Authors: Claire Letemendia
“What’s wrong?” Laurence asked.
“I don’t like your luck.”
“They’re
your
cards.”
Saint-Etienne sat back, screwing up his eyes suspiciously. “One more round.”
“The wager’s too small. It doesn’t interest me.”
“It interests
me
, so you shall play.”
“Seigneur de Saint-Etienne,” said Simeon, “it has been an honour, but I must ask you to leave us to our rest.”
“One more round, I say! His run of fortune won’t last.”
“I can give you no credit here.”
“I don’t need it, usurer.” Saint-Etienne reached deep into his cloak again and plucked out a stone that flashed in the candlelight. “You should know the worth of this diamond. I’ll wager it for twice the money I lost.”
Simeon examined the stone and laid it on the table. “Your choice, Monsieur Beaumont.”
“One more,” Laurence told Saint-Etienne, “but I hope you haven’t forgotten that it’s my turn to deal.” The Frenchman obviously still trusted his marked cards, for he nodded, though he watched closely as Laurence shuffled. “What brings you to The Hague?” Laurence inquired, to distract him. “I suspect you’re here for the same reason as most of the French – to buy arms.”
Laurence’s comment had the requisite effect: Saint-Etienne looked at him rather than the deck, and he managed to slip a card under his elbow, whereupon Marie, who was behind him, concealed it in her sleeve.
“As if I’d answer you, you whoreson,” Saint-Etienne said, and he smirked as he saw his cards.
Marie craned forward, offering Saint-Etienne an irresistible view of her cleavage. “Oh, Monsieur Beaumont,” she gasped, slipping back to Laurence the hidden card, “you are undone!”
For the last time they lay down their hands. “By God’s wounds,” Saint-Etienne said slowly, staring at them.
“What a twist of fate!” remarked Simeon.
“Not so.” Saint-Etienne banged a fist on the table. “He cheated me, and I won’t leave without my money, Jew, if I have to cut the thieving monkey a new arsehole and make him shit it out!”
“Why don’t you try,” said Laurence, delighted by his own victory.
Saint-Etienne leapt up, feeling for his absent sword. Even more furious, he overturned the table, spilling coins everywhere.
“Fetch the men!” Simeon shouted to Marie, as Laurence snatched the diamond and threw it to him.
He caught it deftly just as Saint-Etienne seized the bottle and smashed it in half. With a dueller’s agility he aimed the jagged edge at Laurence’s face, and out of instinct, Laurence put up his left hand as a shield. The glass sliced into the exposed flesh of his wrist, though he hardly felt it, reaching for the knife in his doublet with his other hand. But Simeon was ahead of him, pointing a stiletto at the Frenchman’s chest.
“Drop the bottle,” he said. Saint-Etienne hesitated, then threw it aside. “Now please leave, unless you wish me to draw blood.”
“The gypsy has my money,” the Frenchman responded, his tone menacing. “Give me back what’s mine and I shall go, or on my honour as a gentleman, I’ll make sure that this house is closed down within the month. If you have friends in The Hague, so do I.”
At this, Simeon relented. “Fetch the boy and search his clothes,” he told the grooms, who had rushed in, panting.
The gypsy was dragged up and had his cloak ripped away. In the bright candlelight he seemed more a youth than a boy, though delicate in feature and still beardless. He wore a tight cap on his head that the men also stripped off; and as they did so, a cascade of long black hair fell out.
“Saints alive!” cried Marguerite. “It’s a woman.”
“I don’t care if it has a cunt or a cock between its legs,” said Saint-Etienne. “I want my money.”
The gypsy had been clutching her chest. Now she bent over and shook out half a dozen coins from the front of her shirt, glaring at him with wild, defiant eyes.
“Is that everything you stole?” Laurence asked her, though he could not have cared less if she had kept all of it.
She nodded vigorously.
“Not even close to the sum you mentioned, Seigneur de Saint-Etienne,” Simeon commented, as a groom picked up the coins. “So much for your honour as a gentleman. Pray take your money and relieve us of your presence – and don’t return.”
Saint-Etienne swung about, to face Laurence. “I
will
return, and as God is my witness, on that day I’ll slit you from stem to stern.”
“Why don’t you go and fuck yourself,” sneered Laurence, and the grooms hustled Saint-Etienne out.
“You could not have made a worse foe, Monsieur Beaumont,” Simeon told Laurence grimly afterwards. “He’s one of the most talented duellers in France.”
“And one of the most conceited pricks, which is some achievement in his country.”
“So you went to all this trouble to teach him a lesson in humility?” Laurence shrugged, somewhat less elated as he noticed the pool of blood accumulating at his feet. “You crazy fellow,” Simeon said. “I can’t believe you’ve survived as long as you have – you must be as lucky in life
as you are at cards. Sit down, before you fall over, and let me attend to that cut.”
Laurence obeyed. His vision was beginning to fog and his ears were ringing. Just then he felt someone tug at his good arm, and looked, as through a mist, to see the gypsy crouched beside him. “Thank you, kind sir,” she mumbled, in oddly inflected Dutch. “I am forever in your debt.”
S
ince seven of the morning Radcliff had been at drill with his troop in the meadows outside Oxford, and as the sun reached its zenith he decided that they should break for their noonday meal. They were growing increasingly listless, though on hearing the drummer beat out Radcliff’s command, they let out a cheer and dispersed with great alacrity to receive their rations from the quartermaster. Radcliff was also in need of refreshment, his throat sore from yelling orders. He had arranged to meet Walter Ingram at the Lamb Inn, where he was staying, and he invited two of his men, Blunt and Fuller, to come along.
“There’s a garden at the back that should provide some relief from this heat,” he said. They accepted gratefully; both of them had sweated damp half-moons at the armpits of their buff jackets, and Blunt’s face was burnt to a raw pink.
They walked their horses into town, where the traffic was so dense that they could scarcely pass, and the stench of ordure, human and animal, forced Radcliff to cover his nose.
“Some effort must be made to clean up after the troops,” he remarked, “or else they’ll be falling like ninepins from the foul air.”
“That one’s just falling from strong drink,” said Blunt, as an inebriated recruit weaved across their path.
“It’s as well there’s talk of imposing a curfew soon,” Fuller added. “Too many tossers like him. Bad for morale.”
The Lamb, when they reached it, was as crowded as every other tavern in Oxford. While its reputation as a superior establishment attracted the higher ranks and other gentlemen of quality, Radcliff had chosen it mainly because he could have a private chamber upstairs to himself, however small, in case he had to send out or receive any messages for Pembroke.
“Well now, this makes a change,” Fuller commented, as they strolled into the shady garden after leaving their mounts with a groom to be rubbed down.
Trestle tables and benches were set up amongst the trees, and an aroma of roasted meat drifted out from the inn’s kitchen. As they were settling in, a new party of men arrived, splendidly attired, with colourful silk sashes about their waists. They seemed to have had a table reserved for them by the Lamb’s proprietor, and they received prompt service, flagons and bottles appearing before them at once, as if by magic.
“Important folk,” Blunt said, eyeing them with jealous disgust.
“Yes, that’s Henry Wilmot, with the blue sash,” Radcliff said, “and the man beside him is Charles Danvers. I know them from the Dutch cavalry. The others I don’t recognise.”
“Henry Wilmot,” Fuller repeated, in an awed tone. “Wasn’t it he who led the charge against the Scots, at the battle of Newburn two years ago?”
“And got captured by them afterwards, for his valour. He was Commissioner General of the King’s Horse in that war, so he’s sure to be given a similar command here.”
Radcliff observed Ingram coming in, and stood to catch his attention. A pitcher of ale arrived just in time, for Ingram looked as hot and sweaty as they were, and as thirsty. They exchanged a quick greeting, and gulped down their ale.
“Nothing better than that, after a long ride,” Ingram said, licking the foam from his lips.
“Where did you come from?” Blunt asked.
“I was at Chipping Campden in Gloucestershire where my friend’s father, Lord Beaumont, has his seat. Beaumont and I rode in together, but he had some errand to do before meeting us. He should be here soon.”
“Have you spoken to him yet about our troop?” Radcliff inquired, picturing again a bluff country nobleman.
“Yes, though it turns out he may have other plans. There’s a chance he might be employed by the Secretary of State, who is a neighbour of Lord Beaumont’s.”
How very convenient, Radcliff thought. “Employed in what capacity?”
Ingram seemed to hesitate. “I believe he has some experience with ciphers, from his time in the German army. At any rate, Radcliff,” he went on hastily, “you’ll have a lot in common. At least, I hope you will.”
A girl came bearing their plates of capon and pork, and cheese and onion pasties. Blunt and Fuller pounced on the food, chewing noisily.
“How are the men at drill?” Ingram asked Radcliff, who had selected a drumstick and was about to bite into it, careful not to spill grease on the front of his doublet.
“We’re making progress,” he said, “though this weather tends to sap the men’s energy. Oh, and I’ve purchased twenty new pistols. Some fellows will still be without but I haven’t the funds to buy more. Nonetheless, I’d like to train them all properly in the use of their weapons before the month is up. We can’t have any lives lost through accidents, and they must learn to load and fire more speedily.”
“They must,” agreed Fuller, “or they’ll be finished off in no time if it comes to an engagement.”
Ingram flushed; at practice recently he had failed to hit a target, sending the ball way overhead. “We’re not hunting ducks on the wing,” Blunt had teased him, and he had been visibly offended.
“So, Ingram, did you enjoy your reunion with Beaumont?” Radcliff asked.
“What I remember of it. He brought me back to Richard’s house in a sorry state. Richard was not pleased.”
“Your brother could forgive a little excess. You hadn’t seen Beaumont in years.”
“Richard’s never been very forgiving of Beaumont. He thinks Beaumont’s had a bad influence on me ever since we were students up at university.”
“And is Richard correct?”
“In some ways, yes,” Ingram said, laughing, as the girl set a fresh round of ale before them.
Radcliff now saw another man arrive at Wilmot’s table. He was tall and spare, his skin very dark, and his hair so black that it had almost a blue sheen to it, like a crow’s plumage. He wore no hat nor armour, nor even a sword. He looked, in fact, rather shabby. Wilmot got up and clapped him on the shoulder, as did Charles Danvers.
“There he is – that’s Beaumont,” exclaimed Ingram.
Radcliff was surprised: this did not fit his image of Beaumont at all. Ingram called out to his friend, who waved back, and after a brief word to Wilmot, approached. Radcliff was amazed not only by the colour of his eyes but by his whole appearance. It could not be, Radcliff told himself.
“Beaumont,” Ingram said, “may I introduce Sir Bernard Radcliff, and Corporals Fuller and Blunt.” Too upset to rise, Radcliff extended his hand, which Beaumont grasped politely; his palm, unlike Radcliff’s, was dry. “Some ale?” Ingram asked him, as he took a seat.
“Yes, thanks.”
“We meet at last, sir,” said Radcliff, exerting the utmost control to hide his shock. “Ingram told me you served six years abroad. We’re looking for men of your calibre. You would be most welcome to ride as an officer in our troop.” Beaumont inclined his head minimally, as if to acknowledge the offer. “Although you may have a prior commitment,” Radcliff continued, curiosity getting the better of him. “To my Lord Falkland, or so Ingram mentioned.”
This time Beaumont made no response. He cast Ingram a sidelong glance, at which Ingram winced back at him with an air of mute apology.
“Here’s to the King,” Radcliff said, distributing ale amongst them.
“To the King,” chorused Blunt and Fuller.
About to reach for his cup, Beaumont pushed back his sleeve with a casual movement, exposing his wrist. Radcliff tried not to stare. Sweat broke out on his brow, and a while passed before he could speak. “A war wound, is it?” he said, pointing at the scar.
Beaumont smiled and shook his head, his face lighting up in a charming manner. “I got into an argument over some cards,” he replied. He had an undistinguished accent, lacking the crisp intonation typical of an aristocrat.
Radcliff swallowed, his mouth parched in spite of the ale. “When did it happen?”
“Oh, last winter.”
“And where were you then?” Radcliff said, aware from the slight impatience in Beaumont’s eyes that he was pressing too far. But he was now almost certain.
“In The Hague.”
“Knife, was it?” Fuller put in.
“No. Someone cut me with a broken bottle.”
“Nasty, that,” Blunt said.
Radcliff picked up his cup to raise it to his mouth, then quickly set it down again; he was feeling sick to his stomach.
“What’s the matter, Radcliff?” Ingram asked. “You don’t seem well.”
Radcliff essayed a smile. “Must be the heat.”
“You’re white as a ghost, sir,” Fuller said. “You should rest. We’ll see to the drill this afternoon.”
“I do thank you,” Radcliff said, through his teeth, as they all got up. “A short sleep is probably what I need.”
“You have to leave, too?” Beaumont asked Ingram.
“Duty calls.” Ingram gestured in the direction of Wilmot. “You can always rejoin the Commissioner General, Beaumont. He seems to be a great friend of yours.”