“In that case, Diego,” Antonio said, “you will write me an introduction from His Majesty King Philip to Don Alonso stating simply that I am in England to visit a dear friend of my maternal aunt: John Digby, Earl of Bristol.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I.
Laurence ran a hand along the window frame, feeling in the dark ness for the midpoint, where the inside latch was situated. Prying the blade of his knife between window and frame, he teased at the latch until it came free, and pushed open the window. Barlow would be amused, he thought, as he hoisted himself onto the sill and crawled though. Sliding his feet over, he dropped to the kitchen floor. Instantly his heart jolted in his chest: a ghostly figure was looming up at him wielding a brass candlestick, poised to strike. “Lucy, put that down,” he whispered.
“Mr. Beaumont! Why’d you have to break in?” she said angrily, though she did as he asked.
“I lost my key. I tried throwing stones at your windows, and nobody heard.” Laurence tossed aside his saddlebag, went to grab a tinderbox from the mantel, and bent to light the fire.
She was shivering in her nightgown. “Shall I call the mistress?”
“No.” As the flames began to crackle in the hearth, he stripped off his wet cloak and sank onto a chair to remove his boots. Cold and unutterably tired, he wanted to go straight to bed; but he was also dirty, stinking of sweat, and ravenous. He dragged himself to his feet again, fetched the heavy copper, and poured water into it from a pail. “How is she?”
“She’s been worried to death about you. More than a fortnight since you left.”
He hung the copper over the flames. “Have we any food or drink in this house?” Lucy disappeared into the pantry and returned with a wine jug and a half-eaten pie, dumping them on the table. “Thank you, Lucy,” he said. “You may go.”
“Don’t forget to douse the fire.”
He paid no attention, cramming pie into his mouth and chasing it down with wine, and eventually she stalked away. After he had washed and followed her instruction, he wrapped a towel around his waist and hurried upstairs to Isabella’s chamber. She lay on her side beneath the covers; he could just distinguish her dark hair spread out, against the whiteness of her pillow. Then her hair moved, eerily, as if of its own accord, and separated into an independent form: a cat! The animal scampered past him, brushing against his ankles, and darted from the room.
“My God, whatever next,” he murmured, closing the door behind it.
Isabella rolled over to face him. “Beaumont! Do you know what agony you’ve put me through?”
He climbed into bed and pressed against her, luxuriating in the warmth of her body. “I’m sorry, Isabella – I wanted to tell you that I was leaving, and what for, but—”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Digby forbade me.”
“Liar.” With impressive speed, she reached back and slapped him hard on the cheek. “You deceived us both.”
Swinging himself on top of her, he pinned her by the wrists. “And I promise to explain my reasons. But not now.”
In the morning, Laurence woke before her. He examined her face, and was pained to see an unhealthy cast to her complexion, and circles under her eyes. And he remembered that for the first time ever in the ten months of their tempestuous yet all-consuming relationship as lovers, she had denied him the pleasure of satisfying her. It was altogether an inauspicious welcome.
Slowly her lashes flickered open. “What are these?” She touched a finger to his forehead. “Traces of a woman’s paint?”
“I had to escape from the City in female disguise.”
“Were you inspired by my example?”
He laughed; he had once scolded Isabella for dressing as a boy, to run from Parliament troops. “No. The owner of the house where I took refuge, Mistress Edwards, suggested it.”
“So there was a woman.”
“She’s an old friend of mine, more than sixty, and very ill. She’s sheltered me on several occasions, at considerable risk to herself.”
“Oh,” Isabella said, in a slightly mollified tone.
“Did Digby inform you that he had intended anyway to send me to London?”
“Yes, on the morning after your departure when I went in search of you to his offices. He had no issue with you telling me.”
“Now he’s the one who’s lying,” Laurence protested. “I lied to you in only one respect – about having supper with the Queen, who had invited me. I’d decided to disobey him by leaving early and by myself. Obviously I didn’t want him to find out. But when he ordered me on this mission, he expressly commanded me not to talk of it with you. Had I disobeyed him in that regard we wouldn’t be arguing.” She frowned dubiously, which hurt Laurence far more than her slap. “Would you take Digby’s word over mine?” he asked, staring into her eyes.
“Why would he lie to me about such a matter?”
“To cause trouble between us. It was you who warned me he’d try to break us apart.”
“Yes, I know,” she admitted. “So why did you not wait to go with Violet?”
Laurence repeated to her the reasons he had given Digby. “I’m not even sure if Violet was in London.”
“He was. He brought his lordship a detailed report on the quarrels within Parliament, and … other useful intelligence.”
“Good for him.” Laurence took her in his arms; he felt no softening of her attitude. “What else is bothering you, my love?”
“Her ladyship your mother paid a second visit here, before her departure for Chipping Campden.”
“Ah,” he said, releasing her. “You must have had a delightful exchange.”
“It was most delightful, and I am beginning to agree with her: I might prefer the role of mistress to that of wife,” Isabella said, brightly. “We would be wise to recognise our limits, don’t you think?”
“Is that her view or yours?”
“Be honest, Beaumont – can you picture me at home with her ladyship, grumbling about the servants over our embroidery?” Laurence was silent; he could not. “She hinted that our marriage would be the death of your father.”
“Nonsense – he married for love.”
“Whatever the case, you neglected to tell me that you’re considering the betrothal she has arranged.”
Laurence sat up in bed. “That is false.”
“You promised her not to marry me until you had spoken to Lord Beaumont about it,” Isabella rushed on. “And you pledged to do your duty to him, which, clearly, is to wed the girl they have picked out for you.”
“Did my mother also pay a visit on Digby?” Isabella nodded. “I suppose this creative version of the facts came from him.”
“Then what is your version of the facts?”
“I have promised to speak to my father,” Laurence said, without shifting his eyes from hers. “I would be … undutiful to marry without his knowledge, although had you accepted when I proposed to you, I’d have overlooked my duty to him. But I haven’t changed my mind. I want you for my wife, Isabella. In the past, he accepted that I should be free to choose, as he did. I believe the more he gets to know you, he’ll understand,” he concluded, uncomfortably aware that he knew little himself about Isabella’s life prior to meeting her. She disliked talking of it, and had told him only that her mother had died when she was a girl, and that after she was seduced and endured an abortion, she had become Digby’s ward.
“It is the opposite,” she said. “The more your father knows, the less he will understand. Did you intend to reveal to him that I cannot bear you children – and why?”
“No, because I still believe you can.”
She wilted, leaning her head on his chest. “Why do you persist in your delusion?”
Laurence felt again the peculiar awe that crept over him whenever he recollected his night at Yusuf’s house. “Before I returned to England two summers ago, I was in Spain. I met a man on the road to Cádiz who took me to his home. The lady of his house, Khadij
a, was an African, a seer who spoke to me of my past, of things that she couldn’t possibly have known unless she had a mysterious gift. She also said I would love a woman named after a great queen, and that this woman would give me a child. I am convinced, in my heart, that the woman is you.”
Isabella’s expression struck him as baffled, and pitying. “Oh Beaumont, countless women are named after great queens, your own sister Elizabeth included. I am amazed that you, who are suspicious of everything under the sun and do not even believe there is a God in heaven, should put such faith in a vague prophecy.”
“It amazes me, too, and I can’t explain it, although she made another prophecy, not vague at all, that was fulfilled. It concerned a … political affair, here in England.” He saw a gleam of interest in Isabella’s eyes. “I can’t say more about it for reasons of state, but trust me, her prediction was uncannily accurate.”
“If I’m to believe you about one prophecy, and if I’m to trust you, surely you can trust me with the other.”
“It’s a secret that’s not mine to share.”
“Is our friend Dr. Seward privy to it?” Laurence did not answer, irritated by her tone. “I assume he is. And is Digby?”
“Isabella, stop.”
“How you intrigue me, Beaumont – you and the Doctor, and your secrets.” She flung aside the bedclothes with an imperious gesture. “Make love to me, now.”
His desire was so dampened by their conversation that he almost refused. But in the end, it was as easy for him as breaking into her house.
II.
Laurence shaved meticulously for his audience with Digby, and dressed in fresh linen, and a black suit of clothes that he hoped would lend him appropriate gravitas. He had last worn the suit at the trial of the man responsible for his torture, who had been sentenced to hang mainly on his evidence. He was as determined this morning not to give Digby the advantage. Nor would he discuss his relations with Isabella.
“How wonderful that you are safely home to us, sir,” Quayle said, at the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Quayle. Is his lordship in his office?”
“No, sir, he is at fencing practice, with the Prince of Wales and two gentlemen from Her Majesty’s Court.”
Quayle led Laurence out into the adjoining herb garden. The Prince was in combat with a man Laurence recognised as Henry Jermyn, Colonel of the Queen’s Lifeguard. He had heard of Jermyn as an affable and gregarious fellow, liked by everyone; a rare thing these days. Jermyn had been in The Hague with Her Majesty while she was raising funds for the war, and had accompanied her back to England, earning a baronetcy for his devoted service.
“Good morning to you, Mr. Beaumont,” the Prince hailed Laurence. He was tall for his thirteen years, and would grow head and shoulders above his father, judging by his large hands and feet. His swarthy, rather plump cheeks glistened with sweat, and his big dark eyes were full of mischief. “You are looking splendid, sir. Have you an important event to attend?”
“Extremely important,” said Laurence, bowing to them all. “I am here to see the Secretary of State.”
The Prince burst into giggles.
“Ah, Mr. Beaumont,” Digby said, puffing a little, “may I introduce Mr. Jeffrey Hudson.” Digby’s partner was a young dwarf, blond like him, flourishing a miniature rapier.
“You’ve taken on a fearsome opponent, my lord,” Laurence remarked.
“Indeed, his stature belies his skill: he’s caught me off guard several times.”
Hudson scowled up at Laurence. “Mr. Beaumont and I met once before, though he failed to allow me the honour of an introduction.”
“I humbly beg pardon for that, sir,” said Laurence.
“Lord Jermyn, Mr. Beaumont,” said Digby.
“I know much about you, sir, from our mutual friend Lord Wilmot,” Jermyn said, with a graceful smile.
“Well,” said Digby, “since Mr. Beaumont has arrived, he and I must go to business. Pray excuse us.”
The Prince lunged forward and rested the tip of his rapier on Laurence’s chest. “You shall go nowhere, sir, until you promise to instruct me in the secret art of breaking codes!”
“With pleasure, Your Highness, if you’ll promise not to run me through,” said Laurence, which set the Prince giggling again.
“Business before pleasure, Your Highness,” Digby told the youth, and guided Laurence inside, to his office.
As he undressed to the waist, Digby called for Quayle to bring him towels and a fresh shirt. His belly reminded Laurence of a child’s, soft and dimpled; and he must have caught Laurence inspecting his embonpoint, for he said, “I was on trimmer form when riding with my regiment. Now I am closeted indoors at Council meetings, and every evening we feast at Court. You can have no sympathy for me, being such a scrawny fellow.”
“It is you who should have sympathy for me, my lord,” Laurence said. “I can never put fat on me, however much I eat.”
Digby let Quayle towel him down, his flesh mottling with the friction, and then assist him to dress once more and comb his hair. Laurence waited, anticipating a stern rebuke; he had not yet been invited to sit. When Quayle left, Digby at last motioned Laurence to a chair, and sat down himself at his desk. “I shall not waste breath on chastising you for your impromptu departure. Was your journey profitable?”
“In part,” said Laurence. “I learnt that four of the names on Radcliff’s list are also on a memorial tablet in St. Saviour’s Church, in Southwark. They’re of dead vicars.”
“Then the list is a fabrication?”
“Not necessarily – the names could have some other significance. Clement Veech was not on the tablet.”
“He may have been buried elsewhere in the church. Did you look?”
“No, my lord. I couldn’t even visit St. Saviour’s myself.” Laurence told of his arrest by the Trained Bands and the circumstances of his release, and how he had gone into hiding with a price on his head.
“ ‘Intelligencer to the Cruel and Devilish Catiline, the Lord George Digby’!” chortled Digby. “I would have appreciated a copy of that broadsheet.” Then he sobered. “Who carried out your investigations for you?”
“The same friends who hid me.”
“What of Albright, and Pym’s spymaster?”
“I learnt nothing about Albright, but by accident I may have shot and wounded Pym’s spymaster.” Laurence explained about the man taken to Derby House. “That was why I chose to leave so precipitately, before my mission was accomplished.”
“You could have been as dead as those vicars,” said Digby, with a hint of possessive anger. “You cannot return to London.”
“No, but it’s possible that my friends might unearth more intelligence and report it to me here. And Violet should beware if he goes back into the City: if he doesn’t pay his taxes, the militia will have a good excuse to arrest him.”
“He has since fulfilled that obligation.”
“Was his journey profitable?”
“Oh yes, sir. He says the question on everyone’s lips is who will succeed the ailing Pym as a unifying force in Parliament, which is more and more divided. The independent sects doubt that their freedom of worship will be respected once a Scottish army is on English soil. Parliament will be beholden to Edinburgh, and there will be Scots Commissioners in Westminster to insist that the rebels keep to the terms of the Solemn League and Covenant.” Hardly news, Laurence wanted to say. “Violet made contact with a gentleman, a Major Ogle, who has reported earlier to us on these murmurings of internal dissent,” Digby continued. “Major Ogle is now conducting discreet negotiations with some independents and moderates in both Houses, all of them dismayed by the terms of Parliament’s Scottish alliance. My father and I cherish hope that His Majesty might offer them certain religious concessions, to bring them into our fold.”
“But, my lord, His Majesty has never seen fit to bend, on matters of religion.”
“He has suggested to us that he would consider it.”
Laurence was momentarily confounded. If the King was prepared to accommodate the freethinking sects and the moderates in Westminster, there might be a chance he would bend on other issues. Could a peace be reached, after more than a year of bloodshed, and many rounds of failed negotiations between the two sides? You can’t stop this war, Laurence had told Falkland, on the eve of his death; yet might it be stopped? Then an image floated into Laurence’s mind of the King’s face, refined, dignified, and immeasurably obstinate. Some deception was about to be practised here, though by whom and upon whom Laurence was not sure. “A most encouraging development, my lord,” he said to Digby. “Who is Major Ogle?”
“He is an ally of His Majesty, and completely trustworthy, my father assures me. Alas, he is for the present detained by Parliament in Winchester House.”
“Ah,” said Laurence; the Major’s gaol, used mostly to incarcerate prisoners of rank, lay a short distance away from Blackman Street. “And how, exactly, is he able to conduct confidential negotiations while behind bars?”
“With the assistance of the gaol keeper, a Mr. Devenish, who is among the freethinkers disturbed by Parliament’s Scottish bedfellows. Ogle might soon be … liberated. We shall speak more of him anon. Isabella must have been immensely solaced by your return,” Digby said, in a changed, apparently genuine tone. “She has had a multitude of worries, lately.” Laurence said nothing, thinking of Lady Beaumont. “Did she mention to you that her friend Mr. Cotterell is unwell?”
“No, my lord,” replied Laurence. “I remember him, as a gracious old gentleman who once lodged us at his house.”
“He wrote to her that he may not have long to live, and asked her to visit.”
“I could take her, with your permission.”
“Thrilled as I am to hear you beg my permission for anything, sir, I shall arrange for her conveyance, and a party of guards to accompany her. You two have been so long apart,” Digby added. “Let me not keep you from her today. You may attend me again tomorrow, sir.”
The Licence of War Page 10