At the camp, he witnessed defeat: soldiers clustered in forlorn groups, and piles of bodies, dead, dying, and wounded. A man tugged at his sleeve, the officer who had spoken to Captain Harper about the men’s woes; Draycott nearly failed to recognise him, his face was so blackened with smoke.
“The Bands are refusing to fight on, Corporal,” he said. “General Waller has said he’d hang any who desert, but I think they’ll be too numerous for him to carry out his threat.”
“Praise Heaven for that,” said Draycott, stupidly glad.
He wept as foolishly when he discovered Betsey, skittish but whole, penned with a bunch of other runaway mounts. As he rubbed her down, he whispered calming noises in her ear, and blessed God for sparing her life and his.
The next morning, he counted seventy of his brigade killed. The regiment in front had suffered more casualties, some self-inflicted as he knew. Rumours circulated that Parliament had lost over three hundred altogether. In a downpour of sleet and snow, the shivering, bedraggled Bands assembled to march back to London; Waller was withdrawing his own regiments to the garrison at Farnham rather than engage the enemy again. On the ride home, Draycott decided: he would accept Veech’s offer.
VIII.
Laurence and Price had worked hard, to gratifying result. In roughly a fortnight, Price had memorised and churned out ciphers, and acquired the art of opening and resealing letters, smuggling messages in ingenious places, and concocting invisible inks. Laurence had drilled him as to when and how to hold his tongue or supply misinformation if captured and interrogated. Rather more slowly, Price had learnt the basics of horsemanship. Laurence had been dismayed by Price’s ineptitude in the saddle, but in his past life he had not needed to ride very far, let alone gallop or jump a horse. Laurence had put him through his paces, impressed by his grit, given his many tumbles and bruises. They had also rehearsed manoeuvres of defence and attack. Laurence had shown him some deadlier tricks of the trade: how to be efficient with a ligature or a knife, or with his hands. Despite his thieving, Price was unaccustomed to the use of violence, and clearly alarmed by it.
“Scoop out a man’s eyes with my bare thumbs?” he gasped, when Laurence tried to teach him the technique as they grappled together in mock combat on Isabella’s parlour floor. “I could never do it, and I should hope you’ve never had to.”
“Oh but I have, and if it’s you or the other man, you may surprise yourself,” said Laurence, feeling suddenly old.
“Have you … have you ever killed in cold blood?”
“More than a few times – as have some thieves.”
“Not this one,” said Price.
“Then be welcome to the brotherhood of spies, and occasional murderers,” Laurence told him.
——
Price claimed some expertise with a rapier, but confessed to inexperience with a pistol; so that, too, became a part of his training. “Now I think about it, Beaumont, I might do with a few more fencing lessons,” he admitted, at target practice one day in the fields bordering the River Cherwell.
“I’m as bad a swordsman as you are an equestrian, Price,” Laurence said, truthfully. “You must ask his lordship to find you a different instructor.”
Price seemed disappointed. He squinted at the target: a sack stuffed with straw and stuck on a pole, at about the height of a man. “When can I meet his lordship?”
“You wanted to wait for your new clothes.”
“They were delivered yesterday morning, while you were sleeping.”
“In that case I’ll arrange an introduction for tomorrow.”
“When do you expect Mistress Savage back?” Price asked, in a casual tone. Ignoring the question, Laurence loaded another pistol. It was obvious to both of them that Price could not stay in her house once she returned. “Had I a woman as beautiful as she is, I wouldn’t let her out of my sight,” Price carried on. “You know women, Beaumont. It’s not their fault they can’t be trusted. God made them that way, as He made us their superiors. Take my Sue, for example, the wench from the Saracen’s Head.”
“You told Barlow she was a lady, not a wench.”
“I was wrong: she pretended to me she was virgin before she let me bed her. It’s she who’s wrong now if she expects me to marry her. I suppose it’s much like you and Mistress Savage,” Price said, in the same casual way. “I mean … She is a lady, but … you wouldn’t marry her, would you?”
Laurence hesitated, as though debating his answer. Then he turned, raised the pistol, and blew Price’s hat clean off his head.
Price gaped at him. “By Jesus, you could have killed me!”
“Yes,” said Laurence. “I could have.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I.
“Cold enough to freeze a man’s balls!” Price shouted gaily to Laurence, over a vicious wind buffeting them from the north. The ground beneath their feet was crusted with slippery rime, and they were more skating than walking along the street to Digby’s door.
Laurence grabbed him by the collar of his cloak, at which he skidded to a halt. “Wipe the grin off your face. And remember: don’t speak unless questioned, and keep your answers brief and to the point. What comes out of your mouth is more important than those clothes on your back. And don’t smile. His lordship may smile, and he will, but not you.”
Laurence saw in Price’s eyes a hint of the fear he had demonstrated when that ball had sent his hat flying. Earlier in the morning he had paraded before Isabella’s glass in his new doublet and breeches, bowing and saluting effusively to his image. Too late to say anything about the ostentatious purple hue Price had selected for his garments, Laurence had felt obliged to correct his etiquette. Though a quick study in many respects, Price had a great deal to learn about his trade, and the circles into which he was so ambitious to move. In one respect, however, Laurence would let him learn by himself. He had fished repeatedly for Laurence’s opinion of Digby, and Laurence had refused to comment.
Quayle announced to them that his lordship was in conference with the Earl of Bristol. “We can return at a more convenient hour,” said Laurence.
“Oh no, sirs, their lordships will be pleased to receive you,” said Quayle, peering at Price as he took their cloaks and ushered them into Digby’s chamber.
Digby and his father were seated at one side of his desk, and rose in unison to acknowledge their visitors. As a younger man, Bristol must have been blond and round-faced like his son. Now in his sixties, he was grey of hair and beard, and Laurence detected in his careworn visage a less optimistic temperament. Digby, in contrast, exuded satisfaction.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “what an unseasonably cold day! May I present my honoured father, the Earl of Bristol.”
“May I present to your lordships Mr. Edward Price,” Laurence said, bowing. Price followed suit, as Laurence had taught him.
“Mr. Beaumont, I think we met at Chipping Campden when you were a boy,” said Bristol. “How fares your noble father, Lord Beaumont? And how is your lovely mother?”
“They’re both well, thank you, my lord, and they haven’t forgotten their debt to you.”
“Many years ago, when ambassador to Spain, I gave Lord Beaumont an introduction to his future wife,” Bristol explained to Price.
Price neither smiled nor spoke.
“I gather you have done work for Mr. Beaumont in London, Mr. Price,” Digby said, in a more efficient tone, “and that he has been training you in the skills of an agent. Tell us a little about yourself, sir. What was your former occupation?”
Laurence listened with interest, wondering how inventively Price would lie.
“I had none, my lord,” said Price. “I was living off a small annuity bequeathed to me in my father’s will. I had hoped to enlist in His Majesty’s cavalry a year ago, but I was injured after a fall from my horse, and only mended from it recently.”
“Would you not prefer army service to our more … covert duties?”
“With respect, my lord, I
believe that I can best serve His Majesty by serving your lordship, if you will condescend to hire me.”
“On Mr. Beaumont’s recommendation, I shall.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Price looked about to continue, until he caught Laurence’s eye.
“Allow us a moment alone with Mr. Beaumont, sir. Quayle, find Mr. Price some refreshment,” Digby murmured, and Quayle showed Price out. Digby motioned for Laurence to sit. “A keen fellow, sir.”
“He is, my lord,” said Laurence, “but his training is incomplete.”
“You have had over a fortnight with him. He should be ready to take to the stage.”
Laurence deliberated whether to object and cast aspersions on Price’s aptitude or to agree, and let him sink or swim on his own. “I could advise you better as to his readiness, my lord, if I knew what mission you had in mind for him.”
Father and son were quiet. Digby toyed with a button on his doublet, while Bristol studied Laurence with a speculative air.
Digby broke the silence. “Mr. Beaumont, His Majesty said that you above anyone could be trusted with the secrets we are about to reveal to you. He told us that you helped him in the past with a matter of grave importance to himself and to His Royal Highness Prince Charles, in which he still depends on your complete discretion.”
“A matter he would not discuss, even with us,” Bristol put in.
Laurence kept his face impassive. In thanks for concealing the plot against His Majesty’s life, he had been given the highest recommendation; and now he dreaded what secrets he was about to hear.
“I told you of His Majesty’s coming negotiations with certain independents and moderates in Parliament for a reform of the English Church,” Digby continued.
“Yes, my lord, and you said that your intermediary in the negotiations, Major Ogle, might soon be freed from Winchester House. Has Parliament acceded to his release, or is his sentence drawing to a close?”
“Neither, sir,” said Bristol. “The keeper of the gaol, Mr. Devenish, will … free Ogle upon receipt of a warrant from His Majesty, so that Ogle can come to us here and expedite our settlement.”
“Devenish will let Ogle escape?”
“I can rely upon Mr. Beaumont to be direct,” Digby said to his father, laughing.
“But, my lords, can you rely upon Devenish?”
“I think we can, and we must press ahead with our negotiations,” said Bristol. “Pym has not entirely cemented this Solemn League and Covenant with Edinburgh, and even should all go smoothly for him, the Scots will face a battle with the weather if they try to send an army south before the spring. If His Majesty can reach his own terms for a religious compromise with the moderates and independents over Christmastide, the prospect of Scottish troops marching into England would be hailed with far less enthusiasm in Parliament.”
“Pym’s faction may find itself out in the cold,” elaborated Digby. “And Londoners are cooling in their enthusiasm for war. We hear that Parliament has caused much offence by searching house to house for deserters since Waller’s disastrous attempt on Basing House. The City is so upset that it may petition for the return of all of its three regiments, which would leave Parliament’s southern armies in sorry shape.” He paused, evidently waiting for Laurence to speak, but Laurence said nothing. “I forgot to mention to you that, while in London, our Mr. Violet was in talks with some powerful dignitaries and merchants of London’s Corporation, many of whom Parliament is burdening with extortionate taxes,” Digby recommenced. “They might be persuaded to treat directly with the King if they are guaranteed a general pardon and the satisfaction of their debts, in the event of a Royalist victory. London may therefore be ripe for revolt, just when Parliament’s fighting force is at its lowest ebb.”
“If I’ve understood you, my lords,” said Laurence, after another pause, “His Majesty is considering two separate alliances, one based upon religious concessions with the discontented Members of Parliament and the other with members of the City Corporation.”
“You understand perfectly, sir,” said Digby.
“Beg pardon, but I’m not yet clear: in the case of the first alliance, he’s approaching the Members as a peacemaker. In the case of the second, he would seek assistance of these … prominent citizens in London to stir up an armed revolt, as he attempted last May.”
“We have hope, in this instance, of a more successful outcome. And it is not so much an armed revolt, as a means of acquiring new friends.”
“It appears to me that he would wear two hats at the same time.”
“Oh dear, sir,” Digby sighed, glancing at his father, “there you have misunderstood His Majesty! He wishes a conclusion to the war, and to the discontent of his entire kingdom! He would make welcome all of those who share in his desire.”
By promising them quite different things, Laurence added. “Thank you for enlightening me, my lord.”
“We must tell you of a related development,” said Bristol, in a lower voice. “As you know, the rebel garrison at Aylesbury blocks our easiest route for a march upon London. That garrison is, however, in a parlous state – the soldiers unpaid and threatening to disband. Their senior officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Mosely, has privately expressed to me his deep regret that he took up arms against his King. He is acting as a conduit for my correspondence with Major Ogle, and has pledged his word, in exchange for a fair sum, to surrender the garrison to us at the start of our spring campaign. Once Aylesbury is in our hands, the way will be open for Prince Rupert to move swiftly on the capital.”
“If it is not clear to you so far, Mr. Beaumont,” said Digby, “we will reap the fruit of our labours before the Scots can rush to Parliament’s aid. And when we have London, the war may be over as quickly. What say you to that?”
Laurence struggled to answer: it was precisely the sort of intrigue that would appeal to Digby’s labyrinthine mind; and His Majesty, confident in his Divine Right to rule, would think any means fair to defeat his opponents. “My lords, I have to question whether your strategies will combine to positive effect. The moderates and independents in Parliament won’t look favourably upon an officer who betrays his garrison, or on City dignitaries who are bribed to go over to the King.”
Digby glared at Laurence as if he had suggested some indecency. “Betrays? Bribed? I would not choose such words.”
“They will use such words, you may be sure of it.”
“Sir, reflect on the timing,” intervened Bristol. “With Ogle free, His Majesty’s religious agreement should be reached by Christmastide. By spring, when Aylesbury is surrendered to us, it will be late in the day for those Members of Parliament to voice their scruples.”
“My lords,” said Laurence, “I desire a happy result for His Majesty as much as you do, but he only discredits himself by making overtures on every side and playing them off against each other.”
“Have a care, sir,” gasped Digby, “in choosing your words!”
“It is to His Majesty’s credit that he seeks an end to bloodshed,” Bristol reasoned. “Is not some slight subterfuge justified, to save Englishmen’s lives?”
“Mr. Beaumont is usually a cynic,” Digby said snidely. “But this morning I would almost think him possessed by the spirit of Lord Falkland, in his moral indignation.”
“If we set aside morals, my lords,” said Laurence, “either of these two Parliament men – Devenish or Mosely, or both – could betray you. Then you would face the same situation as in May: the Committee of Safety would broadcast the discovery of your subterfuge, Londoners would rally around Parliament, and His Majesty would lose the good will of many of his subjects.” When the lords were silent, Laurence thought he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. So he carried on, “I was asked for my opinion, and I’d say as much to His Majesty: I think it laudable that he should concede to greater freedom of worship, and openly pursue the chance of peace with all those in his kingdom who are sick of bloodshed. But your hopes for London and Aylesbury
are not based on sound foundations, in my professional judgement. In truth, I wish you hadn’t shared them with me.”
“We had to, sir, on the King’s request, and we thank you for your opinion,” said Digby. “But you are my agent and you are to follow my orders, whatever your moral or professional qualms. Now, you inquired as to my mission for Mr. Price.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Laurence wearily.
“He and Violet will go together to London. Violet is familiar to the authorities, so I shall send Mr. Price into Winchester House, to complete the arrangements for Major Ogle’s release. Price will be taking him money and the requisite papers. And when that is accomplished, Price will stay in London. He will infiltrate Mr. Pym’s network of agents, and offer to spy for Clement Veech. We need a man inside who can report to us on what Veech might be hearing about our designs in the City.”
Laurence felt as though he were engulfed in quicksand. “That’s subtle work, even for an experienced man. Veech will sniff Price out before you know it, and Price will break under questioning.”
“As might you.”
“As might I, or anyone else. But why throw him in so deep, when he hasn’t been tested?”
“Are you the tiniest bit jealous of your territory, sir, or of your protégé?”
Laurence did not bother to dignify this with a response. “Let him visit Winchester House, and take Ogle what’s needed. Then he must return to us for further instruction. And we shouldn’t send him back into London until Ogle is safely in Oxford.”
Digby opened his mouth, but Bristol again intervened, placing a hand on his son’s sleeve. “Needs must, Mr. Beaumont, when the devil drives, and we are desperately short of men in the capital. Besides, we have every faith in your selection of Mr. Price, and in the thoroughness of his training. In concession to you, however, we shall let him decide for himself whether he is ready to undertake these more subtle duties. Please, have him come in.”
The Licence of War Page 13