The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

Her face softened. “Your theory is more exciting than the truth, Laurence. Your wet nurse used to say that the first child is the most difficult, and you were difficult in character, impossible to discipline. Your father held the reins too loosely, and I could not tolerate his indulgence. Perhaps when you have children of your own, you will understand: it is only human to make mistakes. And we have both made mistakes, you and I.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, “I know I have.”

  “Now,” she recommenced, “I had wanted to deal with Antonio myself. But I am afraid that he is mad, and more dangerous than I had initially perceived. The Spanish Envoy said that he is being sought for in London, on a charge of murder – a hanging offence – and it appears that the Envoy is as anxious to be rid of him as we are. But I would prefer him banished to Spain. He has a wife and family, and he is my kin.”

  “He might leave voluntarily, for a sufficiently attractive reward. Not just money – something to flatter his pride. What is he most proud of?”

  “He brags constantly about his glorious military record.”

  Laurence remembered how de Zamora had scorned his own less than glorious service in the Low Countries. “A commission from King Philip would do the trick. The Envoy might forge us a document and have it delivered to Chipping Campden, by a messenger with the proper credentials. Why not write to him tonight, and I’ll take the letter with me to Oxford? All being well, he’ll receive it within a week – there are regular diplomatic couriers travelling back and forth from Oxford to London.”

  “I shall write at once.”

  “I can wait here for you, to avoid another meeting with your guests.”

  Lady Beaumont picked up her lantern, and slipped her arm into his. The gesture astounded him. “They are abed in the south wing, Antonio with his nightly jug of wine,” she said. “They are too far away to hear you come in through the stillroom door. And it would do your father such good to see you.”

  “I’d also like to see Catherine.”

  “She sleeps in Mary’s chamber. I’ll wake her, and send her to yours.”

  She held the lantern while Laurence fastened the padlock and tested it with a sharp tug. Then she led the way along the path through the kitchen garden. It was she who deserved a military commission, he thought; and how ironic that de Zamora’s troublemaking should at last have brought them closer. He felt a giddy joy. With their old, bitter disputes behind them, it was as if every obstacle might be conquered and every wound healed in the family.

  Catherine sat poised on the edge of the bed hugging her knees to her chest, her dark eyes following Laurence’s movements as he undressed in the candlelight. “You were a long time with your father. What did you talk about?”

  Laurence tossed his doublet on the floor and pulled his shirt over his head. “Oh, many things: the war, the house, Elizabeth, Mary, our Spanish guests – and you.”

  “I so wanted to tell them of my illness, but I knew I’d be safe from it if I wore my ring. I only fell sick because the ring had dropped from my finger.”

  “You mustn’t worry, even if you fall sick again,” he said, less persuaded of its protective powers.

  She jumped down and whipped off her nightgown, as Juana had stripped before him in Pamplona when she had first seduced him; he shivered, watching her. But rather than take his hands to explore her skin, as Juana had done, Catherine investigated him with hers, running them along his neck to the muscles of his shoulders, pausing to stroke the depression from the musket ball; and next the older scar in his side. Impatiently he seized her hands. “Now it’s my turn.”

  Lying next to her on the rumpled sheets, he inquired, “So what’s your opinion of Don Antonio?”

  She rolled onto her stomach and pushed away the tendrils of hair stuck to her damp forehead. “He builds a wall of noise to shield his true self, as the octopus blows ink in the water to confuse its enemies. And Diego spies on everyone. The servants are leery of him.”

  “They’re right to be,” said Laurence, as impressed by her aquatic metaphor as by her insight.

  “The other day he caught me spying on him when he was by himself in Don Antonio’s chamber. He was angry, but he didn’t dare scold me.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Looking into a bowl.”

  Laurence frowned. “A silver bowl with an engraved rim?”

  “Yes! How do you know?”

  “It belongs to my friend Seward, who gave me your ring.”

  “Why does Diego have it?”

  “He stole it.”

  “Did it also belong to the witch?”

  “No – it was a gift to Seward from a man named Robert Fludd, who was his teacher in astrology, and … other arts. He believes it has magical properties.”

  Her eyes gleamed, and she nodded as if she understood. “Then I must steal it back for him.”

  “Are you a witch?” Laurence asked, half teasing. When she did not speak, he thought of Khadija, and the words nearly flew out of him: or are you the fulfilment of a prophecy? For Catherine had the name of a great queen, the daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici, who had ruled France as regent after the death of her unfaithful husband.

  IV.

  From Broadway, the Royalists had proceeded to the market town of Witney, where His Majesty’s Oxford forces marched out of the city to swell his ranks. “He must choose among three alternatives, Mr. Beaumont,” Digby reported, after Council. “To stick by the Oxford defences, or venture into the neighbouring counties to play cat and mouse with Waller and Essex as he has been doing of late, or attempt to meet up with Prince Rupert.”

  “Which would leave the south to Waller and Essex,” Laurence said.

  No strategy offered the King a clear advantage, but in the end he chose cat and mouse, pressing over twenty miles northeast to occupy Buckingham on the twenty-second of June. It was a step into enemy territory, yet scouts established that Waller was lagging behind in Worcestershire and that Essex had continued westwards after his success in repulsing Prince Maurice’s siege at Lyme, so the royal army was in no immediate threat of an attack. The King was restored to optimism, cheered by news that Her Majesty had been brought safely to bed in Exeter of a little girl, who would be christened Princess Henrietta in honour of her brave mother.

  Long into the evening, Council debated further strategy, and when that session closed, Digby announced to Laurence, “Our impetuous Lord Wilmot has argued for a sudden strike on London, to cut short the war. What think you of that, sir?”

  Laurence considered his response. He and Wilmot had agreed that the King would be wise to settle with Parliament rather than drag out the conflict; in itself, a potentially seditious proposition. Wilmot’s strike would expose His Majesty again to capture, if the royal army were unsuccessful in breaching the capital’s defences. Could Wilmot be contemplating a secret bargain with Parliament: peace terms, with the King delivered as hostage? Not only would it amount to treason, but given Wilmot’s indiscreet mouth, it would be found out well before it could be executed. “Lord Wilmot is too impetuous, though I appreciate his desire to spare His Majesty’s realm more bloodshed,” Laurence said guardedly to Digby. “What’s the King’s view?”

  “He would prefer to head north and join Prince Rupert, as soon as we have some tidings of the Prince’s success in relieving our garrison at York. At any rate, sir, His Majesty wants advice from our Lords Commissioners and the Committee of our parliament in Oxford as to Lord Wilmot’s scheme. I am to ride for Oxford tonight with Culpeper, and I should like you come with us.”

  “I’d be happy to, my lord.” Laurence could dispatch his mother’s letter to the Spanish Envoy, confront Price, and have a talk with Elizabeth, as a prelude to getting her home.

  Digby hummed in his throat, studying Laurence. “If Lord Wilmot were to confide in you any ambitions that might run contrary to His Majesty’s best interests in this war, I hope you would alert me, sir. I should take it as a betrayal – private and political – if you did
not. And the King would think the same.”

  “The King can rest assured that Lord Wilmot always has his best interests at heart,” Laurence replied.

  Digby merely smiled.

  V.

  Price dropped the bag of correspondence he had brought with him onto Digby’s desk, and lit a taper. From his pocket, he rooted out a key and went to his lordship’s strongbox. Digby had left funds there and Price needed money, not for himself, he reasoned, but for Elizabeth: less than three weeks of keeping her in Oxford had exhausted his slender reserves. And she was beginning to exhaust him. It had wounded her self-esteem to write that letter to her parents, and she stubbornly refused to return home, even though Price thought she might travel securely with an escort now that Waller and Essex had drawn off their armies. She alternated daily between sullen moodiness and clingy tearfulness, and her guardians were losing patience. “She thinks she’s Queen Elizabeth,” he had overheard Mrs. Connell complaining to Mrs. Giddens.

  Price slid the key into the lock of the strongbox, then hastily withdrew it. Hooves were clattering along the street, now slowing as they neared his lordship’s offices. Price went to look through the window. Dismounting were Digby and Culpeper, His Majesty’s Master of the Rolls; and Beaumont, Quayle, more servants, and a party of guards. Beaumont came up first to the door, which Price ran forward to open, with a bright smile. “Beaumont, how unexpected.”

  Beaumont lunged across the threshold. “Where’s my sister? Tell me, quick.” Cowed by the menace in Beaumont’s eyes, Price stammered the address. “Does Digby know she’s here?” Price shook his head. “You’d better keep it that way,” said Beaumont frigidly, and walked out.

  Price saw him confer with Digby, mount, and ride off. Sweat broke over Price: one such glare from her brother and Elizabeth might weaken and confess who had planned the elopement.

  “Mr. Price, at work so late of an evening?” Digby said, strolling in with Culpeper. “What dedication. Are my papers still intact?”

  “Yes, my lord: I destroyed nothing. My lord, the courier gave me this a half hour ago, as I was at supper.” Price showed him the bag. “I would have sent it on to you tomorrow morning. Such luck that you should arrive beforehand.”

  “Pardon me, Culpeper.” Digby unfastened the bag with nervous hands and emptied it onto his desk. Price shared his relief: no sodden packages. Eagerly Digby selected one of the letters and ripped apart the seal. “This is from Violet’s wife.” As he read on, he began to breathe heavily as if climbing a steep hill. “The wretch,” he cried. “The wretch has sold her to Parliament.”

  Price and Culpeper exchanged looks. “My lord,” said Price, “who has Violet—”

  “Not Violet, Hallam!” screeched Digby, crumpling the letter in his fist. “He has saved himself, at Isabella’s expense.”

  VI.

  “Who’s the black man?” whimpered the little boy, burying his face in his mother’s skirts.

  The two ladies regarded Laurence fearfully as he stood in the doorway, until Elizabeth clambered over the mattresses and clothes and pots and baggage, and threw herself into his arms. “This is my eldest brother, Mr. Laurence Beaumont,” she said to her companions. “May I present the Mrs. Connell and Giddens.”

  He bowed, reluctant to enter. “Would you excuse us, ladies: my sister and I haven’t seen each other in some time.”

  Elizabeth had lost weight, he noticed, and her pallor suggested not just a poor diet and lack of sleep but severe strain. “When did you arrive?” she asked, in a maidenly tone most unlike her normal voice, after he had walked her out and into the street.

  “Tonight, with Lord Digby. What’s the truth about you and Price?”

  “Laurence,” she began, “you may be under the misapprehension that it was Mr. Price’s idea for me to—”

  “I don’t want to hear again what I read in your letters to our parents.”

  “You were at Chipping Campden?”

  “For a short while, last week.”

  “Are they … are they so very angry?”

  “They’re more distressed than angry. It’s quite obvious Price organised your journey here, so please don’t lie to me about that. The scouts who accompanied you are not his servants but those of the Secretary of State, and to assist you was a dereliction of their duty. Price will be in trouble if Digby learns of it. How has he treated you?”

  “With the most scrupulous respect,” Elizabeth said. “On all of his visits, the ladies have been in the room, to ensure utter propriety. My honour and reputation are perfectly intact.”

  Laurence smiled at her use of superlatives. “I’m enormously comforted to hear that. But have you asked yourself why?”

  “He hopes to marry me, with his lordship’s consent.”

  “If so, he has rather blotted his honour and reputation, wouldn’t you say?” Elizabeth said nothing. “Have you told him how much you’re worth as a bride?”

  “Yes, and he has declared that he would wed me without my portion. He praised you for setting the example, when you married Catherine.”

  “He has a lot of gall. I can’t condemn him for his lies, since I resorted to a lie to have Catherine as my bride. But I wish you wouldn’t lie, to protect him. I think he invited you to Oxford and then realised what he might lose as a result – a thousand pounds and his brilliant career with Lord Digby. I’m not sure which would cause him the most anguish.”

  “How dare you accuse him of such base motives,” she cried. “I will not listen to another word against him.” Before she could turn on her heel, Laurence snatched her by the wrists. She squirmed in his grip. “Let go of me,” she shouted, at which a pair of beribboned gallants passing by halted in their tracks.

  “Please behave,” Laurence said, under his breath, “or one of these gay cavaliers might mistake our little quarrel for something else, and issue me a challenge. Liz, I know why you ran away. I did the same when I was a few years older than you. But there’s a difference between us.”

  “You were escaping a marriage, while I was doing the very opposite.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You’re a woman. You’ll pay far more in the eyes of the world for your recklessness in love.”

  “You taught me to damn the world.”

  “I never held myself up as an example anyone should follow.” He released her wrists. “And while it may appear to you the height of hypocrisy, it’s my duty as your brother to get you home. A shame you can’t travel with us the day after tomorrow, when Lord Digby’s mission ends. Chipping Campden is on our way back to rejoin the King. We might have taken you there.”

  Elizabeth’s defiance ebbed. “Is Mr. Price to quit Oxford with you?”

  “He is.”

  “Then I see no sense in staying. Why can’t I come with you?”

  “Digby will ask inconvenient questions. If you choose to damn the world, you should be ready for the consequences, and this whole affair doesn’t look well on you. The less gossip about your honour and reputation the better, and Digby adores gossip.”

  She hung her head; it was too dark for Laurence to tell whether she was sulking, penitent, or simply unhappy. “Then how can I get home?”

  “I’ll have to beg Governor Aston for the loan of his coach and a guard, although it goes against my nature to ask such personal favours,” he said. “You’ll hear from me tomorrow. Oh – and there’s a surprise waiting for you at our house: our mother’s cousin is visiting, from Seville. I’d advise you to beware of him. He knows only that you were with friends in Chipping Campden town, and that’s all he must know.”

  “A Spanish cousin?” exclaimed Elizabeth. “How remarkable, Laurence.”

  “Yes it is,” he agreed, leading her towards her door. “And be prepared: he looks just like me, and he’s an even bigger scoundrel than Price.”

  VII.

  Upstairs in his chamber with the curtains drawn close around his bed, Digby surrendered to tears; he had not wept so copiously since he was a child. �
��Isabella, my darling,” he blubbered, banging his fists against the pillow until goose feathers drifted out like an unseasonable snow, “why did I marry you to that cowardly cripple? I will not let you die, my dearest girl! I swear to you, I shall have you rescued!”

  At length, he felt purged. He washed his face, picked the feathers out of his hair, and straightened his clothing. “A plan,” he said, aloud. “We shall think of a plan.” He went down and called for Quayle, who beetled in through the front door. “Has Mr. Beaumont returned yet from his mysterious errand?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Quayle, the corners of his mouth twitching. “He and Mr. Price are out in the street.”

  “Summon them at once.”

  “I can try, but they might not listen.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They are fighting, my lord.”

  Digby stalked to the door and unlatched it. His guards were ranged in a circle, together with a couple of nightwatchmen wielding their lanterns; they wore broad grins, though they sobered on seeing him and fell back. Beaumont stood in the middle, his arms hanging loose by his sides, looking down disdainfully at Price, who lay sprawled on the cobblestones, clutching his hands to his face. “Gentlemen,” Digby said, “what is this about?”

  “I apologise, my lord.” Beaumont bent and dragged up Price by the shoulders of his coat; his mouth and nose drooled blood, and his head lolled upon his chest. Beaumont half carried him inside and dumped him into a chair by the door, where he sat moaning lightly, while Beaumont wiped his hands on his doublet and inspected his knuckles. “We had a score to settle.”

  “And has it been settled?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Then if you are not too weary after your exertions, you might peruse a communication from Violet’s wife.” Beaumont accepted the crumpled letter and read it as though the contents were no news to him. “What think you of Isabella’s chances, sir?” Digby asked.

  “She stands accused of a high crime, my lord: a miniature Gunpowder Plot.”