The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “He is. Would you be inclined to trust him?”

  “No, my lord. He resembles an Italian,” Stephens elaborated.

  “Thank you, Stephens, I shall bear your view in mind,” Falkland said, and went out to his coach.

  Over their meal, Falkland found Digby unusually quiet, but at last, as they were served a course of braised game, he announced, “You will be happy to hear that Prince Charles has conquered his measles. The King’s physician thinks him well enough to travel.”

  “Then he will leave Reading tomorrow in procession with the King.” Falkland was silent for a while, watching Digby eat, which he did in small bites, possibly to counter his tendency to plumpness. “Be honest, my lord,” said Falkland, “you think me like Sisyphus with his rock, trying again and again to reach a peaceful settlement.”

  “No, I admire your determination. But do you truly think that His Majesty shares it?”

  “I must pray he does.”

  “Or else the radicals in Parliament would be vindicated in their opinion that he is not being quite open with them,” Digby said, with a little smile. “Still, there is another way to end the war. With enough foreign troops –”

  “If His Majesty imports troops from Ireland, he will destroy any chance of reconciliation with Parliament.”

  “Who said anything about the Irish?”

  “Irish or French, what does it matter. You know what every Englishman fears. A Catholic invasion to re-establish the supremacy of Rome in this country.”

  “Every Protestant Englishman, I think is what you mean. Did your mother not convert to the Roman faith, along with your younger brother?”

  “We both have Catholics in our families.”

  “We do, yes. I argued long and hard with my cousin Kenelm, trying to bring him to see reason. Alas, he remains adamant in his beliefs.”

  “Belief and reason are old enemies. A pity there is not more tolerance. We are all children of Christ.”

  “If every Englishman agreed with you, the kingdom might not be in this sorry state.” They were silent for a while, chewing their food. “I cannot wait to return to Oxford,” Digby began again. “I had such a wonderful time as a student at Magdalen College. And you will be nearer to home.”

  “Not twenty miles away,” Falkland said, thinking longingly of his wife and boys.

  “You must miss your intellectual gatherings at Great Tew – Tom Hobbes, John Earle, William Chillingworth – superb scholars, all of them.”

  “It seems much like an idyll to me now, to sit about at leisure with good friends discussing everything under the sun.”

  Digby took a sip of wine and mopped his lips. “Do you by any chance know a Lord Beaumont, who has a house not far from yours?”

  “He was often my guest, as I was his.”

  “He has a son who is serving with Wilmot, Laurence Beaumont. You must know him, too,” said Digby, in the probing tone that Falkland detested. “I met him when I was – yes?” Digby inquired of his servant, who had hurried in unexpectedly.

  “My lord, Mistress Savage is here to see you.”

  He looked flustered. “What can this be about? I apologise, Lucius.”

  Mistress Savage entered a moment later, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold. “My lords, forgive me for disturbing you,” she said, as they rose to bow.

  “What is it, my dear?” asked Digby, coming to put an arm about her shoulders. She frowned at him and then at Falkland. “Go on, go on,” Digby urged.

  “I have news from London. The day before yesterday, Parliament intercepted a message that was to be smuggled upriver to one of the King’s secretaries. It was from some person in the Queen’s suite, and describes the assistance that he may expect from abroad. The Queen has promises of aid from Denmark, France, and the Low Countries. She is about to send over a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, and will land in England herself very soon. If the King can take Kent, London will be blockaded. If the city refuses to surrender, the King of France will lend three regiments of Englishmen in his service for an invasion.”

  Falkland blinked at her, speechless with shock and dismay.

  “How did you hear this?” said Digby.

  “From the wife of a certain Member of Parliament. A most trustworthy source.”

  Falkland felt sick. All along the King had been negotiating in bad faith, and Parliament now had the evidence to prove it. “We have been made fools of,” he exclaimed, “with our talk of peace.”

  “It cannot be such a surprise to you,” Digby told him soothingly. “Her Majesty was publicly seeking help from the Danish king, who is after all His Majesty’s uncle, and we ourselves received his envoy here. What will be difficult to explain is the inopportune time.”

  “Inopportune?” repeated Falkland, his voice rising. “By Jesus, it is worse than that! Parliament will think us a bunch of liars!”

  As if the heat of Falkland’s reaction embarrassed him, Digby turned to Isabella. “Has His Majesty been alerted yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then Lucius and I must beg an audience with him at once.”

  How can I even look him in the eye, Falkland thought, but he nodded.

  Digby gestured at his kidskin shoes adorned with satin rosettes. “Excuse me for a moment, I must put on my boots to go out in this nasty weather,” he said, and bustled off.

  Falkland sat back down, trembling, and drained his glass of wine. Mistress Savage slipped into Digby’s seat and laid a hand on his arm. “I have news for you, also, my lord.”

  “You do?” he asked apprehensively.

  “If you have not heard this already, Colonel Hoare has been inspecting your private correspondence. There is an informant, Captain Milne, who has seen him opening it and taking notes afterwards, I presume about whatever content he might use against you. Milne is in Prince Rupert’s Horse. He cannot come to you until the armies retire for the winter or Hoare may find out. But when the time comes, he will bear witness.”

  “I ask you again,” said Falkland, wary of her connection to his host, “why are you extending yourself for me?”

  “Out of respect for you, my lord. And for another man, who has an enemy in Hoare.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Mr. Beaumont. He will help me to arrange your meeting with Milne, which of course must take place in absolute secrecy. You may rely upon Beaumont.”

  “May I, Mistress Savage?”

  “More than you can rely on the King,” she said, very softly.

  VI.

  “We move out early tomorrow,” Wilmot told his officers. “Just a day’s ride, we’ll camp for the night and then attack the rebels at Marlborough the next morning. It will be good sport. More to the point, in one swoop we’ll block enemy access to the wool trade and complete our line of defence to the southwest.”

  “How unfair of you, Wilmot, to leave Prince Rupert none of the glory,” Laurence reproved him, as the officers dispersed.

  “It’s our last action before we hole up for Christmastide and I want my name on it,” Wilmot retorted, grinning.

  They set out at dawn: Wilmot and Lords Digby and Grandison had amongst them four troops of horse and six hundred dragoons. Artillery completed the train. Wilmot had selected smaller guns, demi-culverins and sakers, to make better speed on the road, and before they left, he had sent his scouts ahead to report on the town’s defences. They journeyed towards Wantage, then turned west past the enormous White Horse, carved into the chalky soil in some bygone age. The mid-December wind blew bitterly cold across the Downs as they camped, waiting for the artillery to catch up.

  The sky was still dark when they re-formed to approach on Marlborough, and in the small hours of morning on the fifth of December the guns began to roar, followed shortly by a cavalry attack.

  The townsfolk were at a strategic disadvantage: along the broad High Street stood a number of well-proportioned inns with wide stable-buildings that were easily penetrated by one wing of the Royalist cavalry, while
the other wing filled the street. They were shot at ineffectually by snipers posted at upper windows and barricades, but faced no serious opposition, and the fight was soon over. Then, as at Brentford, the looting began. Dwellings, stables, barns, and warehouses were stormed and prisoners seized, along with bales of cloth, huge cheeses, barrels of wine, and hogsheads of oil. Wilmot’s men discovered a stack of Bibles and used them to fuel a bonfire that blazed away as the citizens were rounded up and forced to crack open their coffers.

  Laurence was watching these proceedings with resigned disgust when Digby called him over. “A wealthy merchant lives here,” he said, pointing to the house opposite. “Let’s see what we may have off him.”

  The man was alone in his parlour when they strode in with some of Digby’s officers; the servants were fleeing upstairs, where the rest of the family had presumably taken shelter.

  “Five hundred pounds, sir,” Digby declared. “That is the price of your liberty, to be paid within four days at the latest. I hazard a guess you spent more than twice that amount on your splendid furnishings and would not care to see them destroyed.”

  The man fell to his knees and burst into tears. “You blackguard soldiers have plundered me so, I can give you no more than a hundred!”

  “How very unfortunate for you. Mr. Beaumont, pray hold your pistol to his skull and see if he hasn’t five hundred pounds.”

  The man shrank from Laurence, who had raised his pistol reluctantly. “Spare my life! I’ve eighteen children to maintain and will have nothing left to keep them!”

  “Eighteen children?” Digby exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Mr. Beaumont? Does it not seem to you an excessive number?”

  “It certainly does,” said Laurence, amused by Digby’s air of outrage.

  “God damn me,” Digby continued to the man, who winced at the blasphemy, “if you will be so short of money, why not tie the creatures up two by two together and drown them, as we do kittens?”

  Laurence began to laugh, at which the man railed at him, “You are an impious creature, to find humour in the tormenting of a Christian gentleman!”

  “And you, sir, are incontinent,” Digby said. “You might as well claim half of Marlborough as your progeny. If you will not drown them, I’ll gladly undertake the duty for you. Where are they hidden?”

  At length, after Digby had suggested stringing him up at his own door, the man promised to surrender his five hundred pounds, and they left him.

  “I must congratulate you, Mr. Beaumont,” said Digby, scanning the chaos around them. “That old miser was more appalled by your sinister face than my threats. No doubt he’ll enjoy retelling the story to his horde of grandchildren.”

  “Or to the enemy pamphleteers,” said Laurence.

  “Hmm. Pamphleteers, eh? You give me a thought. When we are back in Oxford, I believe I might engage your services, if Wilmot will allow me.”

  Laurence made no reply.

  Once stripped of valuables, Marlborough had to be garrisoned for the King, but by the time the Royalist army rode out, shopkeepers were reopening their businesses and the town had been restored to relative calm. It was a slow journey back to Oxford with prisoners, horses, and cattle in tow, and piles of booty stuffed into every available vehicle, but as Wilmot had anticipated, they were greeted as conquering heroes upon their arrival. The Court was in residence, Christmas festivities had started, and news of the victory at Marlborough only heightened the atmosphere of optimism, as well as the boasts of the pro-war party. At Christ Church College, where he was quartered, His Majesty threw a banquet to congratulate the Cavaliers, as they had come to be known.

  Laurence had been seated between Wilmot and Charles Danvers, with whom he had no desire to exchange a single word. They were all drinking heavily, surrounded by an adoring female audience. Then Digby sailed up and made himself a place at the table. He looked exceptionally sober, and smug.

  “Why in God’s name aren’t you as cut as the rest of us, my lord?” Wilmot demanded.

  “Later, later. Mr. Beaumont,” Digby said, beaming at Laurence, “I’ve a proposition for you. Where are you staying?”

  Wilmot answered for him. “Alas, Beaumont is not staying. His sister is to be married in a few days, and he tells me he cannot miss the event. Are you trying to steal him away from me, my lord?”

  “I was not aware you owned him. What do you have to say to that, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “I don’t have any owner that I know of, my lord,” Laurence said politely.

  “Really! I was told that Colonel Hoare thinks he owns you. As he owns our friend Danvers here.”

  Danvers flushed and tossed back his wine.

  “If you’re trying to provoke an argument, my lord,” Wilmot said, “we are in far too good a humour to rise to the occasion. For an argument, I mean.” He drew the nearest woman onto his knees and put a hand on her breast, which she did not discourage from dipping below the front of her dress. “We are perfectly capable of rising in other ways.”

  Digby giggled. “I’m sure you are, sir! Ladies, don’t you find Mr. Beaumont an exotic morsel? If I did not know him for an Englishman, I might suspect he has a lick of the tar brush in him. Hot climes breed hot blood, or so it’s said. If I were you, my dears, I’d be tempted to discover the truth of it.”

  “Now there’s a recommendation,” observed one of the young ladies; the prettiest, Laurence noted. Slight and dark-haired, she wore a dress of pale silk that glowed and shimmered in the candlelight, and she was examining him with eyes rather like Isabella’s, though wider set, in a heart-shaped face.

  “Leave him be, my lord,” Wilmot growled at Digby. “And drink up.”

  Shortly after, Laurence excused himself; since the campaign had drawn to a close, he was at last free to visit Seward, and he had much to recount.

  “Off to smell the flowers, are you?” Danvers said. “Me too.”

  Out in the open quadrangle, breathing chill winter air, Laurence realised that he was drunker than he thought. Danvers had stopped to urinate against a wall. “Beaumont,” he said, over his shoulder, “I told you, it’s not true about Hoare. You can’t believe Digby – he’s just trying to make trouble.”

  “I couldn’t give a toss, either way,” Laurence said, walking off. “Good night.”

  A few seconds later, he heard the rapid click of heels on the cobblestones, and a hand tugged at his cloak. He turned abruptly, expecting Danvers, but it was the woman from the banquet. “Mr. Beaumont,” she said, “I had thought to leave also. My chamber is not far, in Corpus Christi. Would you accompany me there?”

  “Yes, madam,” he replied, after a brief hesitation; she had slipped her arm in his. “Have you no cloak?”

  “I’m not cold,” she said, but he took his off anyway and wrapped it over her shoulders.

  She was a lady of rank, he thought, judging by the tasteful, expensive style of her clothes. She should have a servant with her. “Are you alone?” he asked, feeling suspicious.

  “I am now,” she sighed. “My gentlewoman was drinking to excess and is quite incapacitated.” When they reached the College, she returned his cloak. “Would you see me to my chamber? I had difficulty with the key.” He hesitated again; he was unarmed, about to enter some unlit corridor, and there could be any number of surprises awaiting him behind her door. Yet she beseeched him again so sweetly that he agreed.

  As she had said, it took him some time before the key would turn in the lock. He opened the door, removed the key, and was about to place it in her palm when she murmured, “Aren’t you going to give me a good-night kiss?” He looked down at her, and the aphrodisiac effect of liquor crept over him. Her lips were soft and her mouth tasted of something sugary. “I would so like to know you better,” she whispered afterwards, pressing her breasts against him.

  She manoeuvred him into the chamber, which was large and elegant, suggesting that she must indeed be someone of importance, and after a quick glance about he shut the door with his foot. H
e unfastened her gown, slipped it from her shoulders, and began to kiss her again. Then he stopped. “Are you sure you wish to know me this well?”

  “Yes. Lock the door.”

  In the darkness, after certain other preliminaries, he raised her petticoats and happened to run his hand over her belly, only to discover that she was some months pregnant. “Is your husband here in Oxford with you?” he inquired warily, recalling his past experience with an irate spouse.

  She shook her head and pulled him closer. “He died of his wounds after Edgehill. We were married four years, and loved each other very much. Please, sir,” she said, her voice hoarse with desire, “make me forget him for the night.”

  She was certainly in need, raking his back with her nails and biting his neck. She panted so loudly that he had to muffle her mouth with his, although the squeaking of the bed frame would have been sufficient to give them away to anyone passing. After a while he shifted her about, to avoid the distracting swell of her stomach. “What have you touched inside me?” she cried ecstatically; and he thought, not for the first time, what a shame it was that so few women seemed familiar with this sensitive spot within their own bodies. The ceiling of heaven, he had once heard it called.

  They continued on until he felt himself on the brink; and when it ended, her panting quietened. She gave him a last kiss, lay back in bed closing her eyes, and mumbled, “You may let yourself out,” before apparently succumbing to sleep.

  Easing away from her, he laced up his breeches, and was ready to exit from her chamber when he heard noises outside, of slow, dragging footsteps. He unlocked the door, and looked out. In the corridor another woman was tottering towards him. Even from a distance, he could smell the alcohol on her breath. Her eyes flickered as he emerged. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where is my Lady d’Aubigny?”

  Laurence felt a slight alarm, hoping that the episode would not become public knowledge: Lady d’Aubigny’s late husband had been a cousin of His Majesty. Oh well, he thought next, at least he could not be accused of impregnating her.

  “Where is my Lady d’Aubigny?” repeated the gentlewoman drunkenly.