other Royalist troops in Cornwall to move in and block any chance of a Parliamentarian retreat. To make matters worse for Essex, a party of Royalist cavalry surprised some distinguished rebel officers who were carousing at the house of a nobleman, a few miles from Essex’s headquarters, and most were taken prisoner; a source of great hilarity to the Royalists.