The Licence of War

by Claire Letemendia

  “Is your master at last well enough to receive me?” asked Draycott.

  “Yes, sir: he is in the gallery. May I announce you?”

  “You are busy – I shall announce myself.”

  Draycott felt glad that the wall where the tapestries had hung was now blank; the spyholes had been plastered over. Sir Montague looked sicklier than before, in his wheeled contraption, his gouty foot swathed in bandages, shoulders sagging, hands clasped across his rounded belly, his face powdered white like a mask. His mouth appeared sunken, as if teeth had been drawn from both sides. “Have you come to reproach me, sir?” he greeted Draycott, with a cheerful smile.

  “I came for a book of Lady Isabella’s: Remedia Amoris, if you did not surrender it to Veech as evidence of her guilt.”

  “Oh no, it is in the guest chamber with the rest of her belongings. Go and select whatever you wish, and then we shall talk.”

  Draycott did not trouble to pretend ignorance of the room.

  Her property lay mounded on the bed: shimmering satin gowns in pieces, her fur-trimmed cloak and muff, and flimsy undergarments. He picked up a lace shift and held it to his nose, inhaling her exotic scent. How crude and treacherous the body was, he thought next, upset with himself, and tossed aside the shift to rifle through a stack of books. Most were damaged by Veech’s rough handling, but two were intact: the slim, purple volume and another by Ovid. There was no inscription inside Ars Amatoria, only a date in her writing: the seventh of October, 1643. On impulse, Draycott stuck both books in his doublet pocket. He heard a faint mew from beneath the bed and her black cat slinked out, horribly thin, its ribs protruding, coat dull, eyes crusted with dried mucus. He remembered the day they had found it under the parlour table, and how he had declared his love for her.

  “Judith, forgive me,” he said. He had spoken those words to his wife earlier in the day, at her mother’s; after Veech’s threat, he had arranged for her and the children to quit London by nightfall and go to the house of a legal colleague in St. Albans. “I will soon be free of Veech,” he had assured her, and she had told him, most surprisingly, “I pray you kill the man.”

  “Bella’s four-footed friend,” remarked Sir Montague, when Draycott came back into the gallery cradling the cat to his breast. “I have seen neither hide nor hair of the beast since she and Lucy were arrested.” Draycott was silent, repulsed by his apparent indifference to the women’s plight. “Do please sit down, sir. I hear from Oliver St. John that you are going to Lord Digby with a bargain to exchange her for the elusive Mr. Beaumont. I am shocked that St. John should engage in such dishonourable dealings.”

  “Veech persuaded him.”

  “Even the loftiest souls can be corrupted in time of war,” joked Sir Montague. “I must say, Veech is one of the strangest men I have ever met. I feel sure that some tragedy in his past has affected his brain.”

  “His hunger for vengeance is certainly out of proportion to the hurt Beaumont inflicted on him.”

  “I would tend to agree. After he questioned me, I asked him why he should so hate a man who shot him quite by accident. He told me of an old Arab proverb: that it is the last straw which breaks the laden camel’s back.” Taking a handkerchief from his sleeve, Sir Montague dabbed at his forehead and cheeks, smearing the powder; underneath were blood vessels the colour of dark wine, and skin the texture of parchment. “Who will Digby choose to sacrifice: his darling Bella or his chief agent?” he resumed. “It is an awkward business, choosing between love and expediency.”

  “It did not seem so very awkward for you,” Draycott said.

  “She would have done the same in my place,” Sir Montague said, impenitently. “As for you, sir, she and I planned your seduction to glean what intelligence we could about Parliament’s spies. You might have noticed how rarely I was at home whenever you visited. I never did witness you two together, if it’s any consolation. She feared that I might be swept away by my enjoyment of the scene, and that you might discover me frigging myself in my hiding place. Lucy was her accomplice. And Lucy’s paramour from the Trained Bands was a spy in Lord Digby’s employ, a man named Price, also an associate of the late thief, Barlow. You knew him, I believe.”

  “Yes,” said Draycott, staggered.

  “Ah well, it is history. You are an honest fellow, unlike me, so let me warn you: should Bella go free, she will have no further use for you. And you will have given that devil Veech the greatest satisfaction, by facilitating his revenge.”

  “When do you depart for The Hague?” Draycott inquired, eager to terminate their exchange.

  “Next week, sir. Niger is your friend, now,” said Sir Montague, as Draycott stood up to leave; the cat had fastened onto the front of his doublet with its claws, and was burrowing its head in his underarm. “Please accept him as a gift, and for your convenience ask Greenhalgh for his travelling basket. And farewell to you, sir – I doubt we shall see each other again.”

  III.

  “We could expect no less of the Prince,” Digby gloated to Culpeper, as they walked through Evesham marketplace, skirting the piles of dung left from the day’s brisk trade in livestock. That afternoon, Council had erupted into spontaneous applause: the King had received an express message that Rupert had crushed the combined forces of Parliament and the Scots three days ago outside York. “The north is all but lost to the rebels,” Digby went on, batting away a fly with his kidskin gloves, “and here in the south Waller’s men are deserting in droves.”

  “Let us await further report of His Royal Highness’s victory before we crow too loudly,” said Culpeper, with his customary prudence. “Still, it would give His Majesty’s terms for peace a more favourable reception in London.”

  “I think he will soon be able to dictate whatever terms he pleases. That is why there is no better time to remove Lord Wilmot from his commission.”

  “You must have more evidence of Wilmot’s treasonous talk than hearsay. His reputation in the field is golden, after Cropredy Bridge.”

  “As though he won the battle single-handed,” Digby scoffed.

  “My lord, the King cannot afford a mutiny in his Horse.”

  “If only I had a penny for each time I’ve heard that said, my dear Culpeper, I would be a far richer man. The King dislikes Wilmot as much as we do, and he is Rupert’s main rival.” Digby considered, humming in his throat. “I shall hint in my correspondence to the Prince that Wilmot is conspiring to supplant Forth as Lord Marshal. Rupert might now be able to spare us one of his cavalry commanders to replace Wilmot. George Goring is also a popular veteran of the foreign wars, and a fine leader of men.”

  “When he is not drunk,” said Culpeper. “He is cut from the same cloth as Lord Wilmot: arrogant and ambitious. And you would be stretching rumour, as concerns Wilmot’s ambitions.”

  “I beg to dispute that. Wilmot tried to interfere in the fight at Cheriton without consulting Council, don’t forget, and afterwards threatened to levy a charge of incompetence against Hopton.”

  “Yet he held back. Why are you in such haste to move on him, my lord?” Culpeper asked suspiciously. “Is it to engineer your coup before his friend Mr. Beaumont can return from London?”

  “My coup? You and many others in Council are as eager to see Wilmot ousted. And what has Beaumont to do with it? He is not a member of Council.”

  “No, but you may be sure he would forewarn Wilmot. Was that why you sent him away with Sabron?”

  “I swear it was not,” said Digby, concealing his alarm: the true reason must never come out.

  IV.

  “Qué ruido,” grumbled Antonio, as he and Diego trod cautiously up the stairs. “She sounds more like a cow in labour than a human female. And we are bidden to creep about the house, lest we disturb her.”

  Mary Beaumont’s pains had begun at dawn, and all day she had been attended by her ladyship, Martha, a midwife from town, his lordship’s surgeon, and the Beaumont daughters. To Antonio’s irritation, Lord Beaumont had ask
ed to pass the anxious hours in the society of Diego, whom he had overheard quoting from a poem of Lope de Vega. Diego had promised to recite an entire play of de Vega’s for his lordship in the library.

  “I might select Las Flores de Don Juan,” he mused to Antonio. “His lordship would appreciate the tale of a profligate elder son who games away the family fortunes, while his worthy younger brother struggles in poverty.”

  “On the subject of family fortunes,” Antonio said, lowering his voice, “you are missing your opportunity to get inside that dovecote while the household is distracted.”

  “You might try yourself, Don Antonio. Perhaps with your sharp teeth you can chew through the lock on it,” Diego said, and skipped off towards the library before Antonio could fetch him a smack on the ear.

  Antonio prowled crossly back to his chamber in the other wing of the house. But as he turned into the passage that led there, his spirits lifted. Catherine was standing outside his door. She hesitated at the sight of him, like an animal undecided between fight and flight, and wrapped her arms protectively around her stomach. She had seemed sleeker and handsomer recently, and so fascinated by Diego that Antonio wondered if she was nurturing a girlish infatuation for the youth in her husband’s absence; or was he imagining things, as a consequence of his own sexual frustration? He would find out.

  “Mistress Caterina, what are you doing here?” he inquired.

  “I was searching for Diego.”

  “Were you,” said Antonio, bemused as ever by the candour of Englishwomen. “And what for?”

  “His lordship wants him, in the library.”

  “He is already with his lordship,” Antonio told her, mildly disappointed. “Why are you not at Mary’s childbed?”

  “Her ladyship said I would be a nuisance.”

  “And her ladyship is to be obeyed! Does your husband worship her as slavishly as everyone else in this house?”

  “I don’t know, sir – I’ve only seen them together once, when he brought me to Chipping Campden – the last time I saw him,” Catherine finished, looking straight into Antonio’s eyes.

  “You must know very little, then, about his life before you married him.” Antonio moved closer. The defect in her complexion, a scattering of freckles on her cheekbones and on the bridge of her nose, oddly enhanced her allure, though in his view by far the most attractive of the young women was Elizabeth. “Did he ever say to you that he had visited my country?” Catherine shook her head. “I’m not surprised. He left behind his Spanish mistress, a gypsy named Juana. I met her in my hometown of Seville, this past October. He had deserted her because she was pregnant, and she had afterwards borne his son. She had not eaten in days, and her milk had dried up.” Catherine was listening with the air of someone tolerating an elderly relation’s prattle. “When I learnt of her history, I felt bound to assist her.”

  “You are generous, sir,” Catherine said.

  “Does it not lower your opinion of him to hear how ruthlessly he abandoned her?”

  “I can’t judge him until I hear his version of the facts.”

  Antonio adopted a new line of attack. “You have a twin sister, no?”

  “Yes: Penelope.”

  “An identical twin?”

  “Not quite. She’s much prettier than I am.”

  “Hmm … Your husband and I might be twins.”

  Catherine smiled, revealing her chipped tooth. “How could you be? You are of an age to be his father.”

  What if I was his father, you saucy minx? Antonio nearly challenged her; but he was in a mood to play. “He and I are alike in character, nonetheless. And, I fancy, in our tastes.” He laid a hand on the small of her spine and drifted it south to her buttocks, high and firm as a boy’s.

  She twisted to peer over her shoulder at it, as she might a burr that had become attached to her skirts. “Are you lonely for your wife, Don Antonio?”

  He cupped her flesh more insistently. “Are you, for your husband? Although … you have had such a brief acquaintance with him, and younger men can be too swift to take their own enjoyment.”

  “He is thirty-two – not so young.”

  “Still, a man of my experience could make you swoon with delight. Would you like me to unveil to you the mysteries of your body? I can teach you how to please yourself, and him.”

  “Thank you, but I prefer him for my teacher. He is neither too young – nor too old.”

  Antonio pretended to laugh, and dropped his hand. “Now you will go telling tales to her ladyship about my unseemly behaviour.”

  “Why would I bother – it’s of no import to me.”

  Catherine tried to walk on, but he grabbed her by the sleeve. “Why are you holding your stomach like that?”

  “Because I feel a need to void, sir,” she replied, flatly.

  “Go, then,” he said, and released her.

  She disappeared down the passage, and he to his chamber, where he lay down on the bed and glowered at the embroidered canopy above him. Everything was quiet. But then he caught a hubbub of voices, and next the shrill, penetrating wail of an infant. To think of Elena as a grandmother! He was moved, thinking not just of her, but of her mother Cecilia and his own mother, also an Elena, whom he had never known: three women with their distinctive Fuentes looks. He pictured Teresa’s plump visage, now and when she was young; and a wave of homesickness overcame him, bringing tears to his eyes. His son Felipe must have celebrated a thirteenth birthday. How loving and respectful they were, as compared to most of the Beaumonts; and how he yearned for the sun-drenched earth of Andalucía, and the beauty of his city, with its quaint narrow streets; and the solemn architecture of the Cathedral; and the modestly clad sevillanas he used to flirt with during Mass. “I am tired of England,” he said, out loud.

  Rapid footsteps were pattering towards his door. He brushed away his tears and sat up to witness Diego executing a caper in the doorway, a silly grin on his face. “Don Antonio, Mary has had a son! He is to be christened James, after his lordship, and everyone in the house is invited to …” Diego tailed off, staring into the room, then rushed in to pounce on his saddlebag, which had been lying on the floor beside the bed. He hunted inside, and raised his eyes to Antonio. “It has gone,” he announced, collapsing to his knees, and began trembling like a drunk deprived of his wineskin. “Who could have taken it? Who could have taken my bowl?”

  Antonio understood instantly who had rid him of the evil thing. “All I can imagine, Diego,” he said, “is that the old wizard stole it back through magic.”

  V.

  Pembroke had been slumbering in his armchair over a digestive glass of cordial when his equerry came to whisper in his ear. He sat up, spilling on the front of his doublet as Beaumont walked through to him. “By Christ,” he swore. “I hope you were not seen entering my lodgings?”

  Beaumont cast Pembroke his incandescent smile. “No, my lord. Thank you again for the loan of your horse. I returned it to your stables.”

  “How the devil did you sneak into the City without being apprehended?”

  “I entered openly, with the French agent, Monsieur Sabron, under his diplomatic safe conduct. He and I were to stay at the French embassy, but to our dismay the ambassador refused me shelter – for the second time, I’m afraid. I ought to have known better than to depend on his hospitality.”

  “So you are dependent again on mine.”

  Beaumont was looking thirstily at Pembroke’s glass. “How have you been keeping, my lord?”

  Pembroke heaved a resigned sigh and waved him to a chair. “May we dispense with courtesies, Mr. Beaumont? What is Sabron doing here?”

  “He brought an offer of terms from His Majesty to the Lords and Commons. ‘We being deeply sensible of the miseries and calamities of this our kingdom, and the grievous suffering of our poor subjects,.’ ” Beaumont quoted, “ ‘do most earnestly desire that some expedient may be found out, which by the blessing of God may prevent the further effusion of blood, and res
tore the nation to peace..’ ”

  “You and your confounded memory. What are the terms?”

  “Maintenance of the true reformed Protestant religion, with due regard to the ease of tender consciences, the just privileges of Parliament, and the liberty and property of any subject, according to the laws of the land. A general pardon, and a total disbanding of the armies and, as His Majesty phrased it, that ‘we be restored to our rights..’ ”

  “Parliament will not grace him with an answer, after Rupert’s defeat at Marston Moor.”

  Beaumont’s pale eyes were now full of sorrow. “They say bad news travels fast, yet the King had had no report of it when Sabron and I set out. We were devastated to hear from the French ambassador that as many as four thousand died on the field – it must be the highest number of any battle since war broke out. My brother and my brother-in-law may well be among them.”

  Pembroke let a silence pass. “And why have you come to London, Mr. Beaumont?” When Beaumont did not reply, he asked, “Has Lord Digby sent you to fetch Lady Hallam from the Tower?” He was rather pleased to see Beaumont astonished by his guess. “I found out that Lady Hallam, your former lover, was Isabella Savage before she wedded Sir Montague. He always called her Bella and never told me her maiden name. And as I had thought, those messages of yours and hers back in January did not concern a privy complaint, but some matter of espionage.” Beaumont said nothing. Pembroke ventured a further guess. “On both visits to London, you came not just out of obedience to Lord Digby. You are still smitten, aren’t you, sir – and that I can comprehend, if she is as captivating as she was in her youth.”

  “Then you were … acquainted with her.”

  “I remember her when she was first presented at Court, in the late thirties – a ravishing, witty girl, and a skilled horsewoman. Van Dyke painted her as Aphrodite. He had no need to improve upon the truth with his brush, as he did with most of his other sitters. Not that I could judge the whole of it, for it was almost the naked truth, if I recall,” Pembroke added, watching Beaumont’s face.