“Wouldn’t they be owed something for their efforts in His Majesty’s cause?”
“What if, God forbid, the cause does not prosper? Rupert is a mercenary: he will urge his uncle to arrive at terms with Parliament.”
“I’d see no wrong in that, my lord, but then I was a mercenary, too, as were Wilmot, Forth, Waller, Essex, and countless others on both sides. It would be unjust of either side to prolong the war – as His Majesty would surely agree, given his sincere pursuit of peace from the outset of this conflict.”
Digby must have caught Laurence’s sarcasm; a flush rose in his cheeks, and for a moment he did not speak. “In the event of our defeat,” he recommenced, “those terms might include a cosy place for Rupert in England. But for myself, I would foresee an impoverished exile, at the very best.”
“Your lordship would be wise to go abroad beforehand, as perhaps would I.”
In a typical lightning shift of mood, Digby cast him a glowing smile. “Let us not expend our energies on hypothetic argument. Now that your conjugal life is so felicitously arranged, you must devote your attention to the duty His Majesty assigned you. Whatever strategy is adopted by Council, we shall require new scouts.”
“I’d propose to recruit more than scouts, my lord. We need better informers in Waller’s and Essex’s camps, and men to reconnoitre a path of escape for the King to Rupert’s headquarters in Shrewsbury, and to secure safe houses along the way for his shelter. Governor Massey has summoned his troops back to Gloucester,” Laurence added. “His spies in Oxford must have reported on the King’s preparations for battle. That leaves the northern reaches of the Gloucestershire open to us, for the time being, and Massey’s raids will have alienated the local populace. If we offer them encouragement, they will stick by the King, who may be in desperate need of friends there, should Oxford be threatened.”
“You may write me out an estimate as to the cost. Sir,” said Digby, in a less confident tone, “I am concerned about our London network.”
“Why, what have you heard?” asked Laurence quickly.
“My concern is that I have not heard anything. Since Mr. Price’s return to Oxford, Isabella has failed to communicate with me through the couriers he recruited.”
Laurence remembered Price’s airy optimism about Barlow and Jem; had Veech already seized them? “She may be lying low,” he said to Digby. “I sent her a message over a week ago, through Price, warning her to stop her games with Draycott and Veech.”
“You might have asked my permission, prior to sending it.”
“You would have done the same, my lord, if you knew the danger to her. Price acted rashly when he hired those people.”
“Are they not friends of yours who rendered you excellent service in the past?”
“Yes they are, and for that reason Veech will be watching them. I told Price they might be followed to and from her house. I could waste no time in alerting her.”
Digby pursed his lips. “I would not have objected to your warning her on that score, but it is not for you to put a stop to her activities as my agent.”
“My lord, this is not some trivial issue of authority. Neither of us wants her to be arrested by a brute like Veech. And clearly Veech has a tight hold over Draycott. She and her husband were lucky to escape when they played about with gunpowder. Now she’s playing with fire.”
“It was she who suggested that she win the affections of Mr. Draycott, in order to obtain intelligence on the notorious Clement Veech. And she had a more daring plan in mind, which she may have postponed as a result of your message: to effect the demise of Mr. Veech.”
“I hope she’s abandoned it altogether,” said Laurence, when he could find his voice.
“You underestimate her skills as an agent,” Digby said, but so weakly that Laurence let the rebuke pass.
“What will you do for her, my lord, if she’s taken?”
“I shall rely on you to think of something,” Digby answered, in the same hapless tone.
VI.
By the hearth in his cottage billet, Tom was sipping at a mug of watery ale, trying to ignore the chorus of snores from the other officers rolled up in their blankets, and the stink of his wet boots and stockings that were laid out on the hearthstones by his equally smelly bare feet. What a day, though it had distracted him from the nagging problem of de Zamora. Here in Abingdon, the King and Prince Rupert had discovered empty casks, rotten food, and ordure scattered about the camp. Loose women had taken up residence among the cavalry, some claiming to be wives, though their rouged cheeks and bold manners hinted otherwise to Tom. And on the faces of Wilmot’s men he had seen open disrespect towards Rupert. The lot of them deserved a court martial.
Tom tossed the dregs of his ale into the fire, and allowed his eyes to close, focusing his thoughts on Mary and their coming child. It would be born in midsummer; but a few months to wait.
“Sir,” he heard Adam say quietly, “your brother is here.” He jerked straight in his chair and opened his eyes; Laurence was stepping round prone bodies, his saddlebag slung across his shoulder.
He squatted down by Tom’s side, and smiled. “I went all the way to Prince Rupert’s camp to see you. Ingram told me we’d passed each other like ships in the night.”
Tom could not return the smile; his jaw was locked. “So, you and Penelope Furnival are husband and wife.”
“I didn’t marry her – I married her sister, Catherine. I stopped by our house to leave Catherine there, though I couldn’t stay. Everyone is in good health. Purefoy’s troops have departed for Gloucester.”
“Thank God for that,” said Tom, a little relieved.
Laurence produced a flask from his saddlebag. “Have you a cup?” He steadied Tom’s shaking hand, and poured him a measure. “Tom, you’re not feverish, are you?”
“No. To you and your bride.” Tom took a large swallow. “By Jesus, this isn’t wine,” he spluttered.
“It’s aqua vitae. We need strong stuff, to match the subject of our conversation – Antonio de Zamora.”
“Damn Ingram – he broke his word.”
“On my prompting. Tell me everything, Tom.”
Tom gulped more of the potent spirit, which marvellously clarified his thoughts: he would talk of the deathbed confession, but not of what he had said to de Zamora about Laurence and the title. If de Zamora raised this with Laurence, Tom would call him a liar and challenge him on the spot to a duel that Tom felt sure he could win. “I kept from Ingram that I met the Spaniard a second time,” he began, holding out his cup again; his hand had ceased to shake.
VII.
“If our mother was seduced or … or raped by de Zamora’s brother, it would explain many things, Seward: why she never speaks of her Spanish family, her illness around the time that she heard from the Envoy, and her wish to deal with de Zamora alone, to hide the truth.” Laurence scrutinised Seward’s face in the candlelight; they were sitting across his desk from each other, in the positions they had once occupied as tutor and pupil. “Why do I suspect …” He rephrased his words. “You’re less appalled by this than I was. You didn’t … know?”
“Of course not – and it is a dreadful story,” murmured Seward, his eyes downcast.
“It is, and yet she demonstrated no equivalent emotion when I asked her about de Zamora. Not that she couldn’t be masking her feelings – she’s a woman of steely resolve. But the more I consider his story, the more I mistrust him.”
Seward glanced up. “On what grounds?”
“To begin with, he kept his secret for over thirty years. He was a soldier – he could have been slain at any point, leaving his brother’s request unfulfilled. Then, in his retirement, he did nothing to find my mother. Only when he discovered he hadn’t long to live, did he come to England. Why would a dying man undertake such a risky and arduous voyage?”
“For the benefit of his soul?”
Laurence shrugged. “Once he arrived here, what did he do? If I were him, I’d hav
e headed straight to Chipping Campden without wasting any of my few remaining hours on earth. Let’s follow his movements: he was in London before Christmas, and near the third week of January he assaulted a woman in Oxford.”
“Hardly the behaviour of a dying man,” interjected Seward.
“Unless he feared it might be his last taste of quim. That night Mawson called him ‘Beaumont,’ and the name must have registered. He could have located me then in Oxford without difficulty: I was bedridden with my shoulder wound. Instead he journeyed miles in the winter cold to catch up with Tom – and not until March did he introduce himself. When Tom told him he resembled me, he behaved as if he were surprised. Yet he must already have guessed from his encounter with Mawson that one of us was his double.”
“He might have,” Seward agreed.
“Then he vanished, and wasted another month apparently worrying about the damage his brother’s confession might cause to our family. On his second meeting with Tom, he said God had put Tom in his path before me. It wasn’t Divine Providence. I think he elected to tell Tom, and not me, about his double, the reprobate brother. As he may have planned, Tom is now wondering if I am Jorge’s son – with all that that entails. And according to Tom, de Zamora still seems in robust health.”
“His entire story may be fabricated. He is here to cause harm, as my bowl forewarned. I should have spoken of the vision to Thomas when he came to me.”
“A good thing you refrained. Tom was sufficiently upset, as was I, though I tried to hide it from him. Poor Tom, I know what he’s thinking: that I have no real desire for what he’s always wanted. And he was right, until not so long ago.” Laurence broke off to calm himself. “I even raised the issue with my father this past autumn. He said to me that Tom could not inherit while I was alive. That was when I understood my duty. And … and when I heard about the troops at our house, it became yet clearer to me.”
“My boy,” said Seward, “in some respects you grew rather too early into your manhood, but in others, you were somewhat retarded.”
Laurence smiled. “Thank you, Seward.”
“What is your next move with de Zamora?”
“Tom will arrange for the three of us to meet tomorrow night, at the inn where he’s lodged.”
“I shall pray for you and Thomas,” Seward told him. “It could be the gravest peril that you will ever confront as brothers.”
VIII.
“If you were about to invite me, sir, I won’t trouble to come in.” Veech handed Draycott a thin, sealed packet at his door. “Plant this tonight. I’ve informed Corporal Stanton you’ll be visiting her late. He knows no more than that. Bide until morning if you can, to allay her suspicions. Stanton says her husband went to Rochester in the coach, and won’t return until next week. I’ll stop here again tomorrow afternoon to find out where you hid the evidence, and then we’ll go on a hunting party with the militia.”
“Why not wait, to catch Sir Montague as well?” asked Draycott, as scornfully as he could.
“He’ll be drawn in after she’s arrested.”
“But … you will require a search warrant to enter the house.”
“Leave that to me. Once she’s in my custody, perhaps Judith and your children will run home to you.”
Draycott recoiled. “What do you know about them?”
“I know where they are. You’ve lost one child. You wouldn’t want some accident to befall another.” And Veech turned, to limp off down the street.
Draycott wished he had a loaded pistol to discharge at Veech’s retreating figure. He slammed the door and broke the seal on the packet. The pages were covered in a cipher; had he weeks, he would be unable to make sense of it. Still in a quandary as to what he should do, he unbuttoned his doublet and used a knife to unpick some stitches in the lining. He stuffed the pages back into the packet and forced it far inside the thick layers of cloth, rebuttoned his doublet, grabbed his hat and cloak, and headed for the Strand.
IX.
Antonio dropped a coin onto the floor by his bed, and started languidly to fasten his breeches. “Take your money and go.”
The girl was on her knees between his thighs, spitting into her apron. “You promised me twice as much.”
“That was to fuck you. You should not have tried to sell yourself to a gentleman at your time of the month.”
Snatching up the coin, she scrambled to her feet. “Most gentlemen hereabouts don’t care.”
“Oh get out,” said Antonio.
She nearly collided with Diego, who came rushing breathlessly into the chamber. He shut the door after her, and announced, “I have seen him. And, saints above, he is your very image.”
A thrill coursed through Antonio, more pleasurable than the service for which he had just paid. “Continue, Diego.”
“I followed him to Merton College, where Thomas went after you two last spoke. And he knocked at the same door, and was admitted by the old man.”
“Who can he be? Did you inquire?”
“Yes, in the gatehouse. The porter said that his name is Doctor William Seward. He’s a scholar learned in philosophy, medicine, and astrology. So I said that I was a student of medicine, and had heard of him by repute.”
“You are a paragon of ingenuity.”
“I’m not finished,” Diego said. “I mentioned that I had seen a tall, dark man entering his room but a moment earlier. Was this person also a scholar at the university? Oh no, that would be Mr. Beaumont, the porter said. Dr. Seward had been his tutor, and now they’re fast friends. And what sort of a fellow is Mr. Beaumont, I said?” Diego imitated the porter’s speech, in English. “ ‘Charmin’ as can be, sir, and he treats us like we was as good as he, though he’s of noble blood..’ ”
“Then he must be soft in the head,” muttered Antonio.
“It supports Thomas’s contention that he doesn’t wish to be a lord.”
“He may not want the responsibilities of a title, but I doubt he’d appreciate being told that he’s a cuckoo in his father’s nest.”
“I think we should talk to the Doctor, Don Antonio.”
“Why, my clever monkey?”
“He’s known Beaumont for half of Beaumont’s life. And old men are easily intimidated. I asked the porter if I might request a consultation, on a medical issue. He said that Dr. Seward had condescended to heal him of his warts, and would surely assist a scholar such as me.”
“On this occasion, your ingenuity may prove redundant,” Antonio said. “Thomas and his brother are coming here tomorrow night, to meet with me.”
X.
“Mr. Draycott, thank God,” exclaimed Lady Isabella, opening the door to him herself.
“My lady, are you all alone in the house?” he asked.
“No, but my husband took Greenhalgh with him to Rochester. Lucy is abed with a chill.”
When they were seated in the gallery, Draycott inhaled a deep breath. “Clement Veech informed me today that Lord Digby was your guardian, and that you and his agent, Laurence Beaumont, were once lovers,” he said, altering the truth a little. He was too ashamed to admit that he had told Veech about the inscription in her book, even if it offered no material proof of treachery, as Veech obviously knew; hence the incriminating packet.
“Of what significance is my past to Veech?” She sounded more cross than frightened. “I did not choose my guardian, and as for my relations with Beaumont, they ended before my marriage.”
“Last autumn when I was still an officer in the Trained Bands, I arrested Beaumont, although I was unaware of his identity at the time, and mistakenly released him. The same night, Veech apprised me of who he was, and while we were chasing him, he fired on us. He wounded Veech with a crippling shot to the knee. It was after my mistake that Veech hired me. He thirsts for private revenge on Beaumont, quite apart from the enormous prize to Parliament of capturing Lord Digby’s most able man.”
Lady Isabella’s gold-flecked eyes darted to and fro. “Beaumont won’t be caught her
e again,” she said, as though stating a fact.
“My lady, tomorrow afternoon, Veech will bring me and a party of militia to raid your house, to find evidence to bring you to trial on a charge of treason. He knows you are Digby’s courier. He will arrest you, and then Sir Montague, although you are his target: he is convinced that Beaumont will attempt to rescue you from gaol.”
“He will find no evidence of treason in my house.”
“He has ordered me to plant a packet of documents in cipher tonight, and then stay, and … and make love to you, so you would not suspect me.”
Lady Isabella paled, and fluttered a hand to her breast. “And will you plant it?”
“No. I am your friend, as I promised you. Veech has wrecked my life, but he shan’t have the satisfaction of wrecking yours, if I can prevent him.”
“Bless you, sir, for your courage and your loyalty to me,” she murmured. Then she asked in a harder tone, “Where is the packet?”
Draycott thought of Veech whittling away at the polished oak settle; and he thought of Judith and the children. “At my house.”
“What will you do when Veech makes no discovery?”
“I’ll have to act astonished, and swear that I did his bidding.”
“You might say I gave you no chance to hide it.”
“He would only send me back for another attempt.”
She moved closer to Draycott; he could smell mint and cloves on her breath. “You said he has wrecked your life. What did you mean?”
“Judith has left me, and taken the children. She despises me for being in thrall to Veech. I could force her to come home, yet I can’t make her love me again – if ever she did.”
Lady Isabella kissed him. Her tongue slipped inside his mouth, and she raised him up and ran her hands down his chest, around his waist, and along his spine and buttocks. His heart was thudding; would she detect the packet? But she separated from him, and said in a low voice, “Can we comfort each other tonight?”
The Licence of War Page 37