Authors: Claire Letemendia
“I was sick of fighting.”
“You’d been a soldier for years. What made you stop, just like that? Was it something that you did?”
Laurence sighed and looked up at her. “Yes. And something I failed to prevent.”
“You might feel better, for talking of it,” she suggested.
She might be right, he thought. “Well,” he began, “there was a town we’d laid siege to, I can’t even remember the name of it. We’d taken our share of dead and wounded, so we were ready to celebrate when it fell. We sacked a warehouse and I found some barrels hidden away. We got drunk. Later, when we had to move on, I was ordered to round up a few of the men who were missing.” He paused, and pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders.
“Go on, Monsieur.”
“I found them with a woman.”
“Nothing new to them, or to you,” Juana murmured.
“Oh, but it wasn’t my kind of entertainment. She was hugely pregnant – she must have been very near to giving birth – and they were raping her one at a time, as her children watched.”
“Hmm. And what did you do?”
“I told them to leave her alone. They didn’t approve. The last man, as he was finished, took his sword and stuck it right up her. Such a lot of blood – I’d never seen so much come out so fast. I was carrying two pistols. I shot him dead. The others bolted.”
“You should have shot them all. They were animals!”
“Were they? I knew them as my companions, my comrades in battle who’d risk their lives to come to each other’s aid – and to mine, for that matter. But after some privation and suffering, followed by victory and liquor, that’s what became of them.”
“They deserved to die. They killed a woman and her unborn infant.”
“They didn’t kill her.” Laurence took a breath. “She was still
screaming in agony. So I … I shot her in the head, as you might some horse that’s no good any more. I shot her in front of her children. You should have seen their faces. It made me wish I’d fired that second ball into my own skull.”
Juana frowned at him. “She would not have survived, and anyway, why should you carry this with you, as if you blame yourself? You surprise me, Monsieur. I have witnessed far worse cruelties, and learnt to put them from my mind.”
“I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to do that,” he said, at which she smiled, as if to herself, and fed the last twigs to the flames.
During his journey to Oxford on the morning after the storm, Laurence drew his horse off the road every so often into the shelter of trees, anticipating that a figure might be shadowing him, yet there was never anyone suspicious in sight. The hot weather had broken: torrential rain overnight had petered off into a steady drizzle, the wind blew cold, and the roads became bogged with treacherous puddles, in several of which carts had become hopelessly stuck. Even his own progress was slowed.
He arrived at Merton around six in the evening, tired and chilled. Leaving his horse at the College stable, he hurried over to Seward’s rooms with the sword tucked under his cloak.
There he found Seward in fine spirits, sharing sack posset with a companion. “Take off that wet cloak, Beaumont, and sit down,” he said. “I don’t believe you’ve met Dr. Isaac Clarke.”
Clarke more than filled his chair: his posterior and thighs spilled over the edges of it. The contours of his face resembled those of a well-nourished baby, and his old-fashioned scholar’s robe was so strained over his belly that Laurence could glimpse the spotless linen shirt beneath it. “Ah, yes, you are Thomas’ older brother,” he declared, in a fruity baritone. “You left College before my time, but I took him in rhetoric. Is
heredity not a mysterious thing,” he added to Seward. “How one child of the same parents may be as different from another as a changeling.”
“Beaumont resembles his mother, though he must be tired of hearing it remarked upon,” said Seward, as he resumed his chair and draped the striped cat over his knees. “Clarke and I have been discussing Merton politics,” he informed Laurence.
“We suspect that our Warden, Nathaniel Brent, is about to abscond to the rebels in Parliament,” elaborated Clarke. “We should have predicted it earlier. He’s full of venom for bishops, and quarrelled with Archbishop Laud on the issue of religious reforms at the College.”
“He’ll have to escape to his house in London when Oxford declares for His Majesty,” Seward said, offering the silver posset cup to Laurence, who refused; from childhood he had detested the sweet, custardy drink. “Still, support for the King is not as strong here as we might hope. The merchants care only about their purses, and the students are unruly and without proper direction, liable to be swayed by any street demagogue.”
“If Brent does run off,” Clarke said, shaking his head, his jowls wobbling back and forth, “I fear he may take with him most of the College plate!”
Laurence sighed and glared at Seward, willing him to send Clarke away.
“Beaumont,” said Seward, “you’ve something preying on you. You may speak freely in Clarke’s presence.”
“No, no.” Clarke heaved himself up. “I shall be going. But, Seward, please listen to my advice about Illingsworth. He is liable to take advantage of you and could prove very dangerous indeed.”
“No need to tell me,” Seward said huffily, brushing the cat off his lap and reaching for his pipe. “I am already tiring of him.”
“Don’t lend him any more money and you’ll be rid of the pest, that’s what I say. Good night to you, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Who’s this Illingsworth?” Laurence asked Seward, when they were alone.
“A student of mine.”
“I heard you’d given up teaching.”
“I made an exception in his case. He’s a very gifted boy whose parents can barely afford to keep him here.”
“How very generous of you. Or has he found another way to pay you for his lessons?”
“Never mind him, you impudent fellow. Did you finish the transcription?”
“As much of it as I could. Enough to know that it
is
about regicide.”
“Heavens,” murmured Seward, and his hands shook as Laurence passed him the papers. “But these are all in your illegible scrawl!”
“I’ll explain why I only brought you copies.” In a rush, Laurence told of his encounter with Poole. “I don’t understand how the conspirators found me. But there are so many people that might have known me in The Hague, a number of whom are here in England again. And they talk too much.”
“Yet how could they have known about the letters when you didn’t learn of their existence yourself until you reached France? No – it is my guess that the conspirators used magic to locate you,” Seward stated sombrely. “If one of them is an adept of the Hermetic school, he might have employed a scrying bowl or a crystal to divine your whereabouts.”
Laurence gave a derisive snort and sat forward. “Seward, in case something happens to me, I’ve left the letters in a hole in the wall near the gatehouse to my father’s property.” He described where Seward could find them, and then, reminded of his father, he took out the script for Dr. Earle and put it on Seward’s desk. He was now so nervous about having used the conspirators’ cipher that he felt inclined to burn it straight away, but Seward’s grate was cold.
Seward was reading over his transcription. “This is unfinished. You did not apply yourself.”
“Yes, I did, for days and nights, which is why I took so long in coming back here. The code concealed a mathematical cipher, which I managed to break parts of. But you see these numbers, in series? I think they represent names, of people and places crucial to the conspiracy. I couldn’t make any sense of them, except where they refer to the King and his son Prince Charles. Those names I could assume from the context. But that’s all.”
“Your writing is too much of a dog’s breakfast for my feeble eyes, and in this poor light. Tell me what you’ve found out.”
“Remember you said that one of the authors had a bold hand? I have the impression that he’s the master of the conspiracy,” Laurence said. “The other letter I’m sure was written
to
him some time later, judging from its contents, and of course it’s in the same hand as the astrological calculations.” He stopped, to catch his breath. “I suspect that the second author invented the code, or introduced it to his master. If you compare the letters, the master has an assertive hand but he’s blotted some of his words by hesitating over them. The second author’s script flows perfectly, and the horoscope is in his writing. If he’s familiar with astrology he could also be knowledgeable about the Cabbala. Just as you are.” Seward furrowed his brow, as if he did not appreciate the compliment. “Anyhow,” Laurence went on, “the money Juana stole was for arms, to be bought in The Hague, presumably.”
“Wait – you think the master’s letter is dated earlier. Start with that.”
“He writes that he anticipates a war and must know the propitious time to act in order to save the country from ruin. He’s convinced that the King himself poses the greatest obstacle to peace.”
“And does he say how he reached that conclusion?”
“No, but he sounds as if he’s a courtier well acquainted with His
Majesty. And he mentions others, both at Court and in Parliament, who might be persuaded to his side.”
“Their names are still a mystery?” Laurence nodded. “And how will the deed be done?”
“The King will be spirited away to some place, also a mystery, and a hired assassin will take care of him. The master doesn’t say how, but his own hands will look clean. Then he’ll see to it that when Prince Charles takes the throne, he’ll be appointed as protector until the boy comes of age. So I assume that the Prince, too, is well known to him and would trust him.”
“And Her Majesty?”
“I couldn’t find any reference to her. At any rate, that’s the essence of the first letter.”
“And the second, that you believe was written by his accomplice, our astrological adept?”
“It’s all about business: how much the arms will cost, and when the purchase will take place, how they’ll be shipped over and who’ll receive them, though that was another name I couldn’t transcribe.”
“Dear God! Our master conspirator must be powerful indeed, to cherish such ambitions.”
“But he has a problem,” Laurence said, picking up the sheet of paper covered in bold writing. “He insists here several times that all correspondence must be destroyed immediately on receipt. His accomplice obviously disobeyed him and kept this very damning letter, I think to betray the conspiracy if need be, or to have a hold over him.”
“No surprise, then, that the accomplice tried so hard to get all his letters back.”
“And is still trying.”
There was a pause; then Seward asked, “Did you bring the sword?” Laurence unwrapped it from the cloak and passed it to him. “I see
initials inscribed on the blade,” he said, after squinting at it, “but the script is so ornate I can’t read them.”
“I know. Neither could I.”
“And a decorative pattern – of flowers.”
“Look, Seward,” Laurence burst out, “you must get away from here at once. I can’t blame myself for showing you the letters since I didn’t know what they were about, but I’ll definitely blame myself for what might befall you next. These men may know I came to see you. They could be a threat to you, too.”
“My life has been imperilled before,” Seward said calmly. “I shall go, when I judge fit, to a house Clarke owns in the country.”
“You should go tonight.”
“No, no. In the morning, when my head is not fogged by sack posset, I shall study the transcription. That man Poole said he would give you a few days to consider his offer, after all. If I am successful, you must fetch the original letters and ride to His Majesty, wherever he may be. And I shall arrange an absence from the College, and pack my books, and so on.”
“I’m staying with you until I see you out of here.”
“The King’s life is more important than mine.”
“Not to me.”
“If you insist, my dear fellow,” Seward sighed, relenting. “Clarke will keep contact between us. I shall send you a message through him – he has my absolute trust. It will all turn out for the best, you’ll see. As I told you before, when Fortune challenges, you must act boldly if you are to seize the advantage. She is a woman as well as a goddess, after all, and you’ve always had a way with the female sex.”
Laurence smiled sourly. “I almost forgot to mention, my parents have found a wife for me. The daughter of some family in the neighbourhood.”
“Are you to have your wings clipped at last?” Seward let out a wheezy chuckle. “It’s about time.”
While the musicians were tuning their instruments for a dance after the wedding feast, Radcliff drew Kate into the garden. “Open it,” he said, pressing a small velvet pouch into her hand. As he watched her pull at the woven cord that fastened it, he suppressed anger. One necklace was all he could save of what Pembroke had given him for her. The other jewels he had sold off with some difficulty: there was only a buyer’s market for such luxuries, with the country on the verge of war. Although he had been able to raise nearly a hundred pounds, he knew that was less than they were worth. And if Beaumont had indeed told Joshua Poole the truth, the sacrifice might be in vain. “If it doesn’t please –” Radcliff began, but she interrupted him.
“It is beautiful.”
“Rubies set with pearls,” he told her, unnecessarily. “Allow me.” She let him put it on, and it looked so splendid about her white throat that he dismissed all anxiety, imagining her as she would be in a few hours, in bed with him. “You must wear this tonight. Kate, now that we’re married, we shall learn to know each other, and love each other more.”
“You will be away, though, with your troop,” she remarked, in her dispassionate way.
“I promise, I won’t neglect you,” he whispered, touching her skin beneath the necklace.
“We are neglecting our guests,” she said, and turned back towards the house.
“Yes,” he agreed, “and I must thank your brother properly. What a banquet he laid out for us.”
“Richard’s happy to be free of me.”
“That’s not true.”
“But it is,” she insisted.
As they returned to the brightness of the hall, he could not help asking, “Are
you
happy, Kate?”