The Licence of War (69 page)

“But Mr. Beaumont is lying about Wilmot’s communication to Essex. I do not understand why he continues to shield him.”

“He was as unswervingly loyal to Falkland.”

“Who was a thousand times nobler than Wilmot!”

“N-nobler even than you?”

“I cannot pretend to be the best of men, Your Majesty,” replied Digby smoothly.

“My lord, we have no substantive evidence of Lord Wilmot’s treason in the form of a written message. And given the warm regard in which he is held by my army and our p-present situation with the enemy, we cannot risk f-further strife within our camp. I shall therefore send him into exile, to France. Mr. Beaumont shall have exile, also. My wife and, for that matter, my eldest son, would not forgive me if I inflicted a court martial upon his lordship or Mr. Beaumont. Prince Charles is unaccountably fond of those men. And they could render me service by attending to the welfare of Her Majesty.”

“Your Majesty is lenient.”

The King indicated Beaumont’s letter. “What think you of this?”

Digby hummed in his throat before answering. “It would be an inestimable help to your cause in the City, and my Lady Hallam would doubtless be pleased to have revenge upon the man who nearly sent her to a torturous death. Yet the odds are stacked high against Beaumont succeeding. Nonetheless, it is typical of him to ask: he finds danger irresistible.”

“Is that the draw, I wonder,” murmured the King, with a thoughtful expression.

His Majesty had given Wilmot and Laurence a little respite to settle their affairs and bid farewell to their families. They had not been allowed to speak in private. Before awaiting ship at Exeter, Wilmot rode for the Oxfordshire estate of his wife, Anne; he predicted that her responsibilities as a landowner would delay her from journeying to France. Laurence saw his own future as yet more uncertain, depending on whether His Majesty and Lord Digby acceded to his request: to let
him find and kill Clement Veech. He owed Veech’s death to the dead, such as Barlow and Lucy, but also to the living, most of all to Isabella and Pembroke, and to Barlow’s family.

He was packing his belongings at Digby’s quarters when Prince Charles came in unannounced. “Mr. Beaumont, are you … are you off to your father’s house?”

“I am, Your Highness,” Laurence replied.

“I think it terribly wrong that you should be exiled with Lord Wilmot, sir, when your guilt appeared far less sure even than his,” the Prince exclaimed. “And I’ve not forgotten your courage in saving my father last year from that conspiracy against him.”

A lump rose in Laurence’s throat as he thought about his dreams of the King dead in the wood, and his panicked escapes with the Prince. “I was happy to be of service.”

“Do you remember the day we first met, when Lord Falkland was Secretary of State?” the boy carried on more cheerfully. “How we sat in the garden outside his offices, and I asked you about your scars, and you started to tell me about that lover in Paris and her jealous husband?”

“Yes I do, Your Highness,” Laurence said warmly.

“You never finished your tale. I should enjoy hearing the end of it, sir.”

Laurence touched a finger to the old scar on his lower lip. “What was her name … Angelique. Very pretty but no angel. And far too talkative.”

“As is the habit of most French ladies,” interjected the Prince.

“At any rate,” Laurence went on, reluctant to fault the Queen and her fellow countrywomen, “I was sitting in my chamber early of a morning, when three unknown gentlemen burst through the door.”

“Angelique’s husband …?”

“And her brother and father. They grappled me to the floor, uttering some unrepeatable language, and then her husband whipped out a stiletto and sliced open my lip.”

“That must have hurt like the devil.”

“Your Highness, they had worse in mind. They were about to tear off my breeches and …” Laurence paused decorously. “Deprive me of my manhood, when I was rescued by another young woman.”

“Another lover?”

“Not at that time.”

“Afterwards were you lovers?”

“Yes, we were,” said Laurence. An image flashed before him of Juana striding in, brandishing the Toledo sword that she had stolen; part of the theft that had led him to Pembroke’s murderous correspondence. “That’s a different story, Your Highness, and a much longer one.”

“It must keep for when we next meet. You should beware in Paris, lest you encounter Angelique’s husband again.”

“Thank you for the warning, Your Highness,” Laurence told him, in such a way that they both began to laugh.

“Sir,” said the Prince, becoming serious once more, “you’ve always been frank with me. I wish to know the truth: was Lord Wilmot trying to collude with the rebels, to raise me above my father?”

“No he was not, and those who repeat such a falsehood are either mistaken or malicious, or both. He’s devoted to you, and you can trust him with your life.”

“I knew it,” sighed the Prince. “When you and Lord Wilmot get to France,
I
trust you will look after my poor mother.”

“We shall to the best of our ability, Your Highness.”

The Prince advanced to clasp Laurence’s hand. “I pray it will not be for many years, but when I am king, would you be among my ministers?”

“I would be honoured.”

“My father has agreed to
your
wish, sir,” the Prince said unexpectedly. “He has explained to me what you are setting out to do. For the love of me, take care.”

“S
o the King has gone deep into the wilds of Cornwall,” said Lord Beaumont, looking round from his armchair at his family and Seward, who were gathered together in the Hall. “We thought him in Exeter with Princess Henrietta. When did he march out, Laurence?”

“About a fortnight ago,” said Laurence uneasily; the news of Wilmot’s disgrace could not yet have reached them, and he shrank from breaking it. “How is Tom?” he asked. His brother was the only Beaumont missing.

“He has started to walk, on crutches,” Seward answered, “though he keeps mostly to his chamber. Thank God the ball entered above the joint of his knee, and that his thigh bone was not damaged.”

“We owe thanks both to God
and
to you, Doctor,” said Lord Beaumont. “You saved Thomas from an amputation.”

They were speaking over the lusty babble of Tom’s son, wriggling on Mary’s lap. Laurence had obligingly admired young James Beaumont: blond, plump, and vigorous, he was the picture of Tom as an infant, and Mary was every inch the proud mother, boasting about his insatiable appetite. Laurence turned to Catherine, who appeared remarkably at home in the household. When she had raced out to greet him in the courtyard, he had been assailed by a pang of guilt. “How long has our friend Will been here?”

“Since mid-July,” she replied. “He’s learnt more in a month from Jacob than he ever did at my father’s stables.”

“Your mettlesome stallion is getting his exercise, Laurence,” added Lord Beaumont. “Dr. Seward brought him to us, and Catherine has
taken a fancy to him. It’s become her habit to ride him in the park each morning.”

Laurence frowned at her. “I hope he hasn’t thrown you?”

“Not once,” she said, as if surprised that he should inquire.

“And … we are overjoyed to have Elizabeth with us again,” Lord Beaumont said softly.

Elizabeth seemed to Laurence no less uncomfortable than he felt himself. She gave a slight shake of her head: a signal, he assumed, that they would talk, but in private.

“I just received a letter from Ingram, Laurence,” said Anne. “He’s at Prince Rupert’s camp in Shrewsbury, and sends you his warmest regards.”

“I must send him mine,” said Laurence.

“And now we ladies should allow the gentlemen a while to themselves before we eat,” said Lady Beaumont. “Since my cousin’s departure, we have resumed supping early, at the English hour,” she told Laurence, who read in her expression a distinct triumph as she ushered out the young women.

Lord Beaumont leant forward and squeezed Laurence’s arm. “Though I am not fond of Lord Digby, it was kind of him to grant you leave to visit.”

“Or did you render him some exceptional service?” queried Seward.

“In fact,” said Laurence, “it’s … not a leave.”

“Then were you on a mission for him to Oxford?”

“No.
His Majesty
permitted me leave to visit, to … to say goodbye. I’ve been sent into exile with Lord Wilmot and certain others who stand accused of … treason,” Laurence finished, contriving of no more diplomatic way to make his announcement.

Seward and Lord Beaumont stared at him slack-jawed. “How could that be?” demanded Lord Beaumont.

Laurence gave an abridged version of the truth. He could discern scepticism on Seward’s face; and when he fell silent, his father was flushed scarlet in the cheeks, his eyes brimming with tears.

“In the whole history of our family, Laurence, never have we been tainted by the dishonour of treason. I accept your word that the accusation is as baseless as it is base. Yet I must ask you,” he went on, in a pained voice, “since we did share our doubts in the past about the justice of His Majesty’s cause: would you have supported Lord Wilmot in a secret negotiation to end the war?”

Laurence hesitated, afraid of the consequences to his father’s health if he spoke his mind. “I might have,” he confessed at length, “were I absolutely sure that it was not born of Wilmot’s ambition, and that there was a chance Essex would accede to it – and if the terms were respectful to His Majesty. I would not support a proposal to set Prince Charles on the throne instead of the King.
That
was a lie framed by Wilmot’s enemies. But Essex would never negotiate without the blessing of Parliament.”

“Nor could such underhanded negotiations ever be respectful of His Majesty,” Seward said, in his most tutorial voice. “You disappoint me, Beaumont.”

“Digby told me the same: that I had disappointed him. Well,” said Laurence, beginning to lose his temper, “
he
hasn’t disappointed
me
. He’s the snake I always thought he was, and every bit as ambitious as Wilmot. But unlike Wilmot, he has the ear of the King, whom he has persuaded into more
underhanded negotiations
than I care to enumerate. While I deeply regret bringing dishonour upon my family, I am pleased to be free of him,
and
the war. As long as he’s Secretary of State, he’ll only sink the King further into moral turpitude.”

“A king is still a king, and is owed your fealty. To argue with that is to make common cause with the rebels.”

“If I didn’t so detest the oppressive nature of the London regime and its religious intolerance, and if our family wouldn’t suffer so much from a royal defeat, I might consider it, Seward. As things have turned out, I can avoid that unpleasant decision and skulk away to France.”

“What will you do there?” Lord Beaumont asked.

“Oh, play at cards with the Queen. According to Wilmot, she’s very free with her wagers. If His Majesty’s fortunes decline, you could all join me,” Laurence suggested, less cynically.

“My dear boy, I would prefer to be buried beneath the rubble of my house. Let us not ill-wish His Majesty, however: from what you tell us, he has Essex cornered, and Ingram says that Prince Rupert is massing a great army in the west. We must pray for a swift conclusion to the bloodshed. So, will Catherine travel with you, or bide at the house until you are more prepared to receive her?”

“I’d like her to choose for herself.”

Lord Beaumont nodded, as though to close the subject. “Go to your brother, Laurence. He must be waiting to see you.”

When Laurence poked his head round Tom’s door, Tom was sitting fully dressed on his bed, his crutches propped nearby. The right leg of his breeches was rolled to the thigh, which was bandaged. His entire body had wasted, and he struck Laurence as far older than his twenty-seven years, his features settling prematurely into harsh lines. “Laurence,” he said, his tone neither amiable nor hostile.

“Tom, I’m sorry about your leg.”

“I have Adam to thank that it wasn’t sawn off.”

“And Seward,” Laurence reminded him, quelling a familiar irritation. “You were lucky. What a slaughter, at Marston Moor. It took well over a week for His Majesty to get an accurate report of the battle—”

“Let’s not talk of it,” interrupted Tom, as though personally humiliated by Rupert’s defeat.

Laurence moved to a cheerier topic. “Your son’s the image of you at his age. And Mary is … blooming.”

To his relief, Tom did not mistake his comments for sarcasm. “I know – she’s discovered her tongue and can’t stop wagging it. She must have been saving up her prattle ever since we got married. Were you aware that she and Catherine have formed a strange bond?”

“Not so very strange, given our family,” said Laurence, with a laugh.

“What’s far stranger to
me
,” burst out Tom, “is how a lying, sponging bastard such as de Zamora would be so rewarded for his past service to the Spanish king, though I suppose he might have been a valiant soldier, even if he is a complete blackguard.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive categories, in my experience.”

“Speaking of blackguards, your so-called friend Price is another one.”

“His conduct was reprehensible, as I made quite clear to him, so let’s not talk of that, either,” Laurence said shortly.

“How’s my Lord Digby treating you?” Tom recommenced, after a slight pause.

“I’ve been dismissed from his service.” Laurence described the charges against Wilmot and his associates, and the penalty they must pay.

“By Christ,” said Tom. “Why didn’t you inform the King immediately of what he was plotting?”

“Because most of the charges are false, and unlike Price, he is a
true
friend to me. Tom, you understand what this means,” Laurence hurried on. “You’ll take my place, if … if I can’t return to England.”

“You’ll be leading a life of luxury in Paris while I sit uselessly at home,” Tom said, scratching at the bandage on his knee.