Authors: Claire Letemendia
“Perhaps, but Beaumont wouldn’t. He’s a sceptic about such things.”
“Ah, well, I’d have liked to know him better, for your sake,” Radcliff said next, in a tone that puzzled Ingram.
“You talk as if he’s dead!”
Radcliff cleared his throat. “Dear me, I pray not – I want us to be friends.”
“You shall be, in time,” Ingram said, wondering what had become of Beaumont, and whether he had enlisted after all.
They reached Worcester the next day. Many years of peace had left its defences in a sorry state, and the Prince declared that he had no intention of wasting valuable troops in attempting to secure it for His Majesty, so they would retreat again. They had received intelligence that the main body of Essex’s army was closing in, but that his artillery had lagged behind, slowed by the thick clay soil of the local roads. To cover the rest of the Royalist troops as they removed themselves from Worcester, Rupert took his cavalry a couple of miles out towards the little town of Powick. There they dismounted and positioned themselves in a small depression just north of the River Teme, preparing to harass the enemy as it crossed over at Powick Bridge. Dragoons were sent to line the tall hedgerows that grew along the narrow lane leading to the bridge, as the troops of horse waited in the field into which the lane opened.
It was a dry, windy afternoon. The horses were drinking at the Teme, and the men were at ease, their breastplates removed for comfort
when, from far off, they heard the thunder of hooves. At once the alert was given: Prince Rupert was ordering a charge on the enemy as soon as it came into view. They had not even time to buckle on their armour before mounting. Their dragoons fired first on Parliament’s cavalrymen, who were moving only four abreast down the lane. The Prince had laid a clever trap: the cavalry had no opportunity to draw up in formation while under attack. Ingram got a view of these fellows, no different from himself; and his stomach cramped with fear at the thought that he must shoot to kill.
He raised his pistol with one hand, struggling to control his excited horse with the other. Over yells from both sides and the neighing of beasts, he caught Radcliff shouting, “Hold your fire until the last minute! They’re breaking! They’re breaking already!”
It seemed impossible to aim over the thick ranks of their own side. Ingram realised that the enemy was attempting to back up and re-form, but to no avail. A small party had escaped, forcing its way through the Royalist ranks, but the remaining riders, unable to follow, panicked and fled along the far edge of the field. Some were taken down by Royalist shots and thrown into the hedgerows, their mounts plunging off with empty saddles into a nearby copse of hazel trees. Rupert and the other officers rushed forward on the hapless bunch that had been caught at the mouth of the lane. Soon the air was full of acrid gunpowder that brought tears to Ingram’s eyes, and his ears rang with the terrible cacophony of screaming and clashing steel and exploding shot. An enemy soldier, pressed from behind, was coming straight at him. He fired, but his hand was trembling and he missed his target. Someone else must have shot at the same time, however, for the man cried out and clutched his arm as his horse reared. He slipped out of the saddle, and Ingram saw him no more.
Squinting through the smoke and dust, Ingram was swept along in the rout, as the King’s troops pursued the enemy towards the river.
Parliament’s officers were bellowing for their men to stand their ground, though the troopers would have none of it and rushed on, in pathetic disorder.
In little more than an hour the action was over. As the air cleared, Ingram saw the bodies of men and horses littered about, awkwardly splayed in death. He felt a strange distance between himself and the surrounding scene, as though he had been an actor in some well-crafted drama that would soon end, everyone rising, smiling and unhurt, to brush off their costumes. He watched the enemy prisoners, crestfallen wretches, being disarmed and herded together on foot, their mounts roped up in a separate part of the field. One stout, red-faced officer wept over another man whose cheek was cut open and covered in blood, a large, darker stain flowering over his belly. Not far from the front hooves of Ingram’s horse, a severed arm lay on the muddy turf, its hand still gloved. He had a moment of faintness, and could not breathe.
“Easy, now,” said Radcliff, reining in beside him.
“Thank the Lord you’re safe,” Ingram said.
“And you?”
“Not a scratch.”
“All I have is a small cut to my thigh. I should have worn a longer coat and his blade would not have pierced me. But I gave him worse, poor soul.” Ingram looked down at the cut and swallowed hard. “Ingram,” Radcliff said, “you did well today, as did we all. Can’t you hear our troops rejoicing?”
As they fell into rank for the journey back to Worcester, a sensation much like drunkenness seeped into Ingram’s veins. No longer faint, he was cheering with the rest of them, feeling part of one greater brotherhood. Even Blunt and Fuller offered him congratulations.
They left the wounded prisoners in the city; then, with those captives fit enough to travel, they moved about twenty miles northwest to Tenbury to set up camp and tend to their own injured. Ingram was
exhausted with the deep, almost drug-like fatigue that Radcliff had told him always came over men after a battle. That night he slept soundly for the first time since he had joined the army.
From Oxford, Laurence rode over a hundred miles northwest to reach the King’s camp at Chester. His immersion in the river had left him with a hacking cough and he could stop just briefly to rest his horse, since he was passing through territory even more hostile to the Royalist cause than Nottingham had been. When he arrived, he was too late to secure an audience with His Majesty, so he spent the night in a field, coughing and spluttering so much that he could hardly sleep, despite his exhaustion.
In the morning he went to the royal quarters only to encounter Lord Falkland leaving them, accompanied by his manservant.
“Mr. Beaumont, what are you doing here?” Falkland asked sternly. “And why did you disappear from Colonel Hoare’s service without his permission?”
“I’ve come to see His Majesty,” Laurence replied, ignoring the second question.
Falkland waved away his servant. “About the regicides?” he whispered to Laurence.
“Yes, my lord.”
“So you would take the matter into your own hands! The King has enough to concern him, at present, without your addressing him on an issue that he would in any case delegate to me.”
“Have you informed him that someone is plotting to assassinate him?”
“Sir, he hears daily of a thousand conspiracies –”
“I wonder about that,” Laurence shot back. “Forgive me, my lord,” he added hastily, “but it’s vital that I see him.”
“Alas, Mr. Beaumont, he may not be inclined to receive you.”
Laurence sighed; he could guess why. “I know what Colonel Hoare thinks of me,” he said, “but I brought you those letters in good faith. And I would have come to meet you again before you left for London if he hadn’t prevented me.”
Falkland nodded, his expression softening. “It was Hoare who suggested employing you, under my auspices, to hunt out these assassins.”
“To prove I’m not mixed up with them, as he seems to suspect. We would have caught them in Aylesbury if his guards hadn’t fallen into a most unnecessary skirmish with Essex’s men.
And
we lost the letters. We’re just lucky that I made copies of them.”
“True. Yet according to him, we have three of the conspirators’ names.”
“But no material evidence.”
“Well if you are here to see the King, I presume you’ve learnt something new.”
“Yes, I have.” Laurence decided to rearrange the facts a little. “When I listened in on the conspirators’ conversation at Aylesbury, I overheard one of them, Tyler, say that he might head for Oxford. The reason I didn’t mention this to Hoare when I reported to him was that I wanted to go to Oxford alone, without his men tagging after me. In the end, I managed to find Tyler and got some information out of him. But we fought, and he escaped me – he’s an enormous man, much stronger than I am.”
“What is the substance of this information?” Falkland inquired keenly.
“He said that Mr. Rose is an officer serving with Prince Rupert. And the chief conspirator is some important nobleman in London. Tyler claimed not to know his name.”
Falkland looked disappointed. “That is all?”
“It’s a start,” Laurence said, barely controlling his annoyance. “My
lord, please let me work on my own and report straight to you. Hoare and his men will only slow me down.”
“I cannot do that, sir. You must go and apprise Hoare immediately of these developments. He is in Shrewsbury, where we will be marching in a couple of days once we pick up as many levies as we can.”
“On that subject, I’ve enlisted with Henry Wilmot.”
“Have you? Your father suggested to me that you did not care for active duty.” Laurence had to smile; so Falkland thought him a coward, as well as a reprobate. “Mr. Beaumont, I am sorry that your relations with Hoare are less cordial than you might wish, but you must obey me. Don’t try to circumvent my authority again – or his, for that matter. Prince Rupert’s regiment is also at Shrewsbury. Perhaps you will find Mr. Rose within his ranks.” Seized by a fit of coughing, Laurence could merely nod in response. “I shall impress upon His Majesty the danger he may be in,” Falkland added, as though to placate Laurence further. “The more we know about the conspirators, however, the easier it will be for me to convince him.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Laurence, his throat thick with phlegm.
“And I shall attempt to ensure that Colonel Hoare will treat you more respectfully in future. Good day, sir.”
Laurence bowed, and waited until Falkland had gone before spitting on the ground.
Throughout supper Mistress Savage had been peculiarly quiet, Margaret observed, as though she were turning something over in her mind. After Sir Robert and Lady Diana had retired to bed, she asked Margaret to come with her to her chamber. Margaret obeyed, though uneasily: what could the woman want of her?
“I must leave Wytham,” Mistress Savage said, closing the door behind them, “but I cannot afford to endanger your master and mistress
by involving them in my departure. Today there were not as many soldiers posted outside, and tonight there may be fewer still.”
“You cannot be so reckless!” Margaret chided. “If they catch you, Sir Robert will be blamed!”
Mistress Savage smiled cunningly. “The rebels should not have shut down London’s playhouses – they might have learnt a thing or two about disguise. I shall dress myself as a boy.”
“Your face as much as your figure will betray you!”
“No, no – I’ve done it before, with some success. All I ask of you is that you find me clothes and a hat. I shall pay you handsomely.”
“I wouldn’t take your money,” Margaret said, scowling at her. “What if Sir Robert wakes up?”
“His bedchamber is too distant for him to hear me.”
“How will you carry all your belongings?”
“I need very little. The lighter I travel the better.”
“Where do you intend to go?”
“That is not your affair. Please, Margaret,” she said testily, “just find me some boys’ clothing and I shall take care of the rest.”
Margaret crept downstairs to the servants’ quarters, her legs wobbly with fear. The potboy was about the same height as Mistress Savage, and he had an old pair of breeches and a doublet that would suit; it would serve her right if they were crawling with lice. After Margaret had begged them off him, she unearthed a battered hat of Sir Robert’s and a short, moth-eaten cloak left behind by some visitor.
She returned to find Mistress Savage stripped to her shift.
“Dear me, I shall not impress the ladies in this costume,” Mistress Savage commented, laughing, when Margaret showed her the garments.
She did not dress immediately, but gathered a bowlful of ash from the fireplace, mixed it with water and dirtied her face, neck, and arms. Around her mouth she painted a hint of darker shadow. She next removed the shift and with a knife cut two broad strips from the lower
part of it. These she tied together and wrapped several times about her breasts. When she pulled on what remained of the shift, it now hung straight down over her flattened bosom. Margaret was watching jealously throughout, wondering how many men had enjoyed the privilege of that body; Sir Robert had once said to his wife that Mistress Savage must have won Lord Digby’s patronage on her back.
“Tell me, Margaret, is your mistress in love with Laurence Beaumont?” she inquired, as she fastened the breeches to the points on her doublet. Margaret said nothing, stunned by Mistress Savage’s perspicacity. “If I have caused her difficulties,
he
could ruin her. I scarcely need to remind you that she is a wife and a mother, and enjoys a decent position in life. He, as far as I can judge, is something of an adventurer, and probably a breaker of hearts.”
“All that was years ago, and it is quite over now,” Margaret retorted. “So you see, she has no need of your advice.”
Mistress Savage was stuffing some coins into a pair of kid boots that she had also blackened with ash. “Ah, then they
were
once lovers,” she remarked, to Margaret’s dismay, as she put on the boots. “Poor Diana – she is not made for adulterous affairs.”
“Perhaps you have more experience in that domain than she.”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Mistress Savage, laughing again. She wound her hair into a tight knot, grabbed the hat and stuck it on her head. “So, how do I appear?”
“Better than I had expected,” Margaret admitted.
Mistress Savage reached into her trunk and pulled out her jewellery box. “Here,” she said, holding it out, “choose something for your pains. They won’t bite! Hurry and choose.” But Margaret refused. With a short sigh, Mistress Savage dumped the contents into a cloth, wrapped it up and tucked it down the front of her breeches. “I shall send for everything else later,” she told Margaret, throwing the cloak
about her shoulders and seizing a small pack that she had ready. “Thank you, and goodbye.”