As soon as he saw his father, Laurence decided to keep to himself his own problems with Digby and the King; there was a new stiffness to his movements, anxiety in his blue eyes, and more white in his beard and moustache. In contrast, Lady Beaumont’s uncharacteristically amiable demeanour suggested to Laurence that she viewed his visit as a step towards reconciliation, and the betrothal. Anne was full of news about Ingram, and of thanks to his Aunt Musgrave, whom she had yet to meet; it went unsaid, Laurence remarked, that had Madam Musgrave not made Ingram heir to her substantial property in Faringdon, the match might have encountered some parental opposition. Normally so vivacious, Elizabeth struck Laurence as understandably dejected. This time last year, she was anticipating her own wedding day and a long future with John Ormiston, who had died in June at Chalgrove Field in the arms of his brother-in-law and best friend, Tom. Mary, meanwhile, looked to Laurence happier and less intimidated by the Beaumont household, and rather self-absorbed.
Burrowing deep into the soft feather mattress, Laurence closed his eyes, wondering for how long he could postpone the questions he had avoided last night. But a polite knock sounded at the bedchamber door and Geoffrey’s voice called, “Master Laurence, his lordship asks you to join him in a ride about the estate, once you have broken your fast.”
Jacob had saddled one of Lord Beaumont’s horses for Laurence. “Your Arab will be right as rain in a day or so,” he said, as he put out his hands for Lord Beaumont to step up and mount.
Laurence thanked Jacob and set off at a canter with Lord Beaumont, whose stiffness did not appear to affect him in the saddle. Leaving the gravel drive, they rode across fields spangled with frost towards the river, where Laurence had taught himself to swim as a boy, and where he still liked to bathe in the summertime. Snow was drifting from the sky, and a crisp breeze from the Cotswold Hills ruffled their cloaks, and the manes and tails of their horses. Near the riverbank they pulled in, and Lord Beaumont gazed over to the far side, his eyes tearing; from the cold, Laurence hoped.
“These days I am feeling my age, Laurence,” he said, “and I have no need to remind you that the station into which we were born comes with as many duties as privileges. If, God willing, Mary brings her babe to term—”
“Mary is pregnant again?” interrupted Laurence. “That is good news, for her and for Tom.”
“Yes, but she is less than three months’ gone, and could suffer another miscarriage. And even should she bear a male child, Thomas is not my eldest son. You are, and I want to see your children before I die.”
“I’ve always thought Tom might be more suited, as your heir,” Laurence ventured.
“He cannot be master of this estate while you live,” declared Lord Beaumont, with surprising force. “I have studied your natures, and it is his that worries me most. He has his mother’s swift temper, and he clings on to his resentments until they fester in his mind. You are more akin to me, though you were a sight more wayward as a youth, and you have still a wild streak in your character that I both love and fear, and which perhaps has led you to doubt yourself in my role. When my father died, I had my doubts, and less experience of life than you. But doubt can be a healthy thing, if it causes us to reflect and act cautiously. And I am certain that you will defend the Beaumont estate with a noble spirit, and attend justly and fairly to the welfare of those whose livelihood depends on us. I pray, also,” he went on, studying Laurence, “that you and Thomas will put an end to your old quarrels. You will have to be the peacemaker, because he cannot be the first to forgive – he wrongly considers it a sign of weakness. I believe he loves you, as I know you love him, and if you are patient with him and do not provoke him as you are wont to do, you will be rewarded by strong affection. He is as shy with such feelings as his mother, but they are there.”
Laurence blinked away tears of his own: this sounded like a farewell speech. “I promise, if it’s in my power, that we won’t quarrel again.”
“Laurence,” Lord Beaumont said more sternly, “twice your mother and I tried and failed to find a girl who would meet with your approval. On the second occasion, you told us that you wanted to choose your bride, and I acquiesced. But you are on the verge of an unfortunate alliance.”
“I beg to differ,” Laurence said. “I’d be very fortunate to have Mistress Savage as my wife, and I won’t dishonour her by retracting my proposal.”
“Ingram gave account of her merits, and how she snatched you from the brink of death in Oxford Castle. For that, I thank her with my heart, and if you cannot leave her as a mistress, it is your affair. In marrying her, however, you would grieve us terribly. Dear boy, surely you have loved other women as you do Mistress Savage, and imagined the earth would cease to spin if you could not be together?”
“There was one,” admitted Laurence.
“Just one, among them all?” asked Lord Beaumont, with a combination of humour and mild bemusement. “When was that?”
“The summer before last.” Laurence thought back to the hot night on the rugged Andaluz hills when Juana had rejected him; so different from the present frigid morning in a carefully tended park. Lord Beaumont might fall off his horse if he learnt that the object of Laurence’s mad obsession had been a gypsy thief. Nevertheless, to a degree Juana and his father shared the same view: We did not create this world, Monsieur, but we must abide by its rules.
Lord Beaumont cast him an inquisitive frown. “Would you still wish to be with her?”
Laurence could not lie. “No.”
“Quod erat demonstrandum. I intend no dishonour to Mistress Savage, but I ask that you wait upon your offer to her. Should she inquire the reason, you may tell her it is on my request.”
“I’m a bit too old for that excuse.”
“So you are,” said Lord Beaumont. “Over Christmastide, if possible before Anne’s wedding, call upon the Furnivals and become better acquainted with Penelope. Try to see her merits. Your mother said you found her pretty, which is a start. Have I your word, sir?”
Laurence hesitated; he was about to betray Isabella, as she had predicted. “You have it,” he said.
“I thank you, my son.” Lord Beaumont leant from his saddle to press Laurence’s arm. “And I’ve yet another request. We are concerned about Elizabeth. You and she were always close. She will not confide in Anne, but Anne is convinced that more ails her than the sorrow of widowhood. She might confide in you.”
Laurence discovered Elizabeth in the parlour. She was sitting on the bench before her virginals, not playing the instrument but staring fixedly at the keyboard. He shut the door behind him, and edged onto the bench beside her.
“Liz,” he said, “I can only imagine how painful it must be for you, with all the talk about Anne and Ingram’s wedding.”
“Let me guess the next platitude on your lips,” said Elizabeth. “I’m still mourning my husband, and Anne’s joy must bring forth memories of my brief happiness. The truth is, Laurence, I spent more time with Ormiston during our courtship than after the wedding, and living as his wife in his mother’s house with his carping old maid sisters was intolerable.” Laurence held his peace. “Now I’m disgusted by myself. Without the miniature portrait that he had painted for me on our betrothal, I might already have forgotten his face. And I loved him so much. I suppose I love him still, but it’s like loving a ghost. How could it happen to me, in less than half a year? I’m evil and rotten, and cold inside.”
Laurence tucked an arm around her waist. “You’re none of those things, but I’ll say this for you: you’re as prone to exaggeration as our mother.”
“There’s more that I am ashamed of,” she said, squirming away. Again, he waited for her to speak. “Do you recall when we talked, before my wedding night?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I could count upon my ten fingers the number of times I lay with Ormiston, but I showed him how to please me, as you had described, and … that’s what I remember most about him, not his face. I can’t rid myself of
the images that creep into my head, and the urges I have – and at the most inopportune of moments.” He smiled, seeing the blood rush to her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have told you – you take it as a joke.” She gave him a fierce shove.
“I’m very glad you did. And though it’s beyond even my dubious morals to administer the cure, what I think you need is a good … A good man,” he finished.
She peered at him from beneath her lashes. “Is that what you meant to say?” They both started to laugh, quietly at first, and then uproariously, until they were collapsed upon each other, shaking with mirth. It was not the release she might have desired, yet it was better than nothing; and Laurence felt the better for it, too. “So I’m not sick?”
“Oh yes you are, along with much of humankind and pretty much the entire animal kingdom.”
“You won’t tell anyone.”
“No, but I could suggest to his lordship that you might be interested to receive suitors.”
“Wouldn’t it be disrespectful to Ormiston’s memory?”
“I didn’t know him well, Liz, but he was a good man, and he’d want you to be happy.”
“What will Tom say?”
He will be furious, Laurence replied to himself. “You can cross that bridge when you come to it.”
“Isn’t it odd: last year I married Tom’s dearest friend, and this year Anne is to marry yours.” Elizabeth’s blue eyes, upward-slanted like his, were alert and a little scheming. “Might there be any potential suitors for me among your other friends?”
Laurence shook his head at her. “You work fast.”
“There’s no harm in asking. While you may not be one of them yourself,” she added teasingly, “you must know at least some good men.”
VI.
Price followed the turnkey of Winchester House into what must once have been a majestic hall, but was now parcelled into a warren of small chambers, narrow corridors, and rickety staircases. At length the turnkey halted before a door, rapped upon it, and said, “Mr. Devenish, sir, a Mr. Price is here to see Major Ogle.”
The door opened onto a cosily appointed room with a four-poster bed, padded armchairs, and Turkey hangings on the walls. Before the fire an old brindled dog lay snoring, its grey muzzle resting on its paws. Above the fireplace was a wooden board from which dangled dozens of keys. Devenish was of middle age and prosperous in appearance; fat from bribes like all gaol keepers, Price thought. “Who are you, Mr. Price?” Devenish inquired, when the turnkey had disappeared. Price showed his credentials, a note in cipher from Lord Digby. “Ah yes,” said Devenish, and his left eye began to twitch.
“How fares the Major?” asked Price, in the neutral way that Beaumont had taught him.
“You may judge for yourself, sir,” Devenish whispered. “I wrote to the Earl of Bristol again through Lieutenant-Colonel Mosely. Ogle will be let out, as soon as I have His Majesty’s warrant. In my letter I gave the Earl a list of what else was needed.”
Price handed over a bag. “You will find here the warrant, a safe conduct for Major Ogle to travel to Oxford, and a bill of exchange for a hundred pounds to deal with his expenses.”
He expected some sign of excitement on Devenish’s face, or at least a thanks, but Devenish only said, his eye twitching away, “No more than a short visit with Ogle, sir, and you must be gone.” He selected a key from the board. As he opened the door, his dog struggled up on its stiff legs. “Down, Hodge,” he said to it, with an affection that touched Price. The dog flopped gratefully to the floor, and rested its head back on its paws.
Through another maze of passages, they reached the cell, spacious and comfortable, with a high casement window to provide fresh air. Several men were playing cards, and one, youngish and honest-faced, smiled at Devenish as he might his host at a social gathering.
“Major Ogle, Mr. Price has been sent by your wife to assure her that you are in health, sir,” said Devenish.
“Cousin Price, how are you?” said Ogle, rising. “Have you news of her and the children?”
“They are well, praise God, and praying for the day you’re reunited,” Price answered smoothly.
“You can tell her that Keeper Devenish treats us very considerately – an hour of exercise each morning, wine, and meat for supper. We may be better off than most Londoners. Come and inspect the view: it’s a pleasing prospect.” Ogle drew Price over to the window. It gave onto Clink Street, with the river in the distance; the drop was too steep to afford escape. “Confirm to Lord Bristol that the parties are agreed on Church reforms,” Ogle murmured. “When I get to Oxford, I’ll furnish him with a complete account. But he must not delay in securing my freedom.”
“He hasn’t.” Price grinned over at the pinpoints of light that twinkled on the far bank of the Thames. “You ask Mr. Devenish.”
They said no more, and afterwards Devenish escorted Price to the prison entrance. “You could get lost, otherwise,” he said.
“I thank you, Mr. Devenish,” said Price, adding under his breath, “Both the Earl and His Majesty are happy to have such a friend in you.”
Devenish grunted noncommittally, and retreated into his warren.
The turnkey was unlocking the main gate to admit a man in smart, sombre clothes with a satchel under his arm. “Good day to you, Mr. Draycott,” the turnkey said. At once the name set Price’s heart thumping: a Corporal Draycott, formerly a lawyer, had been with Veech that night when Beaumont had been chased through the streets. It was a coincidence Price could not pass up. He heard Beaumont’s voice in his head: Move slowly, breathe deeply, and look a man straight in the face without wavering. Always say as little as you can, especially if you’re told the unexpected, and especially if you have to lie. And always remember your lies, which is why you should keep them simple, and mix in a little of the truth. Price walked slowly through the gate, and called out, “Corporal Draycott?”
Draycott halted, polite confusion on his face. “Do I know—?”
“My name is Edward Price, sir, and I wonder if I might speak with you for but a minute,” Price interjected, in an eager, yet not too eager, tone.
“How do you know my name?” Draycott asked, as Price approached him.
“I’ve family near the fort at St. George’s Fields. You were an officer there, I believe.”
“Yes, but not any more. What is your business, sir?”
Price looked into Draycott’s eyes. “I can get you information about a fugitive who escaped from the fort last month.” He discerned a smidgeon of interest.
“What fugitive?”
Price pulled a creased broadsheet out of his doublet. “Is the reward still offered on this man?”
“No, it has been withdrawn,” said Draycott in a colder voice. “Too many people came forward – with false information.”
“For the same reward,” said Price, “I’ll even help you catch him.”
VII.
Laurence wanted to go straight to Isabella’s house on the chance that she might have come home while he was at Chipping Campden, but he felt bound to call first on Digby, who would know anyway if she were back in Oxford. “His lordship is out, Mr. Beaumont,” Quayle said, at the door. “But His Majesty wished you to attend him immediately upon your return.”
Through boot-high drifts of snow, Laurence slogged over to Christ Church, and announced his presence to the King’s equerry. He felt an ominous sinking in the pit of his stomach as he was shown into the royal chamber, where His Majesty and the Queen were at a game of draughts with Prince Charles before a companionable fire. They might have been a family like any other, Laurence thought, except that they were not.
“Mr. Beaumont, how did you find your stay in Chipping Campden?” the King asked solicitously.
“It was most enjoyable, thank you, Your Majesty. Everyone is busy preparing for my sister’s wedding later this month.”
“Is it not about time for yours, sir?” inquired the Queen.
“Your Majesty is ahead of me there,” Lau
rence said to her, at which Prince Charles snorted with laughter.
“I trust his lordship your father has had no t-trouble from Colonel Massey’s Gloucester garrison?” the King said next.
“No, Your Majesty, though it is a worry to him that he may soon receive a visit from the Colonel’s men.”
“Pray God his worries will soon be removed. Let us talk, sir.” The King rose and picked up his cane. “We shall go to the Great Hall.”
The Hall was so chilly that they could see their breath in the air. The King waved Laurence to a bench at one of the long tables, at a distance from the liveried guards posted at the doors, and took a seat opposite. “I heard of your objections to our strategy for the c-coming spring,” he began, in a subdued voice, “and your concern about our friends Devenish and Mosely. Yet from my own correspondence with them, I have no question as to their allegiance, Mr. Beaumont. These various plans of ours will unfold towards a single purpose, as I shall explain. It is my d-desire that you put the same faith in Lords Bristol and Digby as you have in me.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Laurence; he had about the same amount of faith in all three of them, and it was fast eroding. And why should the King devote to him such personal attention, if there were not some doubt gnawing at the royal mind?
The King raised his eyes to the rafters. “Here, in this very place, I intend to call an assembly, late in January. It will be my parliament, to which all discontented souls will be invited, on terms of a free and general pardon, to profess their fealty to me. They will swear an oath that the Parliament sitting in Westminster is illegitimate and has no legislative authority within my realm. I shall embrace the independent sects, the City Councillors of London, and whoever has the courage to depart from the Lords and Commons, and from the rebel armies.” Not a trace of his stammer now, Laurence noticed: the King was confident of success. “The idea for my assembly came from Edward Hyde, Lord Falkland’s old ally,” the King went on. “I cherish the thought that Falkland, whom you and I both esteemed so highly, would have approved.”
The Licence of War Page 15