Authors: Claire Letemendia
“Not now, Tom,” Laurence said, gently detaching his arm.
“But I’ve heard you had more than a few of them. In fact, I’ve heard the most curious things about you.” Tom belched into his free hand. “Which is why I wonder what you’re doing
here
. You see, boys,” he added to his friends, “my brother seems to dance in and out of this war as he pleases. And he’s an admirer of our Secretary of State. They both think that we should kiss and make up with the rebels, instead of teaching them a lesson. Isn’t that so, Laurence?” Laurence merely sighed in reply. “All this talk about peace is worth less than a fart. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. That’s what I say. What do you say, brother?”
“Whatever you like.” Laurence caught Ormiston looking discomfited, as did even Tom’s friends. “Let’s go for a walk outside, Tom – you need fresh air,” he suggested, leading him towards the parlour door.
“Now I understand why you wanted to set me against Colonel Hoare.” Tom was swaying perilously on his feet. “Because he knows the truth about you and your secret duties for Lord Falkland. He told me himself.”
“Please, Tom, let’s discuss this tomorrow when you’re sober,” Laurence said, eager just to shut him up; what else would he blurt out, in his stupefied state?
Tom clutched at a wall to recover his balance. “S’not right. S’not right what you’re doing. You might as well betray us to the enemy. If you haven’t yet.” With the grandiose theatricality of the very drunk, he held a finger to his lips. “Won’t say a thing, though. Mustn’t disgrace the family.” Then he hurled his glass to the floor, glowering all the while at Laurence as if he would have liked to dash it in his face, and staggered out.
L
aurence was shivering with cold, even though the church was full and braziers had been brought in to heat the tall box pews. It was a Sunday, and throngs of local people stood behind the Beaumonts, the Ormistons, and their assembled wedding guests: gentry, merchants, farmers, and labourers, along with their big-bellied wives and excited children, were craning to get a view of the spectacle.
He had not visited the church for years. It seemed smaller to him, and more oppressively crowded with family monuments. To his left side lay the tomb of the first Laurent de Beaumont, depicted in effigy with full chain mail and armour, his broad sword in hand and his feet resting on a faithful hound. Wall tablets hung above a sealed crypt that accommodated the bones of more ancestors, various Laurences amongst them; there were yet more under the stone flags; and in a chapel to the left of the family pew Lord Beaumont’s father, another Laurence, was entombed with his wife, their alabaster figures resting on an enormous canopied marble bed. Nearby a small memorial housed the remains of Lord and Lady Beaumont’s sons James and Charles, who had died in their infancy. Laurence could scarcely remember them; they were both gone by his fourth year. He raised his eyes to a large painted board before him where the Ten Commandments in all of their
terrifying glory were inscribed. He had liked to read them as a boy and imagine breaking each one without exactly knowing what crimes some of them entailed, and now it occurred to him that he had succeeded beyond all childhood expectations.
As he reached up to pull at his collar, which chafed uncomfortably where Lady d’Aubigny had bitten him, he caught his mother’s eye. She wore the same puzzling expression, vaguely haunted, with which she had greeted him earlier in the morning when he had come downstairs in the dark, olive-green suit of clothes that she had ordered for him. He looked away, at Tom, who was staring ahead resolutely, perhaps struggling to control a queasy stomach from last night’s debauch. They had not exchanged a single word today.
“Like the aftermath of a battle,” Falkland commented to his wife, Lettice.
“Such extravagance,” she said soberly. “What is left could feed a village.”
It had been an epicurean feast. For the first course, brought out in strict array, were salads, simple fricassees, boiled and roasted meats, some served hot and others cold, and rich stews. For the second course appeared lesser and then greater fowl and finally more hot and cold baked meats in standing pies and tarts. Both courses also included dishes of fish and crustaceans for guests of delicate appetite. All were arranged in a strategic display according to colour and texture around a pasteboard replica of Lord Beaumont’s house, complete in every detail. Venetian glasses and silver plates were changed with each course, along with the cutlery. Falkland had detected bafflement on the part of some guests, who were clearly used just to eating with knives, as they saw the ivory-handled forks set at each place. Butlers and other servers who must have been brought in from the town for this special event scurried to fill vessels with Lord Beaumont’s best wines, Elsertune from
the Rhine and fine Gascons from Bordeaux. Meanwhile the musicians played on bravely, over the babble of voices and the clinking of glasses.
Amongst the many conversations that Falkland could discern, war was the main topic. Some talked of brothers, cousins, or nephews who had gone over to Parliament. Others lamented those who had fallen early in the King’s campaign. For the younger generation, it was an opportunity for much boasting and posing: His Majesty’s enemies were dogs and traitors, and there was lively competition over who had been exposed to the greatest peril in the field, or survived the worst wounds.
Beaumont was seated beside a rather colourless girl, or so she appeared in contrast to him. Whatever he was saying to her had made her giggle, so that the glass in her hand tipped, spilling wine on the damask tablecloth.
“She may be betrothed to him, Lady Beaumont told me,” Lettice said. “Her name is Alice Morecombe.”
“He’s never mentioned it,” said Falkland. “I know the Morecombes,” he added; Lady Morecombe was something of a dragon, as he remembered her.
After hours of feasting, the third and final course arrived. There were marchpanes decorated with Lord Beaumont’s coat of arms in gold leaf and sugar icing; preserved fruits and pastes, comfits and choice fresh fruits, so rare in the winter season; almond fools and sweet cream-cheeses; and lastly, delicate wafer cakes. No two dishes of a single kind stood together. The servers presented little bowls of scented water for the guests to rinse their fingers, and a cunning display of fireworks shot up from the pasteboard house, alarming a few of the ladies present. Then, with the pouring of sweet Malmsey wines and Xeres sack, the speeches began: from Lord Beaumont welcoming everyone; from John Ormiston to proclaim his happiness upon marrying Elizabeth; and from Ormiston’s uncle, regretting that John’s father had died too soon to witness this day. As the wine flowed, the guests grew rowdier and less
inclined to keep their seats, some disappearing to relieve themselves or stroll about to counter the effects of the banquet. Lord Beaumont’s replica house was in ruins amidst half-eaten pastries and wine stains.
When the long trestle tables were finally being folded and put aside to make room for dancing, Falkland caught Beaumont’s attention and waved him over.
“He has his mother’s eyes,” Lettice whispered. “I don’t like them. I feel as if they could see through you.”
“Sir,” Falkland said, as Beaumont walked up, “that was a splendid repast.”
“All too much for me,” he muttered, smiling, as he bowed to Lettice.
“My dear, might I have a moment with –” Falkland began, and as always Lettice understood at once, and excused herself. “Is there a more private place where we might talk?” he asked, once she had gone.
“This way,” Beaumont said, and guided him out of the hall towards a parlour that opened off it.
There they found Tom and some other fellows smoking by the fire. Beaumont seemed to hesitate on seeing them.
Tom got up at once to greet Falkland. He was not so tall as his brother and of heavier build, bearded rather than clean-shaven, with strong, fair, Norman features. A true English nobleman, Falkland thought, and he sounded it, too, with his well-enunciated speech. “Share a pipe with us, won’t you, my lord?”
“Thank you but I don’t take tobacco,” Falkland said. “I’m afraid the smoke makes me cough.”
Tom was examining Falkland and his brother searchingly.
“Let’s go outside,” Beaumont told Falkland. He requested their cloaks from a servant, and they went through the main doors into the courtyard.
As they walked towards the stables, he loosened his collar and started to rub the side of his neck. “I have to confess – I haven’t been
able to get the proof you asked me for, regarding Colonel Hoare.”
“I also have a confession to make,” Falkland admitted. “I was not forthcoming, as regards my communications with Pembroke. You must realise how hard it is for me to know on whom I can rely,” he concluded, realising as he spoke that he had used Mistress Savage’s very words.
Beaumont nodded, as if he sympathised. “What is he suggesting?”
“An alliance of moderates, as I told you, to negotiate a limit to the powers of both His Majesty and Parliament, and an agreement on the religious question. In London, I had said to Pembroke that I would do nothing underhand. But since the King himself was less than truthful with Parliament’s Commissioners, I might have been tempted.”
“Has Pembroke written to you again?” Beaumont asked, as they passed through the doors of one of the stable buildings.
Falkland heaved a sigh: he might as well tell all. “Yes, Mr. Beaumont, he has. He says my friend Edmund Waller has agreed to join him, and the Earls of Holland and Northumberland, in the Lords. On the King’s side, he is most interested in myself, Edward Hyde, Culpeper, Secretary Nicholas, and Dr. Earle. A peculiar choice, that last.”
“Earle is tutor to the Prince. Don’t you think he’d be essential in what Pembroke wants to achieve?”
“I am still not convinced of –”
“Shh,” said Beaumont, and Falkland heard crunching footsteps in the snow. They waited, listening, until the noise faded. Beaumont looked around before resuming in a hushed voice, “Do you have his letter with you?”
“No, it’s at my house. It is not in the same hand as the coded letter that you showed me.”
“He may have dictated it. How did you answer him?”
“I said that I must learn more before I could commit myself. Mr. Beaumont, after you and I last saw each other, I was issued a
warning about my correspondence by someone else: Mistress Savage, Digby’s friend. She also said that there is a Captain Milne in Prince Rupert’s Horse who has actually seen Hoare interfering with my letters. She has offered to arrange for me to meet him.”
“You have nothing to lose by it.”
“And she told me to trust you.” Falkland paused. “She seems attached to you.”
“What makes you think that?” Beaumont sounded amused, but Falkland could not quite read his expression in the dim light.
“I believe she –”
“God damn it,” exclaimed Beaumont, as they were disturbed now by louder footsteps.
A drunken guest blundered into the stable, arms outstretched to prevent himself from falling. “Who’s there?” he mumbled. “Gentlemen, could you help me get back to the house?”
“Yes, of course, sir,” Beaumont said, with an edge of impatience.
“This is not a good time for us to speak,” Falkland told Beaumont quietly. “Come and see me tomorrow morning at Great Tew.”
“I shall.”
They assisted the fellow out, and back to the main doors of the house. As they entered, the same manservant came to take their cloaks and whispered something to Beaumont. He whispered back, and the servant went off.
Beaumont turned to Falkland, his eyes bright. “She’s here. Isabella Savage, I mean.”
“Was she invited to the wedding?” Falkland inquired, surprised.
“No, but she may have news for us about Captain Milne. I’ve asked for her to be directed to my chamber. Why don’t you come up with me and we can all talk together?”
Falkland thought it best to decline. Lettice would be searching for him and he did not wish to be seen with the uninvited and very
alluring Mistress Savage, knowing how people enjoyed their gossip. “I would prefer not,” he said. “My wife is tired, and we shall be going home shortly. Make the arrangements with Mistress Savage, and call on me as we planned.”
“As you wish. Until tomorrow, my lord,” Beaumont said.
As Falkland looked about for Lettice, he noticed Thomas Beaumont watching, his expression unsmiling and intense, like a hunter marking his prey, as his brother bounded up the stairs. Then Falkland was distracted, as Lord Beaumont touched his shoulder. “My dear friend! I believe the young couple are about to be bedded with full ceremony, a fearful process that I did not have to endure in my time. Nor you, I gather.”
“No – my marriage was a rushed affair,” Falkland agreed, smiling. “Everyone was so against it. My father never forgave me for choosing Lettice, in the three years he lived afterwards. You were one of the few to see her qualities and to show us support.”
“I, too, had disobeyed my parents in my choice of wife. And in both cases our affections have held strong.”
“I hear that your eldest son is to take a bride,” Falkland remarked, espying Lettice coming towards him through the merrymakers.
“Yes, young Alice Morecombe. His mother and I are very happy for it; he has kept us waiting too long.”
“Might I be attending another nuptial feast in the near future?”
“God willing, my friend, God willing,” said Lord Beaumont cheerfully.
As Laurence opened the door to his chamber and found Isabella standing before the fire in a long hooded cloak, he felt a little ripple of excitement. She removed it with a dramatic gesture to reveal her dark, low-cut gown, and he could smell her perfume, delicate yet haunting.
Her hair was drawn back with a few stray curls at her forehead, and from her ears hung tear-shaped pearls.
“Such a mansion your father has,” she declared. “And look at you, all dressed up.” She examined him with a critical air. “I am not sure how I like you best, as a ruffian or as a nobleman.”
“Well I know how I’m most comfortable,” he said, unbuttoning his doublet and pulling off his collar.