The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  III.

  Laurence came home to find Lucy in a panic. “The mistress is sick, sir. After she broke her fast, she brought up her food, and said she felt dizzy. I put her to bed, but she wouldn’t let me fetch a physician.”

  A wild hope gripped him as to what these symptoms might portend, and he raced upstairs. Yet when he saw Isabella shivering beneath piles of covers, glassy-eyed and flushed, he realised that she must be suffering from a bout of her recurrent fever; he had witnessed it before, and it always left her completely drained.

  He knelt down at her bedside and stroked her burning cheek. “Your enemy is back. How fast it takes hold.”

  “Just hours. I knew as soon as I put food in my mouth – it tastes like iron on the tongue.”

  “I might ask Seward for that remedy of his – it seemed to help you, last time.” He smoothed the hair from her forehead. “What else can I do?”

  “Tell Digby I’ll have to delay my journey. My friend Mr. Cotterell—”

  “Yes, yes, I will – Digby spoke to me about him. Are you warm enough?”

  “I am either freezing or on fire, in turns. Beaumont, I was unkind to you.”

  “Don’t give it another thought, my love,” he said, kissing her, and tucked the bedclothes snug around her.

  At Merton, courtiers were strolling in the quadrangles, and a band of musicians were playing viols for their entertainment. As Laurence sped beneath the Queen’s rooms, he felt a distinct relief that his mother was no longer in town. When he got to Seward’s door, he found it ajar. He pushed it wider, and a gust of acrid smoke filled his nostrils. Obscured by the fumes, Seward stood at the hearth, vainly flapping his arms to clear the atmosphere. He wore an apron on top of his academic gown, and his cap was askew. Laurence walked in, and immediately started to cough. “Seward?”

  Seward turned with a cry of joy, and shuffled up to throw his arms about Laurence. “Beaumont! I was on tenterhooks wondering what had happened to you in London.”

  Laurence pointed at the alembic over the hearth. “What explosive potion are you brewing?”

  “It’s for my eyesight.” Seward removed his spectacles to wipe off the steam on his apron. Then he set them back upon his nose and surveyed Laurence. “You appear in fine health. And it has been a while since you wore that black suit.”

  “I’m in fine health, Seward, but Isabella has her fever.”

  “I suppose you came not to recount your adventures, but to obtain more of my Jesuit’s bark.”

  “I came to do both,” said Laurence.

  Seward went to his cupboard and searched among the shelves for the vial. “She visited me soon after you had left, to ask your whereabouts – as I had predicted. As predictably, I had to lie to her, which displeased me.” Hence her remark about secrets, Laurence thought. “I was sorry for her, Beaumont. I gave her a cat rather like you in appearance, and proposed that she call it Niger,” Seward added, still searching.

  “As my substitute?”

  “No, to deal with the mice in her kitchen. Aha!” He picked out the vial and handed it to Laurence. “Do you recall the proper dose? And have her maid boil some barley in water for her with a little salt and sugar. She must drink as much fluid as she can, while sweating out the fever.”

  Laurence stuck the vial in his pocket. “Thank you.”

  “In thanks, I want to hear about your exploits.”

  “You will. I also have something astounding to tell you about His Majesty.” Laurence sat down and began with the events in London and his flight to Oxford; then he described his audience with Lord Digby and the King’s novel interest in religious compromise.

  As he was talking, Seward heaped ash on the fire, removed the alembic, and decanted the steaming liquid into a pot. Then he settled into his chair, and they looked at each other without speaking. “My boy,” Seward said eventually, “could it be a sign of God’s mercy towards the King if these negotiations with the freethinking sects and the moderates bore fruit, and brought peace to his kingdom? Might he be saved from an early and violent death?”

  “You’ve often accused me of jumping to conclusions, Seward, yet yours beats all.” Laurence sighed, rubbing his eyes; they stung from the smoke and sheer fatigue. “I don’t know much about God’s mercy, but I do know a bit about His Majesty’s character. If his armies were on the verge of defeat, I’d understand his change of heart. For the moment, they are not. And I mistrust any negotiations in which Digby is involved.”

  “His father Bristol is a man of good faith.”

  “Reputedly so, but I know nothing about the intermediary they’ve chosen, the curiously named Major Ogle, who is in Winchester House prison – on what charge I forgot to ask. He may be another of their shadowy London friends, like Violet. Digby told me that Ogle may soon be liberated. I’m not an astrologer, but I can foresee what that might mean.” Seward frowned at Laurence. “He’ll be sprung from gaol, perhaps by the gaol keeper, who Digby says is one of these independents. At any rate, don’t get too hopeful, Seward, although I hope I’m wrong about the King.” Laurence stood up. “I should go to Isabella.”

  “Wait – I have something astounding to tell you,” said Seward, in such a way that Laurence sat back down. “A couple of nights ago, I applied myself to my scrying bowl, seeking an answer as to His Majesty’s fate. I received a vision. As Fludd warned me, and as I have learnt in the past, the bowl does not lie, but it shows only what it wants, and sometimes so unclearly that I cannot understand what I see. This vision, though brief, was crystal clear.”

  “Was it of the King?”

  “No. I saw two men on board a ship. One of them had your face, Beaumont – I swear, the likeness was striking. He appeared older by at least twenty years, and so I thought he might be you, at some future time. His expression, however, was unlike any I have seen in you: full of resentment, and vengeful.”

  “If my life continues on its present course, he and I may yet be twins.”

  “It’s not a joke,” Seward chided. “Upon further cogitation, I am sure, for no reason I can give, that he is alive in the present – that he is not you. He cannot be other than your kin. Your Spanish kin, I would deduce.”

  Laurence got up again. “It’s an odd vision, and I’ll leave you to brood on its significance. I have more tangible matters to worry about.”

  Seward rose also. “I feel as sure, and with as little reason, that he intends you harm.”

  “Then we must pray for a shipwreck,” Laurence said.

  IV.

  Price considered it one of his attributes that he could never hold onto money for very long: he was as generous with his own as with that of other people. And he had a superstitious idea that the more easily it was spent, the faster even more would accrue to him. Flush with coin from Mr. Beaumont and after an unusually lucrative job of work with Barlow, he had moved out of his stinking room near Fish Street and into a pleasant chamber at the Saracen’s Head. He had paid the landlord, Robin Nunn, a week in advance for it. Sue was now convinced of his gentlemanly status, and acknowledged him publicly as her sweetheart. He had not yet attained his goal with her, but he had every expectation of success.

  On All Hallow’s Eve, as he was lounging on his featherbed sipping from a bottle of wine and contemplating an invitation to celebrate that unholy night with Barlow and Mistress Edwards’ ladies, someone knocked at his door. He went to answer. “Well how are you, Jem?” he said, wondering if the boy had heard about his change in fortunes and had come to cadge a loan.

  Jem looked very smug, in a new doublet far too big for him and a ridiculous old hat of Barlow’s. “I’ve got something you want,” he said, with his cocky grin. Price stepped aside for him to enter. “Aren’t you comfortable these days,” Jem said, peering round, doubtless calculating what might be lifted and sold if Price ever had to depart in a rush.

  “State your business,” Price said.

  Jem’s eyes rested on the bottle of wine by Price’s bed. “Mind if I take a dr
ink, Ned Price?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Jem darted forward and grabbed it, and swigged a mouthful. “Fine wine,” he declared, expertly smacking his lips.

  Price snatched the bottle from him. “What have you got?”

  “A name,” said Jem. “Worth twenty pound.”

  “Why would I pay that much for a name?”

  “I’ll give you a clue. Mr. Beaumont would want to know it, and badly. I’d wager he’d pay yet more. I’d take him the information if I could, but I don’t like to leave the City. Haven’t in all my life,” Jem added, with pride.

  “Give me another clue.”

  “Remember them dead vicars?”

  “Y … yes,” said Price.

  “Remember that missing name? Clement Veech?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Twenty pound and I’ll tell you.”

  “If you’re fooling me, Jem, I’ll have the money back and give you a beating free of charge.”

  “On my soul, you won’t regret a penny of it.”

  Price clambered onto his bed and stood up unsteadily, hanging on to one of the four posts. He reached into a hole in the canopy over his head and plucked out the stocking where he kept his money. He counted fifteen pounds into the palm of his hand, stuffed the stocking into its hole, and climbed down. “Here’s three quarters, and you’ll have the rest when I return from Oxford.”

  “Twenty pound, now. A bargain’s a bargain.”

  “You little thief.” Price hunted in his pockets for the other five, and dropped the whole sum into Jem’s grimy palms. In a matter of seconds, Jem dispersed them cunningly about his person, some into his capacious doublet and down the front of his ragged breeches, and the rest into his hat. “Talk,” said Price.

  “Clement Veech is the rebels’ spymaster.”

  Price emitted a low whistle. “How do you know?”

  “ ’Cos I got brains, Ned Price, that’s how. I went round Derby House and had a look about. A busy place it is. Next day I followed a man in, as if I was his footboy. I sneaked into the kitchens, still looking and listening, and while I was there, a fellow in black walked in and started scolding the cooks. He said Mr. Veech wouldn’t touch their food unless they put more spice in it, and that if he didn’t eat, his leg wouldn’t heal, and Mr. Pym was depending on him to get better. My throat’s dry.” Price gave him the bottle. Jem continued, after a gulp. “It so happens that was Veech’s surgeon. When he’d gone, the cooks was gossiping about him, and about this Mr. Veech and his odd habits, how he wouldn’t let the servants clean his chamber, and such like. And they was laughing about Mr. Pym, too, and how he kept calling them by their Christian names, and how would he and Veech appreciate to be called ‘John’ and ‘Clement’ by them! They said when he’s dead, which he will be soon, ’cos he’s on his last legs, the man who’ll fill his boots is a different kettle of fish, a man called …” Jem scratched his beardless chin, in the manner of his uncle. “Sinjin, I think it was. Then I reckoned I’d heard enough, so I made misself scarce.”

  “Who else knows, save me? Have you told Barlow?”

  Jem chuckled dismissively. “I wouldn’t get twenty pound off Barlow – he’d give me a box on the ear if I so much as thought to ask.”

  Price had to laugh. “I might do it for him.”

  “I did tell Mistress Edwards. She said, fair’s fair – you talk to Ned, and he can go and tell Mr. Beaumont in Oxford.”

  “Bless her, so I shall.” Price pondered sending the boy again to Derby House in the hope of more discoveries, but it would cost him; and he hated to postpone the enormous satisfaction of reporting to Mr. Beaumont.

  “Will you be at the house tonight?” Jem inquired, as Price showed him out.

  Sue was in the passage carrying a tray, her face wreathed in smiles. “I might, I might not,” replied Price.

  Jem strolled away, casting a manly, appraising glance over his shoulder as he passed by Sue.

  She bustled into Price’s chamber and set the tray on the floor. “A taste of supper for you, Ned. Who was that ragamuffin?”

  “No one you’d care to know.” Price shut the door and embraced her; he could smell the combined fragrance of young sweat, lavender, and baking on her skin. And it occurred to him exactly how to seduce her. “My love, can you keep a secret?” She nodded. “I’ve been yearning to tell you: I have a new friend, a Mr. Beaumont. He’s an agent of the King. He was on a mission here, and asked for my help. He would have been arrested by Parliament, had I not smuggled him out in disguise. And today I found him vital information that I must relay to him in Oxford.”

  She bit her lip charmingly. “I thought you were going for a soldier.”

  “There are other ways to serve His Majesty,” Price said, assuming a noble, self-sacrificing expression.

  “Oh Ned, you are brave. When must you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She let him ferry her to the bed, and they sat down. “Will it be … dangerous?”

  “Yes. But it’s my duty, Sue.”

  “Ned, you love me, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  She gathered up her skirts, and pointed to the garter at the top of her plump left thigh. “Tonight I shall tie three knots in this, and tuck it under my pillow.”

  “What for?” he said, more fascinated by her thigh.

  “To bind you to me. The country folk say that on All Hallow’s Eve, it can give a girl power over the man she will marry.”

  He dared to caress her garter. “I am in your power, Sue. I’m on fire for you.”

  “And I for you. Shall we … shall we be married, Ned?”

  “I swear, if I ever return …” He kissed her, and she allowed him to unlace her bodice, and lower the neck of her shift to cup her breasts in his hands. “I swear that you shall be my darling wife,” he promised.

  “Ned,” she said, stroking his moustache with her fingertips, “you can write. Will you pen a letter to my father?” He merely smiled at her, intoxicated by his triumph. “You should beg his leave for my hand. That is the custom.”

  “Sue, I told you, I must go to Oxford. I can’t think past that.”

  “You could write before you set out.”

  “Don’t you trust me, when I have trusted you with my secret?”

  “I’ve trusted you with my virtue, Ned.” She sat up to tighten the strings on her bodice, and shake out her skirts. “Susan Price,” she murmured, longingly.

  He pinched her cheek. “Hurry or you’ll catch a lambasting from Mr. Nunn.”

  After she had gone, he looked for bloodstains. There were none anywhere that he could detect. What if she was not so virtuous, after all, he thought, and had a practical reason to rush him to the altar? She was as cunning as Jem! He had believed her a virgin, when it was she who had played him along. But he could play the role of deceived lover, when he got back from Oxford. Or would he come back? He imagined Mr. Beaumont congratulating him, singing his praises to Lord Digby. He might win a knighthood, and marry an heiress. “Sir Edward Price,” he said to himself loudly, in an aristocratic accent; and in his own voice, more quietly, he said, “Why ever not?”

  V.

  Veech admired the two sections of smooth wood that he had pierced with holes at top and bottom, through which he had threaded leather cords. Shaped to the contours of either side of his knee, they would support it as he learnt to walk on crutches; he had borrowed the design from the infidel surgeons, whose skills far surpassed those of English medical men.

  “What is it – a brace?” Draycott asked.

  Veech slipped it over his foot and up his leg, to the bandaged wound. “Yes, I made it myself.”

  “Are you still in much pain, sir?”

  “It’s worse and worse, the more I move the joint. But I must move, or the blood in my leg will become stagnant and putrefy. Listen to those crowds,” Veech remarked, of the noisy mob outside Derby House. “Isn’t it a peculiar turn of events, Corporal, that tonight
they should be celebrating the discovery of a Catholic plot to blow up old King James and both Houses of Parliament?”

  “Why do you say peculiar, Mr. Veech?”

  “Parliament is now at war with James’s son, who is married to a Catholic. How things have changed, in less than forty years.”

  “Parliament doesn’t blame King Charles alone for this war. His chief counsellors pushed him to it, above all Lord Digby, many are convinced.”

  “If you remember,” said Veech, adjusting his brace and tightening the leather cords, “one of the plotters hanged, drawn, and quartered in the churchyard of St. Paul’s was Sir Everard Digby, a kinsman of his lordship.”

  “That is peculiar,” Draycott admitted. “I had forgotten.”

  “My own father watched the executions as a young man, and he never forgot the spectacle. Sir Everard was the first of three to die on the scaffold, that January morning,” Veech went on; he could still hear his father’s deep voice telling the story. “In his address to the crowd, Sir Everard claimed he had done no wrong in the lights of his religion, but asked God, the King, and the entire kingdom to forgive him for breaking the law.” Veech laughed. “Religion excuses everything, even the murder of a king. There’s a tale that, as Sir Everard’s heart was cut still beating out of his chest and the executioner showed it about, declaring, ‘Here is the heart of a traitor,’ Sir Everard piped up, ‘Thou liest.’ Now, Corporal Draycott, I’ve seen the heart cut out of a man and I can assure you, he was quite incapable of speech.”

  Draycott averted his eyes, as though repulsed. “The penalty for traitors is cruel, some might say barbarous. Yet I suppose it must be, in retribution for their crime, and to deter others from following their example.”

  “Oh I approve of it, Corporal: it reduces all men to the same level, whether they be the noblest or the lowest in rank. Yet even the most barbarous of deaths can’t deter a man who believes his immortal soul will fly straight to heaven.” Draycott said nothing. “Mr. Pym tells me you are to be blooded soon, as the expression goes.”