Authors: Claire Letemendia
Laurence could only hope for a victory over the Parliamentary army massing under the Earl of Essex: if the King triumphed, Oxford would be liberated. Yet it might be too late for Seward, he realised despondently.
“There’s a fellow called Thomas Beaumont in my regiment,” Wilmot said to him one evening. “He raised his own troop. Any relation?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Hmm! I saw him in action, at Powick. He’s got guts.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“Do I detect a little fraternal discord?”
“No, merely a difference of character.”
“How’s my cipher coming along?”
“It’s almost finished.”
“About time. We’ll be leaving Shrewsbury in under a week. Then you’ll have to fulfil the other part of our agreement. I told you, I’m going to put you in my Lifeguard.”
“To be honest,” Laurence said, “I’d rather just be a humble soldier.”
“Humble, my arse,” Wilmot growled back.
Laurence sighed; he appreciated Wilmot’s offer, but he still had to locate Mr. Rose. He also wanted to talk with Ingram, who might know something about Radcliff’s connection to Pembroke. Strange, though, that he had not mentioned it to Laurence when he first spoke of his new brother-in-law.
The next day Laurence completed the cipher. As he and Wilmot were poring over it together in Mr. Fulford’s parlour, a blond, smartly dressed gentleman walked in.
“My Lord Digby,” exclaimed Wilmot, bowing.
“You’re very comfortable here, Wilmot, more so than where I am,” Digby remarked. “And who, pray, is your friend?”
“Laurence Beaumont, my lord.”
Digby surveyed Laurence, his blue eyes curious. “Ah yes,” he murmured ambiguously. “Wilmot, might the house have accommodation for another person?”
“Don’t raise your hopes. There’s not room enough for you and all of your retinue, my lord.”
“Oh, it’s not for myself that I ask, but for a lady who cannot tolerate my inferior lodgings, which are perishing draughty. She has been unwell, you see. She came to Shrewsbury after a misadventure in Oxford,
and a journey that was even more insufferable. She lost my father’s coach to Parliament and nearly lost her life getting away from the rebels.” Isabella Savage, thought Laurence, with a flicker of interest. “In fact,” Digby said, “she is waiting outside.”
Wilmot began to laugh. “So you didn’t plan on being refused.”
“I try not to be, as a rule. I shall summon her.”
As Digby was about to go, Mrs. Fulford entered and dropped them a curtsey. “My Lord Digby,” she said, “what an honour! Is that your wife you have with you?”
“No, madam. My dearest Anne has not followed me on our campaign. She is at home with our children. The lady you saw is my ward, Mistress Savage,” he continued, his eyes again on Laurence, who pretended not to notice. “She is indisposed, and I was about to beg you the favour of sheltering her under your roof for a few days until she recovers her health.”
“It would be my privilege,” said Mrs. Fulford. “I shall help her in.”
When the women arrived, Laurence caught Wilmot appraising Isabella with a lasciviousness that vexed him, even if he might have predicted it. Mrs. Fulford was supporting her, one arm about her waist, as though she were unable to walk unaided. Her face had a sallow hue, and she was dressed not in her plain travelling costume but in an ill-fitting dress that hung loosely on her frame.
“Isabella Savage, this is Henry Wilmot, gallant Commissioner General of His Majesty’s Horse,” Digby said. “I think you and my ward are already acquainted, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Yes, we are,” said Laurence blandly, and he and Isabella exchanged the appropriate courtesies.
“Where are your things, madam?” Mrs. Fulford asked.
“Such baggage as I had was left behind, in Oxford,” Isabella replied.
“You shall want for nothing in my house. My lord, gentlemen, I must put her straight to bed,” said Mrs. Fulford, and the women disappeared.
“Straight to bed is where
I’d
like to put her,” Wilmot told Laurence, under his breath.
“I do thank you, Wilmot,” Digby was saying. “And now I shall leave you, for I have much to accomplish tonight.” His eyes strayed to the papers on a table between Laurence and Wilmot, and he wandered forward to inspect them. “What’s this – an exercise in algebra?”
“Yes, my lord,” Laurence said, silently daring him to ask more.
“Are you receiving some instruction from Mr. Beaumont?” Digby asked Wilmot. “He’s a clever fellow, or so I’ve heard.”
“I’ll walk out with you, my lord,” Wilmot said, glancing at Laurence as he ferried Digby off.
Laurence snatched up the papers to convey them to the safety of his chamber, but at the foot of the stairs he was stopped by Mrs. Fulford. “Mistress Savage wishes to speak with you, sir,” she said. “You will find her in the front room. How lovely she is!”
“Er … I suppose,” Laurence said.
“Mr. Beaumont, are you immune to
all
women?” whispered Mrs. Fulford, taking a step closer to him. “I think of you sometimes, at night, as I lie in my bed. Perhaps you have thought of me?”
“Every night, madam, before I go to sleep,” he told her, with the utmost gravity. “I think of you and your husband’s kindness, and I pray that God will reward you both for it.” And he squeezed by her, running upstairs in a few bounds.
He found Isabella settled in a big four-poster, tucked beneath a thick counterpane. She now wore a modest, high-necked nightgown that he guessed must belong to their hostess, and her hair, loose upon her shoulders, had been combed to a glossy sheen. “How are you, Beaumont?” she said in a friendly manner, as if they had not parted on bad terms.
“More to the point, how are you?”
“I am mending slowly. It’s a quartain fever that afflicts me at regular intervals, like an unwelcome but familiar visitor. Although it goes away,
it always leaves me very weak.” She motioned for him to sit down beside her, which he did, at a respectable distance. “While in Oxford I stayed with Diana Stratton, a friend of mine, and more than that to you, as I discovered.” He must have shown his surprise, for Isabella went on, “Don’t worry, she did not betray any past secrets, but it was quite clear to me that she is still in love with you, even though you are evidently finished with her.”
“What was this misadventure you had in Oxford?” Laurence asked.
She frowned at his evasion. “Parliament’s troops made me a virtual captive at Sir Robert Stratton’s house because of the coach I was travelling in. They accused me of carrying intelligence for Digby, though they found none at all. Then I felt I had overstayed my visit – Sir Robert and I have never rubbed along. So I escaped by means of an old subterfuge.”
“Which was?”
“I disguised myself as a youth.”
“You’re joking! You mustn’t do it again.”
“I do as I please. And
you
have no right to reprove me. You abandoned me on the road with only a coachman to protect my honour.”
“Very true,” he admitted. “I’m sorry for that, Isabella.”
“Beaumont,” she recommenced, after a pause, “you know what I said about Colonel Hoare seeking to have Falkland removed from office? I have discovered someone who can bear witness to the fact, a man named Captain Milne who used to be one of his guards until they quarrelled a short time ago. He has seen Hoare intercepting his lordship’s private correspondence, opening it and then resealing it in such a way that Falkland would have no idea that it had been tampered with. Hoare is also keeping a record of anything that interests him.”
“Really,” said Laurence. “Captain Milne should inform Falkland at once.”
“Milne is in Prince Rupert’s regiment, as is Hoare. He’s afraid that
Hoare might find out if he goes anywhere near the Secretary of State. But
you
could warn Falkland, so that he is at least aware of what Hoare is doing.”
“Why not warn him yourself?”
“How can I, when I am tied to my sickbed?” He cast her a sceptical look. “You still mistrust me,” she said crossly. “What was it you called me last time – Digby’s errand boy. I have never been so insulted.”
“Well you do seem to enjoy male disguise,” he observed.
“Try just for one day being a woman in a world ruled by men!” She heaved a short sigh. “Beaumont, will you talk to Falkland? Can’t you see the trouble that unscrupulous spymaster of his could bring upon him?”
Laurence stood up. “You must be very tired. I should let you rest.”
She opened her mouth, perhaps to insist again, then clearly changed her mind. “Yes, I am,” she said, smiling at him. “But will you come and see me later, to entertain me?”
“I could send Wilmot to keep you company,” he suggested, as he went to the door.
“Please don’t. I haven’t the strength to fend him off. Though I gather that I am quite safe with
you
, Beaumont,” she said, her eyes now sparkling at him. “Mrs. Fulford tells me that you are the consummate gentleman.”
“I certainly am, as far as
she
is concerned,” Laurence said, and he heard Isabella laughing as he closed the door behind him.
The following day, after much internal debate, Laurence called on Lord Falkland, who had returned from Chester with the King and was lodged near the quarters occupied by the royal household.
“His lordship is busy,” the Secretary of State’s manservant declared, when Laurence had given his name.
“I’ll wait. Please inform him that I come on urgent business.”
With a supercilious stare, the manservant guided him through a passage into a large herb garden.
As Laurence was waiting, walking up and down the paths, a tall, dark-haired boy arrived carrying a book under his arm, accompanied by two attendants in royal livery. “Go away, I want to read,” the boy said, and shooed them off.
He had not noticed Laurence yet. He sat on a bench and opened his book where a marker had been inserted between the pages. He had a swarthy, pleasant face, although not handsome, the cheeks a little pouchy, the lips full, and the eyes a molten brown. Looking at him, Laurence felt a sudden wave of hatred for the conspirators who sought to kill this innocent boy’s father. It must be stopped, he thought.
Then Prince Charles saw him and said, “Hello,” as if glad to be distracted. “Who are you?”
“Laurence Beaumont, Your Highness.”
“Are you here to see Lord Falkland?”
“Yes.”
“He’s talking with my tutor, Dr. Earle. Dr. Earle sent me out because my yawning disturbed their conversation,” the Prince explained. “Sit down next to me, Mr. Beaumont. Are you a foreigner?”
“No, but my mother is,” Laurence said, obeying his instruction.
“Mine too. She is abroad,” the boy added in a mournful tone, “and I’m not sure when she will come home.”
“What are you reading?” asked Laurence quickly.
“Thucydides, on the Peloponnesian War. My other tutor, Dr. Hobbes, suggested it. I’m at the fifth book.”
“The Melian debate.”
“Yes! The Melians were brave, weren’t they, to resist such a superior power.”
“Things ended rather badly for them.”
“That’s true,” Prince Charles acknowledged. “But if they had submitted to Athens they would have been made slaves. I should prefer to die nobly than to be enslaved, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Death might be a worse fate.”
The boy examined him pensively. “Whose regiment are you with?”
“Wilmot’s.”
“Wilmot’s a good fellow, isn’t he! Were you a soldier before, as he was, in the Low Countries?”
“Yes.”
“I might have guessed! You have that look about you.”
“That look?” Laurence queried, smiling.
“As if you know far more about death than I do,” the Prince said, with impressive sagacity. He reached forward, to touch Laurence’s wrist. “How did you get that scar?” Laurence hesitated. “Come, answer me,” the boy said, in a voice of impatient command.
“Someone didn’t appreciate my luck at cards.”
“And you’ve another scar on your mouth. What was that from?”
“That? I can’t remember.”
“I’ll bet you can, but you don’t think it a fit story for my young ears,” Prince Charles said, as though he had heard that phrase too often for his own liking.
“You’re absolutely right,” Laurence agreed. “And it most definitely isn’t.”
The boy guffawed. “The things everyone tries to hide from me! Since I’m to be King some day, I should learn as much as I can about my people, wouldn’t you say?” Again, Laurence had to agree with him. “So now you must tell me your story.”
“Well,” Laurence began, “I once became friends with a woman who was married to a very jealous man.”
“You mean she was your mistress,” Prince Charles interrupted, his brown eyes gleaming.
“I’ve never liked that term – it has implications of ownership. At any rate, her husband –”
“Oh, what a nuisance,” cried the Prince, squinting over Laurence’s shoulder. “Here are Dr. Earle and Lord Falkland. We shall have to stop talking about mistresses. They wouldn’t approve. This is Mr. Beaumont,” he announced to them, as they approached.
“Lord Beaumont’s eldest son, Laurence?” Dr. Earle said. “I met you a long time past when you were a boy not much older than our Prince. You were to come up to my College, Merton, as did your father, to study with William Seward.”
“Yes. He was my tutor for about five years.”
“You took your
Magister Artium
?” Laurence nodded. “Then Mr. Beaumont is something of a scholar,” Earle told Prince Charles. “Not many young noblemen stay to finish one degree, let alone two.”
“I know he is,” the Prince said. “We were discussing the Melian debate.”
“You were? Scarcely a topic for hilarity, yet I could swear that I heard you laughing. Now, Your Highness, we must not take up any more of my Lord Falkland’s precious time. Please give my greetings to your father, Mr. Beaumont. Does he still keep up his splendid library?”
“He does,” said Laurence, thinking of the stormy afternoon he had spent amongst those books, at work on a cipher that Earle never received.
“And his collection of Titian and Rubens and so many other continental masters rivalled most that I have seen, those at Wilton House included.” Earle turned to Falkland. “By the bye, I have not yet answered the letter you brought me from my Lord Pembroke.”