Lord Beaumont rose when Lady Beaumont entered. “My wife, can you believe it? Did you ever imagine that you might be reunited with your cousin here in England?”
Antonio sprang up, one hand pressed to his heart, his face suffused with affection, and bowed to her. “Mi querida Elena, está usted tan bella como la última vez que la vi.”
“I thank you, Don Antonio,” she said in English. She would not pamper his vanity by returning his compliment, though he was annoyingly well-preserved, with his plentiful head of hair and slender figure; and his eyes glittered with the same old arrogance. His complexion, however, looked to her unhealthy beneath his weathered tan. He was dressed in a stained leather coat and breeches, a less distinguished costume than the olive green suit of velvet that she always remembered on him, and his boots were worn at the heel. As she had suspected, he needed money; and she knew precisely how he would attempt to swindle it out of her.
“Why was I the last to learn of his visit to our country?” Lord Beaumont demanded, surveying the two of them with mixed joy and confusion. “He said that the Spanish Envoy wrote at Christmastide to tell you, my dear. And he has met both Thomas and Laurence, who said nothing of it in their letters home. He could not explain the omission, so I must ask you.”
“It was for our security, my lord,” she said, as the two men resumed their seats. “Had Colonel Purefoy somehow discovered that we were to receive a foreigner – a Catholic and a Spaniard – we might all have been endangered.”
“How right you were,” said Lord Beaumont. “What would we do, my lady, without your forethought? Don Antonio has kept for you his family news, but he has had many tales to relate to us of his adventures in England. He is recovering from a violent attack, and a wasting sickness that was nearly the death of him.”
“I was set upon by Oxford thieves who stole my purse and sword,” Antonio said. “For close on a month, I could not move without excruciating agony from my broken ribs, and then on top of it, I was delirious with fever and riven with pains from the flux. I commended my soul to heaven more times than I can count. But God in His infinite mercy spared me,” he finished, “and here I am.”
“We are as infinitely grateful to God, Don Antonio,” she said, wondering how much of his tale was true, though it did excuse his pallor. “Might I inquire as to the length of your visit?”
“That will depend upon your hospitality, my sweet cousin, and that of his lordship.”
“Our hospitality will depend upon the rebels, sir. Should we have the smallest fear that they may encroach again on our part of the county, you will have to go from this house.”
“I would never dream of endangering you,” Antonio said. “My Lady Elena, you do not appear to share my bliss at our meeting.”
“Don Antonio, please forgive her,” said Lord Beaumont, and to her, “You took so much upon yourself, nursing that poor woman, and then arranging her funeral.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, “it was a tiring and dispiriting business.”
“I pray Elizabeth is not so tired by it, and will come down to us soon? Don Antonio is anxious to meet all of our children.”
“Elizabeth? She was not with me.”
“But she asked my leave to walk over to the gatehouse, after the coach had departed. I saw her set out, carrying a basket on her arm. She must have had a change of mind, and turned for home.” Lord Beaumont shook his head indulgently at Antonio. “You have daughters of your own, Don Antonio – you must sympathise: how difficult it is, for a father to understand their moods.”
“Years ago, I surrendered that impossible task to my wife, Teresa, bless her heart,” laughed Antonio.
Lady Beaumont turned to the young women. Mary and Catherine appeared no more than puzzled. Anne looked aghast. “Anne,” she said, “Elizabeth may be in her chamber. Let us go and see.” They left the Hall at a dignified pace. On the stair she grabbed Anne’s arm and they raced up to Elizabeth’s bedchamber. It was empty, and a note lay on the pillow. “Read it,” she told Anne.
“ ‘To my dearest family: it grieves me to distress you, but I could wait no longer to be with Mr. Price, to whom I consider myself betrothed. You must not fear for my honour or for my safety. His trusted servants are to escort me from Chipping Campden to Oxford, where he and I shall be joined in wedlock. I pray you will look well upon us as a married couple, wanting my happiness as I desire yours. He has pledged to provide for me and cherish me more than his life, and he is a man of his word. I remain your loving daughter, Elizabeth,.’ ” Anne concluded weakly.
Lady Beaumont’s mother used to comfort her that God in His omniscience had measured every burden placed upon His children on earth, even if they could not comprehend why they must suffer; and that He would give them just due in heaven for their trials. Yet today Lady Beaumont felt that God had pushed her too far. She sank onto Elizabeth’s bed. “Did you know of this?”
“I swear not. She was angry on the day of Catherine’s fit, but then she talked no more to me of Mr. Price. I thought she was reconciled to the impossibility of the match. She had become more cheerful recently. She must have had a message from him, though how it was delivered I’ve no idea. I ought to have asked her.” Anne began to cry. “I blame myself.”
“It is he I blame, the dissembling knave.” Lady Beaumont spoke with new determination. “Geoffrey may yet catch her and these trusted servants on the Oxford road. Failing that, he must find Laurence in Oxford, and they must deal with the rogue together. I want to keep the truth from his lordship and from my cousin for as long as possible,” she added, picturing Antonio’s glee if he learnt about Elizabeth’s disobedience in the name of love; he would call it more evidence of bad blood. “Go down to the Hall and say that she left word of her intention to visit friends in town. And say that I was all of a sudden overwhelmed by the surprise of seeing my cousin again, and wish to rest undisturbed until supper. Then have Geoffrey come to me in my upstairs office.”
VIII.
Laurence had galloped back from Woodstock with Lord Forth’s command that the Oxford Foot were to meet His Majesty’s Troop some miles north of the city defences. Afterwards, in a state beyond fatigue, he had collapsed upon his bed at Digby’s quarters and slept like the dead. Shortly after dawn, a travel-worn Quayle had woken him to say that the royal party had marched through the night and was now safely inside the defences. Laurence feted this event by washing and shaving, and changing his linen.
“Lord Forth has been created Earl of Brentford by the King in reward for his service,” Digby announced, when Laurence emerged from his chamber, “and in view of yours yesterday, the Earl wishes you to play a crucial role in His Majesty’s escape. Once dusk falls, His Majesty, Prince Charles, and the Council of War – myself included – will slip out through our northern fortifications where our Horse is stationed. We must delude Essex as to our movements, so you are to spread word through your informers in his camp that we intend a strike on Waller in Abingdon. A troop of our Foot and some of our artillery shall then march south with full colours, in the hope of forcing Waller back from Newbridge to defend his garrison.”
“You’ll need sound intelligence from his camp,” said Laurence, deciding quickly who should be assigned to which place.
By afternoon, Laurence’s scouts reported that Essex knew of these Royalist troops marching on Waller, and was continuing his assault on the eastern side of Oxford; and Waller had indeed retreated from Newbridge to protect Abingdon. So far, so good, Laurence thought. The same Royalist troops could now withdraw again to Oxford, and launch a second feint on Waller tomorrow morning, to keep him distracted while the King’s party rode further from the city.
Digby was packing at his quarters. “You will come with us tonight,” he said to Laurence. “Mr. Price has volunteered to stay behind and supervise the destruction of my correspondence, should the rebels invade.”
“Brave fellow,” Laurence observed. “He’ll face a hanging if he’s caught.”
&nb
sp; Towards afternoon he sought out Price, who was across the street at their usual tavern, eating. Immediately Price set down his spoon, as if he had lost his appetite. “I hear you won’t come north with us,” said Laurence, “and I wanted to tell you: I admire your courage.”
“Thank you,” said Price, lowering his eyes.
“You’ve done yourself proud in his lordship’s service, and you’ve been very patient with me. Forgive me my short temper, on numerous occasions. Well, Price, if … if we don’t see each other again before I leave, I wish you the best of luck.”
“And good luck to you, Beaumont,” muttered Price.
Around nine o’clock in the evening, the King and Prince Charles hugged young Prince James goodbye; the boy would remain in the city, under the protection of Governor Aston. Laurence knew that it must have been a heartbreaking decision to divide the royal family once more, when the Queen was far away at Exeter awaiting the birth of her child, yet His Majesty had accepted it as necessary, lest he and Prince Charles be taken hostage. With his Council, his servants, his personal Troop, and various others who felt their lives in imminent danger, he set off quietly through Oxford’s northern defences, where five thousand Royalist cavalry were readying to follow him. Laurence rode beside Digby and the civilian members of Council, behind the royals; Wilmot’s Horse provided the vanguard; and Forth joined His Majesty’s advance with two and a half thousand musketeers purposely bereft of their regimental colours, and no heavy artillery or baggage trains to slow them down.
At dawn they reached the village of Yarnton, where the King had met up with his Foot twenty-four hours earlier. Although this stage of the escape had been accomplished in good order, Laurence was holding his breath for reports on enemy movements. Scouts galloped in to warn that Essex had at last crossed the Cherwell, and some of his men were as near as Woodstock. Part of Waller’s army had spread up from Newbridge and were not five miles from Yarnton. His Majesty would soon be hemmed in, unless the two Parliamentary generals were still deceived into thinking he had not left Oxford. Laurence sent the scouts back to investigate, and His Majesty regrouped his forces to carry on marching northwest. By nine in the morning, as they assembled on Hanborough Heath, near the market town of Witney, news came that Essex and Waller were in pursuit, infuriated that the King had eluded them. To maintain his advantage, he could not rest.
IX.
Price stood paralysed in Digby’s main office, cringing at the memory of Beaumont’s words: I admire your courage. After Lady Beaumont’s insulting behaviour, Price had felt amply justified in arranging for Elizabeth’s flight, yet he had not known then how perilous her journey could be, with the fighting so close, nor in what straits he would find himself. He might be dead when she arrived, if the rebels breached the defences. If Oxford held for the King, he would face the Beaumonts’ collective wrath. And he had not just wrecked his friendship with Beaumont: as a consequence of breaking his word to the man, he had prejudiced his entire future with Lord Digby. Now he cursed his hot temper. He should have swallowed his pride and waited.
He began to sort through the stacks of confidential papers he must destroy, his hands sweating and smudging the ink. But gradually it came to him: in the very last resort, they might buy him his neck. He could claim to be a double agent working for Parliament, a mole within the offices of the Secretary of State. While he hated the idea of betrayal, he feared death still more; and what had he to lose?
A rap on the door gave him a nasty start, as though he had spoken his thoughts out loud. He did not at once recognise the man on the threshold: Geoffrey, Lord Beaumont’s valet. They surveyed each other for a moment. Then Geoffrey said coldly, “I must see Mr. Beaumont.”
“He’s gone. He rode out of Oxford last night.”
“Where is Madam Ormiston?”
“Is she not at his lordship’s house?”
“Not since yesterday morning. She left a note saying she intended to join you here.”
“That is a complete shock to me,” said Price.
“How can it be, when she wrote that your servants would escort her from Chipping Campden?”
Price hesitated, dismayed; why had she included this most unnecessary detail? “I might have remarked to her that if she wished to visit Oxford, Mr. Beaumont and I had scouts in his lordship’s neighbourhood who could provide a guard for his coach on the road. I was not encouraging her to quit his house.”
Geoffrey stepped towards him. “Where are you hiding her?”
“I am not hiding her anywhere.”
“By God I’d strike you down, were you not a gentleman,” hissed Geoffrey, with a dubious emphasis on the last word.
Unwittingly, by invoking rank, he gave Price the advantage. “I cannot help what Madam Ormiston has chosen to do,” Price said, in a haughty voice. “I would have advised her in the strongest terms against it. You may tell his lordship that if I have any news of her, he will hear from me. Now I must return to my work for the Secretary of State.”
Geoffrey was in a fix, Price knew; he had experienced the same impotence faced with Lady Beaumont. When Geoffrey retreated, Price shut the door, and ran to the window. He watched Geoffrey mount his horse and trot off a way down the street, passing another man riding in the opposite direction: one of the scouts that Price had paid to assist Elizabeth.
Price bolted out to him. “Where is she?”
“With the ladies, sir, though we had a rough time of it getting her through,” the scout said. “She begs for you to visit.”
The apartment, on the upper storey of a draper’s shop, seemed smaller to Price than when he had first come to rent it, before the guardians of Elizabeth’s honour had moved in. The floor was now covered in mattresses, and the air ripe with sweat, stale milk, and unemptied chamber pots. Mrs. Giddens and Mrs. Connell, both officers’ wives, rose to greet him. Mrs. Giddens had been nursing her infant and shielded her breast modestly with a shawl, and Mrs. Connell gathered up her little boy to make room for their visitor.
Elizabeth sat in a corner, with a miserable expression that lifted when she saw Price. The skirts of her gown were wet and muddy, and her hair windblown. He felt abashed: how could he have imagined turning coat and sacrificing such a brave, lovely girl? “Mr. Price, thank God,” she said, holding out her arms.
“She had a dreadful journey, poor lamb,” put in Mrs. Connell.
Price edged round the mattresses to Elizabeth, and knelt before her. “Dearest, how frightened you must have been.”
“I was,” she said, stealing both of her hands into his. “We could hear the roar of guns from far off, and then right by us as we were riding through the defences. And the smoke, and the stink, and those ugly trenches … But I shan’t be afraid any more, with you. Please,” she murmured in his ear, “tell me I won’t have to stay for long in this squalid place, with these strangers.”
“I am sorry, but you must, for now,” he whispered. “Although not of your station, they are kind, decent women. Elizabeth, the King has fled north out of Oxford. Lord Digby and your brother went with him. The city may fall to Parliament, by tomorrow or the next day.” Her face drained of colour. “You mustn’t fret, my darling. Even if the rebels invade, you should be well-treated – these ladies have little children, after all.” He reverted to more personal matters. “Did you confide in anyone at home that you were to join me?”
“No, but Anne might have suspected it.”
“Your father’s valet was in town looking for you.”
“Geoffrey? So soon? Then we must be wed.”
“There’s no chance of that, at present.”
“Yes: if Oxford falls, our whole world will crumble,” she sighed. “We should have joy of each other, for however short a time. Let me be with you, married or not.”
“I refuse to dishonour you,” said Price. He would not surrender her if he could help it, yet nor would he throw away his hard-won position with Digby and his friendship with Beaumont if this could possibly be avoided. A
nd there might still be a chance of her thousand pounds. “Elizabeth, you must tell everyone that you eloped of your own volition. Your family will forgive you that, but they won’t let me near you again if they believed I had encouraged you.”
“But you did! And I thought we would be married by the time they came after me.”
“I thought the same,” Price said honestly. “How could I have foreseen that Oxford would be so suddenly threatened? You must write to his lordship that you are safely accommodated with two virtuous married ladies who can bear witness to my faultless conduct. I’ll write to express my consternation at your arrival, and pledge to bring you home the instant that circumstances permit, without mark upon your honour. My scout will deliver our letters post haste to his lordship.”
“You would have me go home without making me your wife?”
“I must! Please, my sweet, do you want your father’s health to suffer, for worrying about you?”
“You had no thought for his health when you wrote entreating me to come to you. Perhaps you would like me to ride back post haste, along with your scout.”
“I would, but tonight it’s far too dangerous for you to make the journey,” Price said, clinging to her hands. “Do as I bid you and all will be well.”
“I’m not a child, to be pacified by facile assurances,” said Elizabeth with a hint of her ladyship’s reproof. “But I shall defer to you, since I am in your power.”
The Licence of War Page 44