“Not at that time.”
“Afterwards were you lovers?”
“Yes, we were,” said Laurence. An image flashed before him of Juana striding in, brandishing the Toledo sword that she had stolen; part of the theft that had led him to Pembroke’s murderous correspondence. “That’s a different story, Your Highness, and a much longer one.”
“It must keep for when we next meet. You should beware in Paris, lest you encounter Angelique’s husband again.”
“Thank you for the warning, Your Highness,” Laurence told him, in such a way that they both began to laugh.
“Sir,” said the Prince, becoming serious once more, “you’ve always been frank with me. I wish to know the truth: was Lord Wilmot trying to collude with the rebels, to raise me above my father?”
“No he was not, and those who repeat such a falsehood are either mistaken or malicious, or both. He’s devoted to you, and you can trust him with your life.”
“I knew it,” sighed the Prince. “When you and Lord Wilmot get to France, I trust you will look after my poor mother.”
“We shall to the best of our ability, Your Highness.”
The Prince advanced to clasp Laurence’s hand. “I pray it will not be for many years, but when I am king, would you be among my ministers?”
“I would be honoured.”
“My father has agreed to your wish, sir,” the Prince said unexpectedly. “He has explained to me what you are setting out to do. For the love of me, take care.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I.
“So the King has gone deep into the wilds of Cornwall,” said Lord Beaumont, looking round from his armchair at his family and Seward, who were gathered together in the Hall. “We thought him in Exeter with Princess Henrietta. When did he march out, Laurence?”
“About a fortnight ago,” said Laurence uneasily; the news of Wilmot’s disgrace could not yet have reached them, and he shrank from breaking it. “How is Tom?” he asked. His brother was the only Beaumont missing.
“He has started to walk, on crutches,” Seward answered, “though he keeps mostly to his chamber. Thank God the ball entered above the joint of his knee, and that his thigh bone was not damaged.”
“We owe thanks both to God and to you, Doctor,” said Lord Beaumont. “You saved Thomas from an amputation.”
They were speaking over the lusty babble of Tom’s son, wriggling on Mary’s lap. Laurence had obligingly admired young James Beaumont: blond, plump, and vigorous, he was the picture of Tom as an infant, and Mary was every inch the proud mother, boasting about his insatiable appetite. Laurence turned to Catherine, who appeared remarkably at home in the household. When she had raced out to greet him in the courtyard, he had been assailed by a pang of guilt. “How long has our friend Will been here?”
“Since mid-July,” she replied. “He’s learnt more in a month from Jacob than he ever did at my father’s stables.”
“Your mettlesome stallion is getting his exercise, Laurence,” added Lord Beaumont. “Dr. Seward brought him to us, and Catherine has taken a fancy to him. It’s become her habit to ride him in the park each morning.”
Laurence frowned at her. “I hope he hasn’t thrown you?”
“Not once,” she said, as if surprised that he should inquire.
“And … we are overjoyed to have Elizabeth with us again,” Lord Beaumont said softly.
Elizabeth seemed to Laurence no less uncomfortable than he felt himself. She gave a slight shake of her head: a signal, he assumed, that they would talk, but in private.
“I just received a letter from Ingram, Laurence,” said Anne. “He’s at Prince Rupert’s camp in Shrewsbury, and sends you his warmest regards.”
“I must send him mine,” said Laurence.
“And now we ladies should allow the gentlemen a while to themselves before we eat,” said Lady Beaumont. “Since my cousin’s departure, we have resumed supping early, at the English hour,” she told Laurence, who read in her expression a distinct triumph as she ushered out the young women.
Lord Beaumont leant forward and squeezed Laurence’s arm. “Though I am not fond of Lord Digby, it was kind of him to grant you leave to visit.”
“Or did you render him some exceptional service?” queried Seward.
“In fact,” said Laurence, “it’s … not a leave.”
“Then were you on a mission for him to Oxford?”
“No. His Majesty permitted me leave to visit, to … to say goodbye. I’ve been sent into exile with Lord Wilmot and certain others who stand accused of … treason,” Laurence finished, contriving of no more diplomatic way to make his announcement.
Seward and Lord Beaumont stared at him slack-jawed. “How could that be?” demanded Lord Beaumont.
Laurence gave an abridged version of the truth. He could discern scepticism on Seward’s face; and when he fell silent, his father was flushed scarlet in the cheeks, his eyes brimming with tears.
“In the whole history of our family, Laurence, never have we been tainted by the dishonour of treason. I accept your word that the accusation is as baseless as it is base. Yet I must ask you,” he went on, in a pained voice, “since we did share our doubts in the past about the justice of His Majesty’s cause: would you have supported Lord Wilmot in a secret negotiation to end the war?”
Laurence hesitated, afraid of the consequences to his father’s health if he spoke his mind. “I might have,” he confessed at length, “were I absolutely sure that it was not born of Wilmot’s ambition, and that there was a chance Essex would accede to it – and if the terms were respectful to His Majesty. I would not support a proposal to set Prince Charles on the throne instead of the King. That was a lie framed by Wilmot’s enemies. But Essex would never negotiate without the blessing of Parliament.”
“Nor could such underhanded negotiations ever be respectful of His Majesty,” Seward said, in his most tutorial voice. “You disappoint me, Beaumont.”
“Digby told me the same: that I had disappointed him. Well,” said Laurence, beginning to lose his temper, “he hasn’t disappointed me. He’s the snake I always thought he was, and every bit as ambitious as Wilmot. But unlike Wilmot, he has the ear of the King, whom he has persuaded into more underhanded negotiations than I care to enumerate. While I deeply regret bringing dishonour upon my family, I am pleased to be free of him, and the war. As long as he’s Secretary of State, he’ll only sink the King further into moral turpitude.”
“A king is still a king, and is owed your fealty. To argue with that is to make common cause with the rebels.”
“If I didn’t so detest the oppressive nature of the London regime and its religious intolerance, and if our family wouldn’t suffer so much from a royal defeat, I might consider it, Seward. As things have turned out, I can avoid that unpleasant decision and skulk away to France.”
“What will you do there?” Lord Beaumont asked.
“Oh, play at cards with the Queen. According to Wilmot, she’s very free with her wagers. If His Majesty’s fortunes decline, you could all join me,” Laurence suggested, less cynically.
“My dear boy, I would prefer to be buried beneath the rubble of my house. Let us not ill-wish His Majesty, however: from what you tell us, he has Essex cornered, and Ingram says that Prince Rupert is massing a great army in the west. We must pray for a swift conclusion to the bloodshed. So, will Catherine travel with you, or bide at the house until you are more prepared to receive her?”
“I’d like her to choose for herself.”
Lord Beaumont nodded, as though to close the subject. “Go to your brother, Laurence. He must be waiting to see you.”
When Laurence poked his head round Tom’s door, Tom was sitting fully dressed on his bed, his crutches propped nearby. The right leg of his breeches was rolled to the thigh, which was bandaged. His entire body had wasted, and he struck Laurence as far older than his twenty-seven years, his features settling prematurely into harsh lines. “Laurence,” he sai
d, his tone neither amiable nor hostile.
“Tom, I’m sorry about your leg.”
“I have Adam to thank that it wasn’t sawn off.”
“And Seward,” Laurence reminded him, quelling a familiar irritation. “You were lucky. What a slaughter, at Marston Moor. It took well over a week for His Majesty to get an accurate report of the battle—”
“Let’s not talk of it,” interrupted Tom, as though personally humiliated by Rupert’s defeat.
Laurence moved to a cheerier topic. “Your son’s the image of you at his age. And Mary is … blooming.”
To his relief, Tom did not mistake his comments for sarcasm. “I know – she’s discovered her tongue and can’t stop wagging it. She must have been saving up her prattle ever since we got married. Were you aware that she and Catherine have formed a strange bond?”
“Not so very strange, given our family,” said Laurence, with a laugh.
“What’s far stranger to me,” burst out Tom, “is how a lying, sponging bastard such as de Zamora would be so rewarded for his past service to the Spanish king, though I suppose he might have been a valiant soldier, even if he is a complete blackguard.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive categories, in my experience.”
“Speaking of blackguards, your so-called friend Price is another one.”
“His conduct was reprehensible, as I made quite clear to him, so let’s not talk of that, either,” Laurence said shortly.
“How’s my Lord Digby treating you?” Tom recommenced, after a slight pause.
“I’ve been dismissed from his service.” Laurence described the charges against Wilmot and his associates, and the penalty they must pay.
“By Christ,” said Tom. “Why didn’t you inform the King immediately of what he was plotting?”
“Because most of the charges are false, and unlike Price, he is a true friend to me. Tom, you understand what this means,” Laurence hurried on. “You’ll take my place, if … if I can’t return to England.”
“You’ll be leading a life of luxury in Paris while I sit uselessly at home,” Tom said, scratching at the bandage on his knee.
“Not uselessly – you’re needed here. And Seward says you’re starting to walk. Why don’t you hobble down to supper tonight? There must be something we could argue about, to amuse the family.”
Tom squinted at Laurence, as if undecided as to whether he should be provoked. Then he grinned. “Perhaps I shall.”
“Until later,” said Laurence, ducking out; he had seen Elizabeth loitering in the passage.
She beckoned him into the library and shut the doors. “How is Mr. Price?” she inquired, tentatively.
“Rising in his career with the Secretary of State. He still has hopes of marrying you.”
She hoisted her shoulders in a world-weary fashion. “I don’t know what I want, Laurence. My time in Oxford was such a nightmare. And now I think that in my loneliness I may have viewed Mr. Price as I wished him to be, not as he is – though I believe he’s a good man at heart, or he wants to be good, at any rate.”
Laurence thought of Mistress Edwards’ verdict on her grandson’s character. “I doubt he knows who he is. And it strains him to the limit to be perfectly honest with anyone, including himself. I can’t fault him, on that score. I’d be the pot calling the kettle black.”
“You’ve certainly kept a great deal about him from me,” said Elizabeth, in Lady Beaumont’s chastening tone. “But what answer should I give, if he asks again for my hand?”
“You won’t have to answer,” Laurence said. “It will be done for you.”
Over supper, he broke his news to the women. His sisters and Mary wept openly. Lady Beaumont, in characteristic fashion, directed her anger at Lord Wilmot. Catherine was subdued. Laurence explained that he had a last, private business to conclude on behalf of the Secretary of State, and that he would return in a week or so to bid them all a proper farewell. Catherine could decide, in the meantime, whether to travel with him to France.
At the end of the meal, Seward went out to Lady Beaumont’s rose garden for his customary pipe of tobacco, and Laurence followed. “Seward,” he said, “forgive me if I upset you by my lack of faith in the King. I would hate it to come between us.”
Seward breathed a weighty sigh. “As would I, Beaumont, and you’ve made no secret of your views, to me or to his lordship, who confided in me his own low opinion of Lord Digby. The circumstances of your disgrace hurt us the most. Now, did you succeed in London?”
“Yes, though I had to depend on my friends and your sleeping draught.” As they meandered through the flowerbeds, Laurence told him all about it, and the bargain with Pembroke.
“Why would the King hand over his treacherous letters?” snapped Seward. “You were forced into a fool’s bargain, with a rogue.”
“He helped us at huge risk to himself, and he’s since fallen under the suspicion of Veech.”
“Then he may receive his just deserts at the hands of Parliament rather than those of the King.”
“Not if I’m in time to prevent it by eliminating Veech, although Pembroke may already be suspect to others in Parliament.” Laurence stopped and faced Seward squarely. “Veech’s murder is the business I pledged to conclude for the Secretary of State.”
Grabbing a blossom off a rosebush, Seward rubbed it between the tips of his fingers and thumb, until the crushed petals scattered on the ground. “That’s what will happen to you, should you re-enter London.”
“As I’m well aware. I must lure Veech out, as he lured me in.”
Seward studied Laurence in the twilight. “You are afraid of him, as a man,” he said finally. “I have not seen you so afraid before.”
“All that I know of him scares me,” Laurence admitted. “And I’ve never wanted a man dead, as I do him. And, to complicate matters, I want his death to look like an accident that inculpates nobody.”
“Why, Beaumont? In case Pembroke is accused of killing him?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Laurence, laughing. “But no – my main reason is to clear the lawyer, Draycott, whose family Veech threatened.” He described Draycott’s mission to Digby, and how Draycott had been tossed into Oxford Castle. “I have the King’s permission to liberate him on the grounds that he could assist me – as I think he will, though he deserves his freedom anyway. Yet his politics are with Parliament, and his entire life is in London. Were St. John to find evidence implicating him in Veech’s murder, he would lose everything.”
Seward was silent again, lighting his pipe. Through a cloud of smoke, he remarked abruptly, “Our chat about the witch’s poison inspired me to hunt for a vital ingredient in the woods near Clarke’s house.”
“Eye of newt?” joked Laurence, though he was fascinated.
“Monkshood, best harvested in the autumn, but the root I dug up was unusually plump, for this time of the year. I dried it and ground it into a powder. Some of her other recommendations I determined were more superstitious than lethal, except fresh snake venom, which would be hard to obtain in Clarke’s neighbourhood.”
“I wish I’d known. I could have got you some – from Lord Digby.”
Seward cast Laurence a devilish smile. “The venom was superfluous. I tried the powder on a sow that was diseased and unfit for eating. The beast was paralysed within an hour, and dropped down cold in three.”
“Did the witch provide any antidote?”
“Belladonna.” Laurence grimaced; he had once ingested a dose of that drug to bizarre and stupefying effect, until he had become unconscious from it. “And foxglove,” Seward added, “though I did not try them on the sow.”
“The antidotes must be as lethal as the poison.”
“If taken alone in sufficient amount, yes. Together, they act in counterbalance: her poison slows the system, while her antidotes do precisely the opposite. I sampled a speck of the poison diluted in water. The taste is simultaneously sweet, pungent and acrid, and produce
s a tingling on the tongue and then numbness. It would be difficult to disguise in a cup of wine or ale.”
Laurence remembered what Price had told him about Veech’s abundant use of salt and pepper. “Would strong spices mask it, in a dish of some sort?”
Seward ruminated, puffing on his pipe. “They might. Veech would have an awful death: the mind is lucid throughout, as the body loses function and ultimately fails.”
“Good,” said Laurence. “Did you bring the poison with you?”
“Heavens, no – it is at Clarke’s house.”
“We might ride there tomorrow. I’ll continue on to Oxford, to free Draycott.”
“You haven’t asked if Thomas is well enough for me to leave his bedside.”
“We both know he is.”
“Hmm,” said Seward. “You remind me of another thing: when he was delirious, he spoke of the battle at Marston Moor, and later I asked him to describe the terrain. I am now convinced: it was what I foresaw in my dream.”
“Then … your dreams are as prescient as your visions. We could have let de Zamora keep that bowl, and saved ourselves a lot of trouble.”
“Whatever the case, Marston Moor did not signal the defeat for the King, so as his lordship said, there remains hope for the royal cause.”
Laurence shrugged ambivalently. “Since you do have your bowl again, why not try peering into the future of Mr. Veech?”
“I’ve no need of it to know that you require my expertise in your murderous operation. I’ll accompany you, on to Oxford.”
“Thank you, Seward. I wasn’t sure how to ask that favour of you.”
“One favour merits another – I am in Catherine’s debt. You must ask her how she outwitted Diego,” Seward chuckled. “She was as clever a thief as he.”
When Laurence and Catherine retired to bed, he forgot to inquire, still preoccupied by the business of Veech; and then while making love to her, he could not help thinking of his last time, with Isabella in Pembroke’s house. Their terrifying climax seemed to portend the death of a relationship. Yet little by little, Catherine softened and distanced the memory, and he became absorbed in the moment.
The Licence of War Page 55