The Licence of War
Page 43
The Royalists bore down upon soldiers and citizens, hacking to the right and left with their blades. Tom ran a trooper through the chest, and galloped on, nearly trampling an elderly civilian who had rushed out of his house wielding a musket. Tom stuck the fellow in the neck; a scarlet jet gushed forth, spattering him and his horse. His ears rang with screaming and bellowing and howling, and distressed neighs. And he breathed in the intoxicating reek of war: a meaty odour of blood, the sewer stench of human waste, powder, and thick smoke. He began to lose count of how many he had killed or wounded. When the action lulled, he took off his hat and used the rainwater from the brim to cleanse his grimy face. He looked back for Adam, and saw him unhurt and grinning.
Trumpets sounded again; the Prince was blasting past, with Boy loping at his horse’s side. “A couple of hours have won us Bolton,” he shouted. “You have licence to sack the town. The plunder is ours.”
They stormed the citizens’ shops and dwellings for the fruits of pillage, shooting or cutting down the remaining men, and hounding the women and children, stripping some of their clothes and pushing them naked from their homes into the foul pottage of mud and guts and excrement outside. Adam waited in the street holding the horses as Tom, Curtis, and Smith smashed through door after door. They were exhilarated, thirsty from their labours, and started to search for drink, but most of the Puritan households were dry.
“They weren’t equipped to receive gentlemen like us,” said Smith.
“Then they should pay for their want of hospitality,” said Tom.
He chose a wealthier house where, in the sparklingly clean tiled kitchen, he found several casks of wine. Smith had gone to forage in the larder, and returned dragging a young girl by the arm. “See what a tasty morsel I have here! She was hiding in a corner behind a sack of grain.” Curtis helped him wrestle her to the floor, and after a slap to the face, she stopped resisting. “A little maid servant, so fresh she can’t have been docked yet,” he said, as they pulled up her skirts.
“Do her the honour, sir,” Curtis said to Tom; she was whimpering, her eyes darting from one man to the next.
Tom examined the unblemished skin above her stockings, and the sparse hair over her pudenda; she might be fourteen or fifteen at the most. “It’s against our orders.”
Smith was ogling the pink cleft between the girl’s legs. He unbuttoned his coat and stroked the bulge at the front of his breeches. “We were to give no quarter, sir.”
“We were to treat the women and children with respect.”
“A tumble won’t hurt her,” said Curtis, leering at the girl. “Eh, puss, aren’t you hungry for a Cavalier prick?”
“Take her, sir,” said Smith, his voice urgent with lust. “You’ll make our ride all the smoother.”
Tom felt suddenly repulsed. But at the same time, he did not want to disappoint his men. “I need to piss beforehand,” he said, and stepped aside, praying for divine intervention as he urinated on the expensive black-and-white tiles.
He was still holding his uncooperative sex when Adam yelled in, “Major Beaumont, sir!”
“We’ll have our sport later, boys,” Tom said, and laced back his breeches.
A man from Lord Derby’s troop was waiting outside. “Major Beaumont, seven hundred rebels are trapped in a church about a mile west of us. We’re to roast ’em alive.”
They mounted and cantered off, leaping their horses over dead and dying, and the wreckage of household goods. As they reined in at the churchyard, Tom spied Rupert’s white stallion, and the Prince himself. Kneeling round him in the mud was a bedraggled delegation of men from the church, pleading for their miserable hides. Tom swung down from the saddle, noticing barrels of powder lined up by the church walls. “Your Highness, should we roll in the kegs, and attach the fuses?”
“No, sir,” said Rupert contemptuously. “I may be famed as the Robber Prince by His Majesty’s enemies, but I will not be infamous as Prince Butcher. I shall spare these men, as an example of the King’s mercy. March them from the church, and put them with our other prisoners.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Tom, livid: he would have shot every one of them himself. He beckoned to Smith and Curtis. “His Royal Highness has ordered me to stay and take charge here, but I’d hate to deprive you of your fun. Go and show that girl what expert swordsmen we are, so she won’t forget us.”
V.
“It was as if I were a bird gazing down from the skies upon a vast expanse of moor strewn with thousands of bodies, of dead and wounded men, and horses,” recalled Seward, as he and Clarke sat together at their breakfast of bread and honey. “The turf was red, and the air black with smoke – the colours of hell. Then blasting winds carried me upwards, and my dream faded. What can it signify? Victory for His Majesty – or defeat?” he added, mourning again his lost bowl.
Clarke dabbed a smear of honey from his lips. “Before you went to bed, Seward, had you consumed any cheese? It is reputed to bring on nightmares.”
Seward did not answer, distracted by the clink of spurs outside. “I have a visitor. Would you open for me, Clarke – my hands are sticky.” While Clarke hoisted himself from his chair and trotted over to unlatch the door, Seward picked up his knife and concealed it in the sleeve of his robe.
“Enter, Mr. Beaumont,” Clarke said, at which Seward put down the knife.
Beaumont wore the air of a somnambulist, although his glazed eyes suggested that he had had no sleep recently, troubled or otherwise. His chin was shadowed with stubble, his linen was dirty, and the fingers of his left hand were black with ink. “You must leave Oxford as fast as you can,” he said dully. “Go to Dr. Clarke’s house. Essex has crossed the Thames. He’s been stopped for now, but he’s holding his position right under our northern breastworks. Tomorrow he may breach them.”
“Oxford cannot fall,” said Clarke.
“Dr. Clarke, we have supplies for a fortnight’s siege: not long enough for Prince Rupert to come to our aid. Not that he could, being occupied in Lancashire, as is Prince Maurice in the southwest. Our sole hope is to separate Essex and Waller and strike them in turn. It’s a faint hope, at that, with our lesser numbers.”
“Heavens above,” gasped Seward. “What will the King do, should Essex penetrate the defences?”
“He’s told Council that he may send the young princes out of harm’s way, but that he won’t abandon his army.”
“He is courageous, to stand by his faithful servants unto the very last.”
“No, Seward, he’s damned pigheaded and heedless of their lives. Now will you both get out, tonight if you can.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” muttered Clarke, and skipped to the door.
“You too, Seward.” Beaumont looked about at the clutter of alchemical paraphernalia on Seward’s shelves. “Take only what you need.”
VI.
“Have I heard you correctly, my lord?” said Beaumont, from his writing table littered with dog-eared maps, codebooks, stacks of papers, and ink pots. “The King is to go hunting today?”
“Yes, sir, in the grounds of his palace at Woodstock,” said Digby, leaning upon Quayle’s arm to step out of his shoes and into his riding boots. “The princes and his Council are to accompany him.”
“Is it the moment for sport,” Beaumont asked, in a tone of restrained disbelief, “while Essex is laying siege to our bridges across the River Cherwell, and Waller is pressing towards us from Abingdon?”
“His Majesty believes the exercise might help to shake off the despond that has descended upon us. After our hunt, he will hold a meeting of Council at Woodstock Manor.”
“Why couldn’t he hold it here in Oxford, instead of risking everyone’s capture outside the city fortifications?”
“Capture by whom?” inquired Digby, as he donned his coat. “Essex is occupied battering away ineffectually at our eastern defences. And Waller cannot cross his army over the Thames and swing it northwest as far as Woodstock in the space of a day.”
“How could he possibly know that His Majesty will be in Woodstock?”
“From his scouts, of course.”
“Even should your dire predictions be fulfilled, we shall have the royal Troop to protect us,” Digby said soothingly. He worried for Beaumont, who had been neglecting himself ever since they had received Veech’s unwholesome package. The stubble around his mouth had grown into a ragged beard, and between visits from the scouts and his own frantic sallies to confirm their intelligence, he forgot to eat, leaving untouched plates on the floor as he scribbled away at his reports. “I know what has inspired your feverish toil, and your pessimism,” Digby added, as he lifted his arms for Quayle to fasten the sash around his waist. “You are still grieving the fate of your friend Barlow, and you are as anxious as I am to find a solution to our … difficulties in London.”
“How can we think of London, when Oxford is in such imminent danger?”
“I am amazed that you can think at all, sir, you are so deprived of sleep.”
Beaumont cast Digby a glassy stare and turned back to his work. “Enjoy the chase, my lord.”
The hunt was an undeniable success: the King proved in excellent spirits after shooting two magnificent buck, and his companions took down a host of lesser quarry. “This must be an omen, Your Majesty,” Digby had observed of the buck. “We should name them Essex and Waller.”
By early afternoon, stripped and gutted carcasses were roasting on outdoor spits, as His Majesty and the hunting party wandered about sipping wine from their goblets. The King’s Troop ate their dinner outdoors in rustic style, while the King, the princes, and members of Council were called to table in the manor house; the enormous, rambling palace opposite was too dilapidated for comfort. After the platters were cleared from the board, the meeting of Council opened.
“Here is our choice, when we return to Oxford,” said the King, his face now grave. “We c-can engage the rebels upon any advantage that we may perceive, or else m-march suddenly away, and let them decide either to besiege the city or to pursue us.”
“In a fight, we would hazard all, Your Majesty,” said Forth. “If the rebels triumphed, you and your children and your ministers would be taken, and God knows how Parliament would treat with you. I propose that we quit Oxford under cover of night with our more nimble troops, leaving a part of our infantry and our heavier artillery behind us to defend it.”
“My lord Secretary, have you an objection to his plan?” the King asked Digby, who had been shaking his head.
“I would borrow a phrase from my predecessor, the late Lord Falkland, Your Majesty,” answered Digby. “When it is not necessary to make a decision, it is necessary not to make a decision. In four days, Essex has got no closer to crossing any of our bridges over the Cherwell, and he has sustained serious losses: some five hundred of his men have been slain or wounded, or have deserted. In the past, his ranks, especially the London Bands, have suffered from a lack of fighting acumen. I would suggest we let him carry on at his fruitless labours for another week, which will further reduce and dishearten his men. He and Waller will probably quarrel yet again, and cease to coordinate their movements. We can strike Essex first, and remove the threat from the east. Then, should Waller bridge the Thames and come upon us from the southwest, we will not be encircled.”
“Your Majesty,” said Lord Wilmot, eyeing Digby disparagingly, “although it may appear that we can sit another week in Oxford, each day we delay, we deplete our supplies. I second the view of our Lord Marshal: those who would prove the most valuable hostages to the enemy should march out while our path to the west remains open. In territory friendly to us, we can levy men and replenish our stores. And in the meantime, we may have better news of Prince Rupert, in the north.”
“I th-thank you for your counsel, my lords.” The King surveyed the other members, some of whom were looking anywhere but at him or those who had spoken. “H-has no one else an opinion?” A tense silence fell. “In nocte consilium,” the King said. “We shall quarter here for the night. Let us break Council to gather our thoughts, lords and gentlemen, and resume our debate before bedtime, in the hope of a resolution to our circumstances.”
Wilmot and Forth stalked out to the grounds, to drink with the Troop, Digby supposed. Indigested from the rich meal, he retired to the chamber that he would share with his fellow Secretary of State, Sir Edward Nicholas. Quayle helped him off with his boots and coat; and he lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and drowsed.
He and Isabella were hunting with the King, among the venerable oaks and ashes of Woodstock Park. She wore a costume of garish scarlet, a colour that surprised Digby; and as her horse raced ahead, Digby noticed to his further surprise that she was astride Beaumont’s Arab stallion, and that her legs were immodestly bared.
“What a seat she keeps,” said His Majesty. “Most women would envy her prowess – though not to the extent that most men would envy her horse!” Digby gaped: never had he heard bawdy talk issue from the royal lips. “Although you are an exception, my Lord Digby,” the King went on. “I think it is the owner of that horse you would like to ride. I should know: I grew up watching my father at sport with his favourite boys. Sometimes they even shared his bed with my mother, so he could fondle them, the better to do his duty by her. But does your wife know of your secret desire?”
“My wife and I are inseparable,” protested Digby.
The King motioned for Digby to look down at himself. To his horror, he saw that he was stark naked. The King leant towards him, and pinched the roll of flesh at his waist. “A little less venison next time, my lord.”
Digby woke to Quayle shaking him. “My lord, Mr. Beaumont has arrived with urgent news for Council.”
Digby struggled up, thrust on his boots, and rushed out to the room where they had eaten. The King and his Council members were assembled at the table, their faces turned towards Beaumont, who stood with his shoulders slouched, evidently past bothering to carry himself in an appropriate fashion before the King.
“P-please repeat what you have t-told us, for his lordship’s benefit,” the King said to him.
“Waller crossed the Thames this afternoon on a causeway of boats, and landed five thousand Horse and Foot on the other side,” Beaumont said. “Some of his troops have advanced three miles northwest of Newbridge. If he’s not checked, he’ll shut off our lines of communication to the west.”
“Are you certain, sir?” asked Digby.
“Yes, my lord. When I got a report of his movements, I went in person to confirm it, and ever since I’ve been shadowing his forces with the scouts.”
“What now?” the King inquired, of Council.
“Mr. Beaumont, have we yet superior numbers in this immediate area, as compared to rebels?” Forth wanted to know.
“For the time being, yes, my lord,” Beaumont replied, “but should Waller learn that His Majesty and the princes are here, he’ll dispatch his cavalry for a lightning raid to capture them.”
Forth addressed the King. “We must hasten back to Oxford, Your Majesty, though with our large party we cannot expect to get there much before dawn. Our infantry must be drawn off from the defences to rendezvous with us on the road, in the very early morning. They can keep Waller at bay until we are inside the city.”
“If our plight is so desperate, would it not be the best course to surrender to Essex, Your Majesty, on conditions?” Secretary Nicholas said timidly.
“I may be f-found in the hands of the Earl of Essex,” th
e King responded, tilting up his chin, “but I shall be dead first.”
“In that case, Your Majesty,” said Forth, “our chief business upon our return will be to effect your escape.”
Digby stared from Forth to the King; and lastly at Beaumont, in whose eyes he read no emotion save an immense weariness.
VII.
The gatekeeper’s wife died of her ulcers late in the night, and her putrid corpse required swift burial. In the morning, her husband and family laid her to rest in the churchyard at Chipping Campden while Lady Beaumont took the coach to the gatehouse with Martha and a bevy of servants. She supervised a meticulous cleansing of the sick room, burnt the spoilt linen, and arranged a repast for the funeral party, which by afternoon was in a state of happy oblivion thanks to Martha’s elderflower wine. “Our work is done,” Lady Beaumont said. “Let us go home.”
Geoffrey ran out to the coach as it drew up in the courtyard. “Your ladyship, we have guests, from Spain. Your cousin, Don Antonio de Zamora, rode in at midday accompanied by his valet. They are in the Hall with his lordship and the young mistresses.”
“Goodness me, your ladyship,” Martha exclaimed, as if Geoffrey had announced a visitor from the skies. “Why did we not see them pass by the gatehouse?”
“We were otherwise occupied,” said Lady Beaumont crisply. “I must refresh myself, before I attend them.”
She went straight up to her chamber, where she applied rosewater to her temples, neatened her gown and hair, and pinched her cheeks to bring the blood to them, wishing that her finest jewels were not under the dovecote floor: she was riding into battle without her best weapons. She thought of Antonio’s keepsake, the two-faced medallion locked inside her cabinet. He could have it back, and that was all he would wring out of her, she decided, on her way downstairs.
Near the open doors to the Hall, her courage faltered. How unchanged was Antonio’s voice: as she listened to the cadence of his rapid speech, it seemed as yesterday that she had last heard it. But she had not bargained on his fluency in English; she would have preferred him stammering and clumsy in the language she had prided herself on mastering. She could see her husband on the edge of his armchair, rapt, while Antonio talked and made expansive gestures with his still supple hands. Anne and Mary were as entranced as his lordship, although Catherine was studying Antonio as might a card player waiting for a cheat at the tables. A fresh-faced youth stationed behind Antonio’s chair was watching everyone with avid interest.