The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “Tell me they would not send her to the block.”

  “I doubt that – the block is reserved for royalty and peers. Her husband was in trade and his knighthood only recently bestowed. She’d probably get a woman’s sentence for treason: to be burnt at the stake with a chain around her neck – though as often is the case, the executioner might do her the mercy of strangling her with it, before setting her on fire.” Beaumont smiled acidly. “But, remember, my lord: she’s no use to Veech dead.”

  VIII.

  Draycott swatted away flies; the stench of human waste was overpowering in the dark, airless little cell. From a high window, a sliver of sunshine penetrated. Lady Isabella was sitting on the floor, her hair tangled over her face, hands resting in her lap. Beside her, under a filthy sheet, lay a body. There was no furniture in the cell, not even a bucket for a privy, just a pile of dirty straw in one corner. More flies had landed in a black cloud over the body, and swarmed indiscriminately upon Lady Isabella.

  “My lady,” he said, “why did you ask to be moved here?”

  “To be with Lucy.” Her voice sounded gritty and thick, as if she had swallowed a mixture of sand and glue.

  “When did she …?”

  “The night before last. Veech said she could stay here and rot. I told him I was grateful for her company. At least he had not employed violence on her, as he must have on Barlow.”

  Draycott sank down next to her. “Mr. St. John has appointed me to represent you. I could not visit you until now. I had to keep Veech ignorant of my loyalty to you, as he still is. But if I’m to help you, you must be honest with me.”

  “It was your small lie that shook my trust, and brought on disaster. After you said the packet was at your house, I felt something inside your doublet as we embraced.”

  He sighed, thinking of what had happened next. “Why didn’t you destroy the evidence while I slept?”

  “I had to test you. I felt sure you would tell me, in the morning. And I was right.”

  “You might have told me then what you had done.”

  “You were safer not knowing, good man that you are, and I was already waiting for someone to collect my copy. Although Beaumont had warned me not to use that particular courier, I had no alternative. I did not expect Barlow, and he came far later than I’d hoped.” She studied Draycott through her tangled veil. “Now it is too late for me, sir.”

  Gently he pushed aside her hair, and saw the blotchiness in her skin, and the reddened sores around her nose and mouth. He remembered her sleek and elegant, admiring the Devil in the tapestry: Satan has such a smile upon his face, like a cat that has stolen the cream. All that remained of her elegance was the diamond on her finger. “I’ve seen the depositions against you,” he said. “Barlow never betrayed you, and that copy you made has gone missing. The only sound testimony is from your husband.”

  “Who in exchange for his betrayal will be allowed retirement in The Hague,” she added, as if amused.

  “St. John and Veech are sending me to Lord Digby with a final offer: your sentence will be stayed and you will go free if Laurence Beaumont returns at once with me to London and submits to investigation by Parliament. And they want me to take Digby a letter from you pleading him to comply with these terms.”

  “Had I wished to save myself by sacrificing Beaumont, I could have done so on the day of my arrest.”

  “My lady, there is another way out.” Draycott spoke yet more quietly. “As Veech believes I’m in his power, you must now let Veech think he has defeated you. Do as you’re asked. Before I leave, I’ll have him move you to your former cell and bring in a physician. It’s in his interest that you regain your health. Then I’ll need some token from you to persuade Digby and Beaumont to trust me, so that we can work together upon your rescue.”

  “None of you can perform miracles, Mr. Draycott.”

  “We might. Please, we must try.”

  She was silent for a while; and he feared she had lost all hope. “Bring me the book,” she said, finally. “You know which one I mean.”

  He found Veech leaning against a wall at the entrance to the Tower Keep, squinting up at the ravens as they circled the battlements. “She has agreed to write,” he said.

  “Well done, sir. Are you hoping she’ll be your mistress, once Beaumont is dead?” Veech now regarded him, pityingly. “Don’t be a slave to your cock.”

  “I suppose, unlike most men, you are incapable of such natural feeling,” Draycott spat back.

  A strange mania flared in Veech’s eyes. “What have you been told about me?” Draycott frowned, bewildered. “Answer me!” Veech slammed him to the wall, pinning his throat with an iron hand. He dug the other hand beneath Draycott’s coat, in between his legs, and fastened around his genitals. “Answer me, sir: what have you been told?”

  “Nothing,” gasped Draycott. “I swear to God.”

  Veech let go of him, and the mania faded into a placid smile. “You’re right. I’m not like most men. I don’t share their weakness.”

  IX.

  Wilmot’s bold proposal won no support in Oxford, and when Laurence returned to Buckingham with Lord Digby’s party, the royal camp was in a febrile state: Waller had passed through Chipping Norton, about twenty-five miles away, and battle was imminent. Over the next few days, both armies manoeuvred closer to each other on the banks of the River Cherwell, seeking the most advantageous terrain from which to attack. Around ten o’clock on a rainy, foggy late June morning, His Majesty’s forces assembled to the east of Banbury; and as sun peeped through the dispersing clouds, they saw the enemy a mile from them, on the opposite riverbank. Both armies then lumbered off in a race to secure a hill on the west side of Banbury. Waller seized it first, and in the afternoon sent out troops to skirmish tentatively with some Royalist Foot.

  During the futile action, one of Laurence’s scouts caught a musket ball in the stomach; he was the youth who had kept patient watch at St. Martin’s Church on the night of the meeting with de Zamora. He died before the surgeon could touch him; Laurence was holding his hand.

  The next day at dawn, His Majesty’s forces mustered to venture north towards Daventry, to try to tempt Waller from his advantageous high ground. Trumpets and drums sounded as the army drew up in three divisions, and by eight o’clock it marched out through the open countryside. Forth commanded the vanguard with most of the baggage trains and some artillery, while the King, Prince Charles, and His Majesty’s civilian advisors were sheltered in the front centre of the main body, with a second detachment of artillery for their protection. Behind them rode the Royal Lifeguard under the King’s cousin, Sir Bernard Stuart, and Wilmot, who was strategically located to receive orders from His Majesty and pass them back to the rearguard, where his Horse was positioned with the cavalry of the Earls of Cleveland and Northampton, and about a thousand more troops and guns.

  Frustrated to be stuck by Digby’s side, Laurence had asked to go ahead of the vanguard with Price and most of the scouts. “You would expose yourself unnecessarily to fire,” said Digby. “I do not wish you to meet the same end as that boy yesterday.”

  “But, my lord, I can’t direct the scouts from here,” Laurence argued; the vanguard would be the first part of the army to strike across the Cherwell at a place named Hay’s Bridge. Only a few scouts had stayed with the rearguard, to maintain communication between the tail end of the beast and its brain, at the centre, and to survey the two other bridges that Waller might cross, one at the village of Cropredy to the northwest, and another to the south.

  Some hours into the march under increasingly hot sun, the troops became restive: on the far bank not more than a couple of miles distant, the enemy was moving parallel to them in full view. In his years of military experience, Laurence had never seen the like: a slim channel of water separated the two behemoths, and each side bristled weapons, yet not a shot had been fired. Forth rode up to confer with His Majesty, and soon after a party of dragoons split from the main column
and headed northeast. Laurence could predict their aim: to safeguard the bridge at Cropredy, in case Waller used it to mount an attack on the Royalist flank.

  As the dragoons disappeared from view, Price came galloping towards the King’s section and reined in on his chestnut mare; he was hatless, his face streaked with sweat. “Your Majesty, the scouts have intelligence that three hundred rebel Horse are on their way south to swell the Parliamentary ranks. They’ll cross the river up at Hay’s Bridge if we don’t get there first.”

  Immediately the King issued orders for the Royalist vanguard and midsection to push forward and intercept the oncoming force. Laurence could envisage the loss of more scouts; Price had dashed back to the front line, anticipating his concern. Now all eyes were ahead, and the Foot and artillery wagons were straining to keep pace with the cavalry.

  By midday they had passed the dragoons at Cropredy Bridge. There was no sign of the reinforcements that Price had reported, and Laurence thought that the vanguard must be safely over Hay’s Bridge. When his section approached, he saw the bridge was no wider than a coach, but the river ran shallow beneath; Horse and Foot could easily ford it, while the artillery rolled across the narrow structure.

  Around one o’clock, the front ranks of His Majesty’s division had crossed and were reforming on the other side of the bank when cannon shot roared out from the direction of Cropredy Bridge. Waller had launched a surprise assault, and the dragoons would be no match for his artillery.

  A hand seized Laurence’s shoulder, and Wilmot yelled in his ear, “Beaumont, you’ve a speedy horse – go back and find Cleveland, and tell him to draw up for battle.”

  “Mr. Beaumont, you are to stay here,” Digby countered, glaring at Wilmot.

  “My lord, this is no time for a dispute – we’re about to fight,” Laurence told Digby. “I must obey Lord Wilmot’s command.”

  “You shall obey me, sir,” shouted Digby. “How dare you defy my authority?”

  Laurence dared. Steering his horse out of rank, he splashed it again through the water, giving it free rein. Almost at once he saw black smoke billowing from Cropredy Bridge. When he got nearer, rebel Foot were pouring over it, while a mass of cavalry forded the river, rapidly outstripping the straggling hind section of the King’s troops and chasing them north. The Royalist rearguard was nowhere in sight, and Waller’s forces would be neatly positioned to cut it off from the body of the army, although Laurence judged that the rebels’ artillery would take a while to set up before the guns could fire. He heard the thunder of cavalry ahead, and loud voices bellowing out the Royalist field word, “Hand and sword!” Too late to deliver any orders: Cleveland’s Horse was about to charge the enemy Foot. But his right flank would be vulnerable.

  Crouched low in the saddle, wary of stray shot, Laurence wove a cautious path back towards Hay’s Bridge. Rebel troops were still on the offensive around it, though they could not pass over the narrow bridge: some quick-witted Royalist musketeers had barricaded it with an upturned carriage and were sniping at them from behind this cover. Dodging the melee, Laurence swam his horse through deeper water a little higher up, and scrambled up the bank. Soaked and breathless, he trotted through the ranks towards Wilmot and the King, who were viewing the scene anxiously, His Majesty with the benefit of a perspective glass.

  “Those are not W-waller’s colours,” he exclaimed.

  “No, Your Majesty: they’re Lieutenant General Middleton’s – he’s a Scots veteran,” Wilmot said, shading his eyes with one hand. “Waller himself may be engaged to the south of us. What news, Beaumont?”

  “Cleveland needs reinforcements. He must have bypassed most of the rearguard – I couldn’t see Northampton’s men.”

  “We’ll send in Sir Bernard with a detachment from the Lifeguard. He’ll take the right flank, and my cavalry will take the left.”

  “You’ll have to find your cavalry first,” Laurence warned him. “I think they’ve dropped over a mile behind.”

  “We’ll find them together. What the devil does he want now,” Wilmot muttered; Digby was pressing his horse up to bar their path.

  “Mr. Beaumont,” Digby said, “I have had enough of your disobedience. You are to remain here with me.”

  Wilmot addressed the King. “Have I Your Majesty’s permission to enlist Mr. Beaumont for the day?”

  “He is needed more urgently to direct his scouts, Your Majesty – it is a waste to send him into battle,” Digby objected shrilly.

  The King glanced from Digby to Wilmot, and then to Laurence, who said, “It would be my privilege to ride with the Lieutenant General, Your Majesty.”

  “Then you may,” said the King, “and God speed.”

  Laurence cantered off with Wilmot, followed by his Lifeguard. At the riverbank, Sir Bernard Stuart was assembling about a hundred of his Horse, leaving a reserve for another sortie if it were necessary. Wilmot bawled encouragement at him as they put spurs to their mounts and blasted past. Once across the river, they skirted Cleveland’s Horse, which was now in stiff fighting with Middleton’s; the rebel guns still had not organized to fire, Laurence noticed, and many of the Foot were scattered hither and thither, wasting shot ineffectively.

  “Where’s that goddamned regiment,” growled Wilmot, a mile further on.

  At last Laurence spotted a scout racing towards them. “Waller drove into us from the southern bridge,” the boy said, reining in. “Northampton has the edge on him, my lord, but your Horse is in the thick of the action.”

  An attack on two sides, like a pincer, Laurence thought admiringly: Waller was an experienced strategist.

  “Nothing for it, then,” Wilmot said to his men. “We must do what we can by ourselves.”

  When they raced back to the field, Sir Bernard’s Lifeguard had already achieved its goal: some of the rebels had retreated in broken formation to Cropredy Bridge. Cleveland had withdrawn his Horse and was making a stand in preparation for a second charge. Facing him were more of Middleton’s Horse and knots of Foot loading their muskets behind tall hedgerows.

  “Hand and sword!” roared Wilmot, urging his men on, as Cleveland’s began to advance.

  At a swift canter, they locked in combat with the enemy. Laurence struck at the thigh of the nearest rebel horseman; his blade sliced through, and the man lost his seat, to be trampled by his own mount. Another pointed his pistol at Laurence’s face, but before he could fire, Laurence hacked at his forearm, and he dropped his weapon to clutch his bloodied sleeve. Deafened by a close shot, Laurence beheld Wilmot swaying in the saddle, also gripping his arm, encircled by Middleton’s troops who knew they had a valuable prisoner. A young officer wearing the Royal Lifeguard’s colours dived in to snatch Wilmot’s bridle, and Laurence grabbed his pistol from its holster to fire on a trooper behind Wilmot. Red spouted from the man’s forehead, and he crashed to the ground. Wilmot was free, though injured.

  “Beaumont, to your left!” he cried.

  Laurence saw a flash of steel: an infantryman’s tuck, not an inch from him. He brushed aside the weapon with his own. Rather than pierce him, the sword arced and sank partway into the glossy breast of his Arab stallion, which screamed in pain, rearing and plunging; Laurence nearly slipped from his saddle as he reached down to withdraw the blade. The infantryman was staggering back to avoid the horse’s flailing hooves. Laurence had a clear target. He righted himself, tore out his other pistol, calculated his aim, and blew a shot between the man’s eyes.

  x.

  Still smarting from his humiliation, Digby had watched Wilmot’s near capture and regretted that he was not taken hostage. The King had brightened, viewing the subsequent rout: Cleveland’s second charge, bolstered by Stuart and Wilmot, was wreaking havoc on the enemy Horse and Foot. More than ten pieces of cannon had been left on the field as they bolted for Cropredy Bridge; they had even deserted their Master of Ordnance, who was instantly surrounded, and lifted his arms in a gesture of surrender. The Royalists attempted to recapture the bridge, but
the Parliamentary guns stalled their advance, allowing most of Middleton’s forces to escape. Opposite the bridge, at a distance from the gunfire, Sir Bernard Stuart had reassembled his cavalry. Cleveland’s men were starting to round up prisoners, and wounded from both armies; most of the dead were enemy cannoniers.

  “Your Majesty, did you hear the rebels’ field word today: ‘Victory without quarter’?” asked Digby.

  “They shall have quarter,” said the King, “once we have command of the bridge, and Waller sues for terms.”

  Later in the afternoon, Digby bade Quayle hand him his timepiece: three of the clock, and already the King’s army had reunited in the field with few losses. His commanding officers now gathered about him to debate a renewed assault. Digby saw Wilmot gallop up, the picture of martial triumph, his coat torn and bloodstained, a sling about one arm, and the other hand bandaged.

  “My lord, what a lucky day for you,” Digby remarked.

  “I was rescued twice in the second charge, thanks to some brave fellows,” Wilmot said. “That boy Howard from the Royal Lifeguard deserves a knighthood: eighteen years old, and he fought like a gladiator when I was surrounded the last time. And I have our friend Beaumont to thank, also – and His Majesty, for permitting Beaumont to ride with me. It must have vexed you, my lord, to miss all of the action.”

  “And you must be in excruciating pain, my lord, from your injuries.”

  “They’re scratches, as compared to some of my old battle wounds.”

  “I am immensely gladdened to hear that. Where is Mr. Beaumont?”

  “He’s tending to that stallion of his – it was gashed in the breast. He had a close shave himself in the final charge.”

  “Tell him to come to me,” Digby told Quayle.

  “Leave him be,” Wilmot said, in such a threatening tone that he provoked gasps from the nearest officers.