The Licence of War (68 page)

“Now that Essex is cornered and demoralised, His Majesty plans to offer him a pardon,” Digby told Laurence, “if he will reconsider his allegiance to Parliament and join with the royal army to preserve the kingdom from further bloodshed.”

“I doubt Essex will concede,” said Laurence, with genuine regret: this would have put paid to Wilmot’s scheming. Although he and Wilmot had steered clear of each other since their talk, he knew Wilmot expected information from him; and to preserve both of them from disaster, he would not so much as look for it.

Late on the night of the sixth of August, Wilmot’s pageboy came creeping into the barn near Digby’s billet where Laurence slept, and asked him to meet Wilmot at a stretch of down some miles west of camp. With a sinking heart, he threw on his cloak, saddled his mount, and rode over, checking behind himself every so often to ensure no one was tailing him.

Laurence found Wilmot on the windswept hill, gazing at the distant enemy fires. “Have you news for me, Beaumont?” he asked, without ado.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Are you aware of the terms His Majesty is sending to Essex?”

“Yes I am, and Essex will reject them.”

“Essex won’t trust the King, with reason, but he might listen to an appeal from our army. We’re to issue a second proposal, openly and with His Majesty’s blessing. It will be dispatched tomorrow night, once his chief officers are at leisure to sign it.”

Rain had begun to fall in torrents from the dark skies. Covering their heads with their cloaks, they sought the only available shelter: a copse of stunted trees surrounded by tall bracken.

“If the second proposal has His Majesty’s blessing, why did you call me out to discuss it at such an ungodly hour, and in the middle of nowhere?” Laurence demanded.

“You must invent an excuse to accompany the army delegates, and when you get to Essex’s headquarters, slip him a message from me. If he’ll accept a cessation of arms, I shall guarantee, as Lieutenant General, that Digby and Culpeper will be removed from power.”

Laurence shivered.
Madness, madness
, he wanted to say. “How on earth can you guarantee that?”

“I told you, I’ll have the support of the army. You know how the King’s civilian advisors are loathed by those they send out so gaily to die in battle.”

“And would you subvert
the King’s
authority?”

“As I’ll explain to Essex, if need be and as a last resort, our combined forces will take His Majesty under our protection to London.”

Plain treason
, Laurence nearly shouted. “No, Wilmot, don’t even hint at such an idea, or you’ll prejudice your case with Essex,” he said, in a low voice.

“It’s past the time to mince words.”

“You could pay with your life.”

“As I might have at Edgehill, Roundway Down, Cropredy Bridge, and in countless skirmishes fought in His Majesty’s cause,” retorted Wilmot. “He’s being poisoned by Digby and such like. And in
the very slight event that he defeats Parliament in battle, he’d have to sell his crown to Rupert.”

“I don’t believe Rupert gives a fuck for the crown – he’s a soldier, for God’s sake.” Laurence seized Wilmot’s arm. “Is that truly what
you
believe, or is your lesser nature talking? Wilmot, please, I beg of you, think again.”

“I
have
thought. You’re as sick to the teeth as I am of Digby, and of this war.” Wilmot closed his hand on Laurence’s, in a tight grip. “Beaumont, will you do it for me?”

Laurence tried to answer, but his throat was parched. He tipped up his chin and opened his mouth, to catch a few drops of rain. Then he licked his lips, and gave Wilmot an almost imperceptible, reluctant, nod.

On the seventh of August, His Majesty’s offer was conveyed to Essex, who greeted it with a blunt response. “ ‘That he, the Lord General, would discharge his duty,.’ ” Digby quoted to Laurence, “ ‘and would advise the King to return to his Parliament..’ ”

“The same answer as always, my lord,” said Laurence.

“We shall see if the army’s proposal has better fortune. It will be dispatched tonight, signed by Prince Maurice, Prince Rupert
in absentia
, Forth, and His Majesty’s chief officers.”

“My lord, why don’t I follow the delegates with some of our scouts,” Laurence said casually. “While Essex is receiving the proposal, we might have a look round his camp.”

“Yes, sir, why not,” said Digby, far too readily.

Instinct told Laurence that Digby had either guessed or been explicitly forewarned about a secret communication from Wilmot to Essex. Whoever had reported this must have shadowed Wilmot or Laurence to their nocturnal rendezvous. The message to Essex had been burning a hole in Laurence’s pocket ever since Wilmot’s boy had brought it earlier in the day, concealed within a letter addressed to Mr. Beaumont. And even now, Laurence sensed that he was being
watched leaving Digby’s billet. A few troopers wandered after him, as at a leisurely pace he retired to the latrine ditches on the edge of the Royalist camp. They fell back when he chose a private spot, lowered his breeches, and squatted down. Surreptitiously he opened the message; it contained what he had heard from Wilmot, including the proposal to take His Majesty under protection to London. He ripped it up, tossed the shreds in the ditch, and with a stick poked every last one of them deep into the ordure. He would decide whether to approach Essex, and what to say if he did, once he got to the Earl’s headquarters.

That night he and the scouts rode westwards, on the heels of the army delegation. They had not gone a mile when he saw another party of riders pursuing them, splashing through the puddles. Price was at the lead, with a dozen troopers bearing torches. Laurence reined in, and signalled for the scouts to halt.

“Beaumont,” called Price, “Lord Digby wishes you to turn back, and let the others press on.”

“Why’s that, Price?” asked Laurence.

“He didn’t say.” Price trotted his horse nearer. In the fierce torchlight, Laurence stared into his eyes: here was the shadow. Price glanced away, at the scouts, and at his troopers. “I’m to escort you, Beaumont,” he muttered, in an awkward voice. “We have orders to search you first, however.”

“Search him, sir – what for?” a scout objected to Price; the loyal youths were bringing their horses around Laurence in a defensive knot.

“Please dismount, Beaumont, and raise your arms,” said Price.

Laurence shrugged. “Go on without me,” he told the scouts.

They galloped off, casting resentful backward glares at Price. The troopers set to work on Laurence, stripping him of his cloak and doublet, and hunting in his shirt and in the pockets of his breeches. He had to remove his boots and stockings and stand barefoot in the mud while they searched these items; they also unbuckled his saddle, lest he had tucked anything beneath it, and plodded about inspecting the
waterlogged tracks left by the horses. “Price,” he said, with an imitation of bored annoyance, “what in God’s name is this about?”

Price guided him out of the troopers’ earshot. “Wherever you’ve hidden it, you must give me Wilmot’s letter. I promise you won’t come to grief.”

“What letter?”

“There’s no point in denying it,” Price babbled on. “Digby knows that Wilmot and some of his officers are seeking an accommodation with Essex. He knows you met with Wilmot last night, and that Wilmot intended to offer Essex secret terms. He knows you were to carry the letter.”

“Yes I met with Wilmot,” said Laurence, narrowing his eyes at Price. “But I have no letter. Where the hell did Digby get his information?” Price’s mouth started to quiver. “Did he ask you to spy on me?”

“No, I was to … to keep Wilmot under surveillance, so that I could protect you.”

“You lying piece of shit. Did you follow me from the camp that night?”

“I followed Wilmot. I was there before you arrived.”

“Where were you hiding – in the copse of trees?” Price winced an affirmative. “What did you hear?”

“I heard enough.”

“Did you hear me agree to take a letter to Essex?” yelled Laurence; Price could not have caught the minuscule nod of his head which had terminated the exchange.

“Not in … so many words.”

“Didn’t I teach you, in such circumstances, not to assume you have the facts?”

“I wish I was wrong, Beaumont. Listen to me: I’ll say to Digby that you surrendered the letter freely – even that you’d never meant to deliver it. Give it to me and save yourself, for your sake and for the sake of your family!”

“If you dare speak to me about my family, I’ll kick your goddamned
arse again,” Laurence spat at him, and sloshed over to snatch his cloak, doublet, and boots from the troopers. Ankle-deep in mud, he did not bother putting on his boots. “Arrest me, and I’ll gladly face a court martial,” he said, swinging into his saddle.

“You’ll go to your ruin. Wilmot is already ruined, Beaumont. General Goring rode into our camp just as you set out for Essex’s headquarters. Prince Rupert sent him.”

“Ah,” said Laurence. George Goring would unseat Wilmot. Digby had been ingratiating himself with Rupert so that the new appointment would appear to be on the Prince’s recommendation and not his own, hated as he was by Wilmot’s men. With the royal army on the cusp of battle, unless Essex conceded to its terms, few in the ranks would be so ignoble as to mutiny against an order from Rupert. Wilmot’s vaunting ambition had flown him too close to the sun. He was falling, and Laurence would be unable to warn him. And the King must have been party to that whole scheme, his ear bent by Digby’s seductive tongue.

Laurence spent the night under guard. For some hours he was restless, contemplating Wilmot’s fate and his own, and his feelings towards Price. Had the man genuinely wished to save him from a charge of treason, or had he betrayed him to gain favour with Digby? Laurence fell asleep without reaching a conclusion.

In the morning, he was released; the entire army had been called to assemble for a march. When the ranks were lined up in formation, he saw Wilmot, who appeared calm and confident, though from the redness of his face and his bloodshot eyes, Laurence knew he had been drinking.

The King rode forth to view the troops, and next, to a blast of trumpets, ceremonially produced a warrant for Lord Wilmot’s arrest on grounds of high treason, and announced that Goring would assume his duties as Lieutenant General. Wilmot was at first angrily
speechless, then asked to go back to his station with the cavalry; but he was taken away, to a huge commotion from the men, who booed loudly and demanded the reason for his disgrace. Accompanied by his chief officers, and with great aplomb, the King cantered over to each division of Horse and personally explained to them that Prince Rupert had requested the change of command, and that it was temporary, upon investigation of the charges against Lord Wilmot.

After the King had retired to his quarters, troopers ferried Laurence off to a short audience with the Secretary of State in the corner of the field. “I am disappointed in you, sir,” Digby said.

“My lord, I had no letter on me to Essex,” said Laurence. “And Lord Wilmot is not a traitor. You can’t believe everything that comes out of his mouth under the influence of drink.”

“And you forget the old saw:
in vino veritas
. You shall remain in custody until you provide me with a more honest answer.”

Laurence surrendered his pistols and his sword. A small party of troopers kept guard over him throughout the day, while the King hesitated to commit to battle. By nightfall, the Royalist army made camp on a heath. Laurence rolled himself up in his cloak, and slept more soundly than he had in a long time.

At dawn, Price woke him with breakfast, and developments. The army had written a petition to the King signed by some forty-odd officers humbly asking why Wilmot should be dismissed. Later came His Majesty’s reply, which Price relayed scrupulously to Laurence: “that no king ever did owe more to gentlemen and officers,” but that Lord Wilmot had for the past three months tried “to bring His Majesty’s person into contempt”; and that he was overheard stating that the King intended to place all power in Prince Rupert’s hands; and that he, Lord Wilmot, would rather join with Parliament than submit to Rupert’s dominance; and that he had proposed to set up Prince Charles as King, and had held traitorous communication with Essex.

Wilmot’s message to the Earl had made no such suggestion about Prince Charles, and never had Wilmot to Laurence, even in his
most inebriated rants. It struck Laurence as yet another ironic coincidence that he should have frustrated Pembroke’s more deadly scheme to do the same thing.

“Not only is Wilmot charged with treason – so are others, you among them,” Price said tearfully, “though I did what I could to plead your case with Lord Digby.”

“I can’t express the extent of my gratitude,” said Laurence. “Now stop snivelling, and find me a pen and paper.”

In his letter to the King, Laurence defended Wilmot, adding that although neither he nor Wilmot had committed any treasonous act, he would accept without complaint the punishment that might accrue to him. Beforehand, however, he asked permission to complete a final business for Lord Digby.

“Price,” he said, as he melted wax for a seal, “your work is to watch people, so watch your own back with Digby. The more he praises you, the more you should worry. It’s the last advice I’ll ever give you.”

“Do you despise me, Beaumont?”

“I’ve not got the energy for that.”

“And what of … what of my suit with Elizabeth?” Price asked. “Do you think I still have a chance?”

Laurence had to laugh at his tenacity of purpose. “I can’t advise you
there
, but if I were you, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.”

“Mr. Beaumont is not alone in speaking out for Wilmot,” the King said, as he and Digby perused Beaumont’s letter in the royal tent. “Falkland’s friend Edward Hyde came to see me, in some distress, and insisted that there was no sedition in Wilmot’s heart, and that his mad ventures were born more of vanity and jealousy of Prince Rupert than a desire to supplant me.”