“Straight to bed is where I’d like to put her,” Wilmot told Laurence, under his breath.
“I do thank you, Wilmot,” Digby was saying. “And now I shall leave you, for I have much to accomplish tonight.” His eyes strayed to the papers on a table between Laurence and Wilmot, and he wandered forward to inspect them. “What’s this – an exercise in algebra?”
“Yes, my lord,” Laurence said, silently daring him to ask more.
“Are you receiving some instruction from Mr. Beaumont?” Digby asked Wilmot. “He’s a clever fellow, or so I’ve heard.”
“I’ll walk out with you, my lord,” Wilmot said, glancing at Laurence as he ferried Digby off.
Laurence snatched up the papers to convey them to the safety of his chamber, but at the foot of the stairs he was stopped by Mrs. Fulford. “Mistress Savage wishes to speak with you, sir,” she said. “You will find her in the front room. How lovely she is!”
“Er … I suppose,” Laurence said.
“Mr. Beaumont, are you immune to all women?” whispered Mrs. Fulford, taking a step closer to him. “I think of you sometimes, at night, as I lie in my bed. Perhaps you have thought of me?”
“Every night, madam, before I go to sleep,” he told her, with the utmost gravity. “I think of you and your husband’s kindness, and I pray that God will reward you both for it.” And he squeezed by her, running upstairs in a few bounds.
He found Isabella settled in a big four-poster, tucked beneath a thick counterpane. She now wore a modest, high-necked nightgown that he guessed must belong to their hostess, and her hair, loose upon her shoulders, had been combed to a glossy sheen. “How are you, Beaumont?” she said in a friendly manner, as if they had not parted on bad terms.
“More to the point, how are you?”
“I am mending slowly. It’s a quartain fever that afflicts me at regular intervals, like an unwelcome but familiar visitor. Although it goes away, it always leaves me very weak.” She motioned for him to sit down beside her, which he did, at a respectable distance. “While in Oxford I stayed with Diana Stratton, a friend of mine, and more than that to you, as I discovered.” He must have shown his surprise, for Isabella went on, “Don’t worry, she did not betray any past secrets, but it was quite clear to me that she is still in love with you, even though you are evidently finished with her.”
“What was this misadventure you had in Oxford?” Laurence asked.
She frowned at his evasion. “Parliament’s troops made me a virtual captive at Sir Robert Stratton’s house because of the coach I was travelling in. They accused me of carrying intelligence for Digby, though they found none at all. Then I felt I had overstayed my visit – Sir Robert and I have never rubbed along. So I escaped by means of an old subterfuge.”
“Which was?”
“I disguised myself as a youth.”
“You’re joking! You mustn’t do it again.”
“I do as I please. And you have no right to reprove me. You abandoned me on the road with only a coachman to protect my honour.”
“Very true,” he admitted. “I’m sorry for that, Isabella.”
“Beaumont,” she recommenced, after a pause, “you know what I said about Colonel Hoare seeking to have Falkland removed from office? I have discovered someone who can bear witness to the fact, a man named Captain Milne who used to be one of his guards until they quarrelled a short time ago. He has seen Hoare intercepting his lordship’s private correspondence, opening it and then resealing it in such a way that Falkland would have no idea that it had been tampered with. Hoare is also keeping a record of anything that interests him.”
“Really,” said Laurence. “Captain Milne should inform Falkland at once.”
“Milne is in Prince Rupert’s regiment, as is Hoare. He’s afraid that Hoare might find out if he goes anywhere near the Secretary of State. But you could warn Falkland, so that he is at least aware of what Hoare is doing.”
“Why not warn him yourself?”
“How can I, when I am tied to my sickbed?” He cast her a sceptical look. “You still mistrust me,” she said crossly. “What was it you called me last time – Digby’s errand boy. I have never been so insulted.”
“Well you do seem to enjoy male disguise,” he observed.
“Try just for one day being a woman in a world ruled by men!” She heaved a short sigh. “Beaumont, will you talk to Falkland? Can’t you see the trouble that unscrupulous spymaster of his could bring upon him?”
Laurence stood up. “You must be very tired. I should let you rest.”
She opened her mouth, perhaps to insist again, then clearly changed her mind. “Yes, I am,” she said, smiling at him. “But will you come and see me later, to entertain me?”
“I could send Wilmot to keep you company,” he suggested, as he went to the door.
“Please don’t. I haven’t the strength to fend him off. Though I gather that I am quite safe with you, Beaumont,” she said, her eyes now sparkling at him. “Mrs. Fulford tells me that you are the consummate gentleman.”
“I certainly am, as far as she is concerned,” Laurence said, and he heard Isabella laughing as he closed the door behind him.
II.
The following day, after much internal debate, Laurence called on Lord Falkland, who had returned from Chester with the King and was lodged near the quarters occupied by the royal household.
“His lordship is busy,” the Secretary of State’s manservant declared, when Laurence had given his name.
“I’ll wait. Please inform him that I come on urgent business.”
With a supercilious stare, the manservant guided him through a passage into a large herb garden.
As Laurence was waiting, walking up and down the paths, a tall, dark-haired boy arrived carrying a book under his arm, accompanied by two attendants in royal livery. “Go away, I want to read,” the boy said, and shooed them off.
He had not noticed Laurence yet. He sat on a bench and opened his book where a marker had been inserted between the pages. He had a swarthy, pleasant face, although not handsome, the cheeks a little pouchy, the lips full, and the eyes a molten brown. Looking at him, Laurence felt a sudden wave of hatred for the conspirators who sought to kill this innocent boy’s father. It must be stopped, he thought.
Then Prince Charles saw him and said, “Hello,” as if glad to be distracted. “Who are you?”
“Laurence Beaumont, Your Highness.”
“Are you here to see Lord Falkland?”
“Yes.”
“He’s talking with my tutor, Dr. Earle. Dr. Earle sent me out because my yawning disturbed their conversation,” the Prince explained. “Sit down next to me, Mr. Beaumont. Are you a foreigner?”
“No, but my mother is,” Laurence said, obeying his instruction.
“Mine too. She is abroad,” the boy added in a mournful tone, “and I’m not sure when she will come home.”
“What are you reading?” asked Laurence quickly.
“Thucydides, on the Peloponnesian War. My other tutor, Dr. Hobbes, suggested it. I’m at the fifth book.”
“The Melian debate.”
“Yes! The Melians were brave, weren’t they, to resist such a superior power.”
“Things ended rather badly for them.”
“That’s true,” Prince Charles acknowledged. “But if they had submitted to Athens they would have been made slaves. I should prefer to die nobly than to be enslaved, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Death might be a worse fate.”
The boy examined him pensively. “Whose regiment are you with?”
“Wilmot’s.”
“Wilmot’s a good fellow, isn’t he! Were you a soldier before, as he was, in the Low Countries?”
“Yes.”
“I might have guessed! You have that look about you.”
“That look?” Laurence queried, smiling.
“As if you know far more about death than I do,” the Prince said, with impressive sa
gacity. He reached forward, to touch Laurence’s wrist. “How did you get that scar?” Laurence hesitated. “Come, answer me,” the boy said, in a voice of impatient command.
“Someone didn’t appreciate my luck at cards.”
“And you’ve another scar on your mouth. What was that from?”
“That? I can’t remember.”
“I’ll bet you can, but you don’t think it a fit story for my young ears,” Prince Charles said, as though he had heard that phrase too often for his own liking.
“You’re absolutely right,” Laurence agreed. “And it most definitely isn’t.”
The boy guffawed. “The things everyone tries to hide from me! Since I’m to be King some day, I should learn as much as I can about my people, wouldn’t you say?” Again, Laurence had to agree with him. “So now you must tell me your story.”
“Well,” Laurence began, “I once became friends with a woman who was married to a very jealous man.”
“You mean she was your mistress,” Prince Charles interrupted, his brown eyes gleaming.
“I’ve never liked that term – it has implications of ownership. At any rate, her husband –”
“Oh, what a nuisance,” cried the Prince, squinting over Laurence’s shoulder. “Here are Dr. Earle and Lord Falkland. We shall have to stop talking about mistresses. They wouldn’t approve. This is Mr. Beaumont,” he announced to them, as they approached.
“Lord Beaumont’s eldest son, Laurence?” Dr. Earle said. “I met you a long time past when you were a boy not much older than our Prince. You were to come up to my College, Merton, as did your father, to study with William Seward.”
“Yes. He was my tutor for about five years.”
“You took your Magister Artium?” Laurence nodded. “Then Mr. Beaumont is something of a scholar,” Earle told Prince Charles. “Not many young noblemen stay to finish one degree, let alone two.”
“I know he is,” the Prince said. “We were discussing the Melian debate.”
“You were? Scarcely a topic for hilarity, yet I could swear that I heard you laughing. Now, Your Highness, we must not take up any more of my Lord Falkland’s precious time. Please give my greetings to your father, Mr. Beaumont. Does he still keep up his splendid library?”
“He does,” said Laurence, thinking of the stormy afternoon he had spent amongst those books, at work on a cipher that Earle never received.
“And his collection of Titian and Rubens and so many other continental masters rivalled most that I have seen, those at Wilton House included.” Earle turned to Falkland. “By the bye, I have not yet answered the letter you brought me from my Lord Pembroke.”
Laurence started at the name, then recalled what his father had told him: Earle was once chaplain at Wilton House.
“I have not exactly answered him yet myself,” Falkland murmured back. “But we shall speak of him another day.”
“And Mr. Beaumont, we must finish our discussion of Thucydides when we have a chance,” the Prince said, grinning and stroking his lower lip with a finger.
“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” Laurence said, and bowed.
“Good day, my lord,” the Prince said to Falkland, who also bowed; and the Prince and Earle departed.
“Although Prince Charles is only twelve,” Falkland remarked to Laurence, taking a seat on the bench, “he is wise beyond his years.”
“That he is.”
“Pray sit, Mr. Beaumont.” Falkland cleared his throat. “I understand that you have been frustrated in your efforts to catch Mr. Rose, but that you assisted Colonel Hoare in interrogating a spy he had arrested.”
“My assistance wasn’t needed; the man was pretty much dead by the time I arrived,” Laurence said flatly.
“But he was alive long enough to reveal to you that he had some message for His Majesty about the peace negotiations.” Falkland stopped, regarding Laurence intently. “Colonel Hoare thinks that you did not tell him everything you got out of his prisoner.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll explain, my lord, though I must ask, for your safety and mine, that you keep what I say in complete confidence.”
“You ask much of me, when I have been given fair cause not to trust you.”
“In your position, my lord, it might be best to trust no one.” Laurence got up and scanned the open windows overlooking the herb garden. “May I request that we move?”
“Are you afraid that someone might be listening?”
“I’d prefer not to risk it.” He drew Falkland to the other end of the garden, where, after looking around once more, he said, “Hoare’s prisoner confessed to me that he was on a mission for the Earl of Pembroke.”
“Pembroke?” exclaimed Falkland, so sharply that an inchoate idea surfaced in Laurence’s mind, like a first, faint whiff of scent caught by hounds before the chase.
“Yes. It seems Pembroke was concerned that he might be accused of disloyalty to his own side, so he wanted to communicate in secret. The message was not for the King, but for someone else in His Majesty’s service – I presume an agent of Pembroke’s – Sir Bernard Radcliff.”
Falkland tugged at his moustache. “I don’t know of him.”
“By coincidence, I do. He’s married to the sister of a friend of mine. And he’s serving with Prince Rupert.”
“Was that why you lied to Colonel Hoare, to spare Radcliff from arrest?”
“Of course! The interrogation I had to take part in was botched thanks to Hoare’s excessive violence. If that man had been treated differently, we might have had far more out of him.” He noticed Falkland shiver, despite the warmth of the autumn sun. “Hoare is not just inept, my lord,” he went on. “He’s also strongly opposed to your desire for peace, as you must be aware. And I’ve heard a rumour that he may be opening and reading your private correspondence.”
Falkland gaped at him. “He could not be so treacherous!”
“He wouldn’t consider himself treacherous, my lord. He’s the sort of man who sees things in black and white. He’ll do whatever he believes is best for His Majesty’s cause, which in his view does not include a peaceful settlement. If this rumour has any truth to it, he may be hoping to undermine your efforts in that direction.”
“They may be undermined anyhow.” Falkland plucked a twig from a nearby bush, of fragrant lavender, and began to tear off the leaves methodically, one by one. “Yesterday the Earl of Essex sent an emissary to us, asking His Majesty to listen to another petition from Parliament. It contained the same old terms: that he return to Westminster, abandoning to their merited punishment all those counsellors who had misled him into declaring war. His Majesty refused to listen to it on the grounds that he would receive nothing from a proclaimed traitor.” He shook his head, adding, “After our victory at Powick, Essex should have recognised that his petition hadn’t a chance.”
“Is peace still possible?”
“I must have faith that it is,” Falkland replied, though gloomily, as he tossed aside the naked twig. “And you?”
“I’m not altogether sanguine. But then I’ve been told I have a jaundiced view of human nature,” said Laurence, with a smile.
“You have seen at first hand what war can do.”
“Yes, well, as far as peace is concerned, the Earl of Pembroke evidently shares your faith,” Laurence remarked, in an offhand way. “It would be interesting to know if he confided any of this to Dr. Earle.”
Falkland jerked up his chin and narrowed his eyes. “Allow me to clarify, sir. I sat beside his lordship at a banquet in London last month. Afterwards he gave me a letter. He merely said that he desired to renew his former friendship with Earle.” Laurence nodded, as if accepting the explanation. “And all his lordship said to me was that he regretted our present discord, and wished it had not come to bloodshed.”
“Then what did you mean when you told Earle that you hadn’t exactly answered him?” Laurence could not help asking. He
was aware that his question verged on impertinence, yet the scent that he had picked up earlier was growing more distinct.
“Mr. Beaumont, I am not obliged to answer you,” Falkland retorted.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Laurence said, pretending apology. “However, you might learn something of Pembroke’s intentions from Sir Bernard Radcliff.”
“Are you suggesting that I arrest him?”
“You could call him in for an audience – without alerting Colonel Hoare. And in future, my lord, I would urge you to be extremely vigilant not to say or write a word that Hoare could use against you.”
“What about the plot to regicide? He will expect you to work for him –”
“I must appear to be working for him. Please, my lord, don’t let him hinder me in my own investigations. I promise to tell you everything I find out, just as I’ve been frank with you today.”
“This rumour about my letters being opened – can you obtain some proof of it?”
“I could try,” Laurence said, reluctantly.
“I do admire your skill in negotiating these dark corners, Mr. Beaumont,” Falkland commented, in a rueful tone. “If only I had spent less time in my library, and more out in the world.”
“You’re out in the world now, my lord.”
“So I am,” said Falkland. “And what a world it is.”
III.
Ingram was currying his horse after another day of drill exercises when he saw Beaumont gallop up on his graceful black stallion. “Here you are at last!” Ingram cried, as his friend dismounted.
“I meant to find you earlier but you know how things are,” Beaumont said, shrugging. “You look tired, Ingram.”
“I am. We’ve had new men come in who have no training yet, and some of our poor beasts contracted the founder and we had to shoot them. Radcliff went off this morning to buy more, though good mounts are scarce these days.”
“So you’re not quite prepared for a victorious march all the way to London?”
“I think we’ll have a fight with Essex before we get there. I heard from Tom that you’ve enlisted with Wilmot.”
The Best of Men Page 29