The Licence of War (8 page)

“Mr. Beaumont, welcome.” He kissed her gnarled hand, and she smiled as flirtatiously as ever, revealing her stained false teeth.

“Cordelia told me about Jane,” he said, drawing out a chair for her. “I’m so sorry.”

Her wrinkled lids lowered briefly, as if she found his words as inadequate as he did. “I cherished that girl as a daughter.”

“She’s in heaven now, madam,” Barlow grunted.

“Can whores go to heaven?” she asked Laurence, in a cynical yet curious tone.

He knew she was anticipating her own death. “If there
is
a heaven, it would be a gloomy place without them,” he replied.

“You may leave us, Ned Price,” she said with regal hauteur, and invited Laurence and Barlow to sit. “I can tell what you’re thinking, sir,” she said to Laurence, when Price had disappeared. “Let’s not discuss it.”

Laurence nodded. “How is your business?”

“Cordelia, Perdie, and Rose are with me, and my maid Sarah, of course, but I couldn’t keep the other girls on a fraction of our old
custom. It’s the taxes, sir: men can’t afford the luxury of my house, with Parliament skinning their pockets. Barlow’s had to go back into his trade, and I had to sell my jewels for a song – apart from that necklace you bought off me fair and square.” Mistress Edwards winked at him with a touch of her old gaiety. “Did it please the lady?”

“Very much. She wears it often.”

“Did I say it was a gift from a suitor of mine? I could have married him and settled down, but I was wild, then, and heedless of the future.” Mistress Edwards paused for breath, her hollow chest heaving. “Oh, sir, I can’t count the number of girls I got out of their difficulties. I didn’t never falter, until Jane.” She scowled at her hands. “They was trembling worse than leaves. I shall not touch another girl. But what future will Cordelia have, with her baby?”

“At least she’s happy about it.”

“She’s over the moon, the silly creature. So what brings you to London, sir?”

“My work for the Secretary of State. I’ll find somewhere else to hide by tonight. Things are hard enough for you without the danger of sheltering me.”

“No, sir: them troopers have ferreted about here countless times, with nought to show for it. We could close the door to custom, if you’ll recompense me for the lost earnings. It won’t be a fortune, but I might charge a little more than we generally take in, for the risk.”

“Tell me your fee,” said Laurence.

“I’ll think upon it.” She smiled again, always pleased at a good bargain. “What’s your errand, sir?”

“I have a list of names to investigate. They may be of Parliamentary spies. Sir Bernard Radcliff drew it up.”

“Radcliff?” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, coughed into it, and tucked it back, not swiftly enough for Laurence to miss the vivid blood in her spittle. “The Radcliff who used to visit us before the war?”

“The very same. And on his list may be the name of a new man John Pym has recruited from abroad as his spymaster, to search out the
King’s allies here in London. From what I know of
that
fellow, he’s a ruthless sort.” Laurence described to them the grisly package of ears.

“Then he don’t deserve to live.” Mistress Edwards rapped her knuckles on the table. “And if we can do some damage to Pym by hunting him out and killing him, I shall die content. Pym and his dogs of rebels have ruined my livelihood and now they’re sending me to my grave. I’d like to strangle them all, for the misery they’ve caused us.”

Laurence was silent, abashed by the force of her hatred. She had suffered from the war in ways that he had not, despite venturing his life, both in battle and in his clandestine activities.

“Who’s on the list, sir?” Barlow asked, as though already planning their demise.

“Victor Jeffrey, Anthony Burton, James Pritchard, Christopher Harris, and Clement Veech.”

“They ring no bells for me,” said Mistress Edwards.

“Nor for me,” said Barlow.

“I also have to get a message to a goldsmith, Thomas Violet, who has his shop in Cheapside,” Laurence said.

“That’s easily done,” Barlow told him. “My nephew Jem could pop round and deliver it for you.”

Mistress Edwards patted Laurence on the wrist. “You must not stir from my house until the hue and cry dies down. Barlow, could Price inquire about them names? He has a wide acquaintance.”

“That he has, madam – wide as the day is long,” Barlow agreed, scratching his stubbly jaw.

Laurence felt instantly uncomfortable. “Can I trust him?”

“He won’t betray you, sir,” Mistress Edwards said. “In some matters, he can’t even trust hisself, but he wouldn’t betray any friend of mine. And my girls will want to help, too.”

“If this horrible racket persists, you will be accused of conjuring demons in your rooms,” Clarke warned Seward, his fat jowls wobbling.

Pusskins was crouched motionless at the door to Seward’s bedchamber, ears flattened, and coat and tail puffed up, emitting unearthly yowls. Shut inside was a stray cat that had followed Seward home when he had been picking mushrooms earlier in the College meadow. He had not had the heart to turn it away.

“But, Clarke, if I open the door, there will be bloodshed! Might you take it to your house in Asthall?”

Isaac Clarke dumped his enormous weight into a chair, and brushed some of Pusskins’ hairs fastidiously from the hem of his robe. “If I do, you will be unable to bring your demon when you come to stay with me there.”

“In that case, I must put the poor thing out. Clarke, restrain Pusskins, whilst I secure the object of his wrath.”

“And let him tear me to pieces!” said Clarke, not budging from the chair.

“How could he, you great elephant? You are a thousand times his size. Grab him by the scruff of his neck.”

No sooner had Clarke heaved himself up than there was a knock at Seward’s front door, and a low voice inquired, “Dr. Seward? Are you in?”

The men regarded each other apprehensively. “Is it
that woman
?” Clarke mouthed. Seward nodded. “Whatever can she want?”

“She has come to ask me about Beaumont,” Seward mouthed back. With extreme reluctance, he went to answer the door.

“Oh,” said Mistress Savage, evidently disappointed to find Seward had company. “How are you, Dr. Clarke? Forgive me, Doctor – you are busy.”

“Madam, I was about to leave – a good day to you,” Clarke said. “I shall see you in Hall, Seward.” He skipped nimbly past her and off towards his rooms, with a speed that belied his girth.

“Enter, Mistress Savage,” said Seward, “but beware of my cat.”

Pusskins ceased yowling and studied her with marked interest, then trotted over to her. She stooped to stroke the animal, a privilege that was Seward’s sole prerogative. “How may I assist you, madam?” he demanded.

She let the cat alone and glared at Seward. “The day before yesterday, the day you called at my house, Beaumont returned from a meeting with Lord Digby and announced to me that he had to sup with the Queen. I therefore accepted an offer to sup with Digby, expecting Beaumont home later. But he didn’t come home and nor, as I learnt subsequently, did he attend Her Majesty at supper. The next day I went in some distress to his lordship, who told me Beaumont was supposed to leave for London on his business – but not until that morning, and with another agent, for greater safety. Lord Digby is as consternated as I am. I know Beaumont came to see you,” she carried on, now more pleading than angry. “Did he tell you what he was about to do?”

“No,” said Seward, feeling a grudging empathy for her. “His disobedience is reprehensible,” he added, more honestly.

“And dangerous! And has he so little concern for my feelings that he should leave me without explanation, without so much as a goodbye?” Seward took this as a rhetorical question. “Doctor,” she said, “what’s that scratching noise? Have you mice in your bedchamber?”

“It is a stray feline. Pusskins is bent on destroying him.”

“As is true of most males, your cat can’t tolerate a rival.”

“I was hoping to liberate the beast, but I fear for its life if I try.”

She gathered up Pusskins into her arms. “I’ll hold him.” Seward unlatched the door. A thin black form slinked out, and a pair of emerald eyes peered up at them. Mistress Savage began to smile. “I happen to have an infestation of mice in my kitchen, and this creature is starved.”

“Then it is yours.”

“I should call him ‘Beaumont,’ but that would be one too many, under my roof.”

Seward considered. “As a youth here in College, Beaumont earned the epithet of ‘Niger,’ because of his dusky skin.”

Mistress Savage offered Pusskins to Seward, and plucked up the stray. “Niger he is. I thank you, Doctor – for the cat, and for the name.”

Seward could not help smiling himself. “Listen to it purr. It knows you have rescued it from imminent death.”

“Let’s pray that Beaumont has nine lives,” she said, as he ushered her out. “He’s spent more than a few of them already.”

Sarah had lit a fire in the hearth, and Laurence had provided money to buy Mistress Edwards’ household what he suspected was their first decent meal for some time. After they had eaten their fill, Price asked, with a blithe enthusiasm that worried Laurence, “Where shall we begin tomorrow, Mr. Beaumont? We might catch some gossip in Westminster about that man Pym hired.”

“You might,” Laurence acknowledged nervously; he could picture Price in his gaudy clothes lurking at the doors to the House of Commons, and getting himself arrested.

“We’ve the list, sir.” Cordelia prodded a finger at her temples. “We whores don’t forget gentlemen’s names. We can disguise ourselves as straitlaced Puritans, like we did for you before, and inquire around there.”

“One of you girls can set up a stall in the precincts,” Mistress Edwards said, “selling flowers.”

“Or religious pamphlets,” Perdita said. “We’ve heaps of
them
.”

“There’ll be talk of last night at St. George’s Fields, sir,” Barlow put in.

“And hereabouts – what with all the shots them militia fired, they woke the entire neighbourhood,” said Mistress Edwards.

“I could go to the fort,” volunteered Price.

“Hmm,” said Laurence. “On the subject of last night … Harper and Draycott might purposely have let me go, in order to see where I’d lead him, but I’m not convinced of it. Harper was furious that he had to free me, and Corporal Draycott seemed genuinely embarrassed by the whole affair. And they waited too long to pursue me. I believe Pym’s secretary
had
corroborated my lies to Draycott, and that for some reason, for a short while, I had them fooled.”

“Someone must have tipped them off, after you’d gone,” Barlow said.

“Yes, and I may almost have bumped into him.” Laurence told them about the man in the flapping coat; his skin prickled at the memory of that determined stride. “I don’t know why, but I feel certain he’s Pym’s new agent – the butcher.”

“If he is, he’ll be out hunting for you, Mr. Beaumont,” concluded Mistress Edwards.

“For God’s sake, Tom, they could at least shoot to kill!” yelled Ingram, over the cheers and the crack of fire, as Tom’s troopers galloped through the park after their prey. They had left some of the deer maimed and thrashing, while other wounded beasts blundered into the undergrowth trailing coils of guts.

Tom motioned for his servant Adam to stay behind, and cantered his horse up to Ingram. “You may be soon to marry my sister,” he said, an aggrieved look on his sweaty face, “but you should address me by my rank when on patrol. How would you like it if I called you Walter, in front of my men?”

“Forgive me, Major Beaumont,” said Ingram, aware that Tom was hurt by more than the neglect of his rank. His brother Laurence had always been “Beaumont” to Ingram, and Tom had always been “Tom”; he had been a child of ten when Beaumont and Ingram had first met at Merton College.

“Perhaps you’re not happy serving under the Beaumont colours,” Tom went on. “You should have told me so, and stuck with your brother-in-law Radcliff’s troop after he died.”

Radcliff maintained better discipline
, Ingram wanted to say. “No, sir: I’m unhappy that those beasts are in torment.”

Tom shrugged, and shouted to his men, “Finish them off, and we’ll eat roast venison tonight.” Then he said to Ingram, “Let’s ride to the house.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ingram, dreading what was to come: the owner of this Northamptonshire estate, Mr. Sumner, was fighting for Parliament.

As they raced down a hill, an old-fashioned, timbered building came into view, surrounded by an assortment of barns and stables. A far cry from Lord Beaumont’s Palladian mansion, Ingram observed, but his lordship’s house would be no less vulnerable to pillage. These days the armies on both sides were seizing all they could, from friend and foe alike, caring little about what they destroyed in the process.

In the courtyard, Tom waited for some more of his men to arrive, then ordered them to dismount and follow him. He marched up the front steps of the house and banged on the door. A wizened manservant opened to them. Tom pushed past into the dark, wood-panelled hall.

“Madam Sumner,” he said, “you have guests.”

A woman in sombre mourning dress stood before them. Around her were a clutch of older women, similarly attired, their faces pale with fear. “Who are you, sir?” she asked, in a defiant voice.

Tom bowed. “Major Thomas Beaumont, of His Royal Highness Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard. We have the Prince’s authority to take from you whatever provisions we need.”

“Major Beaumont, were you not taught the manners to bare your head when you introduce yourself?”

“I’d show you greater respect, madam, were your husband to show the same to his King. But you have my word as a gentleman that you will not be harmed if you and your servants keep out of our way.”

“Then be done with your thieving as fast as you can.”

Tom turned to his men. “Curtis and Smith, upstairs. You fellows, to the stables. Wheel out any wagons or carts you can find, and start loading them. You, to the barns. Round up the livestock.” They scattered, knowing the drill. “And empty the cellars. We’ll drink a health to His Majesty when our labour’s done, if her wine’s not too sour. Ingram, look after the women. My word is my word.”