The Best of Men

by Claire Letemendia

  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.”

  VIII.

  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.

  IX.

  “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.”

  Ingram saluted: this was his penalty.

  “How much time will they take to despoil my husband’s estate?” Madam Sumner demanded of him, as the house began to tremble with the thunder of boots.

  “I can’t say,” Ingram replied. “You and your ladies might seek somewhere quiet to sit, where you’ll be safe from disturbance.”

  “Quiet? Safe from disturbance?” She clenched her fists. “A week ago I lost my eldest son in a skirmish, and today I am losing my home.”

  “We all have lost,” Ingram told her, his temper fraying. “My sister’s husband died before he could see the child she was to bear him. And Major Beaumont’s sister lost her husband at Chalgrove Field. She was made a widow at not twenty years old.”

  “Is that how you excuse his conduct towards us?”

  “No, madam. That’s how I explain it.”

  “Let us go to the garden where there is little to steal, other than my herbs and rosebushes,” she said to her womenfolk.

  “I’ll go with you,” Ingram said.

  “Are they such brutes, that we require a guard dog?”

  Ingram let the question pass, and followed them.

  Even from the garden, they could hear smashing glass, thumps, and crashes; and doors splintered by violent kicks; and harsh exclamations as the men swarmed about in search of booty. A few of the women were weeping, but not Madam Sumner. Her courage reminded Ingram of his doughty aunt, who had worked so hard to preserve her livestock from Prince Rupert’s raids in Gloucestershire the previous spring. “Sweeping the commons, they call it. Robbery, is what I say,” Aunt Musgrave had protested to him, though she was a staunch Royalist.

  “You do not appear to share their appetite for destruction, sir,” said Madam Sumner. “Or are you imagining your wife and estate in these circumstances?”

  “I have no wife, madam,” Ingram said. “But I’m to marry at Christmastide, if our whole world hasn’t fallen apart. My betrothed is the Major’s youngest sister.” He saw her eyes widen. Trust a woman, he thought: in the absolute chaos of her own life, she had caug
ht the ill feeling between him and Tom.

  As the autumn sun dipped and the garden grew chill, Madam Sumner implored him to go in and ask when the soldiers would depart. Walking through the hall, he saw that it had been fouled with excrement; and not by a single man, but by the efforts of several. “Swine,” he muttered.

  He found Tom in the courtyard, where troopers were herding horses, cows, pigs, hens, and geese from the barns, and loading wagons with sacks of feed, barrels, and the carcass of a huge sow dripping blood at the neck. More men poured from the kitchens weighed down by silver and pewter jugs, goblets, and salvers, legs of mutton, baskets of eggs, and loaves of bread, as if in preparation for a feast, while smoke rose in plumes from the outbuildings.

  Tom and a horde of others were congregated by an open cask, filling their mugs. “Ingram,” he called over, “come and wet your whistle.” When Ingram made no move, Tom grinned and strolled over to him. “What’s wrong, man? Has one of the ladies swooned?”

  “I beseech you, Major Beaumont, to call your troops to order, before they’re too drunk to obey you.”

  Tom stopped grinning and leant forward, to hiss in Ingram’s ear, “Talk to me once more like that and I shall raze this house to the ground.”

  “This house might be your father’s.”

  Tom’s eyes flashed. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “It was a joke, Ingram. Why in God’s name can’t you take a joke?”

  CLAIRE LETEMENDIA was born and raised in Oxford, England, and lives in Toronto. After completing a doctorate in Political Theory and lecturing for some years, she chose to pursue a career as a writer and editor. Since childhood, she has been fascinated by the English Civil War. The Licence of War is her second novel; the first, introducing Laurence Beaumont, was The Best of Men.