The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “To show the extent of my good will towards him, in spite of his less than gracious behaviour towards me.” Digby stopped looking hurt and smiled at Falkland. “Please come, Lucius. Otherwise, if Rupert and his poodle fail me, I shall have to eat all alone, and that is so very dreary.”

  “I shall come,” Falkland said; whatever Digby was machinating, he preferred to know as soon as he could.

  Digby received him in quarters more comfortable than his own, explaining, “Unlike most of the townsfolk, my hosts are enthusiastic Royalists, and very partial to me – as they should be, since I have been made Governor of Nottingham.”

  “Oh yes,” Falkland said. It was an honour recently bestowed and one that he had forgotten about.

  “They have allowed me every indulgence,” Digby effused, “including the use of their cook and this private dining chamber where I can entertain.”

  Falkland was unsurprised to find Prince Rupert absent from the table, at which three places had been laid, yet to his puzzlement he saw that Digby had another guest, a woman, who was seated by the fire at the far end of the room. When she rose to curtsey to him, he could not help staring at her, an impropriety most unlike him. But what on earth was Digby up to? They could not possibly discuss matters of state in her company.

  “Isabella Savage, my Lord Falkland,” said Digby, and to Falkland, “Isabella and I have known each other since we were children.”

  “You exaggerate, Digby,” she told him, in a low, husky voice. “I was still a little girl when you first took your seat in Parliament. My lord,” she said to Falkland, “I have often watched you there, from the galleries, but never had the privilege of a closer acquaintance. I am afraid I insisted on that privilege tonight.”

  “The privilege is mine,” Falkland said, bowing.

  “So, as of today you are both soldiers!”

  “Lucius has some military experience already, with the Earl of Essex, in the Scottish campaign,” Digby put in slyly.

  How typical of him, Falkland thought, to disguise a little thrust as a compliment. “True, I served under Essex,” Falkland said to Mistress Savage, “but we did not see much fighting, madam, and as you must know, His Majesty’s attempt to pacify the Scots ended in defeat.”

  “And now Essex is your enemy. What a changed state of affairs.”

  “One I regret,” he murmured, beginning to regret that he had come.

  “Our simple repast is ready,” Digby said, as the servant entered bearing a platter of stewed fowl and a large pie with a standing crust. “Isabella, you shall take the Prince’s chair. Lucius, you shall sit opposite her. And I shall sit between you.”

  An obvious ploy, Falkland told himself, but it worked: throughout the meal, he had to look at her; and if he did not look, he felt an idiot that he should so studiously avoid her.

  When she turned aside in conversation, he noted a classical cast to her profile and long, slender neck; face on, she enchanted him with her deep brown eyes, hooded by sleepy lids, and her lips, half smiling in repose; and as she moved her head, he glimpsed a flash of auburn in her dark hair. He admired the slim fit of her gown, a bronze silk that brought out the honeyed colour of her skin, and the emeralds dangling from her ears, and her gestures, rather lazy, as was her drawling speech; though he guessed, from what she said, that there was nothing lazy about her brain. She unnerved him, and not just because of her beauty: she talked with a most unfeminine confidence.

  “Nottingham is the same as Coventry: hostile to us, one might argue,” she remarked, tearing apart a wishbone. “My Lord Falkland, did you think it a good decision to raise the standard here? What do we have so far, a thousand men? If that?”

  “His Majesty expects others, now that war has been formally declared,” Falkland said.

  “But he has just sent emissaries of peace to London. Why should the local gentry commit to him? And it’s harvest time. How can you expect any farmer to desert his crops, when there’s no absolute certainty of war and even less certainty of getting paid to fight, if war does break out?”

  “Isabella, you are plaguing him while he is trying to eat,” said Digby. “So quick she ought to have been in breeches,” he giggled to Falkland.

  “Are you insulting my sex?” she asked Digby, her eyes sparkling at him. “If so, I won’t stand for it!”

  “If I had my druthers, you would stand for Parliament! Lucius, don’t you think that if women were given the same education as ourselves, they would prove as capable in the political sphere?”

  “There are many examples to be found in history,” Isabella said, before Falkland could answer.

  “Our late Queen Elizabeth,” Digby said.

  “And my namesake, the Queen of Spain.”

  “These are princes, and may prove the exception rather than the rule,” Falkland said at last. “And I would not think it proper for women to assume all of our duties.”

  “Which would you spare us, my lord?” she queried, with a devastating smile.

  “The battlefield, madam, for one,” he answered, hoping to silence her.

  “Ah, but what of the Amazons?”

  “My darling Isabella, are you prepared, as they were, to cut off a breast to go to war?” Digby said, giggling again.

  “There would be no need. We are not still shooting bows and arrows, as they were,” she responded.

  “We may have to, if we continue to be so short of pistols and muskets.”

  “Then in the interests of self-preservation I shall certainly leave warfare to you gentlemen.” She turned to Falkland, her expression more serious. “My lord, what do you believe might come of the negotiations?”

  “Some compromise, before the violence becomes widespread,” he replied.

  “Would you go to London and plead for peace, if circumstances required?”

  “Yes, I would, with all my heart,” he said vehemently, “if it could put a stop to any bloodshed. And I may yet.”

  “His Highness Prince Rupert has been heard to say that we should not pander to rebels,” she said. “What is your view, Digby?” Digby was nibbling on a quail leg; with his full cheeks, he reminded Falkland of a large, blond squirrel. “How you hate to commit yourself,” she went on, with a hard little laugh.

  “I follow the voice of reason, as does my friend Lucius.”

  “You follow a great number of voices, but chiefly your own.”

  “And what would you say, my dear?”

  “That there is reason on both sides.”

  “Aha! It seems that neither of us wishes to divulge our true feelings about this war.”

  “Were you merely jesting, then, when you wrote from Holland to His Majesty urging him to take up arms against his people?” Falkland exclaimed, hearing his tone grow shrill with emotion.

  Digby gave him a reproachful look. “Now, Lucius, you have hit below the belt.”

  “Do you deny that you encouraged him to it?”

  There was a silence, during which Falkland caught Mistress Savage studying them both with great interest, as though expecting they might leap up and engage in physical combat.

  “Must we argue?” Digby said, casting them one of his incandescent smiles. “I can never tolerate an argument while eating.”

  “Then let us attack a less controversial issue,” Mistress Savage said hastily. “Tell me, gentlemen, has the Prince got himself a lover yet? I wager there are more young hearts waiting to be broken by him than there are troops serving under His Majesty.”

  “Yours too?” Digby asked. “Or aren’t you susceptible?”

  “I fear I’m not. I think I prefer more experienced campaigners.”

  “You speak of military campaigning, I assume,” he said, winking at her.

  “Rupert has experience, even though he’s only twenty-three,” Falkland interjected, to steer their discourse into less ribald waters. “He served nearly ten years in his father’s army.”

  “Don’t mention it to our host – he is somewhat envious of Rupert
’s martial prowess,” commented Mistress Savage. “Digby, I do believe you wish for war just so you may be proved as fine a general as you are a man of politics. Am I right?”

  Digby for once appeared annoyed. “It is getting late, Isabella,” he observed rather peevishly.

  “Yes, I must go,” she said, rising. Digby and Falkland got up also, Falkland with some relief. “Digby, would you have my maidservant called?”

  “I shall fetch her myself,” he said, and went out.

  Another obvious ruse, Falkland thought, but what was the design behind it?

  Mistress Savage came closer, and he saw that her eyes were not dark brown but hazel, shot with golden flecks. “My lord,” she said quietly, “you know Charles Danvers, do you not?”

  “As an acquaintance,” said Falkland, frowning.

  “He is estranged from his wife and has engaged in a love affair. His mistress, who is a friend of mine, told me that he is claiming you hired him as one of your agents. She does not lie to me. I think you would be wise to detach him from your service. He cannot even contain his own secrets, let alone those of anyone else.”

  “Madam, may I ask why are you offering me this advice?”

  “Because of how you spoke out tonight,” she replied, with apparent candour. “I would be sorry to see a man as noble as you come to grief. My lord, you are not like us.” And she glanced towards the door. “We are – how can I put it – in the world, and you have not yet been polluted by its dealings.”

  She moved away from Falkland as their host returned with her maidservant, who held out her cloak for her to put on.

  “Thank you for attending, Isabella,” Digby said.

  “And I thank you for the wonderful repast, and wish you both well with the recruits,” she told them, in her former languid drawl. “And you with the peace negotiations, my lord.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Falkland said.

  “I hope we meet again, though it will not be for a while. I am soon to leave Nottingham.”

  Digby kissed her on the cheek. “I shall visit you tomorrow, my dear.”

  “Please do,” she said.

  After she had gone, they resumed their seats at the table, and Digby made a few humming noises in his throat. “I am sure you are speculating, Lucius,” he said, at length. “Let me set matters straight. My wife and I are inseparable.”

  “There is no need to explain.”

  “But I would like to, in case you should have formed some mistaken opinion of Isabella. She is a sort of relative, to be precise. Her father is unknown to her. He is of noble blood. Her mother died when she was but four or five. Alas, the union from which she sprang had the sanction of neither Church nor state, and left her vulnerable, and that is why I took it upon myself to be her guardian. However, since she has attained an age at which she is able to lead her own life, I allow her perfect freedom. And, as you may judge, she makes full use of it.”

  “If she is your ward, is it not your responsibility to erase the stain of her parents’ indiscretion by finding her a husband?” Falkland said abruptly, still rattled by what she had just told him.

  “I shall, by and by. Someone very old and very rich who will die and leave her a grand estate.”

  “Yet she must still be subject to … to gossip.”

  “As are we all.”

  “With her bold talk, she does not make it any easier on herself.”

  Digby inspected him, simpering. “I so adore to watch each time my Helen of Troy makes her first impression on a man. Even you were not immune, Lucius.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Digby. I am as inseparable from my wife as you are from yours.”

  “But were you not horrified at the very idea that she should sacrifice one of those exquisite breasts to go to war? And they are exquisite, Lucius. I have seen them.”

  “Digby, please,” said Falkland, blushing again.

  “On one occasion only, when I had her painted by Van Dyke in ancient costume,” Digby said, with an air of wounded innocence. Then he took a sip from his glass. “What were you and she speaking of, before I came in?”

  “She made some inquiry about Charles Danvers,” Falkland said, now wanting very much to leave.

  “Danvers? Oh yes, I think he is paying court to a friend of hers. And who is Danvers to you?” Digby inquired, as if he were uninterested in the answer.

  “Merely an acquaintance,” Falkland repeated, berating himself for letting slip the man’s name. “I should also retire, Digby. I have work to do still.”

  “Lucius, you must not let your duties overwhelm you,” Digby said, sympathetically; but his eyes, like those of his ward, were calculating.

  VI.

  “Are you awake?” said Tom.

  Laurence dragged himself up from the floor where he was resting, with his saddle for a pillow. “Yes.”

  “I think I’m hungry.”

  This was the first such comment that Tom had made in more than a week. For days he had hovered close to death, and although Laurence had moved him to a larger, airier room at the inn and had tended to him night and day, he was still vomiting, voiding, and delirious. Then at last there had been hope: he had slept soundly for some twenty odd hours and Laurence now knew on touching his forehead that the fever had passed.

  “It was a near thing, Tom,” he said.

  “Were you here, all the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful to you for looking after me.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude – we’re brothers.” Tom said nothing. “We haven’t always been at odds, have we, Tom?” Laurence went on.

  Tom looked thoughtful. “Remember when we were boys, the day we jumped off the top of the barn?” he said eventually. “You thought I was a coward, didn’t you. You thought I hadn’t the guts to do it.”

  “I wasn’t thinking at all. It was pure stupidity on my part. We could both have been killed.”

  “Then you went off to Merton, and when you next came home you were so pleased with yourself. You’d had your first fuck, and you couldn’t stop carrying on about it.”

  Laurence smiled sheepishly. “How ridiculous of me. I’m sorry, Tom.”

  “Are you? You wouldn’t even come near me, after six years, when I held out my arms to you. Even Ingram was embarrassed. And you had to make a joke of it, as you have of me ever since I was old enough to understand.”

  There was a silence during which Laurence wanted to ask Tom’s forgiveness. But Tom had closed his eyes, as if he would sleep. “I have to go out tomorrow,” Laurence told him. “I won’t be more than a couple of hours.”

  “Do whatever you want,” said Tom. “You always do, anyway.”

  VII.

  There were soldiers posted outside the door to Lord Falkland’s offices, burly men armed with pikes. Their disdainful attitude suggested to Laurence that although he had washed and shaved earlier, he should have heeded Dr. Clarke’s advice to purchase some new clothes.

  “Your name, sir?” demanded one of them. Laurence gave it, and he knocked and disappeared within. Laurence paced about, ignoring the other guards, until the man returned. “His lordship will see you,” he announced, as if granting that favour himself, and Laurence was shown in.

  It had been perhaps seven years since he had met Falkland at Chipping Campden, but Falkland seemed much older than that time would warrant. He sat before a trestle table piled with documents, a harried expression on his face.

  “Laurence Beaumont,” he said, smiling immediately. “Is his lordship your father well?”

  “Yes, thank you, my lord.”

  “And your family?”

  “All except for my brother. He fell seriously ill and is only just recovering. I’ve been looking after him for the past week.”

  “Here in Nottingham?” Laurence nodded. “Praise God he is feeling better.” Falkland gestured for Laurence to take the chair opposite him. “As you must know, I was expecting you.”

  “You wer
e?” said Laurence, with a frown.

  “Yes. Your father wrote to me of your talents, and suggested that you might be interested to work for me as a cryptographer.”

  “Oh. But that’s not why I came to see you, my lord.” Laurence stopped, conscious that he had spoken too bluntly. “I came to bring you these,” he began again. “My father knows nothing about them.” He took a roll of papers out of his doublet, almost frightened to part with it, and laid it on the table.

  “I have only a few days before I must go to London for the negotiations with Parliament.” Falkland sighed, picking up the papers. “The truth is, I am rushed so from one thing to another that I do not have much time to spare. What are these documents?”

  “They’re letters in code, my lord, and my transcriptions of them. They concern a plot to assassinate the King.”

  Falkland dropped them hurriedly, as though they might scorch his hands. “How in heaven’s name did you acquire them?” Laurence told the story as succinctly as he could, describing the difficulties he had experienced with the code. After he finished, there was a pause. “Let me see if I understand you,” Falkland said, looking baffled. “We have evidence of a conspiracy, but we cannot discover the identity of the conspirators.”

  “Yes, my lord. That’s the problem. But there might be some way to find out, with all the resources you have at your disposal.” Laurence searched for words to convince him; of course, the whole affair must seem half-baked, even suspicious. “The conspirators are in England now, and they’re breathing down my neck again,” Laurence went on, and spoke of his meeting with Poole, though he kept to himself the wreckage of Seward’s rooms at Merton, and his own subsequent chat with young Illingsworth.

  “Are these men aware that you have broken part of their code?” Falkland asked.

  “There’s a chance they may be. My lord, I would urge you to investigate this as swiftly as you can.”

  “Let me first read the letters. Then we’ll talk very soon, I promise. Where are you staying in town?” Laurence gave the address, which Falkland noted on a corner of one of the documents. “Mr. Beaumont, you were some years in the Low Countries, were you not? Did you return to England because of this conspiracy, or because of the political unrest here?”