The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  “Oh for God’s sake! We’ll get a confession from Radcliff!”

  “How could we be sure it was the truth? He might be lying to save his life.”

  Beaumont laughed scornfully. “How many men have been condemned in half an hour on less evidence than we have before us?”

  “I have to agree with you on that,” Falkland said. “Which brings me to the main reason for the King’s delay. The memory of the Earl of Strafford’s fate still haunts him. In signing the earl’s death warrant, he sent to the block a faithful servant. Pembroke is yet more to him: a close friend, beloved by his father, who has sworn never to take up arms against him.”

  “And we know why,” Beaumont said, in a furious whisper. “To dupe the King into trusting him!”

  “Yes, but His Majesty will not be moved. As long as the supposed conspirators are under watch, he says he is not afraid of them. And in any case, my hands are tied until the middle of May.”

  “When the Commission of Array will be proclaimed in London.” Beaumont swore rather inventively under his breath. “If London were truly so strong for the King,” he said next, “don’t you think it would have risen last year after Edgehill, when his army got as far as Reading?”

  “As I told you, much has changed of late. There is discontent in many quarters. The citizens are rebelling against the exorbitant taxes they must pay to support the army, and are openly accusing the radicals in Parliament of feathering their own nests with the proceeds. And then they are complaining about the destruction wrought by Puritan vandals to so many buildings in the capital –”

  “Every time His Majesty has been caught trying to pull the wool over Parliament’s eyes, the citizens of London have rallied behind their leaders,” Beaumont interrupted. “The date he’s chosen is well over a month away, too long to keep a secret, which is not that secret as it is. Parliament has an efficient web of spies.” Falkland nodded resignedly. “And wouldn’t it strengthen his chances of success in London, if he could show that one of the chief negotiators in Parliament had designs on his life?”

  “Without more proof he will not consider that an option. Please, sir, may we close this topic and turn to another?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Beaumont said, with an exasperated sigh.

  “Tomorrow Hoare will call you as a witness. How do you propose to handle the questioning?”

  Beaumont smiled, deviously this time. “You have all his private documents, don’t you, and my transcription of the first letters.” From the confusion on his desk, Falkland pulled out a leather book and a roll of dog-eared papers in Beaumont’s scrawling hand. Beaumont flicked quickly through the book. “Pembroke knows that someone’s on his tail, but he mustn’t find out who, or how close we are – he could easily escape us. Naturally he’ll be interested in this trial, since Hoare has talked about a conspiracy to regicide. So I intend to deny that the plot ever existed.”

  “But that would mean lying under oath!”

  “That’s right. And we must stop him getting his hands on any of this evidence. With nothing to support his claim, he’ll be sunk,” said Beaumont, slapping the book down on the table with a loud thump.

  Falkland almost laughed at the bold-faced daring of his strategy. “How can we do that?”

  “These are state secrets, my lord. The King must understand that we can’t have the conspiracy broadcasted about while Pembroke and Radcliff are still free. Deny Hoare’s records to the court on His Majesty’s authority. And I think, before tomorrow, that you should pay a visit on Hoare.”

  “To what end?”

  “To tell him he has no case. Let him sweat with fear until the morning.”

  “But his guards will bear witness that he questioned you about the conspiracy!”

  “If you remember, I told him nothing.”

  “They went to Aylesbury with you, to arrest Poole!”

  “Yes, but they knew no more than that he was a criminal of some sort and that we were ordered to bring him in. And anyway, they’re slavishly loyal to Hoare; they’re bound to tell his version of the story. Without evidence, their testimony won’t stand up against mine. They’re only commoners, my lord,” Beaumont added, facetiously. “Well, do we have a plan?”

  Falkland nodded, his stomach churning at the risks involved. “I shall have to speak to the King. If he is agreed, I could go to the gaol this evening.”

  “You might take the judge with you, so you can’t be accused of subverting the course of justice,” Beaumont said, with the same devious smile.

  “I shall.” Falkland began to smile also. “Mr. Beaumont, I hate to nag you about such a trivial thing, but could you please make sure that you are dressed appropriately for your appearance in court?”

  “Don’t worry, my lord – I’ve already enlisted the services of a tailor.”

  “Then tell him to send me the bill,” Falkland said.

  VII.

  After his audience with Falkland, Laurence went immediately to the Blue Boar, and bounded upstairs to Isabella’s chamber. The door stood wide open, revealing a servant on her knees scrubbing the floor. “Mistress Savage has moved to rooms downstairs,” she said, on his inquiry, and told him where to find them.

  He thanked her. About to go, he walked over to the window and looked down to the alleyway. In daylight, he could see the drop. Isabella had been right: he might easily have broken his neck before Hoare captured him.

  He followed the servant’s instructions to a door off the main taproom, and with slight disappointment heard a male voice within; Isabella was not alone. He knocked, and after a while a man opened. He was a little shorter than Laurence and blond, his moustache and beard reddish in colour. His face, good-looking in the way of northern Englishmen with Viking blood, was lightly pitted. Had Laurence been introduced to him abroad, he would have taken him for a Swede. “You must be Mr. Beaumont!” the man said, smiling. “I’m Captain Milne. We were to meet, on Christmas Eve.”

  “Ah yes,” Laurence said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Milne waved him into the room, which was a small parlour with another door off it. In the room was a table covered in jugs and bottles, and Laurence guessed from Milne’s speech and relaxed deportment that he must have been imbibing. Isabella, who had been seated at the table, rose to curtsey. Her cheeks had an unnatural colour to them, of rouge; and in her eyes, dark and shining like wet glass, Laurence read no welcome, but a strange, dispirited expression, as if she were not happy at all to see him.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” she said, in her husky drawl, “how good it is that you are so recovered.”

  “Yes, I heard the Colonel gave you some pretty hard knocks!” guffawed Milne.

  “And how are you?” Laurence asked her.

  “Oh, the same as ever,” she replied, with a smile so manifestly fake that it wounded him.

  Milne came over to her and patted her on the rear. “My sweet lady and I were having a little drink. Won’t you join us, sir?” Laurence did not respond, busy stifling his rage, though he knew it was unfair. Milne seemed oblivious, pulling out a chair for him and searching amongst the jugs. “Damn it, my love, we’ve finished every drop! Wait here with her, Mr. Beaumont, and I shall fetch some more from that cheapskate tavern keeper.” And he departed whistling, a jug in either hand.

  “What are you doing with him?” Laurence demanded at once, as equably as he could.

  “That should be obvious, to a man of your experience,” she said, sitting down again.

  He hesitated, examining her. “I … I came here to thank you. I know you went to the Castle with Falkland, that day I was freed.”

  “Yes I did – just to see the look on Colonel Hoare’s face when Falkland arrested him,” she said, with her hard laugh. “It was well worth my trouble!”

  He nodded, and there was another silence between them. “Isabella, you don’t have to stay with Milne,” he blurted out. “You … you can’t like his company.”

  “You mean that I should p
refer yours?”

  He felt himself flush. “I wouldn’t be so presumptuous.”

  “You have been in the past.” She sighed, fiddling with one of her earrings. “Well, Mr. Beaumont, I accept your thanks. Is there anything else you have to say, before you leave?”

  He gazed at her, wishing she would show some emotion towards him other than indifference, but she was behaving as if he were not there at all. “No,” he told her, at length. “Good day, Isabella.” And he bowed to her, and walked out.

  In the taproom, he bumped into Milne returning with the wine. “Going so soon?” Milne said cheerily.

  “I forgot I had an appointment,” said Laurence, trying to pass him by.

  “But I’d like a quick word with you first, about the trial. Come, over here.” Milne steered him to a nearby table and they sat down. “I suppose you’re aware that Hoare’s done all he can to discredit me,” Milne began. “I’m glad you can bear witness to his evil deeds. You must be itching for revenge, as am I.”

  “What’s your quarrel with him?” Laurence asked, although he was not especially interested to hear.

  “He made a fool of me, in front of the rest of his guard. I nearly challenged him to a duel, there and then,” Milne declared, with a proud toss of his head.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “He would have had me shot for insubordination. And now he’s defamed my good name in court. Still, he’s the prisoner, and we shall get to spit on him after he hangs.” He leant back, squinting at Laurence. “Are you a close friend of Isabella’s?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm. I had wondered if you were her lover, in the past.” Laurence did not grace this with an answer. “Well let me tell you,” Milne confided, “she’s got a wonderful talent for grasping things as they stand.”

  “What things?” Laurence said, wanting to slap him.

  “The affairs of men,” he sniggered; then he modified his tone. “When this trial is over, we must all celebrate together – you and me and Isabella, and Digby and Falkland, of course. She’ll take me far, I can already see,” he said, grinning up at the taproom’s smoke-stained ceiling. “Not that I don’t deserve it; I’ve paid my dues, believe me. You wouldn’t understand, being so highly born, how life is for the rest of us. That’s the whim of Fortune for you. But since Fortune’s a woman, as they say, a man can always have the advantage of her. It’s what I aim to do, upon my soul.”

  “I wish you the very best of luck.” Laurence got up from the table, for if he had to listen to any more about Milne’s future prospects, he would have felt inclined to curtail them altogether. “Now you must excuse me.”

  As he strode off, he heard Milne shout after him, “See you in court, sir, and mind you give the bastard his just deserts!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I.

  Seward arrived in court anticipating a tense session, although Beaumont had insisted that all would go well. He was looking astonishingly smart in a new suit of black clothes, which Seward had admired earlier.

  “Paid for by the Secretary of State – but I chose the colour,” Beaumont had informed him, with a smile.

  The judge ordered the prisoner to be brought forth, amidst much whispering and some jeers from the public benches. Hoare’s linen was soiled and his beard needed trimming, yet he wore the same proud, impassive expression that he had maintained throughout. Beaumont was then summoned and sworn in; while respectful, he wore an air of aristocratic hauteur quite unlike his customary demeanour.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” commenced the lawyer for the prosecution, “according to your deposition, you were too ill to attend the trial until today as a consequence of the severe tortures inflicted upon you by the accused. Is that so?”

  “It is,” Beaumont said calmly.

  “The accused has stated that you were employed by him, with the full knowledge and agreement of my Lord Falkland, to assist them both in gathering covert information. Is this true?”

  “No. But I have on occasion offered some advice, to the Secretary of State alone.”

  “The accused has averred that, in September of last year, you gave my Lord Falkland some documents obtained by you abroad containing evidence of a conspiracy against the life of His Majesty, and that his lordship employed you to find the conspirators. Is this so?”

  “Colonel Hoare is very attached to conspiracies, most of them imaginary,” Beaumont replied, with unconcealed contempt. “In this case, he has constructed one against the Secretary of State. He would fabricate any lie to have Lord Falkland removed from office.”

  “A slanderous accusation!” Hoare interrupted, but the judge silenced him.

  “Why should he desire the removal of my Lord Falkland?” the lawyer asked.

  “Because he detests it that his lordship wishes to save the lives of our countrymen by bringing a negotiated settlement to the war – as His Majesty also wishes,” Beaumont added.

  “Now pray answer me directly, sir. Is Colonel Hoare’s claim false?”

  “As false as he is himself.”

  “It is he who is false!” yelled Hoare, glaring incredulously at Beaumont.

  “He has claimed further that you were helping his lordship in private negotiations with some members of Parliament,” the prosecutor continued. “Is there any truth to this?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Even under torture, you did not admit to involvement in any such thing?”

  “No I did not, as the accused can attest.”

  “Yet he says that he has evidence not only of the conspiracy but also of these other private dealings.”

  “Then I should very much like to see it.”

  “Do you hold the accused guilty of the murder of Charles Danvers?”

  “Yes,” said Beaumont, looking at Hoare for the first time.

  “Sir, has my Lord Falkland tried in any way to influence your testimony?”

  “In no way.”

  “You are not seeking to protect him, because of the friendship he has with your father, Lord Beaumont?”

  “He does not need my protection. He is completely innocent of any wrongdoing,” Beaumont answered flatly.

  “I thank you, Mr. Beaumont,” the lawyer said.

  So far, so good, thought Seward. From the rumblings of the spectators, he could tell that they were on Beaumont’s side.

  It was now the prisoner’s turn to question the witness. “Mr. Beaumont,” said Hoare, “may I remind you that you are under oath. Do you honestly deny that I employed you to investigate the conspiracy to which you alerted myself and my Lord Falkland?”

  “I do,” Beaumont said, with the merest impatience, “because there was no conspiracy.”

  “I shall provide the court with ample proof that you are lying, and that I most certainly employed you as one of my agents. Did you not urge Lord Falkland to mistrust me?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I have explained to the court why he had every reason to beware of you.”

  “So you were working to undermine my authority, and my position, as his servant.”

  “Oh no,” said Beaumont. “I believe you were doing that work all by yourself.”

  Careful, boy, don’t get too cocky, Seward warned him mutely, hearing muffled laughter from the galleries.

  Hoare blinked and shuffled his notes. “During your years abroad,” he recommenced, “did you not fight first with the Spanish army, and then turn coat to fight with the Dutch, and then with the Germans, from whom you also gained employment as a spy?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Not a great example of your probity, is it,” Hoare observed.

  “I have not hidden my past from anyone.”

  “Are you not ashamed of it, sir?”

  “Of which part should I be ashamed?” Beaumont inquired, raising his eyebrows.

  “Of turning coat, sir!”

  Beaumont cast him a bemused look. “Since you have in your regiment a
number of men who fought with the Spanish, that can hardly be accounted a crime. Later I made a moral decision to shift my allegiance, once persuaded that the Protestant cause deserved it more. And unless you would condemn yourself as well as me, I see no shame in collecting intelligence for an army in the field.”

  “A moral decision?” Hoare repeated. “You would speak to me of morals, when you have none?”

  “Colonel Hoare,” said the judge, “who is under question here, you or this witness?”

  “My lord, I am simply attempting to suggest that his testimony is not to be relied upon. Mr. Beaumont,” Hoare went on, “after deserting from the German service, did you not return to England intending to continue in the same profession, that of a spy?”

  “I did not.”

  “What a waste of your expertise. For you are, are you not, expert at writing ciphers and codes?”

  “I have some skill at it but I’ve given it up, as one gives up a vice,” Beaumont said lightly.

  “It would be the only vice that you have ever given up. And you had not yet renounced it when I interviewed you on the subject of those treasonous letters you had produced. Indeed, you demonstrated your genius by breaking large parts of the code in which they were written.”

  Beaumont gave a short laugh, as if in consternation. “Sir, the genius is entirely yours, for inventing them in the first place.”

  “Do you deny that I sent you, with a party of my own guards, to arrest the conspirators in Aylesbury last September?”

  “I do.”

  “My guards have testified otherwise, and truthfully so, as God is my witness!” Hoare glowered at him. “Mr. Beaumont, would you not perjure yourself a thousand times if you thought it to your advantage?”

  “Must I answer that?” Beaumont said, to the judge.

  “Colonel Hoare, what do you seek to gain by harrying Mr. Beaumont?” the judge said. “Keep in mind, we are here to discover your guilt or innocence, not his.”

  “My lord, if I may obtain access to my own records as I requested from the outset of this trial, I can prove that I hired him, that he brought Lord Falkland this treasonous correspondence, and that he conspired to turn his lordship against me. I had full justification to interrogate him in Oxford Castle! He is one of the biggest liars in the kingdom!”