The Best of Men (41 page)

“If you’re to make this journey we should start at once.”

“Please, I beg you!”

“Oh, all right. I’ll give it an hour, no more. Don’t let anyone near you, Ingram. If a surgeon does come by, tell him your leg’s been set.”

Ingram nodded weakly. “Thanks, Beaumont. I won’t forget this.”

At first, all that Laurence could discover was that a number of distinguished officers, particularly amongst the King’s Lifeguard, had been slain, and others taken hostage by Essex. As yet no exchanges had occurred. A list of casualties was apparently being compiled in another part of the camp, but once he arrived there, no one seemed to know who had been set this thankless task.

He ventured onto the plain of Edgehill, where he could still hear the moaning of stricken men and beasts, and where the scavengers,
military and civilian, had begun the gruesome work of stripping those unable to defend themselves. It was perhaps as unsafe to wander around now as during the heat of battle, he thought, and he was about to return to Ingram when Lieutenant Martin galloped up to him with a party of soldiers.

“Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “did Wilmot send you on another errand?”

“No, I’m looking for someone from Prince Rupert’s Horse: Sir Bernard Radcliff.”

“Radcliff? I saw him at Kineton, as we were hurrying out. He was on the ground,” Martin added, more sombrely.

“The rebels weren’t ready to show much mercy after we’d sacked their wagons,” one of his companions put in. “I’d say he must be dead.”

“But no one actually saw him killed?” Laurence asked.

“Not I,” said Martin. “Still, I wouldn’t hold out hope if I were you. It was there that we suffered most of our losses. At any rate, we should head back to camp and get some rest. His Majesty may decide to press through the remains of Essex’s forces tomorrow and march straight for London.”

So Oxford might not be liberated after all, Laurence realised, feeling heartsick; this was bad news for Seward.

He hurried to fetch his horse and borrow another for Ingram, then returned to where his friend was lying, obviously in even greater pain than before. “Beaumont,” Ingram said in a faint voice, “what did you find out?” Laurence sighed and told him. “I see.” Tears were welling in his eyes. “I hate to ask one more favour of you, but do you remember what you once promised, about Kate? She’s at my Aunt Musgrave’s house in Faringdon. Would you take her a letter from me?”

“Faringdon’s close to Oxford. It must still be held by Parliament.”

“Please, man. I don’t want her to hear from anyone else.”

“First let’s take care of
you
,” said Laurence, helping him to rise.

Madam Musgrave reminded Laurence of an amiable Flemish brothel madam he had once known; she would have been attractive some twenty years ago, and still possessed an overblown charm. “Why did I not meet you at Kate’s wedding, Mr. Beaumont?” she inquired, once they were settled before the fire, drinking wine.

“I wasn’t invited. Richard’s not very fond of me.”

“He’s not altogether fond of me, either,” she said, laughing, “but he couldn’t afford to please himself on that score. Kate has been staying here since her betrothal, and if things continue as they are, I expect to have her for a while. Walter’s my favourite, however, and I’ll make no secret of it. He has the sweetest nature.” She took a sip from her cup, and her expression grew more serious. “I cannot thank you enough for what you did for him. And to come all this way –”

“It’s not necessary,” Laurence interrupted. “I love Ingram like a brother.”

They were silent for a while. Then she asked, “And Sir Bernard?” He explained what he had heard from Lieutenant Martin. “Dear me,” she said. “The uncertainty will be almost worse for Kate than knowing. Though she won’t reveal her true feelings to me. She’s such a cold fish, that girl. I don’t understand her, and to be frank I believe her husband may be at the same loss.”

“He looks a bit of a cold fish himself.”

“I won’t argue with you, sir. But he has a title and land, and Richard is in awe of him and was anxious to find a match that Kate wouldn’t refuse. She had refused enough of them already. Where
is
she?” Madam Musgrave called out to a maidservant. “Tell her again that she has a visitor.” She turned to Laurence. “The girl spends hours in her chamber, sir, and she must be bored and miserable, yet when I try to entertain her with a game of cards, or ask her to sing for me, it is as bad as pulling teeth. Do you sing, by any chance?”

“Never,” Laurence said. “It’s against my religion. But I do like a game of cards.”

“Thank God for that. We shall have a hand after supper. I insist that you stay and eat with us, sir. Ah, at last,” she declared, as Kate entered.

Kate must have been no more than sixteen when Laurence last met her, and since then she had fulfilled the promise of her youth. She resembled some northern goddess, her carriage very erect, blonde and blue-eyed, and perfect in her features. She inspected him coolly, as though he were a worshipping devotee, so he appraised her in return with rather less hauteur and saw her lips twitch disapprovingly.

“Mr. Beaumont has ridden from Chipping Campden, at great peril to himself, just for your sake. There was a great battle yesterday that he has news of,” said Madam Musgrave, pouring more wine for them all. “Here, have a cup, my dear.”

“No, thank you, Aunt,” Kate replied, sitting down.

“I think you might need it, before you hear what he has to say.”

Kate accepted the cup, without drinking from it.

“I’m a friend of your brother’s, Lady Radcliff, though you won’t remember me,” Laurence said.

“Yes I do, sir. I hope he is well,” she went on, her reserve faltering slightly.

“Not altogether. His horse fell on him during the action. But he was lucky – he only broke his leg. I took him to my father’s house, and he had it set this morning by a good surgeon, so you mustn’t worry about him.”

“We are in your debt, sir,” she said.

“No, no. It was your husband who saved his life.” From his saddlebag Laurence withdrew the letter that Ingram had written to her after the operation. It was a surprisingly thick missive, he now noticed, although he could not remember his friend taking long to compose it. “Perhaps you should read this,” he said, passing it over.

She took it, and as she broke open the seal, another sealed letter fell out and tumbled to the floor. He bent to retrieve it for her and then hesitated.

“Is this your husband’s writing?” he asked, of the few lines on the cover.

“Yes. What of it, sir?”

He paused again, to control his excitement; the hand exactly resembled that on His Majesty’s horoscope. “Nothing,” he said.

Kate was perusing her brother’s note. “I am not to read Sir Bernard’s letter unless I know for certain he is dead. Sir Bernard wrote the same instructions,” she said, eyeing his. “‘To be opened by my wife, Katherine Radcliff, upon my certain decease and no sooner.’ What should I do, Aunt?” she inquired.

Laurence gritted his teeth, willing her to open the second letter.

“In your place, I would read it, Kate,” said Madam Musgrave. “Since it may concern what is now your property, you have every right.”

Kate looked from her to Laurence. “Mr. Beaumont, is it possible that he is still alive?”

He hesitated yet again; he could not lie to her about so grave an issue. “He might be,” he said, at length. “We must hope so.”

“Then I shall wait, until I find out for certain,” she said, lowering her eyes.

Damn her obedience, thought Laurence. And her reaction amazed him: either she was exerting magnificent self-control, or she did not care much for her husband.

After supper they sat at cards. Madam Musgrave suggested that he stay the night, and he agreed, for a private motive: he was burning to get his hands on Radcliff’s letter. While she dealt the first round, he considered the possibility of stealing into Kate’s chamber late in the night. But if she were to catch him, he would have a hard time explaining himself, and she might cause a highly unpleasant scene.

“You have an enviable proficiency at the game, sir,” Madam Musgrave told him, as he shuffled the deck for another round. “You could make a living off it, were you born to less happy circumstances.”

He merely smiled.

“I think, Aunt, that I may retire soon,” said Kate, her frown expressing undisguised contempt for such a trivial pastime.

“Oh, come now! Mr. Beaumont, you must know some tricks that might entertain her.”

He looked at Kate, thinking that no sleight of hand could possibly achieve that end. Ingram was right: she was not easy to like.

“Here, allow me, sir.” Madam Musgrave took the deck from him. “Kate, you have only to pick a card.”

With the air of an adult humouring a difficult child, Kate selected the knave of spades.
More appropriate than you know
, Laurence could not help remarking to himself.

“‘How absolute the knave is!’” Madam Musgrave quoted. “‘We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us.’”

“I beg pardon?” said Kate, blinking at her.

“From a play – a tragedy, about a Danish prince, who could not make up his mind.”

“Whether he should kill the man who had murdered his father and married his mother,” Laurence added. “Don’t you know it, Lady Radcliff?”

“I have never been to a playhouse, sir.”

“I used to go quite often with your brother,” he said, remembering how disconsolate Ingram had been after the death of his wife a year or so into their marriage. Laurence had taken him about Southwark and shown him some of its many attractions, some more licit than others.

“Walter did not tell me,” she said, as though in reproach not of Ingram, but of Laurence for leading her brother astray.

Madam Musgrave winked at Laurence. “He must have had his
reasons! So, Kate, are you ready? Put the card back.” As he watched her thick, capable, none too clean hands deal out the cards, Laurence tried to imagine what Ingram would say, were he to learn that Sir Bernard Radcliff, the excellent soldier, the dear relative trusted with a precious sister, was plotting against the King’s life. Then Madam Musgrave nudged his elbow. “Mr. Beaumont, you are far away.”

“I’m sorry, madam. I’m just a little tired, and I must leave early tomorrow.”

“I am also tired,” said Kate, getting up with alacrity. “Thank you for bringing my letter, sir. Good night, and I wish you a safe journey. Good night, Aunt.”

When she had gone, Madam Musgrave set aside the cards. “I shall not keep you long from your bed, sir, but help me see that all is locked up. The servants are sometimes neglectful.”

“Of course,” he said, and he accompanied her about the house as she went from window to window, and to the doors, checking that each was shut fast.

They were at the stair, and she had given him a candle to light his way, when she held him back and whispered, “What disturbed you so about Sir Bernard’s letter?”

“It wasn’t the letter,” he replied hastily. “It was Lady Radcliff who disturbed me – it’s as if she doesn’t love him at all.”

“Walter assures me that she does. And Sir Bernard is deeply in love with
her
. If he is still in this world, that is.”

“I wish my inquiries on that count had been more successful,” Laurence said, with genuine regret.

“What might he have written to her, for him to place such a condition on her opening it? It
must
concern his property, which he has gone to great pains to secure from Parliament. He was so worried about his house being ransacked that he stored a coffer of his here – he said he feared to leave behind certain family valuables at Longstanton.”
Madam Musgrave heaved a sigh. “If we were to receive confirmation of his death, Kate must see what is inside it.”

She might not like what she found, thought Laurence, his own curiosity instantly aroused. He should have been more pessimistic as to Radcliff’s chances of survival. Kate had come so close to breaking that seal.

Madam Musgrave surprised him by leaning forward to plant her lips on his cheek. “I do declare, sir, I haven’t seen such skill at gaming since my days at King James’ Court. And if I were as young as I was then, I would not permit a handsome fellow like you to escape with only a chaste kiss. Now off to bed, and I shall wake you at dawn, though if you have need of anything before you go to sleep, my chamber is to the right hand of the stairs, and I shall be up soon. You may take the one on the left.”

“Thank you,” he said, wishing he could ask which was Kate’s. “Good night, Madam Musgrave.”

Once in his room he removed his boots and blew out the candle. Keeping his door an inch or so ajar, he peered out. A few minutes later he saw his hostess stomping upstairs, followed by her maidservant. They entered her chamber, and for a while he heard voices in conversation. Eventually there came a loud thump, as of someone settling heavily into bed, and silence. He waited, until reassured by the snores emanating from her chamber. Slipping past it in the narrow corridor, scarcely daring to breathe, he very cautiously tried each of the other doors on that floor. Only one was fastened shut, and he discerned from his investigations that it must be Kate’s. Frustrated, he returned to his room, and paced about. Then he stopped short. How on earth could he have forgotten the message that Seward had left him at Clarke’s house? Seward knew the author of the horoscope, and therefore Seward knew Radcliff.

Dressed in the robes of Lord Chamberlain, Pembroke was sitting beside His Majesty in the Banqueting House, with young Prince Charles nearby. The King fastened on Pembroke his expressive Stuart eyes with their drooping lids, so like his father’s, and asked, “Are you my f-f-riend, Herbert, or my enemy?” Pembroke declared his undying allegiance in the warmest terms, yet even as he was speaking, the boy Charles rose and cried, “Take him from here, and when he is hanged, drawn, and quartered, put his head on a stave at Traitor’s Gate for all to see his disgrace.” Pembroke turned in horror to the King; and a yet more terrible thing happened. His Majesty’s head seemed to flop from one side to another loosely, and next toppled altogether from his shoulders and into Pembroke’s lap. Pembroke tried to rid himself of the object, but it stayed as if glued to his robe, and he began to scream.