The Licence of War (76 page)

The boy’s eyes lit up, and his mouth twisted into a grin. “I don’t know of any Sarah Barlow,” he cackled, and swaggered off into the maze of alleyways.

Under sunny skies, and with the aid of opportune breezes, Antonio’s vessel had sailed swiftly along. He and the Captain, Tomás Echeverría, a jolly and sharp-witted Basque, had become fast friends, supping together each evening and exchanging tales of their various exploits. In retrospect, Antonio was pleased to have left Diego in London, and wondered why he had tolerated that impudent rascal for so long. And as the weather improved and he shook the chill of England out of his bones, he started to forget the torrent of emotions Elena and his Lorenzo had roused in him. He felt again master of his destiny:
El Valoroso
, returning home to begin a new and illustrious adventure. He would tell Teresa he had been entrusted with the military commission because of his success in conveying funds to the beleaguered King Charles.

His ship docked at Cádiz six weeks after setting out from London. Echeverría accompanied him to a fishermen’s eating place
on the wharf, and they shared a meal in the open air, paid for by the Basque. When they had finished, Echeverría produced a letter. “I was asked by Capitán Iturbe to wait until we were on dry land to give this to you. It has been a privilege to meet you, Don Antonio, and may your commission with King Philip bring you everything you desire.”

Though tantalised, Antonio delayed opening the letter until they had said goodbye; it was from Elena. What might it contain? A secret declaration of love? He began to read.

Antonio reread the letter several times. Then he drew from his coat the scrolled document with the ornate diplomatic seal, tore both it and the letter into fragments, and tossed them off the edge of the wharf, into the sea. He was remembering Diego’s taunt: that brains were worth more than brawn. The clever monkey must somehow have found out about the deception being practised on Antonio, and for once in his life had kept his mouth shut.

Four days later, Antonio galloped up to his house, sweating profusely; on this first of September, the air around him was like an oven,
the soil baked and cracked beneath his horse’s hooves, the scant grasses withered, and the leaves on the trees dusty from lack of rain. He dismounted in the courtyard, horrified by the signs of neglect and decay: weeds and crumbling stones, part of the roof concaved, a bare inch of stagnant water in the horse trough, and flies buzzing everywhere.

Agustín, Diego’s uncle, hurried out with a mixture of joy and apprehension. “Don Antonio, thank the saints! We have been praying for you to come home. Such tragedy has been visited upon us.”

“What tragedy?” cried Antonio.

“There was sickness here, and it took from us your son Felipe,” quavered the old man.

Antonio found Teresa and María de Mercedes in the cool of the dark, shuttered main room. He wept inconsolably, embracing them. They, meanwhile, were as parched as the countryside: they had no more tears to shed. “At the height of the summer, this past July, the gypsy Juana came to our door with her child in her arms,” Teresa told him, in a numbed voice. “She asked to see me, though I would not condescend to her request. She claimed to Agustín that you had promised to keep her at El Caballo Blanco for as long as you were away, but that Gaspar had refused to feed or shelter her, and now she and the boy were starving. She demanded to know when we expected you. Agustín did not believe a word of her story. He had to throw stones at her, to get rid of her. Before she went, she uttered something in her language, and spat upon the step. The same day, a wasting fever broke out and spread through the household. Felipe was the only one who died of it.” Teresa paused, to cross herself. “I sent Agustín to talk to Gaspar, and to our surprise, Juana’s story was true. Your money had run out. Gaspar had let her work in his kitchen, but she was rude and lazy and thieved from him, so he had driven her onto the street. We could not understand why she would have been so evil and ungrateful as to curse us, after you had showed her such Christian charity.”

Antonio’s blood boiled in his veins: the gypsy was to blame for all of his misfortunes, from the morning he had encountered her on the
Feast of St. Francis. “I intend to ask her myself,
mi querida
, as soon as I can get my hands on her,” he said.

“We often see her begging outside the Cathedral, her and her child, though we do not go near them. And Gaspar knows where she camps at night,” Teresa added, “in a cave by the riverbank.”

After dusk, Antonio loaded his pistol and rode out to meet Gaspar, as previously arranged, with a bunch of his henchmen and their hunting dogs. They left the horses and took a narrow, winding path down to the river, through a stretch of gorse and wild rosemary; it was reputed as a hiding place for criminals and fugitives. Juana had chosen a secluded spot, not in a true cave but a hollow den in the bank. As they crept closer, Antonio spied her squatting by the flames of a meagre fire. He signalled for the men to crouch low and restrain their dogs.

For a while he watched and listened. She was singing as she turned a fish spitted on a stick, smiling every so often at the child who toddled about nearby. She looked as ragged as before, and as attractive to Antonio. Yet this was a new Juana: neither wheedling nor defiant, but calm and gentle, even maternal. And despite her circumstances, she appeared to him happy. How well his grandson had grown, Antonio thought, in almost a year. He was now a strong-limbed little boy, with a head of curly black hair.

One of the dogs let out a yelp. Juana peered around, sweeping earth over the fire to extinguish it; and clutching the stick of fish in one hand, she grabbed the child with her other, and scurried into her lair. Antonio motioned for Gaspar and some of the men to advance, leaving the others to fan out with the dogs and block her escape. He crept yet closer to the entrance of the den and whistled low. Gaspar and his companions sprang forward into the hollow and hauled her forth. The dogs were released and bounded up with a volley of barks, though on Gaspar’s command they stopped short of attack. Juana was writhing and biting and kicking, but she became still when she saw Antonio.

“How are you, Juana, and how is your boy?” he inquired.

“I am barely alive, and he’s with the angels, bless his poor soul. He starved because you refused us succour,” she snarled, at Gaspar.

Antonio cocked his pistol and aimed it at her forehead. “A single false move,
mi gitana
, and I’ll blow you to kingdom come. Leave us to speak alone,” he ordered the men.

“Did you find Monsieur?” she asked, when they had retreated.

“Yes, in England. He is my son, Juana.”

“I could have told you on the day we met. And his mother was your cousin, the fine lady from Seville who married the English lord. I overheard Gaspar talking of your Elena.”

Antonio seized a handful of Juana’s hair and pressed the nose of his pistol into the base of her throat. “You are always such a liar. Your son is not dead, but my Felipe is. Why did you put a curse on him?”

“I didn’t, sir,” she whimpered. “I swear, by the blessed Virgin, I shouted a few words in anger. They meant nothing.”

He dragged her inside the dark, feral-smelling hollow, and threw her on the ground. The child was doubtless inches away; he made no noise. Keeping the pistol at her throat, Antonio knelt and pulled up her skirts with his free hand. He unbuttoned his coat, and unlaced. “You said Monsieur raped you. Was it like this?” Thrusting apart her thighs, he fell upon her and drove inside. He was steel, hero of more battles than he could count. And as he ploughed on where his Lorenzo had been before him, he saw Elena’s face, young again, as on their fateful night. Sighing victoriously, he spent himself.

Juana lay motionless, eyes shut; she must have fainted. He withdrew. But as he set down his pistol to restore his clothes, her eyes flashed wide. She snatched the weapon in both hands, and levelled it at him. “No, it was not like this. Monsieur was
better
than you.”

Antonio dashed the pistol easily from her grasp. With a soldier’s blind instinct, as though in the midst of the fray, he lifted her up by her head; and with a quick, expert jerk he snapped her neck. She fell back limp.

Antonio sensed those green Fuentes eyes upon him, and cowered.
“It was her fault,” he whispered, to the invisible boy. “She did not have to die.”

“Don Antonio,” called Gaspar, “
qué pasa?
”

The boy set up a keening wail. Antonio reached for him in the darkness, and hugged him to his chest. “I have lost three sons. I will not lose my grandson.”

Gaspar had lit a torch. In the flame, he and the other men surveyed Antonio with vague distaste as he emerged, his coat open and his breeches half fastened. “She gave me her child, for the one she stole from me,” he said to them, in a voice he did not recognise. And as he staggered off, he began to howl, louder than the boy sobbing in his arms.

“This august occasion demands a verse,” said Wilmot, gesticulating so blithely with the bottle he had been drinking from, that he nearly dropped it into the waters of Exeter harbour.

“A verse?” said Laurence. “In all our years of friendship, I didn’t know you were a poet.”

They were leaning over the stout oak rail of the ship, observing the scene: sailors running nimbly up and down rope ladders attached to its tarred sides, and merchants supervising the loading of their cargoes, and peddlers in small craft plying a last-minute trade with those already aboard. Laurence was most entertained by the troop of cavalry assembled on the crowded dock, to prevent him and Wilmot from jumping ship.

“Oh it’s not
my
poem, Beaumont. It’s a favourite of my wife’s, bless her.” Wilmot cleared his throat ceremoniously, and began:

“Excuse me,” interrupted Laurence, “but the rest is hardly appropriate: we’re sailing to France in peace, not to fight the battle of Agincourt.”

“We’ll fight our battles in Paris. I hear the Queen’s Court seethes with more rivalries than a viper’s nest – though you’ll soon be out of it.” Wilmot tipped the bottle to his lips and grunted. “Empty. Shall we replenish our supply?”

They wove a path among boxes and barrels, and crated livestock; and as they swerved to avoid a stray hen that had escaped from its cage, they came face to face with two familiar gentlemen.

“If it isn’t Price and Quayle.” Laurence wanted to laugh at the incongruous pair: Price in an elegant suit and plumed hat, looking agitated; and Quayle in his livery, wearing his typical complacent expression.

“Did your lord and master send you to bid us goodbye?” sneered Wilmot.

“My lord, Mr. Beaumont,” said Price, “I have a message for Mr. Beaumont from my Lord Digby that requires his immediate answer.”

Laurence accepted it from Price and broke the seal. “My answer is no,” he said, when he had read it.

Price glanced at Quayle, whose eyes betrayed mirth, and then at Laurence. “Is that your … final decision?”

“Yes it is. How are the scouts?”

“They … they are well, and asked to be remembered to you.”

“My best wishes to them, and convey my regret to his lordship that I can’t oblige him.” Laurence held out his left hand to Price; the other was still bandaged. “Goodbye, man, and I wish
you
well – in love and in war.”

“I hope you have a safe voyage,” Price said, in a mournful voice.

Quayle bowed obsequiously. “Goodbye, sir, and goodbye, my lord.”

Wilmot frowned after them. “Oblige Digby in what, Beaumont?”

“He offered to absolve me of guilt in your overtures to Essex if I would return to his service.”

“No exile?”

“You would have sailed alone.”

Wilmot sniffed and tugged at his moustache. “I know Digby is worse than a whole nest of vipers, yet exile is a bitter pill to swallow, even for a year. You might think again. I’d miss you, my old cock,” he added, with touching sincerity, “but are you sure you want to refuse?”

“I’ve never been as sure of anything in my life.” Laurence draped an arm round Wilmot’s shoulders. “I have a few lines, on this august occasion, but not from a poem. It’s a favourite dictum of my father’s, though he said he hadn’t the courage to live up to it himself. ‘
Delicatus ille est adhuc cui patria dulcis est; fortis autem iam, cui omne solum patria est; perfectus vero, cui mundus totus exsilium est
..’ ”

“In English, please – my Latin’s rusty.”

“ ‘He remains weak for whom his homeland is sweet; while he is strong for whom the whole earth is his homeland, and truly perfect is he for whom the entire world is an exile..’ ”

“Very noble,” Wilmot said, “but might I remind you, Beaumont: you are far from perfect.”

“You should thank Christ I am, or I’d make you dull company.”

“So you would,” agreed Wilmot. “Then since neither of us is perfect, let’s go in search of more wine.”

“An excellent suggestion,” said Laurence, and guided him onwards.

S
eward woke bleary-eyed and cold from a nap in his chair. The fire had dwindled to a pile of ash and glowing embers, and afternoon shadows were slanting across his front room. His cat was pawing at the door, with distinct purpose. “You behave as if I were your servant,” he complained, hoisting himself to his feet, and shuffled over to unlatch it. But when he did, he had to admire the beast’s sagacity. “Good day to you, my Lady Hallam,” he greeted his visitor, as Pusskins scampered off into the quadrangle.