Authors: Claire Letemendia
In a sweat he awoke, clutching his throat. The recurrent dream became more vivid each time, although it always stopped short at the same point, flinging him back to consciousness, heart pounding in his breast.
He must not let it agitate him so, he told himself sternly, as he had on countless past nights. His conscience should be clear: he was working to save his country from the stranglehold of popery and cut short the bloodshed that had already broken out in the land. He had recognised what must be accomplished and had chosen to act alone. And Charles Stuart’s destiny was written in the stars, sanctioned by a Divine Hand. Pembroke himself was merely God’s instrument, executing His will. The death of one would preserve the lives of many, bringing peace and prosperity to the realm, so that England would stand out again as a beacon of true faith to the whole of Christendom. With God’s grace and the secret powers that Pembroke hoped soon to acquire, he would start a cleansing tide that would in time purge out the whore of Rome, her priests and her armies too.
He deserved some revenge, he thought next. He had served the former King James dutifully, allowing the old sodomite to caress him and lean upon him and slobber over him when he was a pretty young man. All the while he had courted Prince Henry, heir to the throne and noble defender of the Protestant cause at home and abroad. But Henry had died in the flower of his youth, of fever or perhaps of poison, and his brother, that unworthy, stuttering dwarf Charles, had become king in his stead.
Lying back, Pembroke could recall as if it were yesterday the fateful incident in the summer of 1641 that had cost him the office of Lord Chamberlain. Lord Maltravers, the Earl of Arundel’s impudent son, had set out to provoke him during a meeting at the House of Lords, and he had lost his temper, a mistake to which he was prone. He had slapped the boy’s face. When they were both sent to the Tower, he thought that would be the end of it. Yet King Charles had been waiting for just such an excuse to remove him from office and appoint the Earl of Essex in his place, in a belated attempt to appease Parliament and to please the little buck-toothed Queen, who Pembroke knew harboured an intense hatred for him.
“You and your papist wife,” Pembroke said quietly, into the darkness. “You should not have humiliated me.”
He was about to shut his eyes when rapid steps approached his door, and his servant’s voice called, “My lord, please forgive the disturbance, but Mr. Rose is come to see you.”
“Have him wait in my antechamber,” he called back, tossing aside the bedclothes. He got up, removed his nightcap, put on his dressing gown and padded slippers, combed his thinning hair, and went out to receive his guest.
Radcliff’s face was shockingly grey, his eyes circled with shadow. His buff coat was stained with dried blood, and his right arm was in a sling.
“Bring him refreshment,” Pembroke ordered the servant, “and then leave us in privacy until I ask for you again.” He and Radcliff waited to talk, exchanging agonized glances; like lovers too long separated, Pembroke thought wryly. At length his servant brought wine and a platter of fruit, bread, and cheese, then withdrew.
“So our plan succeeded,” Pembroke observed.
Radcliff nodded. “Upon capture at Edgehill I feared for my life, but your document of safe conduct was respected, and here I am.”
Pembroke now noticed the green leather scabbard at Radcliff’s side. “How the devil did you recover your sword?” he cried. “You told me it was stolen on the same night as my money!”
Radcliff laid a hand on it, as if to comfort himself that it was still there. “It came back to me by a coincidence that can only have been fated, my lord. A friend of my brother-in-law Ingram gifted it to me as a wedding present. Since it was originally
your
gift to me, its return can only augur well for us.”
“
What?
You mean it travelled across the sea to you, as though drawn by magnetic force? I would more easily believe that it was never stolen than swallow a tale like that!”
“It is the truth, my lord, which is often more unlikely than a lie. The man who gave it to me also fought abroad. He happened to purchase the sword in the very same place that I was robbed – The Hague.”
“A pity he could not have found my gold, as well!” Pembroke sneered. Had Radcliff pocketed the money himself? Though if so, why arrive with the sword in evidence, and such an unlikely explanation? “I am disappointed,” he went on in the same caustic tone, “that with all your astrological skills you could not foretell this extraordinary event.”
“My lord,” said Radcliff, speaking in a tense whisper, “I am not some mountebank that cozens old women for a penny to find their missing thimbles. What I practise is both art and science, and it has not failed you in the past, as far as I can remember.”
“I spoke in jest, man,” Pembroke said, uneasily; he still needed Radcliff’s skills, even if the business of the sword left a nagging doubt in his mind. “What happened to your arm?”
“Grazed by a ball. The wound has festered a little with the strain of riding.”
“Why did I not hear from you after Robinson delivered my message to you at Shrewsbury?”
Radcliff stared at him in obvious consternation. “I received no message!”
“By Jesu’s blood! I sent him over a month ago, to inform you of what passed between Falkland and myself when we met. He did not return to report to me, which I found perturbing; he is usually so reliable. The message was in our code, and contained nothing that could damage us, but if he were seized and put to torture, he might reveal our names.”
“He knows only that we are striving towards a peace.”
“Yes, thank God, no more than that,” Pembroke agreed. “And we are amongst many these days. Here in Parliament, the radicals are falling from favour. You may depend upon it, peace talks will begin again soon.” He eyed Radcliff warily. “I now see fit to tell you: since late summer I have been corresponding in secret with His Majesty. I have offered my services unreservedly to his cause and pledged never to take up arms against him.”
“Did you have to go quite that far, my lord?”
“Why not? The more he trusts me, the better.” Pembroke gulped back his glass of wine, a thrill passing through his veins. “As I said in that message to you, Falkland has effectively promised to re-establish communication between myself and Dr. Earle. When Falkland was in London I gave him a letter for Earle, begging Earle’s forgiveness if I had ever offended him. Neither man will resist my advances, I know,” he concluded, smiling to himself. There was a silence, during which
Radcliff gazed blearily at the floor. “What’s the matter?” Pembroke said.
“Excuse me, my lord, it is my wound that ails me.”
“Oh, I meant to ask – did your bride like the jewels I gave you for her?”
Radcliff seemed to wince. “Yes, thank you, my lord. When I last saw her, she was wearing one of the necklaces.”
“The diamond?”
“No. She was most taken with the ruby and pearl collar.”
“She has modest tastes! That was a mere trinket, compared to the others. And were her favours worth the wait?” Pembroke added. “Anticipation can be more exciting than the act itself, especially with an untrained girl.”
“My wife delights me in every respect,” Radcliff answered stiffly.
“Then you must have been sad to leave her bed! God willing, in another month or so we shall all spend Christmas with our families. How I miss Wilton! I had no chance to hunt this autumn and my estate must be overrun with fine buck.” Pembroke broke off; Radcliff looked as if he were about to faint. “We must attend to your wound,” Pembroke said, and rang a bell to summon his servant. “Mr. Rose shall stay for what remains of the night,” he told the man. “See to his comfort, and fetch the surgeon. He has a bad arm that requires care. Mr. Rose, we shall talk again tomorrow.”
After a tortuous ride from Faringdon to Oxford evading enemy patrols, Laurence headed straight for the Castle to reconnoitre the area. He considered risking a visit but was not sure that Seward would still be imprisoned there. As dusk began to fall, more and more soldiers came riding back in through the main gate, and he knew he could not linger without attracting their suspicion. He had no choice but to go again to Dr. Clarke.
At Merton, he found that gentleman on his way out of the door. “What in God’s name are you doing here, Mr. Beaumont?” Clarke exclaimed, his face flushing with anger.
“Let me in,” Laurence said, and Clarke reluctantly opened for him. “Is Seward still in gaol?” he demanded, pulling off his cloak.
“Yes, he is. As you may be, if you don’t get out of Oxford at once.”
“How is he?”
Clarke sighed and waved Laurence to a chair. “I am trying everything in my power to move his case forward, sir, to no result thus far. But I did succeed in having him transferred to a new cell, away from the common pound, and his health has greatly improved. Indeed, I have been permitted to visit him almost every day and bring him nourishing food, and books, to relieve the tedium of his confinement. He is as well as can be expected. And he would
not
wish you to venture any mad escapade on his behalf. Tell me, sir,” Clarke went on, in a different tone, “have you news of the battle between His Majesty and Essex’s army a few days ago? It’s all we can talk about here.”
“I was in it,” Laurence said.
Clarke questioned him eagerly about it, remarking when he had finished, “So His Majesty could be marching on the capital as we speak. Well, as for me, I should get my supper. Don’t stir from my rooms, sir, until I return.”
Once alone, Laurence sat forward and rested his head in his hands.
How to free Seward?
he asked himself. An hour passed, and another, and he grew increasingly restless. Then at last Clarke burst in, very excited.
“I have glad tidings! The Warden is packing to leave for London! And why must he flee? Because the King is on his way to reclaim Oxford! Lord Say has called the townsfolk to prepare for an attack within the next day or so!”
“That
is
good news,” Laurence admitted.
“We must be patient. If the city is liberated, our friend will be too.”
“But he’s facing a charge of murder. He may yet go to trial.”
“With Brent out of the way, the charges will not stick! There’s nothing you can do for him, sir,” Clarke added. “You may sleep here tonight and rejoin your regiment on the morrow.”
Laurence acquiesced, settling down as before on the floor of Clarke’s main chamber. But he could not sleep. It occurred to him, as he tossed and turned, that the conspirators had been counting on Parliament to hang Seward. Tyler was on the loose, and perhaps Radcliff as well. They must know that their hopes could be foiled by the arrival of Royalist forces.
When he heard the university bells chiming out four o’clock, Laurence rose and lit a candle. Hunting out a sheet of Clarke’s paper, he scribbled a couple of lines on it, signed it with a flourish that he considered suitably illegible, sealed it up, and stuffed it in his doublet. Then he charged his pistols, removed his spurs, grabbed his cloak, and exited quietly. In the stable, he saddled his horse and walked it out through the gatehouse, managing not to rouse the porter on duty.
There was only a thin moon to light his path, but he knew the territory well, apart from the recent city fortifications. He mounted and rode south, passing Corpus Christi and Christ Church Colleges, and then west, without encountering a soul. The city seemed deep in slumber, as on any other chill early morning before dawn.
Troopers were mustering at the Castle walls, no doubt headed for the northern boundaries of the city to anticipate the invading Royalists. Laurence heard the jingle of harness and hooves pounding on the cobbled street, though it was too dark for him to see how many soldiers had stayed to guard the prison. He brought his horse up against the wall and stood in the stirrups to get a higher grip on its rough stones, then dragged himself over, jumping down on the other side. Torches burned at the gate, which he avoided, looking instead for a window that might offer him entrance, but there was none within his reach.
A sentry stood not far away, shuffling his feet to keep warm, and humming to himself. Laurence could not get past unnoticed. Slowly, step by step, he crept up on the man, who fortuitously took off his hat to scratch his head just a second before Laurence’s pistol butt crashed down on it. Two more blows felled him, and he got a fourth on the ground. Seized by a sudden inspiration, Laurence stooped to strip off the man’s orange sash, which he tied about his own waist. It was a poor disguise, he knew, and as liable to fail him as the rest of his plan.
Retrieving his pistols, he ran towards the main gate and across the courtyard, through a set of open doors, into a large chamber with a vaulted ceiling. Here he looked around, concealed by one of the thick supporting columns, their shadows starkly defined by the light of torches that blazed upon the wall. Prisoners were crowded in iron cages on either side of an aisle, some sleeping, some clinging to the bars in a dejected manner. The floor, strewn ineffectually with hay, was a wash of sewage. At the far end, a couple of guards sat on a low stone ledge, muskets propped beside them. They were eating, apparently undeterred by the odour.
Laurence screwed up his courage and strode out, along the aisle between the cages. “Stand to attention,” he yelled, in his most imposing military manner. The guards jumped, nearly dropping their breakfast of bread and cheese. “I come with an order from Lord Say, to release a prisoner by the name of William Seward into my custody,” he continued, before they could speak. “Take me to his cell.” The men frowned at each other and then at him. “What are you waiting for?” he snarled.
“Order?” queried the oldest of the pair, putting his food down carefully on the ledge. “I wasn’t told about no order.”
“You should watch your tongue. Who is in command here?”
They glanced at each other again. “Captain Flynn, sir, but he went last night to drill the troops out by Gloucester Green,” the younger man said.
“How the hell could he leave the Castle so poorly defended?”