Authors: Claire Letemendia
“I look forward to that,” Laurence told him, in the same tone.
A fortuitous escape, Radcliff congratulated himself, as he raced out of Aylesbury at breakneck speed. He wished he could have seen Beaumont dead, but Tyler had been chafing for a kill and would not fail him this time; and inside his coffer were all his precious letters, reunited like a happy family. He could not keep the coffer with him, since he was obliged to rejoin his troop, so he headed first towards Madam Musgrave’s house at Faringdon, where he thought he might find a secure place to hide it. He also very much wanted to pay a visit on his wife.
The journey took him much longer than it should have, since he had to dodge military patrols all the way, and when at last he arrived, he guessed at past ten o’clock, the house was in darkness. He knocked loudly at the door and waited impatiently until Madam Musgrave’s old butler answered to him. Then she descended wearing what appeared to be a relic of her days at Court, a padded dressing gown studded with pearls; her coarse, dyed hair was concealed by a huge nightcap, and she was blinking away sleep.
“Sir Bernard, why did you not warn us that you were coming?” she cried, embracing him. “You see that we keep country hours here, but I would have been better prepared, and Kate, too. I shall have her called.”
“No, please,” said Radcliff. “I am only too ready for bed myself.”
“Naturally you are,” Madam Musgrave said, with a salacious smile.
“I mean, madam, that I am tired from my journey.”
“Well since you have been so inconsiderate as to disturb
my
slumber, pray share a drop of sack with me before you go up.”
They went to the hall, and the butler brought them each a large cup of the sweet wine, and a platter of marchpane biscuits that Madam Musgrave instantly attacked. “I am always peckish at night,” she said, in between mouthfuls, spilling crumbs amongst the pearls on her gown. “So, where have you been?”
“At my estate in Cambridgeshire,” Radcliff lied. “I am doing my best to prepare the house, in case the enemy –”
“Have you hidden your plate?” she interrupted. “And your livestock, can you disperse them in any way? As for me, I will not let the rebels slaughter so much as a single one of my sheep if I can help it.” She took a swig of wine, and crunched on another biscuit. “A pity you could not bring your valuables here. I have a priest’s hole upstairs that the papists made good use of in Elizabeth’s reign. I shall not hesitate to conceal whatever I can in there.”
“Is that so,” said Radcliff, suddenly very interested. “I might prevail upon you to store a small coffer of mine that I carried with me. It contains a few items, family heirlooms that I should not want to fall into the hands of Parliament if Longstanton is invaded. I also put in there a gift for Kate’s next birthday,” he added, thinking quickly. “I want it to be a surprise, so if you please, say nothing to her about my coffer.”
“As you wish, sir. But what is the world coming to, that we must resort to such measures to protect our own goods!” Madam Musgrave exclaimed. “And how can those men who presently sit in London think themselves more fit to rule than their rightful King!”
“Is Kate well?” Radcliff asked, to cut short her pontificating.
“Yes, though she spends too much time reading and musing by herself. She does not enjoy sporting pursuits, as I did at her age. She is lonely for you, I think, Sir Bernard.” Radcliff forced a smile, though he
felt irritated, as before, that Madam Musgrave should lecture him about his wife. “For how long can you stay?” she inquired.
“No more than a night, I am sorry to say. I left my troop under the command of some sound fellows who served with me in the campaign abroad, but since we may be engaging with Lord Essex’s army, I must rejoin them as soon as I can. Madam,” he concluded, “might you show me the priest’s hole, before I retire?”
When they had finished their wine, he took his coffer and she led him up to the third floor of her house, through a passageway into a disused, wood-panelled bedchamber. There she guided him to the carved stone mantelpiece over the fireplace. “Watch,” she said, and pressed firmly at a panel on the wall nearby. It flipped open to reveal a small lever that she turned, before moving back to the mantel. Placing both hands on one of its stone curlicues, she shifted it away and pointed out to him another lever. “Turn it clockwise,” she ordered, and as he did, he was amazed to see a far larger panel in the wall slide away, leaving a gap just big enough for a man to squeeze through. She grabbed a candle and went in, as he followed, descending along a narrow staircase to a door on their left-hand side. She pushed it wide, and they entered a little room festooned with cobwebs, various objects packed against its walls.
“Does Kate know of this place?” he asked, peering about.
“Yes, but she doesn’t know how to get into it, and she never visits the third floor,” Madam Musgrave replied, with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, sir. Your surprise won’t be found out.”
He stored away the coffer, they ascended, and she slid back the panel to close the hole. “I thank you, Aunt,” he said, delighted; he could not have invented a more secret location. “Now you will excuse me.”
“Go to your beloved, sir. You newlyweds have much to catch up on.”
Tiptoeing into Kate’s chamber, he could hear the sound of her breathing, regular in sleep. But after he had undressed, and as he was climbing into bed, she started and cried out.
“Shhh, Kate, it’s me,” he said.
“When did you arrive?”
“But an hour ago. How I’ve waited to be in your arms again.” He kissed her, parting her lips with his tongue and caressing her face and hair. When he unfastened the front of her nightgown and touched her breasts, she did not resist, so he took her as she lay, on her back, entering her as gently as he could. He kissed her with more passion, and in contrast to their last time together he held back his own climax until he heard her breath quicken, although whether from excitement or from the vigour of his thrusts he could not tell. “Are you close?” he whispered. “My darling, are you close?” Perhaps she did not understand, for she said nothing, and he could restrain himself no longer.
He stayed in her afterwards, enjoying the warmth of her body. Then he realised that she must be uncomfortable under his weight, and he rolled to one side, cradling her head on his shoulder. He felt cleansed, as though the moment of orgasm had washed away all anxiety. His error in The Hague could not come back to haunt him. And now, at almost forty, he had only two and a half years to wait for the fulfilment of his and Pembroke’s hopes, if his calculations on that all-important horoscope were correct.
Radcliff had first met Philip Herbert at the Pembrokes’ family seat, Wilton House, in the autumn of 1629. Then twenty-six and hungry for advancement, Radcliff had settled on Herbert as a possible means to this end, detecting in the man an even stronger hunger for power than his own, which encouraged rather than chastened him. Named after an uncle, the distinguished soldier and courtier Sir Philip Sidney, Herbert had not yet inherited the earldom from his older brother, William, but had nevertheless secured prominence under the new king Charles. His Majesty was a familiar guest at Wilton, where the
Herberts could show off their collection of paintings and sculpture, stables rumoured to be the best in the country, and grounds teeming with game. The King had appointed Philip Herbert his Lord Chamberlain, as a tribute to the favour in which the former monarch James had held him. Yet William stood between Philip and the title, and this, Radcliff quickly ascertained, was the fly in his ointment.
When a friend of Radcliff’s fell sick and could not attend a hunt arranged on the Wilton estate, Radcliff had gladly accepted to go in his stead, and made sure to stay near Philip Herbert’s side as they galloped after their prey. At the end of the chase, sweaty and breathless, they had exchanged courtesies, and Radcliff conceived of a scheme to attract his interest.
It took months of cultivating common acquaintances, running small errands, and sending the occasional gift to Herbert, simple but well chosen, until eventually Radcliff was invited to Wilton to attend a masque. Herbert seated him close by his side and seemed to be studying him as he watched the spectacle, the theme of which was the triumph of true religion over the corrupt and scheming Roman church. Afterwards, Herbert beckoned him out into the gardens to talk.
“I do fear for the Protestant cause abroad,” Herbert began, as they strolled about, inhaling the mild spring evening air. “His Majesty could be keener in his support for it. And ever since the Duke of Buckingham’s tragic murder last year, he appears to be listening more and more to the Queen’s advice.” Radcliff kept silent, aware that he was being tested in some way. “Understand me,” Herbert continued, “I am utterly devoted to His Majesty. But I worry that the Queen and her priests will try to bring us back under the yoke of papism. Look what misery our country endured less than a hundred years ago under Queen Mary! Must we see more Protestant martyrs burnt at the stake?”
“All those of our faith must be as worried,” murmured Radcliff.
“You seem a judicious person. Have you no desire to stand for the Commons?”
Radcliff smiled and shook his head. “I have my views, but I am not a good speaker. I leave public life to others more suited for the role.”
“You prefer to remain offstage, is that it? Yet you don’t strike me as a man who likes obscurity. You’ve plenty of time to reconsider, at your age. Where is your estate?”
“In Cambridgeshire. It’s modest, but it gives me a healthy income,” Radcliff added, untruthfully: he could not be seen asking for any favours, money least of all.
“Are you married yet?”
“No, my lord.”
“Enjoy your freedom while you have no provincial wife to embarrass you,” Herbert advised, with a harsh laugh. “Now, what can I do for you? I assume you have some preferment in mind, or you would not be so assiduously courting me.”
“If I may speak plainly, my lord,” said Radcliff, his answer well rehearsed, “I believe you stand in need of my skills.”
“Your skills?”
“Every man wants to know what the future might bring him. A great man especially.”
“What do you mean by that? Tell me
plainly
, if that is how you would speak.”
“I am trained in the casting of horoscopes. I was told by a master of the art that I had a natural talent for it.”
“Ha! What else can you do, raise spirits? Find the philosopher’s stone?”
Radcliff assumed a hurt expression. “Let it be forgotten, what I said. Forgive me. I should never have presumed upon your patience.”
Herbert stopped walking and turned to him. “Presume upon it again and tell me how you gained your training.”
Radcliff smelt victory, in spite of Herbert’s disdainful tone. “The adept who instructed me is an Oxford scholar, a student of the great John Dee and Robert Fludd. He recognised my abilities and was able to hone them as no one else could.”
“There are countless rogues who lay claim to such learning,” Herbert said, “although Dee
was
an exceptional man.” Radcliff’s heart quickened at this: he had mentioned the name on purpose, knowing that Dee had been well received in former times by Herbert’s uncle and aunt, Philip Sidney and his learned sister Mary. “I would need proof,” Herbert went on.
“And I would be neither so rash nor so conceited as to make a vain boast.”
“Of what benefit could your horoscopes be to me?”
“I repeat, every man wishes to know what the future may bring him.”
Herbert said nothing for a while. “You can foretell events?” he asked, at length.
“I have had success at it more often than not.”
“A necromancer, are you?”
“No, my lord.”
Herbert walked on, and Radcliff followed, anticipating what he would be asked next. “Could you foretell the time of a death, for example?”
“It is possible.”
“The matter must go no further than the two of us.” Herbert stopped once more to face him, looking straight into his eyes. “I’ll do worse than ruin you, if you blab about it.”
“I swear by Jesus Christ that your confidence is safe with me.”
“Then I’ll give you a chance to prove yourself. My brother is most concerned about his health. He has had fits – he is of an apoplectic nature – and they have worsened of late. He wishes to know how much longer he has to … to prepare himself for the end.” Herbert heaved a funereal sigh, and Radcliff rejoiced inwardly.
“If you will supply the necessary information as to his exact place and hour of birth, I shall do my best to assist him,” he said.
In the event, his calculations were astoundingly accurate, even by his standards. The third Earl was struck down by a severe fit on the tenth of April 1630, just a day earlier than predicted. Philip Herbert, at last Earl of Pembroke, declared that he and Radcliff would both benefit from a closer association. And so Radcliff pledged himself to the man’s service, feeling like an explorer setting out to discover immeasurable wealth and glory, but guided by an uncertain map, and driven to depend upon fellow travellers who might fail him in the last resort.
Seward placed his silver bowl upon the table, filled it with water, and sat down to gaze into it. Practice had taught him how to banish from his mind the distractions of the physical world in order to seek out knowledge inaccessible to most people. But tonight he was worrying about Isaac Clarke, who had ridden back to Oxford earlier in the day because of rumours that Parliament was about to occupy the city. Poor Clarke was afraid that his collection of rare books might be taken out and burnt by some philistine rebel soldiers.
With an effort, Seward tried to focus on the object of his scrying, and as he turned his thoughts to Beaumont, he seemed to wander backward rather than forward in time, as if to wrestle the future from the past.
They had been introduced in Lord Beaumont’s library, just before Beaumont was to come up to Merton. Seward could still recall that first impression. The boy owed nothing to his father but his height: the clear golden skin, the inky hair, the fine bones, and the alien set of his green eyes came unmistakably from his mother, although his mouth was different, softer and more mobile. He was all arms and legs, and
ill-groomed. And when he smiled at Seward like some teasing elf, Seward had been instantly smitten.