Authors: Claire Letemendia
Laurence saw the knife come closer. “I’ll tell you! Let him down and I’ll tell you.”
“You’d better tell me all –
all
that you’ve been keeping from me! Will you, sir?”
At this, Laurence balked. Hoare stepped forward, and with the help of another guard prised apart Danvers’ jaws and seized his tongue. In vain Danvers tried to pull away as Hoare sliced into it vertically. Danvers screeched and jerked, his mouth dripping red, his blood spattering Laurence’s face. Then he went limp, his body tugging on the ropes.
Hoare persisted until he had bifurcated the tongue, so that it resembled that of some exotic snake. “It won’t kill him,” he remarked of Danvers, laughing, as he made another quick cut to the tongue.
“Boys, Mr. Beaumont has seen enough. You may let go.” They obeyed, and Laurence could shut his eyes. “Now, however, you shall sing, unless you’re hungry,” Hoare declared. “Come, let’s hear you.” But Laurence found himself incapable of speech, as if his tongue had frozen in empathy with that of Danvers. “Open his mouth,” Hoare told the guards, and stuffed in a wet, slippery thing, like a slice of raw liver. A hand sealed Laurence’s lips forcibly, and he felt his head being tilted back. His stomach heaved and acid rose up his throat, which they were stroking, so that he had to swallow, though he gagged and retched immediately as they released his head. Afterwards they began to beat him again, and he vomited once more when hit in the groin. His vision grew murky. He could hear Hoare ranting at him, as from far off, and he felt a strange peace: he was near death, and glad of it.
Falkland ordered his troopers to rein in their horses. Mistress Savage stood at the Castle gates clad in a long, hooded cloak. “I am coming in with you,” she said.
“Madam, a gaol is no place for a lady,” he told her.
“Perhaps not, my lord, yet I must insist.” Falkland was about to object when she asked coldly, “How do you think you got the evidence for what you are about to do?”
“From Captain Milne.”
“Yes, but
how
?”
Falkland examined her; and he understood. “As you wish,” he said, dismounting. “I pray Hoare has kept Mr. Beaumont in reasonable conditions all this time,” he added as they walked through the gates, his men behind them.
“Small chance of that.” Her voice was now unsteady, and he hoped she would not swoon when confronted by the sights and smells of a prison.
They were directed to Hoare’s quarters, where they found him sitting at a desk, paring his fingernails with a little knife. He rose, clearly surprised that Falkland should appear unannounced, and more surprised still to see Mistress Savage. “My lord,” he began, but Falkland cut him off.
“Colonel Hoare, you are henceforth relieved of your duties, to be detained here at His Majesty’s pleasure.” He motioned to his soldiers, who surrounded Hoare, cocking their pistols and aiming them at his breast.
“My lord, what is this?” Hoare said, glancing from the pistols to Falkland.
“I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of treachery. Mr. Beaumont must be released. Have him brought here at once.” Hoare did not move. “I am His Majesty’s Secretary of State, or have you forgotten?” Falkland shouted at him. “Bring him to me!”
“Think, my lord,” Hoare said with a hint of menace, “else you regret your haste. If you levy this charge of treachery against me, how many other treacheries might be revealed, which I know of?”
“You may reveal whatever you wish. We shall be most interested to hear you speak in your defence.”
Hoare turned sharply and marched out, Falkland and Mistress Savage after him. His guards were in the corridor, outnumbered by Falkland’s men. “Show his lordship up to Mr. Beaumont’s cell,” Hoare said. “I would advise the lady to remain here.”
“You know where you can put your advice,” she spat at him.
“Stay,” Falkland ordered his soldiers, “and cuff his wrists.”
As he and Mistress Savage ascended the stairs, the air became close and fetid. They penetrated a dark corner, and the guard ahead of them signalled for them to stop; he unbolted a door, then stood back as it swung open. The reek of sewage was now mixed with some sweeter, rotten, cloying odour. Falkland pinched his nostrils together and took a gasp through his mouth, while Mistress Savage pressed the edge of
her hood to her lips. The guard handed him a torch, and he peered inside. Two men were collapsed upon each other in a clumsy embrace.
“Take them out,” he said, his throat full of saliva; and they were hauled forth and laid side by side, like a pair of carcasses at the slaughterhouse. “Sweet Jesu,” he exclaimed, gazing down at them.
Their faces, illuminated by the torch, were covered in blood. Danvers’ eyes were open, staring into nothing. Beaumont’s were shut. Save for his breeches, he was naked and filthy, and his rib cage, contused and so discoloured that it might have been painted in shades of black and purple and red, stuck out unnaturally above his hollow belly. Danvers was dressed in a suit of which he had been particularly proud. How sorry he would be to see it now, Falkland thought. Then he felt ashamed, in the presence of such horror, that his mind should seek refuge in the trivial. As much to restore some shred of dignity to Beaumont’s corpse as from his own inability to look at it any more, he removed his cloak and draped it over the body.
“How long have they been dead?” he asked of the guard, not wanting to know the answer.
“I can’t exactly say, my lord,” he replied. “This one was but a day and a night in the cell.” He prodded Danvers with the toe of his boot. “At least they are in peace, after their sufferings.”
“How shall I tell Lord Beaumont,” Falkland whispered to himself.
All of a sudden, as if she had been pushed, Mistress Savage fell to her knees and slumped forward; and the guard made a similar observation as had Falkland, about this being no place for a woman. But then she sat up and gently drew back Falkland’s cloak to bare Beaumont to the waist.
“Give me your hand,” she said to Falkland.
He bent towards her and extended it, with a slight, guilty repugnance; and as she placed it upon Beaumont’s chest, he felt beneath his fingers an undeniable heat and movement.
“My boy,” said Seward, gruff with relief, as Beaumont’s lids fluttered open. “You are in good care,” he added hastily, observing his friend’s dazed look. “My Lord Falkland removed you from your cell two days ago, though you are still in the Castle, and too frail to leave for the nonce. Hoare is under arrest. He must have given you up for dead, a fate that I sincerely pray awaits him after he stands trial.”
Beaumont tried to move his head, and winced. “D-Danvers?” he breathed.
“He did not survive. He may have expired from the shock of what was done to him, for he had not been touched otherwise. As for you, you will heal in time. Drink this.” Seward helped him to a measure of opium tincture; he grimaced with pain as he swallowed it. “Now rest,” Seward said. He touched Beaumont’s forehead, checking its temperature, then left the room, shutting the door quietly.
Ingram was waiting outside. “So?”
“He has regained his senses.”
“Oh thank heaven!” Ingram paused for a moment, obviously holding back tears. “Could he speak?”
“He could, but I would not let him. I gave him a sleeping draught.”
They went into the adjoining chamber, where Falkland and Mistress Savage were talking in low tones, although they stopped on seeing Seward.
“He is conscious at last,” he said.
“Praise God!” Falkland exclaimed. “Mistress Savage, we were not too late.” She said nothing, regarding him with an indecipherable expression.
“Nonetheless, he is in a wretched state,” Seward reminded them. “It will take careful nursing for him to recover, and even then there may be some lingering effects from the torture.”
Falkland shook his head in consternation. “Hoare must have completely lost his mind! I knew he was a brutal fellow, but to go so
far – what possible purpose could he think it would serve? If I’d known he would use such disgusting cruelty, I would have overstepped even His Majesty’s authority to stop him.” Seward said nothing to this, and he caught Mistress Savage narrowing her worldly eyes at Falkland. “At any rate, we shall have no trouble securing a conviction,” Falkland went on, after an uncomfortable silence. “Beaumont can testify to my lawyers when he is sufficiently recovered, and then I suggest that he be conveyed to his family home. Might I ask you to arrange this, Doctor?”
“I would prefer that you do,” Seward replied, “since it will be up to you what you wish to reveal to his family about his work for you. I could not write of that to Lord Beaumont, which is probably why his lordship demurred when I asked him to come to Oxford.”
“I shall have to prepare him, in advance of his son’s arrival. Will you go with Beaumont?”
Seward hesitated, thinking of Lord Beaumont’s wife. “Again, my lord, I would prefer not.”
“Allow me to take him to Chipping Campden,” Ingram said to them quickly, “if your lordship can obtain me a short leave from service when the time is right. I owe it to him, Seward,” he added, his voice catching a little.
“Then it is decided.” Seward glanced at Mistress Savage. “What think you of our plan, madam?”
“It appears very sound,” she murmured, with a hard smile.
“Allow me to accompany you to your quarters,” Falkland said to her. “Dr. Seward, I shall visit again tomorrow.”
“That will not be necessary, my lord. I shall send to you when Beaumont is ready to provide the deposition. But before you leave, I did have one query. How was it that His Majesty was suddenly persuaded to sign the warrant for Hoare’s arrest, after permitting Beaumont to languish in gaol for almost a month?”
“Mistress Savage’s informant, Captain Milne, finally bore witness to His Majesty that Hoare was spying on me. And another person interceded most powerfully on Beaumont’s behalf: my Lady d’Aubigny, widow to the King’s cousin. I am not sure how she learnt about what had happened to him,” Falkland concluded, looking significantly at Mistress Savage, “but we owe her our thanks.”
“I did not know Beaumont had such a friend,” Seward remarked, his gaze straying in the same direction as Falkland’s.
“Nor did I. Well, shall we be on our way, Mistress Savage?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, accepting his arm. “Dr. Seward, please remember me to Mr. Beaumont, when you next speak with him. Good day, Mr. Ingram.” And she sailed out of the room as though she were leaving some inconsequential social event.
As Parliament’s Commissioners entered the lofty hall at Christ Church, Pembroke saw the King rest his eyes upon each one in turn, as though chastising them for their disloyalty. Pembroke himself received a warmer reception, which he attributed to the secret pledge of faith he had made to His Majesty. When he bowed, he was acknowledged with a regal nod that would have gratified him were he not now so worried about the future.
Representatives from the House of Commons filed in after the Lords, Edmund Waller at the tail of the procession. Waller broke into a smile, and went so far as to go up and kiss His Majesty’s hand. Pembroke was amazed to hear the King say, without taking pains to lower his voice, “Though you are the last, Waller, yet you are not the worst, nor the least in my favour.” Some of the delegates on both sides began to mutter amongst themselves but Waller seemed unabashed, as did His Majesty; they might have been alone in the room together. What a sycophantic display, Pembroke thought, jealous of Waller nonetheless.
As the Earl of Northumberland read out the Treaty propositions, the King interrupted constantly. He demanded refinements and explanations, and he sighed from time to time, as if to suggest the extremity of his tolerance in even listening to the articles. Falkland was obviously trying to maintain a composed demeanour, yet he must have been ashamed that the Commissioners were received with such open disrespect. It was lucky for him, Pembroke thought, that two of the greatest warmongers on the King’s side, Prince Rupert and Lord Digby, were already on campaign in Gloucestershire, unwilling to await the outcome of these negotiations.
When Northumberland, red in the face, had completed the reading, His Majesty allowed an awkward silence to ensue before addressing the Commissioners. He expressed his strong dissatisfaction with the propositions, and finished crushingly, “Those who principally contrived and penned them had no thoughts of peace in their hearts, but to make things worse and worse. Yet I shall do my part, and take as much honey out of the gall as I can.” With that, he rose. “I thank you, Lords and gentlemen,” he said, and with a cool smile, this time directed at no one in particular, he left them.
After his exit, debate on the propositions was impossible. Falkland made a brief speech welcoming the Commissioners and invited them to sup at Christ Church that evening, and the assembly broke up.
Pembroke managed to catch Falkland on his way out of the hall, and drew him into a corner of the quadrangle. “Not a felicitous start, my lord,” Pembroke remarked, “except for our friend Waller, towards whom His Majesty appears to show a marked fondness. Surely you must now see the wisdom of my idea,” he continued, under his breath. “With the Queen expected to set sail any day now for the English shore and Prince Rupert threatening to seize the Cotswolds wool trade, why should His Majesty cede on the issues we have put before him, when he senses himself ahead in the game? Our only chance for peace is to
talk apart from him. May we, tonight after the feast? I can bring Waller and Northumberland to your quarters.”
Falkland shook his head curtly. “It is too much of a risk. There will be spies about, and if it were discovered that we were holding secret meetings, we might all be compromised.”
“But, my lord, we are missing a great opportunity! Have you heard from John Earle?” Pembroke inquired, fear rising in him. “He has responded to me only in the vaguest terms – as have you, for that matter.”
“I have been too occupied of late to speak with him. He may share my instinct for caution.”
“All I asked was for us to renew our friendship,” Pembroke objected. “What is so compromising in that?”