The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “Yes, sir: I leave the day after tomorrow. I’d thought that we would join the Earl of Essex’s army, but Captain Harper’s troops are to assist Sir William Waller in the attack on Basing House.”

  “Basing House … What is its importance?”

  “By all accounts, it’s a nigh impregnable papist stronghold, the Marquis of Winchester’s seat, and lies on the main road into London from the western counties.”

  “How can a house be impregnable?”

  “The oldest part was built as a fortress, hundreds of years ago, and is linked by a bridge and gateways to the newer part – four storeys high. Basing has held out more than a year for the King.”

  “Well, well. Are you ready to fight?”

  “I must be.”

  “Judith will pine for you,” Veech said, knotting the cords on his brace. He saw Draycott blush. He had quizzed Draycott about his marriage, which sounded a dull affair arranged so that Draycott could inherit his father-in-law’s practice and a house near Chancery Lane. “Now for me to stand, Corporal. Fetch me those crutches propped against the wall.” Draycott passed them to him. He wedged one under his left armpit, and pushed up off his chair with his right hand. He gritted his teeth, and after a couple of tries, rose shakily.

  “I could hold you, to support you better,” Draycott suggested.

  “You let me be,” cried Veech. He thrust the other crutch beneath his right armpit, steadied himself, and took a few paces forwards. His head swam and his wounded leg was screaming at him. He felt himself about to fall. “Get the chair.” Draycott slid it behind him just in time, and he slumped into it, his crutches clattering to the floor. “When I catch Beaumont again in London, he shall suffer for this. Mr. Pym wants me to treat him with kidskin gloves. But by then, I won’t be answering to Pym.”

  “You can’t be certain that Beaumont would venture back here.”

  “I’ll find a way to bring him back – and to pay him back, too.”

  “You mustn’t overtire yourself, Mr. Veech,” said Draycott, as if to change the subject.

  “Are you growing fond of me?”

  “I am … concerned for your welfare, as is Mr. Pym.”

  “Corporal,” Veech said, “you’re not made to be a soldier. The reek of battle will offend your delicate nose. So I’ve a proposition for you. Since you were the one who let Beaumont escape, and are to an extent responsible for the fact that I am permanently lamed, you must help me get retribution. Pym has agreed that I can hire you as my assistant.”

  Draycott looked uneasy. “What would my duties entail?”

  “Entail! Such a lawyer’s term. You’d have but a single duty: to do my bidding, whether or not it abides by the rule of law.”

  “Then I can’t accept.”

  Veech smiled, despite the throbbing in his leg. “You may reconsider, when you’re out on campaign: no marches in the bitter cold, no sleeping on the ground with the damp numbing your bones, no flux from bad rations, and no risk of imminent death or injury. You’d go home to your wife’s bed unless I called you out, and sleep peacefully in the knowledge that you’re aiding in the capture of an enemy of Parliament. We are at war, sir,” Veech added softly, “and war permits us licence.”

  “Even in war, there are rules of conduct,” Draycott said, as softly.

  “Not for the victor, in any war I’ve known.” Veech started to unfasten the cords of the brace. “I wish you luck, sir, and I hope you return alive to me.”

  VI.

  Laurence was watching Isabella pack the last items into her travelling chest. “You’re not well yet. Why not rest a few more days?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve delayed my journey over a week. If you were in my place, and Dr. Seward were ailing, you would go to his bedside, would you not?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Mr. Cotterell is my Seward, Beaumont – I owe it to him. I owe you for nursing me so devotedly, but leave I must. Please,” she said, shutting the lid of her chest, “take this down for me.”

  On the stairs, Laurence heard voices from the kitchen: Lucy’s and a man’s, which he recognised with some disquiet. He left the chest by the front door and went into the kitchen. In mud-splashed clothes and boots, Ned Price was sitting on a stool by the fire toasting a slice of bread on the end of a knife with one hand and petting Isabella’s cat with the other. When he saw Laurence, he jumped up, an excited expression on his face. “Mr. Beaumont, I come unannounced.”

  “So you do,” Laurence said. “How are you, Price?”

  “Saddle-sore,” laughed Price, rubbing his bottom. “And that damnable horse of mine threw me twice. Nearly cracked my head open.” He indicated a bruise on his forehead. “Then I had trouble finding you in Oxford. But by God’s grace, here I am. Lucy said you were busy upstairs helping Mistress Savage pack, and as I was starved after my ride, I asked her for a bite to eat.” She was not pleased, Laurence noticed, as she doled out a bowl of stew for Price and thrust it at him. “Thank you, Lucy,” Price said, dipping his bread into the sauce, and ate greedily.

  “Mr. Beaumont, I should attend to the mistress,” said Lucy, and walked out.

  “You’re not leaving town, are you, sir?” Price queried, through a mouthful.

  “No. Have you news for me?” Price nodded, chewing. “What is it?” Laurence asked, less patiently.

  Price swallowed and licked his lips. “Clement Veech is your butcher.”

  “My God … How did you learn that?”

  “I had the idea of sending Jem to Derby House, to spy for me, and he overheard talk that confirms it. He even got a glimpse of Veech’s doctor.” Laurence listened without interrupting as Price described what the boy had told him. “Who’s Sinjin, sir, the fellow who’s to replace Pym?”

  “Oliver St. John. He’s one of the leaders in the Commons, and prominent in the Committee of Safety. He has close ties with the independent sects. His brother-in-law, Cromwell – another Oliver – is a rising star in Parliament’s northern army. No news of Albright?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That would be too much to hope for. Price, you truly did well. You and I should go to Lord Digby, once I’ve seen Mistress Savage off.”

  Price waved a hand at his travel-stained clothes. “I can’t be introduced to his lordship as I am.”

  “You’ve just ridden in from London. He’ll understand.”

  “He might, but I’d be ashamed.”

  Laurence was about to remonstrate further when Isabella came in, wearing her cloak. Price set down his bowl and bowed to her. She frowned at Laurence, who said, “Mr. Edward Price – Mistress Isabella Savage.”

  “Good day to you, Mistress Savage.” Price glanced sidelong at him, as if in congratulation. “I am a friend of Mr. Beaumont’s from London.”

  “Are you,” she said; no curtsey, Laurence observed.

  “I gather you are to embark on a journey, Mistress Savage.”

  “Yes, I am. Are you staying long in Oxford?”

  “A couple of days, madam.”

  “Then our acquaintance will be brief. Goodbye, Mr. Price.” She offered her arm to Laurence. “Beaumont, the coach awaits.” They walked in silence to the front door and out into the street, where she said, “Although I don’t know him from Adam, I don’t like the looks of him.”

  “You’re too quick to judge,” Laurence said, perturbed nonetheless: he respected her opinion, particularly about men.

  The driver was loading Isabella’s chest onto the roof of the coach. Lucy sat within, her expression as frigid as the early November day. Laurence helped Isabella to ascend, shut the door, and leant through the window to kiss her.

  “I’ll write to tell you that I’ve arrived safe,” she said in a gentler voice, as if to make up for her previous bluntness. “Beaumont, take care of yourself.”

  He kissed her again. “Remember me to Mr. Cotterell. I hope he has a speedy recovery – for his sake and mine. And don’t forget that I love you.”

  �
�I won’t, if you don’t forget to feed my cat,” were her final words, as the driver whipped up the horses.

  “She’s a goddess, Mr. Beaumont,” Price announced. He was still in the kitchen, sitting on his stool, legs stretched out towards the fire. “Mistress Edwards’ ladies can’t hold a candle to her, not even Cordelia, who’s one of the prettiest women I know.”

  “Will you stop calling me ‘Mr. Beaumont.’”

  “What should I call you, sir?”

  “Not ‘sir,’ either.” Price flushed. “I don’t like titles,” Laurence said, ashamed of his own bluntness. “If you’re Price to me, I’m Beaumont to you.” He went into the pantry for a bottle of wine, and filled two glasses. “Let’s drink a health to Jem, shall we?”

  “It was my idea, sir – I mean, Beaumont.”

  “So why not come with me to see Digby?”

  “I’ll be ready for the honour of an introduction once I buy myself some decent clothes.”

  “His lordship can pay for them,” joked Laurence, but Price did not smile.

  “May I consider myself an agent of the Secretary of State?”

  Laurence thought of his promise to Mistress Edwards. “Price,” he began, “I know you were Barlow’s accomplice.” Price reddened again and glared at his muddy boots. “I’ve been a thief and a spy, and there’s much in common between stealing property and stealing information. Both require similar skills of us, and we often share the same end – ignominious and unlamented.”

  Price stared up at him. “When were you ever a thief?”

  “Never mind about that. I just wanted to warn you. And to be frank, I’ve known more honour among thieves than among spies.”

  “It can be no worse to be a spy than to live as I have.”

  “All right, then. I’ll require Lord Digby’s approval.”

  Price broke into a childlike grin. “Thank you, Beaumont. But … you won’t … you won’t tell his lordship what I was?”

  More lies, Laurence reflected; and as if Digby would care, as long as Price was useful. “I leave it to you to give him an account of yourself,” he said. “Make it simple and not too far from the truth – and don’t change your story.”

  “What a find, Mr. Beaumont!” Digby beamed across his desk at Laurence. “He can be our new man in London. Since we lost poor Albright and you have become persona non grata there, we are rather short of agents.”

  “He must be properly trained first. I need at least a fortnight with him, or else we may lose him to Clement Veech.”

  “You are relieved of your other duties until then. I shall have a mission for him, when you think he is ready. You’ll both hear about it, in time. Isabella left today, as arranged?”

  “Yes, my lord, as you arranged.”

  “Good. Our Mr. Price can stay with you while he receives the benefit of your training.”

  “I don’t think Isabella would appreciate that.”

  “I pay the lease on her house, sir, and she may not return for at least a fortnight, unless Mr. Cotterell suffers a rapid decline. Why did Mr. Price not come with you to report his news? It is not what I would expect from an eager young man.”

  “He felt ashamed to be presented to you in his travelling garb.”

  Digby laughed at this. “Now I know more about him: he is vain of his appearance.”

  “As are many of us.”

  “Not you, sir,” Digby said. “When you polish your appearance, there is always an ulterior motive at play. You wear a fine suit of clothes as other men wear armour – to do battle.”

  VII.

  Through wet mist, Draycott scanned the lofty walls around Basing House. “No wonder it hasn’t been breached yet,” he said to Captain Harper, who was guiding their party of newly arrived officers on a reconnaissance. “A whole town could fit within this estate.”

  Harper sneezed, using his fingers as a handkerchief, and wiped them on the skirt of his coat. “We launched the first assault with all of our artillery. Our musketeers seized the church and a few outbuildings that the malignants had already burnt down, but we made scant progress otherwise. The rain drove us back as much as the efforts of our enemy inside the walls.”

  “How many are they?” one officer asked.

  “We estimate about five hundred, and there may be reinforcements on the way. That’s why we must begin again at dawn. Waller has sixteen troops of Horse, about half as many of dragoons, and three score infantry divisions, including the three regiments from London. He plans to storm the defences from various sides. We’ll receive our orders tonight.”

  Draycott felt sorry for his brigade. The men had not slept since marching out of the capital with their fellow reluctant auxiliaries from the Trained Bands; all were camped beside the artillery range on Cowdrey Down, a bleak area of field with no natural shelter.

  “I hope your boys are prepared for a fight,” Harper said to the officers, as they turned their horses about.

  “As soon as they saw the size of the place, they were discouraged,” said the same man, with a boldness that Draycott envied. “And how can we expect volunteers to serve indefinitely, miles from home and on such irregular pay? They came straight from eight days and nights of patrolling the City defences, and they’re not accustomed to marching so far. Many of them haven’t a pair of boots to their name, just thin-soled shoes – and in such freezing weather!”

  “They won’t notice the weather once they hear the cannon fire,” said Harper. “They’ll be too busy pissing in their breeches.”

  Twilight was fading when Draycott rejoined his Southwark brigade, whose principal concern was to keep themselves warm and dry over the coming hours; only the higher-ranking officers had billets in and around the small town of Basingstoke, and tents were scarce. Winds, icy for the second week of November, whipped across the fields, and a sprinkle of rain fell as the men ate their cold rations of meat and biscuit. Draycott walked about procuring bandages and stockings for blistered and chilblained feet, and a dram of spirits from the quartermaster for those who were sneezing and feverish. He distributed what spare blankets he had; the men were already beginning to doze off.

  Later, squeezed in between some of his fellow officers, warming his chapped hands over a smouldering brushwood fire, Draycott thought of home. The eldest of his three sons, Gregory, had been ill again, his eyes bright and cheeks hot as Draycott had kissed him goodbye. “I’ll have to purchase more physic, Giles, but we still owe the apothecary,” Judith had said; she had looked on the verge of tears, though Draycott knew she would hold them back until the children were abed. Dear God, he mused, tonight could be his last on earth. How would his family get by? Not that life had been smooth, for the past year or so. With the uncertainties of war and the steep rise in taxes, Londoners balked at wasting unnecessary time and money on legal suits. Draycott’s practice had dwindled, earning him about the same paltry income as he earned now, in the militia. He and Judith had quarrelled more and more; and her mother had interfered, criticising Draycott’s professional acumen as compared to his late respected father-in-law’s.

  He found himself considering the opportunity Veech had dangled before him. As a small child, Gregory had been fascinated by firelight. He would sit entranced before the hearth; and he required no watching, for unlike other children he never once stuck his little fingers in to get burnt. Draycott felt as fascinated by Veech: the man seemed to possess extraordinary power, even incapacitated as he was. Yet Draycott feared getting burnt.

  Draycott woke in darkness to the roll of drums. Damp had penetrated every layer of his clothing, and his feet, though stoutly shod, were numb. He assembled his men for prayers, and a quick breakfast of cheese and more hard biscuit. Then he went to saddle his mare, Betsey, pitying her for the danger she would face, and mounted, to lead the brigade through the fog to their positions by the northerly walls of Basing House. They had to wait for the fog to lift before starting the bombardment.

  Around midday a thunderous roar from their artil
lery was answered by cannon fire from the top of the old section of the house. Draycott’s men were stationed behind another regiment of Trained Bands. When the order came to advance, this regiment, equipped with ladders, ropes, and grenades, set about scaling the walls, a perilous objective, since they were under the constant fire from above. The occupants of the house were shooting off musket balls, and flinging what appeared to be roof tiles at the Parliament troops. Female voices screamed oaths at them, and Draycott saw blood pour from the eye of a man yards away as one of the projectiles hit its mark. Coughing and spitting from the clouds of black smoke that filled the air, dodging as balls whizzed past, he struggled to contain his panicked troops. They were firing too early, cutting down men from the regiment in front of them.

  “Hold your fire or aim high,” Draycott yelled, but they would listen neither to him nor to the commands of drum and trumpet. And as the siege wore on, they acted more and more like frightened cattle: some attempted to retreat, some stumbled into those ahead, and still others were wandering about blindly, having dropped their weapons. By the dimming afternoon, they would advance no further and a mournful cry went up: “Home, home!” Draycott and the other officers tried to rally them, in vain. They were of one mind, and surged away from the house, back towards Cowdrey Down.

  Draycott was hopelessly watching them flee, when Harper came charging through the melée. “You lily-livered fools!” he shouted at the men, and to Draycott he barked, “We must turn them about.”

  Harper had no better luck. He disappeared into the clouds of smoke, while Draycott was swept along in the tide of retreating men. “Pick up your muskets, for God’s sake,” he urged them. Betsey, who had been quivering at the awful cacophony, reared up with a scream. Draycott lost his seat, thrown into the mud as she raced off after the crowd. He staggered to his feet, pain stabbing his spine, and ran, tripping and slipping over bodies, pushed from behind, until he gained more open ground. The gunpowder could not conceal a slaughterhouse stench, and when he looked down at his coat and breeches and boots, spattered with filth and gore, he was sick to his stomach.