Also by Claire Letemendia
The Best of Men
COPYRIGHT © 2014 BY CLAIRE LETEMENDIA
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Letemendia, Claire, 1960-, author
The licence of war / Claire Letemendia.
ISBN 978-0-7710-5272-9 (bound).—ISBN 978-0-7710-4674-2 (html)
I. Title.
PS8623.E899L53 2014 C813′.6 C2013-902995-8
C2013-902996-6
Cover image: © Malgorzata Maj / Arcangel Images
Cover design: Jennifer Lum
McClelland & Stewart,
a division of Random House of Canada Limited,
a Penguin Random House Company
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v3.1
To Emily and Oscar
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Seville, Spain. 4th October 1643
Part One: England, October–December 1643 Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part Two: England, December 1643–April 1644 Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Three: England, April–July 1644 Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Four: England and Spain, July–September 1644 Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue: Oxford, early December 1644
Historical Note
Main Historical Characters
Acknowledgements
“… [T]hough there was a considerable part of the Kingdom within the King’s Quarters, the Inhabitants were frequently robbed, and plunder’d by the incursions of the Enemy, and not very well secured against the Royal Troops, who begun to practice all the Licence of War.”
– Edward Hyde, First Earl of Clarendon
“This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well. Public revenges are for the most part fortunate … But in private revenges it is not so. Nay rather, vindictive persons live the lives of witches; who, as they are mischievous, so end they infortunate.”
– Francis Bacon, Baron Verulam, Viscount St. Alban
PROLOGUE
Seville, Spain. 4th October 1643
At the holiest moment in the Mass, as bread and wine became the body and blood of Jesus Christ, Don Antonio de Zamora was counting under his breath. Uno, dos, tres, quatro … He had spied his target on the previous Sunday, only to lose her among the faithful crowded into the vast nave of Santa María de la Sede, yet today God had placed her conveniently close: a row ahead of him, just across the aisle. Cinco, seis, siete … It would take no more than twenty, he estimated. Diez, once, doze … She began to fiddle with a hairpin in her expensive lace mantilla. Diez y seis, diez y siete … Her spine stiffened; he might have stroked his finger along it. Diez y ocho, diez y … On the count of nineteen she turned, as if he had tapped her on the shoulder, and the look upon her face confirmed what he already knew: that he was as handsome and desirable as in his youth. Regretfully, he lowered his eyes. While he needed a new mistress, he could not afford another spendthrift sevillana. He might ask Gaspar to find him a simple country girl and employ her at El Caballo Blanco, to save on her keep and enable him to visit her at his pleasure.
When Mass ended, Antonio ushered his family from the cool, dim cathedral into the blinding autumn sunlight, past the beggars gathered at the steps: the maimed on crutches or dragging their sad carcasses through the dirt, and a gaggle of gypsies and their children, whining and flattering. An ancient wretch with stumps for arms had the effrontery to pester him. “I fought in the northern wars as you did, sir – spare an old soldier a coin!”
“It is the Feast of St. Francis,” Antonio’s wife said, reaching into the pocket of her gown.
“A saint who chose poverty over riches,” Antonio reminded her. “And each Sunday it is the same with you, Teresa. Cease your foolishness, or we’ll soon be begging ourselves.”
They walked in procession towards their coach: he and Teresa; their surviving son, twelve-year-old Felipe, and sole unmarried daughter, María de Mercedes; Teresa’s elderly widowed aunts; and lastly the servants. Antonio felt both pride and a secret amusement that the crest of his parentage, de Zamora y Fuentes, was emblazoned on the door of the battered vehicle. He could maintain the semblance of rank. But what was rank without money? He was even in debt to Gaspar. The mistress might have to wait.
His cogitations were interrupted by a harsh breath from Teresa, who dropped her hand from his sleeve. “Look over there.”
She pointed to a gypsy standing alone, vainly trying to soothe the fretful child she was carrying. The girl wore a ragged dress and shawl faded to dingy grey, and her black hair was matted with dust. The set of her features and her large dark eyes possessed striking beauty. Such a waste, thought Antonio: her charms would coarsen with breeding and hardship. And however boldly they sang and danced, full-blooded Roma women could not be had, except by force. Intimacy with an outsider meant exile from their kin.
“I agree she is an alluring creature,” he observed.
“I am not speaking of her,” said Teresa. “Look at her babe.”
The brown-skinned boy was around six months of age and resembled his mother, except Antonio was shocked to see that his irises were a distinctive pale green. “How very strange,” Antonio said. “Do you honestly believe …?”
Teresa was already advancing on the pair. “What is your name, girl?”
The gypsy bowed her head obsequiously; she had not yet noticed Antonio. “Juana, my lady.”
“Show me your son.” Juana held him out; he was whimpering, clinging to her dress. “Who is his father?”
The girl opened her mouth to reply. But when Antonio approached her, she jumped back as though bitten by a snake. He shivered. Gypsies were supernaturally gifted; he had never encountered this one before, to his recollection, so what had she detected in him?
“She has told me all I need to know!” said Teresa, turning to sweep off to the coach.
Antonio restrained her. “My dear, you have woken in me the spirit of Christian charity. When did you last eat, Juana?”
“Three days ago,” the girl said, staring at his face.
“And your boy?”
“He had a crust dipped in water this morning.”
“Why are you by yourselves, and not with the rest of your tribe?” Juana said nothing. “Follow the coach to my house, and my servants will direct you to the kitchen, where you shall be fed.”
“Don Antonio, you are shameless,” Teresa scolded.
“On the contrary, amor de mi vida, I wish to correct your assumption. Are you going to let your son starve?” he inquired of Juana, who had not moved an inch.
“For his sake, si
r, I accept.”
“When you have eaten, you must promise to come and thank us.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, as if she were granting him the favour.
He and Teresa joined their family in the coach, and the gypsy trailed behind a smaller cart bearing their servants. Silence reigned on the brief journey to the de Zamoras’ dilapidated ancestral home; and during the midday meal, Teresa darted peevish frowns at Antonio.
“Where is the girl?” he asked the servant clearing the table.
“She’s gobbled her weight in bread and soup, sir, and is reading palms in the kitchen,” the servant said.
“Fetch her.”
“What madness, Don Antonio,” complained Teresa. “She will seize the chance to steal a piece of our silverware.”
“Unlikely, my dear,” he said. “Practically every bit of it has been sold.”
Juana padded in with the child draped sleeping upon her shoulder. The food had brought colour to her cheeks, and a confidence to her bearing. She scrutinised each member of the family, and next the room. Antonio wondered if she could judge the state of his affairs from the peeling walls, woodworm-riddled floorboards, and moth-eaten tapestries. Then she performed an odd obeisance, half bow, half curtsey. “May the saints bless you, for rescuing me and my sweet innocent boy when we were at death’s door.”
“Answer me, Juana,” said Antonio, “who fathered your son?”
She hesitated, scuffing at the floor with a dirty toe. “He was … an Englishman, sir.”
“An Englishman, in Spain?”
“No, sir: I met him in The Hague two winters past.”
“What was his business?”
“He’d been a soldier.”
“Where is he now?”
Her lip curled. “God knows. He left me as soon as he knew I was carrying his child. And my people wouldn’t have me any more, because he was a gajo.”
“A gajo?” echoed María de Mercedes.
“He was not a gypsy,” Antonio explained; so Juana was indeed an exile, and vulnerable. Yet her reply had elicited in him a peculiar unease. “How could you be certain he was from England?” he demanded of her.
“I myself thought he was lying, he was such a dark man. And he talked a lovely Spanish – as lovely as yours. He spoke many tongues, besides. I wouldn’t understand them, being as I am an ignorant gypsy,” she added, with the false humility of her race.
“What was his name?”
“In The Hague they called him Monsieur Beaumont.”
Antonio leant closer. “Beaumont?”
“So he was French,” said Teresa.
“He told me his father was from England, my lady,” Juana insisted. “And his mother was a noble lady from Seville.”
Antonio’s heart thundered within his ribcage. Grabbing his wine glass, he swallowed a large gulp.
“As I remember,” put in Teresa’s senior aunt, “one of the de Capdavila y Fuentes wedded an English lord.”
Antonio forced a shrug; Juana was edging towards the door. “Ah yes,” he said, “I forget his name.”
“What is that stink?” exclaimed María de Mercedes.
“The baby has soiled itself,” Teresa said, covering her nose. “Please, Don Antonio, get rid of them.”
“Anything to oblige you, my dear.” Antonio leapt from his seat, strode over to Juana, and snatched her by the wrist. She had to run to keep up with him as he marched her through the house and into the courtyard. Neither spoke a word until they arrived at the gates to his property; by some miracle, the child still slumbered, oblivious.
“Ay,” cried Juana, “you are hurting!”
Antonio tightened his grip. “What did you see in me today?”
“I saw Monsieur. You would be his image if he was older.”
“How old was he?”
“Five and twenty, or a little more – I couldn’t say. You gaje are different from us. Why, who is he to you?”
Antonio’s head was spinning as though he had drunk a whole cask of Malaga. “You’re to go back into the city, Juana, to an inn, El Caballo Blanco, near the church of San Pedro. Tell Gaspar Jimenez that Don Antonio de Zamora wants you to stay there.”
“When will you come to me?” she asked warily.
“When I choose,” he said. “And if I don’t find you, I swear by the devil, I’ll hunt you down. You can watch your child die first, before you meet your Maker.”
Part One
England, October–December 1643
CHAPTER ONE
I.
King Charles was hunting stag in the royal forest, with his party of lords and gentlemen, and a pack of eager hounds. They had disappeared from view into a thick mist that drifted through the trees. Like smoke on a battlefield, Laurence thought, as he reined in to wipe sweat from his eyes. He did not enjoy the chase.
“Your Highness, you must be more careful,” he warned the young Prince, who had pulled up impatiently at his side; the boy was riding too fast, and his horse had already stumbled once on a tree root.
“If we don’t hurry, Mr. Beaumont, we may lose them,” Prince Charles shouted. “I want to watch the kill.” Before Laurence could stop him, the boy put spurs to his mount and galloped ahead, vanishing among the trees.
Laurence became aware of an extraordinary silence. No birdsong or soughing of branches above, no rustle of animals in the bushes. He was alone. Then Sir Bernard Radcliff emerged out of the mist and walked towards him. Laurence felt astonished: he had last seen Radcliff in the grounds of the Earl of Pembroke’s London house, dying from a multitude of wounds inflicted by the Earl’s guards.
“I understand your surprise,” remarked Radcliff, with a superior smile. “But don’t forget, your precious tutor Dr. Seward instructed me in magic, as well as in the casting of horoscopes. The dead can be revived, sir, if one knows the proper rituals.”
“You were wrong about the King’s death,” said Laurence, his voice sounding puny as a child’s in the vastness of the forest. “It wasn’t to happen when you predicted.”
“It will happen soon, nonetheless.”
Radcliff’s smile faded as spectacularly as he did, dwindling to a wisp of fog; and now Laurence discovered himself in a small clearing where the King’s body was laid out upon a makeshift bier of bracken and dry leaves. Pembroke stood over the bier, like an old vulture in his sombre cloak, leaning on a cane. Nearby were his guards with Prince Charles, who was kneeling, white-faced, wrists and ankles tied, a rope around his neck.
Pembroke turned a bleak stare on Laurence, and shook his head in reproof. “I had planned that he would reign under my authority, after his father’s tragic accident. Alas, he watched the kill. That was your mistake, Mr. Beaumont. You ought to have kept him by your side.”
Trembling, Laurence drew his pistol from the holster of his saddle. “You’ll never get away with the murder of two kings.” He fired. The shot ricocheted off Pembroke’s cloak, as if he were wearing steel. Laurence gaped in terror as the speeding ball changed course, and plunged into the Prince’s breast.
Laurence jolted awake and tasted blood in his mouth. Exploring with his tongue, he identified the source: he had bitten into the tender flesh inside his lower lip. Dawn was breaking, and he could hear the Oxford bells chime seven.
Isabella slept on next to him, one shapely arm flung over the counterpane, her peaceful expression a contrast to his unquiet mind. He longed to rouse her and tell her about the nightmare and what had inspired it: how through the initial year of this civil war he had helped thwart a conspiracy to kill the King. It frustrated him that the criminal designs of Pembroke and Radcliff had to remain a strictly guarded secret: in Radcliff’s case, to protect his widow; and in Pembroke’s, because the King had chosen not to expose his former friend as a traitor. Yet what troubled Laurence far more was that in the domain of politics and intrigue he could not be open with the woman he loved. Isabella was still close to the man who had once been her guardian, the new Secretary of State, Lord Geo
rge Digby, whom Laurence trusted no further than he could spit.
He sank back and nestled against her, inhaling the scent on her naked skin: attar of roses, orris root, musk, and frankincense; and a more animal trace, from their passion of the night before. Yesterday he had asked her a second time to marry him, and she had refused. “Must we fight everyone?” she had said. “That is what our marriage would entail.” He was prepared to fight. But was she?
II.
“I opened Pandora’s box, and evil flew out,” Seward muttered, as he hurried along Merton Street. He could imagine what Beaumont would say: that he should not have upset himself by gazing again into the King’s future.
Passing Oriel College, he turned north, and threaded his way up to Broad Street, into St. Giles. As if in defiance of the war, Oxford was stirring to its usual business: traders were setting up their stalls, servants emptied slop buckets into the gutters, drovers plodded behind sheep and cattle, and carts rolled in loaded with hay from the countryside. Near the Church of St. Mary Magdalen, Seward’s path was blocked by a troop of laughing soldiers headed for their billets after night patrol on the city defences. He waited impatiently for them to go by, then carried on at a frantic pace up the Woodstock Road, dived into a side street, and arrived breathless at Mistress Savage’s house.
The door stood wide, and a young maidservant was sweeping the threshold. She stopped when she saw him, her broom in mid-air. “I am Doctor William Seward, of Merton College,” he panted. “I have urgent news for Mr. Beaumont.”
“Please sit in the parlour, sir,” she said, “and I’ll wake him.”
Seward fell into a chair, and mopped his brow with a corner of his cloak. A few minutes later, Beaumont ran down the stairs, his pale green eyes anxious and his inky hair tangled from sleep. He wore just his breeches, which hung dangerously low. Even agitated, Seward could not keep his own eyes from lingering on that smooth, olive-toned body, so youthful despite its many scars.
The Licence of War Page 1