“Mr. Beaumont, wait! Please, please, wait!” He skidded round in the mud. Catherine was splashing to him through the puddles, her hair tumbling loose of its pins, her face distraught. “They kept the truth from you. You didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“About me – I have the falling sickness,” she said, in an angry tone. “That’s why my family hides me from visitors and treats me as though I were weak-minded. I can never marry. I thought my father would have told you. His greed got the better of him, and everyone else was too ashamed and too frightened of him to speak up. I’d have told you myself, but I’m forbidden to talk of it. You are free, sir, to marry Pen.”
“Come here.” Laurence snatched her to him and pushed the wet hair from her forehead. “Was that how you got the scar – when you had a fit?”
“Yes, and how I broke my tooth. My father had to pry my mouth open with a stick so I wouldn’t choke on my tongue. Now you see: I cannot be your wife.”
“My God,” murmured Laurence, thinking of Will’s expression and of Jermyn’s when they had spoken of her; it was she who Will had called a poor thing. This would explain why her ears were bare of jewellery that might be ripped out during a convulsion.
“Please, sir, let me go.” She tugged away more forcefully, and they slithered and nearly slipped in the mud. “I’ve learnt to live with my unhappiness. I will not bring it on you.”
“But do you want me, Catherine? Do you?”
“From the day we met,” she said vehemently. “I still can’t marry you. Forget you ever asked, and marry Pen.”
“I don’t want her – I want you. Listen.” He clung to her and talked into her ear. “When I was a student at College, there was a boy afflicted with your sickness. At first it shocked us, but our tutor taught us that it was nothing to fear, and that the Emperor Caesar was subject to fits, and they didn’t stop him from ruling. And they won’t stop me from marrying you.” He kissed her hard on the lips. “Catherine, is there anything else to stop us?” She relaxed into his arms, and shook her head. And next, to his surprise, she kissed him back.
II.
“What a brilliant disguise, Mr. Price,” said Lady Hallam, as she and her maid examined him up and down.
“Why thank you, your ladyship,” Price said. He was dressed in the soft cap, leather jerkin, and baggy breeches of a trooper with the Trained Bands. Gone was his peddler’s beard, which was no sacrifice, but Sarah had shaved off his moustache, cropped the shoulder-length hair he had been so proud of, and plucked his eyebrows to lend him a naive, doltish expression. His flattened nose was still swollen, although the bruising had paled to a primrose yellow. When he had knocked at the servants’ entrance and asked to see her ladyship, the old butler had summoned Lucy instead, who would show him no further than the kitchen.
“I couldn’t tell who he was, until he spoke,” she said to her mistress.
He saw a change, too, in the former Mistress Savage, if less dramatic than his own. The candles burning in sconces over the hearth illuminated not just the flash of a great diamond on her ring finger, but also harder angles in her cheeks and jaw; and the tense set of her mouth and smouldering frustration in her eyes reminded him of Sarah’s words. One of them lions caged in the Tower. “How is my Lord Digby?” she inquired.
“His lordship was in health when I last saw him, as was Beaumont. Beaumont has left him to serve again in Wilmot’s Lifeguard.” Price had hoped for some sign of interest in her, but there was none. “He’s to marry soon,” he went on. “This past Christmastide he introduced me to his future wife. She’s young, and very pretty.”
“I am overjoyed for him. Lucy, keep an eye on the front hall, lest we have visitors.” Once the girl had gone, Lady Hallam said crossly to Price, “I expected you a fortnight ago.”
“An accident delayed me.”
“Might Veech know you are in London?”
“I pray not, but I’ve tempted fate too long – I’ll ride for Oxford tomorrow. You may send to his lordship through my recruit, Peter Barlow.”
“Who is he?”
“A trusted friend of mine and Beaumont’s. His nephew Jem will call on you within the week, in the guise of a baker’s apprentice. He can collect your messages and Barlow will arrange for their delivery.”
“Has Barlow memorised our cipher?”
“No: though he reads a little, he can’t write.”
“Then what use is he? We need more than errand boys – we need skilled agents. Do you realise, sir, that with no likelihood of His Majesty advancing on London, our allies here are isolated as never before? They’ll be afraid to offer him their support unless we can supply them with accurate intelligence about what is happening, both outside and within the City.”
“As well I understand,” said Price, stung. “You don’t have to teach me my business.”
“Mr. Price,” she said, as though addressing a child, “Veech nearly caught my husband smuggling in that powder, Violet is lost to us, and I cannot work alone. Digby has let things slip, and badly, if he has no more capable agents here – and you had better make that plain to him.”
“You may depend on Barlow. It was he who got Beaumont out of London last autumn.”
Lady Hallam’s eyes narrowed; and Price felt he had scored a point. “Was Barlow then living in Blackman Street?”
“He is to this day,” replied Price, wondering what Beaumont had told her about the place.
“Is he a thief, like you?” Price could not answer, speechless with indignation: had Beaumont told her this, also? “Some ladies who resided at the house came to Oxford in November, to inform Beaumont of Mistress Edwards’ decease,” she went on. “Beaumont was away, but Lord Digby enjoyed a fascinating talk with them.”
And kept it secret, Price thought. “Barlow isn’t thieving any more,” he said defensively, “and nor am I.”
“Why would you, now that you are in his lordship’s pay. It was a mistake to lie to him, Mr. Price: although he does not care that you were a thief, he will always remember that you lied.”
“Beaumont suggested it,” said Price, which was not exactly the truth.
“So it was Beaumont’s mistake – unless he had a good reason to cultivate his lordship’s mistrust of you. Beaumont is clever in that regard, as you should be aware. You may report to his lordship that I am making some progress with Mr. Veech’s associate, the lawyer Draycott. Mr. Draycott is a man of hitherto spotless morals, but his eldest son recently died, his marriage is strained, and I doubt he is happy serving Mr. Veech. He has become a kind of … friend to me.”
“It sounds as if you’re plotting his seduction,” Price said, to insult her.
She smiled at this. But her smile vanished as Lucy hurried into the kitchen. “My lady, Mr. Draycott is at the door with a militiaman! Should Greenhalgh turn them away?”
Price swore under his breath. “Draycott knows me – he might recognise me even in this disguise. Let me escape through the back.”
“No – there could be more troops outside,” said Lady Hallam. “Wait with Lucy.” She murmured something in Lucy’s ear and glided towards the front hall.
Lucy snuffed out the candles over the hearth and drew Price into the shadows. He heard Lady Hallam announce loudly, “Mr. Draycott, and … Corporal Stanton of the Strand detail, are you not, sir?”
“I beg pardon for disturbing you, my lady.” Price recognised Draycott’s genteel accents. “We spied a man skulking around to the rear of your house, and the Corporal thought we should investigate.”
There was a pause; Price squinted at the back door, calculating.
“Gentlemen, I believe I can explain – please follow me. Lucy?” she called.
It was a signal: Lucy grabbed Price and jammed her mouth onto his, blocking the men’s view of him with her head as they walked into the kitchen.
“Dear Lucy, when will you learn: you must not receive your paramour without my permission,” Lady Hallam scolded her. “An
d it is almost curfew.”
Lucy twisted about in Price’s arms. “It may be our last kiss, my lady. He’s off to march for Lord Essex’s camp on the morrow.”
“Nonetheless, what nuisance you caused Mr. Draycott and Corporal Stanton.”
“Lovelorn creatures, we can’t blame them.” Stanton’s voice had a Cheapside ring. “Which of the Bands do you serve with, young man?”
Price saluted, feigning bashfulness; he did not venture out of the shadows. “The Southwark brigade, sir,” he said, in his old, London accent.
“May God keep you safe, my lad, and you give those malignant dogs a right drubbing.”
Lady Hallam wagged a finger at the pair. “Half an hour, and not a moment more.”
“I am sorry we alarmed you unnecessarily, your ladyship,” Draycott said.
“Gentlemen, my husband and I are indebted to you for your vigilance. We were to take a glass of wine upstairs in the gallery. Might you join us?”
“I’d be honoured, my lady, if I wasn’t on patrol tonight,” said Stanton, with audible regret.
Price listened to their retreating steps, and waited for the front door to shut. Then he whistled between his teeth. “That was close. I thought she’d never get rid of them.”
“Oh she hasn’t, yet,” said Lucy.
He next heard Lady Hallam saying, sweetly, “I must apologise to you, Mr. Draycott, for practising a feminine deception: Sir Montague is abed – he was in pain from his gout. I so appreciated your company the other night. Would you stay, for a little while?”
“I ought not to, my lady,” said Draycott, “but …”
Their voices faded as they carried on up the stair. Price was aroused: by his narrow escape and Lucy’s charms, and most of all by Lady Hallam’s ruthlessness. How vividly he could imagine her seducing Draycott, the lucky bastard.
“You stop that,” Lucy said; without noticing, he had pressed his hips up against hers.
“Give us one more cuddle,” he teased, “before your brave lad goes to the wars.”
In answer, she unbolted the door and pushed him out.
III.
Under an azure sky scattered with thistledown clouds, courtiers, soldiers, and townsfolk had assembled in Abingdon’s Market Place to witness the King and Queen bid each other goodbye. Digby generally eschewed public displays of grief, but he was sniffing and dashing water from his eyes along with everyone else: today the royal couple were like any other man and woman in love, about to be separated in dangerous times. He would also miss his friend Jermyn, who was to accompany the Queen on her travels.
“To think that Their Majesties have had less than a year together since her return from The Hague,” he lamented to his father.
“I pity those boys, as much,” said Bristol. The two eldest Princes stood beside Her Majesty’s carriage, Charles fighting bravely for composure, with ten-year-old James sobbing on his arm. “I heard that Her Majesty consulted her astrologers, and was told she would be reunited with her sons – but not in England.”
“And what about her husband?”
“The stars were silent on that issue.”
“The stars, or the astrologers?”
“Who would have the temerity to predict that she might never see him again?”
“A fool or an honest man, if they are not the same thing.” Digby bustled through the crowd towards Jermyn. “Jermyn, shall we write?”
“Yes, but of innocent matters,” Jermyn said. “And do beware of disputes in Council, especially with Rupert and with Wilmot, whose late fit of pique might have cost the King dear. Her Majesty will not be there to pour oil on troubled water – though Mr. Beaumont deserves much of the credit on that last occasion. I should like to have said goodbye to him.”
“He and Wilmot must be in attendance.” Digby peered about. “Wilmot is so very fond of the Queen.”
“Wilmot is here, but not Beaumont. Prince Charles told me he has gone into Warwickshire to visit his betrothed.”
“Ah,” said Digby thoughtfully.
“And now,” said Jermyn, embracing him, “our time has come for a parting of ways.”
“I shall pray for you, and for Her Majesty in her confinement.”
Digby watched Jermyn take up his position at the head of the Queen’s Lifeguard, while footmen lifted Her Majesty into her carriage and shut the door. The King stayed beside the window, clinging to her hand. As the vehicle picked up speed, he had to step back with the utmost reluctance, tears streaming down his cheeks. A second carriage followed, occupied by her ladies-in-waiting, her lapdogs in their straw baskets, and the dwarf, Jeffrey Hudson; and the procession was tailed by more mounted troops dressed in Her Majesty’s bright livery. Digby waited no longer. Blowing his nose into his handkerchief, he turned for his quarters; Jermyn had inspired him with a plan.
IV.
Laurence and Prince Charles were alone among the trees, where the King lay dead on a bracken bier. The forest rang with the yelping of hounds, coming closer and closer; and somehow Laurence knew they were after human prey.
Charles fell to his knees by the corpse and struggled to drag it from the bier. “We must take him away or they will tear him apart!”
“No, we have to save ourselves,” cried Laurence. He grabbed the boy and thrust him towards a giant oak. “Climb, for your very life.” They clambered into its lower boughs, but the Prince could not find a foothold on the mossy bark higher up: the soles of his boots kept slipping, and he was panting for breath. The dogs were crashing through the undergrowth on all sides. Some slavered and pawed at the base of the tree, while others leapt growling upon the bier, jerking their heads to and fro to rip flesh from bone. “Don’t look down, just climb,” Laurence urged the Prince, pulling him by the arms. The boy’s cloak had snagged on a branch, and as he wriggled to free it, he began to slide inexorably from Laurence’s grip. He hung by the wrists, then hands, then the tips of his fingers, screaming, “Help me, Mr. Beaumont! Help me!” until Laurence lost him altogether.
“Beaumont!” Laurence started awake. “Out of bed, my man,” yelled Wilmot, through the doorway. “The King wants to see you.”
His Majesty and Prince Charles were at breakfast in the reception chamber. Both appeared to Laurence as if their sleep had been as haunted as his. The King sipped gingerly from a cup, a plate of oatcakes and cold meats before him. Charles, his eyes reddened and sore, was tossing scraps beneath the table to his dogs, whose loud masticating sent a shiver along Laurence’s spine.
“You m-must excuse our gloom, sir,” said the King. “We are missing our She Generalissima.”
“Lord Wilmot told me she departed yesterday, Your Majesty. I regret that I wasn’t there to wish her God speed.”
The King nodded, unsmiling. “Mr. Beaumont, you have proved yourself devoted to my cause in the past, and you were instrumental in resolving the differences between my Lord Wilmot and General Hopton. I understand your d-desire to serve in his lordship’s Lifeguard, yet we are about to enter upon a n-new stage in our war against the rebellion. And I am persuaded that your talents would be best employed elsewhere.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?” Laurence queried, deeply apprehensive.
“Since we may soon take to the field, my Lord D-digby has proposed that you be given charge, under his aegis, of training scouts to reconnoitre for our armies. We have not yet s-spoken of this to Lord Wilmot – I thought it only right to ask you first if you will accept such an important responsibility.”
“We know we can count on you, Mr. Beaumont,” said the Prince.
Laurence could not argue. “I thank you for the honour.”
“You should thank Lord Digby,” said the King. “He considers you indispensable.”
“His lordship should at least spare Mr. Beaumont to attend his own wedding before we open our campaign,” Prince Charles said to his father.
“On what d-day are you to marry, sir?”
“A week today,” said Laurence, “or so I had hoped.”<
br />
“I gather that, for a distressing reason, you will be unable to celebrate at your father’s house. In consolation, I shall insist that Lord Digby grant you a brief honeymoon.”
“Thank you again, Your Majesty, and Your Royal Highness.”
Laurence was retreating to the doors when the King said, “On second thought, sir, you may inform Lord Wilmot of your change in assignment, and lay to rest any objections that he might raise. I have neither the time nor the patience to hear them, myself. Lord Digby expects you to report to his quarters by the hour of curfew.”
“The snake,” Wilmot raged, as Laurence packed his saddlebags. “Digby was just waiting for the Queen to leave, to pull off his trickery. She would have championed my part.”
“No, my lord, not again. She overreached herself already to protect you.”
Wilmot seized Laurence’s arm and swung him round. “Don’t you forget, Beaumont: you promised to stand by me as my friend. Whatever fresh tricks Digby has up his sleeve, whatever anyone is plotting against me, I must be the first to know. You’re still my champion, as I am yours. I demand the same loyalty as you gave to Falkland. Swear to me that I shall have it, through thick and thin.”
“I swear,” said Laurence, with a sense of profound foreboding.
V.
Laurence stopped on the corner of Digby’s street; a vaguely familiar figure in a leather jerkin and cloth cap was sauntering towards him. “Beaumont, don’t you recognise me?”
“I almost didn’t,” said Laurence, with perfect honesty.
“Were you coming to see his lordship?”
“Yes. As of today, he’s taken me back into the fold.”
“I am pleased to hear. He went with Quayle to be fitted for a new pair of boots. I got back to Oxford this morning, and was about to grab a bite to eat at the tavern. Why don’t you join me?”
Laurence accepted, wondering uncharitably whether Elizabeth’s infatuation would survive the man’s transformed appearance. When they had settled themselves at a table and Price had ordered a meal from the serving boy, he asked, “Who broke your nose?”
The Licence of War Page 33