Authors: Claire Letemendia
The guards were stringing him up. The cords ate at his wrists, his shoulders throbbed, and he was tired of resisting. That was not the worst of it. Tom hung beside him; and not Tom as he was, but as a boy of ten years old, scared and whimpering. Hoare seized the boy’s tongue and was about to slice into it with his knife, asking, “What will you do to save him, Mr. Beaumont? Though why save him? He’s a telltale, isn’t he, of the most reprehensible sort!” As the blade neared Tom’s mouth, a cascade of blood stung Laurence in the face. He was unable to wipe it away, because his hands were tied. It filled his mouth until he had to swallow it; and he jerked awake.
Seward was standing by his bedside. “A terrible racket you were making.”
Laurence’s sheets were soaked in sweat, as was his nightshirt. The bandage on his left wrist had come unravelled during the night from his tossing and turning, and as he watched Seward tying it back up, he realised that Khadija’s bracelet was gone. “Seward,” he asked, “when you first tended to me here, did you take something off my wrist, a strip of leather?”
“My dear fellow, that day there was nothing to take off you but your breeches,” Seward replied, pouring water into a basin for Laurence to wash. “What was it, anyway?”
“Nothing,” said Laurence quickly. “Nothing at all.”
By the time that Falkland entered with Stephens and two lawyers, Laurence was feeling no pain, having cadged a double dose of opium from Seward for the occasion. He could detect a change in Falkland, who looked much thinner, and pale.
Falkland examined him tentatively in return, and addressed him as though he were the victim of some disfiguring accident. “Mr. Beaumont, I must thank you for offering to provide your testimony when you are still in convalescence. I trust you have the strength for this?”
“Let’s find out,” Laurence said.
The lawyers asked question after question, while Falkland listened, sighing now and again. They often interrupted Laurence, seeking clarification. But when he described Hoare’s single act of brutality against Charles Danvers and what had happened immediately afterwards, they did not ask him to repeat himself. At length it was done. The document was read back to him, and he signed it.
Falkland then sent out his servant and the lawyers, motioning for Seward to stay behind. “Sir,” he said, sitting down in a chair close by Laurence’s bed, “there is no way in which I can express my gratitude to you. Before you leave the Castle for Chipping Campden, I shall write to your father about the circumstances of your imprisonment.”
“Please don’t, my lord,” said Laurence. “Allow me to tell him in my own time.”
“If you so wish. But in all conscience, I cannot cause you further distress given what you have endured, which is why I have decided to release you from my service. I shall pursue the regicides without you. I did meet with Pembroke while he was here in Oxford,” Falkland rushed on, as Laurence opened his mouth to interrupt, “and I declined to engage in any private conferences with him, though not so abruptly as to suggest that I knew anything. Earle saw him too and more definitely refused further communication with him, on Dr. Seward’s advice. My next step will be to arrest Sir Bernard Radcliff and have him interrogated.”
“At last! But by whom? Or do you propose to do it yourself?” Falkland coloured at this. “No, my lord, you must wait until I’m well enough to assist you.”
“I am surprised, sir, that you would want to witness another interrogation, let alone participate in it.”
Laurence sat forward in the bed. “I’ve come this far with you – don’t cut me out now. These men are a threat to me, my family, and to Seward.”
“My lord,” Seward intervened, “you have no spymaster at present. You would indeed be wise to wait.”
Falkland sighed again. “Then I shall. Once more I am indebted to you, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Let’s not talk about debts,” said Laurence, relaxing back against the pillows. “I have an interest in finishing this business, that’s all.”
“My Lady d’Aubigny sent her good wishes to you, for your recovery,” Falkland went on, in a lighter tone. “When you are better, you might find the opportunity to thank her. She used her influence with His Majesty to expedite your release.”
Laurence was surprised: no one had told him of Lady d’Aubigny’s efforts on his behalf. His hour of pleasure with her had paid off more handsomely than he could ever have expected. “And have you seen
Mistress Savage?” he asked. “Seward said she was with you when you got me out of the cell.”
“I have,” Falkland said, a little awkwardly. “She too sends you her greetings.”
“When does Hoare go to trial?”
“As soon as I can spare time to attend the proceedings. I am still busy with Council at present, and he can afford to sit in gaol and ponder his fate.”
“Will my brother be called as a witness?”
“Undoubtedly. Hoare will require him to state that there were solid grounds for him to interrogate you, and for the aspersions cast upon me.”
“I hope our father doesn’t hear about all this,” Laurence said, starting to cough.
“At any rate, I shall write to you at Chipping Campden and give you a full report of the trial. And I did write to Danvers’ wife, to tell her the tragic news.”
“He spoke of her just before he died. He said he loved her and he was sorry he had wronged her.”
“I shall make sure she knows.”
“My lord, he said something else: that there’s to be a Royalist revolt –” Between more coughs, Laurence went on. “In London. He said you were party to it, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Did he talk of it to Hoare?” Falkland asked, in a near whisper.
“He would have, if they hadn’t slit his tongue first.” Laurence coughed again, hugging his ribs. The opium was beginning to wear off and he felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach: Danvers had not lied to him. “It’s true, isn’t it. Why?” Falkland gazed at him uncertainly as he sobbed for breath. “Why would you risk prejudicing the negotiations, and the esteem of Parliament?”
“Beaumont, hush, and take some of this,” Seward advised, bringing
a cup of water to his lips. “We should leave him, my lord,” he said to Falkland.
“Not until you tell me why,” Laurence demanded, pushing aside Seward’s hand. “My lord, you owe it to me.”
“He is the King I elected to serve,” Falkland said, with a melancholy smile, “and it is, after all, his right to issue a Commission of Array in his own capital. I had no choice but to swallow the indignity of participating in a venture that goes against my principles.”
“Politics is a choice of evils, Beaumont, as you are aware,” Seward observed.
“True enough,” said Laurence wryly. He pitied Falkland: what a heart-wrenching compromise for one so morally upright. “My lord,” he added, “about the conspiracy – before we interrogate Radcliff, I want to find those letters I sold back to him. Otherwise he may be very hard to break. We need that evidence.”
Falkland glanced at Seward, who said, “He’s right again.”
“Radcliff can’t afford to carry the letters on him or to leave them to be discovered at his estate,” Laurence went on, “but I think I know where they might be.” And he told Falkland about the coffer that Radcliff had hidden at Madam Musgrave’s house.
“I can authorize a search of the house immediately,” Falkland said.
Laurence shook his head, stifling another cough. “Please don’t. She’s part of my friend Ingram’s family. If it’s at all possible, I want them protected from any association with Radcliff’s guilt. Let me look for the letters on my own. If I have no success
then
you can order a search.”
“How are you going to accomplish that, Beaumont?” Seward queried. “You can’t even walk yet.”
“I have an idea,” Laurence replied. “Just give me some time.”
Falkland rose from his chair and touched Laurence’s shoulder. “Mr. Beaumont, I know you share my desire to deal with this conspiracy
quickly. How long will it take until he is well enough to venture out?” he asked Seward.
“A good two weeks if not more,” Seward answered firmly.
“I shall give you two more after that to find the letters, Mr. Beaumont. If you’ve had no luck by then, I shall issue a search warrant. Thank you, again, sir, and I pray you enjoy a speedy recovery. Good day, Dr. Seward.”
“What is this idea of yours?” Seward asked Laurence afterwards.
“What if, instead of going home, I went to stay with Ingram’s aunt?”
They regarded each other in silence. Then Seward began to smile. “First you must be fit to travel.”
“Make me so,” Laurence said.
This was not as easy as he had hoped. Without opium he was plagued by nausea, cold sweats, and a constant, maddening itch all over his skin. Seward treated him to various foul-tasting herbal decoctions to counter the withdrawal pangs, permitted him wine to dull the aches of his body, and forced him to eat and take gentle exercise. At last his bruises faded to a lighter shade of purple, and his ribs knit together more firmly. But he could not walk ten paces without pausing to catch his breath.
Seward proved a relentless taskmaster. “You’re worse than Hoare,” Laurence complained, sweating and shaking, during one of their perambulations about the Castle courtyard.
“On your request, Beaumont.”
“I know.” Laurence peered up at the high walls surrounding them. “And I can’t stomach this place any more.”
“Are you ready to leave it?”
He nodded, and smiled. “You old bastard, I think you’ve been enjoying yourself all the while. You’ve never had such an obedient slave in me.”
“Not in fifteen years,” Seward agreed, tugging his ear affectionately.
Although Beaumont had been packed into the coach cushioned all round with bedclothes, Ingram noticed him gasping and wincing at each jolt. It was their hard luck that the route north from Oxford into the Cotswold hills had flooded in the spring rains, and that they had had to take a westerly detour towards the market town of Witney. After two hours of slogging through mud and potholes full of water, with regular breaks to free its wheels, the coach had covered less than eight miles.
Beaumont was continually coughing and spitting out of the coach window. “I can’t let my family see me like this, Ingram,” he said at last. “I’ll go anywhere else, but not there. Please, man, don’t take me there.”
He seemed so distraught that Ingram knocked on the roof for the coachman to pull up. “Where on earth can I take you, then?”
“There must be somewhere else. What about your aunt’s house at Faringdon?”
Ingram paused to calculate. They would not reach Chipping Campden that day, while Aunt Musgrave’s estate lay roughly fourteen miles south. They could stay overnight and push on in the morning, when Beaumont might be more reconciled to the idea of going home. “All right,” he said, at which Beaumont managed a faint smile.
“Ingram, I’m in a lot of pain. I think Seward gave you a sleeping draught for me. Can I have some now?”
“I must confess,” said Ingram, as he searched for it, “I’m surprised that Dr. Seward allowed you out of bed, in your condition.”
Once he had taken the medicine, Beaumont murmured, “Thank you.” Then his eyes shut, and he ceased to make any noise.
At about six in the evening, the coach finally drew up in Aunt Musgrave’s courtyard. Ingram eased himself out and limped towards the house, his bad leg stiff from the damp and sitting still. He heard the dogs barking, and was much reassured to see her ancient butler come
out of the front door bearing a lantern. When she emerged, she gave him a motherly hug.
“Dear Aunt,” he mumbled, into the prickly fabric of her ruff. “Sorry to arrive without any warning.”
“No apologies are required for my favourite nephew. But where did you get such a splendid coach? Were you knighted by His Majesty?”
“No, no – I’ve my friend Beaumont with me. He’s been extremely ill and we were on our way to his family seat at Chipping Campden, but I was afraid the journey would be too long for him, without stopping for the night. Where are the grooms?” he asked of her butler.
“You will have to tend to the horses yourself, Walter,” she said. “My fellows are gone to join the army, their heads filled with talk of Prince Rupert and his Cavaliers. I’ve been left with a couple of beardless boys and dotards such as my old retainer. The cowmen and shepherds had more sense and stayed behind. But my best mounts have been seized by Prince Rupert’s troops. Sweeping the commons, they call it. Robbery, is what I say. His Majesty will make few friends amongst us country folk if Rupert continues to pillage our goods.”
“It’s a necessity of war, Aunt, both sides have been driven to it,” Ingram reminded her.
“Necessity be buggered. He should pay for what he takes.”
Ingram called for the coachman and they manoeuvred Beaumont out of the vehicle.
“Mr. Beaumont,” Aunt Musgrave said, in a shocked voice, as they carried him into the better light of the hall, “what are those marks on your face? Did someone give you a whipping?” Beaumont nodded, squinting at her. She directed them upstairs to a chamber, and when he had been lowered onto the bed, she herded Ingram and the others out. “Off to the stable, this is women’s work,” she told them.
Ingram obeyed at first, though foreseeing her even greater shock as she discovered more about Beaumont’s injuries, he had the
coachman finish the remaining chores and rushed back into the house.
Kate was at the foot of the staircase and grabbed his arm as he tried to ascend. “What is wrong with Mr. Beaumont?”
“He’s been very ill, Kate. Let me go to him.”
“Walter, did you ever ask him about … about my husband?”
“Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?” Ingram reproached her, pushing past.
In the bedchamber, Aunt Musgrave and one of her maids were removing Beaumont’s doublet. “What are all these bruises from?” she exclaimed, as she took off his shirt.
“Lord Jesus!” the maid cried, flinching.
Aunt Musgrave ordered her out, shut the door, and faced Ingram gravely. “What happened to him, nephew?”
“He was detained and horribly mistreated by Lord Falkland’s spymaster,” Ingram replied. “It’s a complicated matter that I can’t fully explain now, but we’ll be gone tomorrow,” he hurried on. “I only have a few days’ leave to travel with him and then I must return to my troop.”