“Foreigners are often mistakenly judged to be fools,” the Envoy agreed, his sharp eyes fixed on Antonio.
“Yes, but we are sometimes in want of information, when we travel abroad. I myself had no idea that matters between King Charles of England and his rebel Parliament had grown so violent. Can you go about safely, as a Catholic and a Spaniard, in this city governed by heretic zealots?”
“They are not all zealots, Don Antonio, and they are bound to respect the immunity of my office. I keep to my private chapel for worship, and I am careful not to engage in any unwise correspondence with the Royalist camp. His Majesty King Philip wishes for Spain to present a strictly neutral stance towards both sides. We cannot tell what will be the outcome of the war.”
That clever monkey Diego was right again, Antonio noted. “Is it possible the rebels could defeat King Charles?”
Don Alonso did not respond at once; a servant had entered with Venetian glass goblets and a silver flagon of wine. “To His Majesty King Philip, long may he reign and prosper,” he proposed, after the wine was poured, and Antonio seconded the health. Don Alonso merely wet his lips with the wine, studying Antonio over the rim of his glass. Antonio waited for his answer, gulping the delicious Alicante. “It is not impossible, Don Antonio,” he said, at last. “But they have lost their greatest champion in Parliament, John Pym – hence the windows draped in black and the crowds in mourning that you may have seen in the streets. He will be difficult to replace: he was an astute negotiator among the factions in Parliament. As a sign of the esteem in which he was held, he was buried yesterday in Westminster Abbey, after lying there in state for two days. The Abbey is where English royals and people of rank or other distinction are laid to rest. King Charles cannot have been pleased that Pym should be so honoured. If the Royalists recapture London, I would not be surprised if they were to disinter his body, chop off his head, and stick it on the end of a pike for public display, in warning to all would-be traitors. As one passes over to the south end of London Bridge, one may behold at least thirty of these severed heads thus displayed in various states of decomposition, with sightless eyes.” Don Alonso shivered and took a minute sip of wine. “The juiciest morsels are picked out early by carrion birds.”
“Eyeballs can be the tastiest part of a fish,” laughed Antonio. “So, is there no chance of a peace?”
“A faint chance,” the Envoy allowed, “but the conflict is not just in England. The Scots are reportedly bringing Parliament an army this spring, and King Charles has already fetched some of his regiments back from Ireland, mostly Protestants who had been serving against the Catholic tribes in that godforsaken isle, and were more inclined to fight for Parliament. The new shipments will probably be Irish Catholics, who are detested as much by Protestant Royalists as by Parliament. Those Irish live in bogs and go about half-naked, and their version of our faith is steeped in heathen lore.”
“Dios mío! Will the armies not break from campaign, now that winter has come?”
“They will have to, because of the cold, even if the regime in London disapproves of traditional festivities to mark the occasion of our Lord Jesus’s birth.”
“Then it might be less dangerous to travel out of London, at this time of the year?”
“That would depend upon the traveller.” The Envoy set aside his glass. “Don Antonio, pray tell me, what is your connection to the Earl of Bristol?”
Antonio recollected Diego’s question to him on their voyage: “How well do you know the Earl?” “About as well as I know the Emperor of Japan,” he had admitted. “So tell the Envoy the truth, or he may suspect you of some political motive in coming to England,” Diego had advised.
Still, Antonio could not resist embroidering a bit. “While ambassador to Madrid over thirty years ago, he became close friends with my late maternal aunt, Doña Cecilia de Capdavila y Fuentes. He arranged a match between her eldest daughter, Elena, and an English nobleman, James Beaumont.” Don Alonso was silent, his ugly face bland. “Beaumont bore his bride home, and my aunt never heard from her again. She went to the grave disconsolate. For her sake, I wanted to learn of Elena’s fate, and, if she yet lives, to bring her tidings of her brothers and sisters.”
“Did they remain in Seville?”
“The girls, yes – they took the veil. As for the boys, James Beaumont had purchased them military commissions, for when they came of age.”
“They followed your illustrious career?”
“And were all slain in battle like my Isidro, God rest their souls,” finished Antonio.
The Envoy paused respectfully, before inquiring, “Are you aware that the Earl of Bristol is a man of influence with King Charles and that his son Lord George Digby, now Secretary of State, stands impeached by Parliament as a traitor for urging the King to wage war against his people?”
This was more recent news than Antonio had received in Don Miguel’s long-winded letter. “Why no,” he said.
Don Alonso spoke in a voice as sharp as his eyes. “Don Antonio, shall we drop the pretence? I believe you were sent by our enemies the French to stir up discord between Spain and the English Parliament.”
“I was not, I swear by the Holy Church,” cried Antonio, leaping to his feet.
“Then what are you doing here? Beware of lying to me. I can have you arrested and handed over to Parliament.”
Antonio sank back into his chair and uttered a groan, secretly thanking God for Diego’s warning. “It humiliates me to confess, but I have come here as a beggar.”
“A beggar?”
“The Earl of Bristol and Lady Elena Beaumont may be my last hope of saving the house of de Capdavila y Fuentes from penury and disgrace.” Antonio threw up his hands in a poignant gesture of despair. “Her brothers had children who now rely upon me for their daily bread. I have nothing left to give to them. I am struggling, as it is, to support my own family on my meagre officer’s pension. Sometimes I envy Isidro his glorious death in the field – better to die a hero than live in ignominious poverty.” He found himself weeping; it was not wholly a performance, for he loathed being poor. He let the tears run down his face until they tickled his cheeks, and he had to dry them on his sleeve.
Don Alonso considerately refilled Antonio’s glass. “I shall assist you to find your cousin, the Lady Elena Beaumont, in exchange for two promises. You must have no communication whatsoever with the Earl of Bristol or his son. For the reasons I gave you, it would be most prejudicial to our embassy and to Spain. And I must forbid you or your servant to quit my house, until I grant you permission. If you cannot give me your word, you may go whenever you like, but I will not come to your aid if you fall foul of Parliament – or of King Charles.”
“As to the Digbys, you have my word of honour,” said Antonio, pleased that he could skip a potentially troublesome step in his quest. “But I had hoped to roam a bit about London.”
“Let me explain what happened this very day,” said Don Alonso. “An English priest, Father Bell, was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn, the main place of execution here. He was a Franciscan who had been in Spain and our territories in the Netherlands. He was apprehended with a torn fragment of a letter written by him in Spanish addressed to me, which was sufficient grounds for his arrest. I tried to intercede on his behalf while he was in prison. He preferred a glorious death – as a martyr to our faith. In consequence, though the authorities cannot trespass on my immunity, I am under their watch, along with every member of my staff. Do you understand why I cannot permit you to leave the confines of this embassy?”
“I do,” Antonio assured him, “and again I pledge my word: neither I nor my valet will set a foot outside. But might I request one more favour? I should write to my wife and inform her of my safe arrival.”
“I have a diplomatic packet leaving for Spain tomorrow morning,” his host said. “Your letter can be included with my correspondence.”
“The low son of a whore,” Antonio expostulated to Diego in the
privacy of their bedchamber. “How dare he accuse me of spying for the French? Were I not dependent on his hospitality, I would have drawn out my rapier and thrashed his ambassadorial arse.”
“He’s not as silly as he looks, and none of his remarks were idle, Don Antonio,” said Diego, stooping to help him off with his boots. “You must abide by his rules. Why risk arrest, torture, and an agonizing death when you have come so far, and are so near to your goal? It’s a stroke of luck that you needn’t approach the Earl of Bristol. You can rest in the comfort of the embassy and let Don Alonso work for you. And I won’t have to forge you an introduction to the Lady Elena. He’ll provide a more convincing one. Besides, we don’t even know the location of Lord Beaumont’s estate. We could be stumbling about for months between two hostile armies in abominable weather, whereas Don Alonso might give us papers of safe conduct and a map.”
“All right, all right,” said Antonio, defeated by his barrage of arguments.
“I’m so glad you confided in him your financial troubles. Your eloquence had me on the verge of tears.” Diego looked up at Antonio. “But what else do you want of the Lady Elena?”
“A loving reunion with my cousin.” Antonio unlaced his breeches and dug a hand inside to scratch his balls. “Now go to sleep, while I write to Teresa.” To Teresa, and also to Gaspar, he thought: if he and Diego were Don Alonso’s prisoners, the gypsy and her son must remain his.
Later, as he sat down at a side table and inked his quill, he heard Diego’s voice, from out of the shadows. “Might I suggest, Don Antonio, that you put nothing in your letter that our host might deem … compromising.”
Antonio turned round to glare at the youth; Diego was invisible beneath the bedclothes, apart from the top of his curly head. “Why the devil should I not?”
“If you do, I would bet you a thousand escudos that your letter will not leave his house,” Diego said sweetly.
“Fuck your goddamned impudence,” Antonio muttered, but he followed Diego’s counsel.
II.
Ingram felt happier than he had in months. It was the beginning of his yuletide leave, he was with Beaumont again, and every mile of his journey brought him closer to Chipping Campden, where Anne awaited him. In four days, she would be his wife. He and Beaumont had fallen a few yards behind Tom and Adam, who was leading a packhorse laden with gifts that Tom had purchased for the family; and as they rode, Ingram took simple pleasure in the tranquil Cotswold fields blanketed with fresh snow that glittered in bright sunshine. Over the muffled tread of their horses’ hooves and the jingle of their harnesses, he could hear the familiar cawing of rooks in the bare tree-tops, and the twitter of smaller birds in hedgerows thick with holly. He might forget that England was a country at war.
The sole blight to his happiness was the state of his friend. Beaumont’s skin was sallow, and the naturally dark pigment under his now-bloodshot eyes had extended down to his prominent cheekbones; he looked as if he had not eaten in weeks, although he had obviously been drinking. The left side of his jaw was bruised purple, and he could not wear gloves, despite the cold, because of scuffed knuckles on both hands. Before setting out from Oxford, Ingram had noticed on his clothes an overpowering smell of liquor and ladies’ perfume. “Don’t ask,” he had said to Ingram, and with unusual restraint he had let pass the jokes Tom had cracked at his expense.
“There’s Moreton-in-Marsh in the distance and you’ve barely spoken,” Ingram remarked. “You’re not far from home. I hope by then you’ll be able to hold a conversation.” Beaumont said nothing, so Ingram went on, “I gather you were engaged in some sport.”
“Last night was particularly excessive.”
“Ending in a brawl, I presume?” Beaumont nodded. “Over cards or women?”
“Cards. And I wasn’t even cheating,” Beaumont said, with an air of mock outrage.
“And then what happened – were you thrown in gaol?”
“Wilmot’s rank saved me from the indignity. As you once told me, it pays to have such friends.”
“Well, please don’t get into any fights at my wedding,” Ingram said, only half joking; the Beaumont brothers had drawn blood at Elizabeth’s, after Beaumont had been caught with Isabella Savage up in his chamber.
Beaumont smiled, in the open, affectionate way that had endeared Ingram to him since their youth at College. “It would be a bore to repeat myself.”
“How is Mistress Savage?”
Beaumont’s smile vanished. “I haven’t seen her for the past twelve days. We bade goodbye to each other, and she left Oxford for an unknown destination – unknown to me, at any rate. It was she who broke with me. I was at fault, and I don’t care to discuss the details. And now I’m supposed to contemplate a betrothal.” He told Ingram about Mistress Furnival, his talk with Lord Beaumont, and Isabella’s insistence that he marry the girl.
“I am sorry, Beaumont.”
“Don’t say it’s for the best.”
“I won’t. How are you finding Lord Digby’s service?”
Beaumont jerked aside his head to spit. “I feel like an indentured slave stuck with an unscrupulous master – more than one, to be perfectly honest.”
Ingram glanced towards Tom, who not long ago had almost sent his brother to an excruciating death because of his mistaken suspicion about Beaumont’s loyalties. “You wouldn’t go over …”
“No need to worry, Ingram. After turning coat when I was abroad, I know what it is to live with the consequences. And here I’d cause great distress to those I love. I think my father would understand, but it would divide our family, and that I can’t do, in all good conscience. Moreover, I can’t fight for a side which would ruin his house and fortunes, given half a chance. His welfare is more important to me, in the end, than my jaded political convictions.”
“And Seward would never understand.”
“No, he wouldn’t, and there’s another reason for me to stay with the King. I also think Prince Charles could be a fine monarch one day, if he doesn’t succumb to the plague that’s raging within our camp.”
“Is there plague in Oxford?” Ingram exclaimed; he had not heard.
“A virulent and contagious strain – of mistrust, duplicity, and cynicism. I am very sick with it, and of it. The Prince isn’t yet infected, which makes his company a balm to my troubled soul. I’ve been giving him lessons in ciphering, on His Majesty’s request,” Beaumont added, less sarcastically. “As a student, he reminds me of myself: quick to learn when he’s interested and lazy when he’s not. And he shows a most precocious interest in the opposite sex.”
“As did you,” Ingram said, laughing.
“So,” said Beaumont, as if to switch the topic, “are all your family coming to the wedding?”
“No, just my brother Richard and Aunt Musgrave. Kate’s baby is a sickly child, and she was worried to travel with him, and Richard’s wife is pregnant again.”
“How are Kate and your aunt rubbing along?”
“They are not, as Aunt Musgrave will no doubt tell you. Kate’s the same ice queen as always, spoilt and ungrateful.”
“I do look forward to seeing your aunt,” said Beaumont. “She had some sage advice for me, in the past. This time I’m tempted to have a cry on her shoulder.”
“Or into her expansive bosom – she would relish that. My poor aunt! Her lands have been raided twice now by our troops, and she fears the next to descend on her may be from Parliament’s garrison at Gloucester.”
“You were right to warn my father about his house,” Beaumont recommenced, after a short silence. “He should hide some of his money and valuables, to preserve at least a portion of the family wealth. Then in the last resort, they could flee to France.”
Ingram reined in abruptly. “France? Do you truly mean that?”
Beaumont reined in also, and shot him a stare. “Oh yes. My father would be hard pressed to abandon the estate, but my mother is more practical. I believe she’d urge him to accept exile, if the war det
eriorates into a bloodbath.”
“As you once said to me, military life has a tendency to corrupt.” Ingram glanced ahead again at Tom. “What a spirit of churlish revenge enters men’s nature when they’re en masse. They would deplore it, were it inflicted on their own families. In October, Tom’s troop sacked an estate, and while they were pillaging, they’d found occasion to shit and piss all about inside the house.”
“Did Tom attempt to stop them, or did he join in?”
“Who knows, but he threatened to raze the place. When I begged him not to, he said he’d spoken in jest. I wasn’t so sure.”
“You forget that he has a highly developed sense of humour.”
Ingram grinned as they spurred on their horses; this was more like his old friend. “I shall be pleased to have you as my brother, Beaumont. Just think: had you not whisked me from the battlefield after Edgehill and brought me to Chipping Campden, I’d be dead, or crippled.”
“I’m afraid I see it quite differently. If your horse hadn’t fallen on you and broken your leg, my sister would never have been moved to pity you in your convalescence, and she wouldn’t be where she is now: in the unenviable position of having to marry you.”
“That may be so,” Ingram said, struggling to keep a straight face. “But if not for Aunt Musgrave’s largesse, I would have been too poor to propose to her.”
“Not so, Ingram,” said Beaumont, smiling again. “I’d have won you a fortune at cards – through fair means or foul – to have you as my brother.”
III.
Veech limped slowly into his first private audience with Oliver St. John; Pym’s desk was still draped in black cloth, he noticed. St. John stood by the window looking out. “Well, Mr. Veech?” was all he asked, and curtly, at that.
The Licence of War Page 17