Authors: Claire Letemendia
As he sat down by the campfire to eat the rations that Corporal Blunt had saved for him, Ingram was there filling a pipe. “Brother,” Radcliff said, in his friendliest tone, “I cannot cease thinking about our Kate. I wonder if it will be a boy or a girl,” he added, though he was fairly sure from her horoscope that their first child would be a son.
Ingram only grunted, puffing out a cloud of smoke.
“So tell me, what was this private issue that you disappeared to attend to?” Radcliff asked.
Ingram straightened and took the pipe from his mouth. “What about all the times
you
were away, Radcliff? Even the men have been talking. And you always give the same excuse.”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“I know it’s not. Before Christmas, while Kate was at Aunt Musgrave’s, your steward called on her, to pay his respects –”
“My steward?” Radcliff interrupted, a shiver running along his spine. “Ah yes, he has family in the area. Why did she not mention this to me?”
“I’ll get to that. He was very polite, she said, and most informative, as well.” Ingram paused, scanning Radcliff’s face. “He said you had not been to Longstanton in months. She couldn’t understand your lying, and she was too fearful to ask you the reason for it.”
“By Jesus!” Radcliff muttered. “When did she tell
you
?”
“At Richard’s. The night your lawyer came by.”
Radcliff’s belly knotted. “Why have you waited so long to reveal this?”
“I hoped you would explain, of your own accord. But for her sake, I could wait no longer and nor can she. She’ll make herself ill with worry, Radcliff.”
Radcliff breathed a sigh. What evil fortune had cursed him for over a year; and now he could possibly lose the trust and love of his wife and
brother-in-law. He must give Ingram the same story that he had told his lawyer, but if Beaumont had ever dropped any hints to Ingram about his covert activities, the story might fail to convince.
“Ingram,” he said, “would you respect a man for trying to do what he believes is right, even if it places him in danger, or even disrepute?”
“I would.”
“And you do respect me, don’t you?”
“I always have. Are you that man?”
“Yes. And I shall explain, as far as I can, why I was forced to lie to those I hold most dear.” Radcliff sighed again, and began. “Many years ago, after my university studies, I became secretary to a nobleman of great prestige.” Ingram frowned at this, though he did not speak. “I left his employ because I believed all Englishmen should uphold the Protestant cause abroad,” Radcliff continued. “But when the schism widened between King and Parliament, he wrote to me. He said he was attempting to find some means of reconciling them, in order to avert bloodshed. He had sided with Parliament and could not work openly towards this aim, so I agreed to assist him. After all I’d seen in the foreign war, I thought he was justified, even if others might see his actions differently.”
“As less than honest.”
“Yes. Though in politics, honesty is not necessarily a virtue. There you have it. I am his messenger, his emissary, if you like, to those Royalists who might favour his plan. It was he who I had to meet, whenever I went away.”
From Ingram’s expression, Radcliff knew that he was struggling, both to understand and to accept what he had heard, although such things went against his nature; and Radcliff loved him, in that moment, more than ever before. How sad, Radcliff thought; it was like deceiving a child. “Who is he?” Ingram asked.
“That I cannot reveal. I took an oath of secrecy. As it is, I’ve told you too much.”
“Is he protecting Longstanton from Parliament?”
“Yes. So you see, I have much at stake, as have Kate and our babe.” Radcliff took from his doublet the sealed letter to her and showed it to Ingram. “What I’ve said to you is written here. I had wanted to tell her the truth but only when it could not hurt her.”
“If you can trust me, you can trust her. Send her the letter.”
“It could be intercepted. My life may be forfeit, and my honour and my estate, if anyone else learns of what I am doing.”
“Your life?” exclaimed Ingram, looking shocked.
“The best of intentions can appear treasonous at a time such as ours, and I am just small fry. My master would consider me worth sacrificing, if he believed that might save our country from destruction. And I cannot argue with him.”
Pembroke is even ready to sacrifice Charles Stuart, King of England
, Radcliff added to himself; but the King’s death was anyway fated. “Have I still your respect, brother?” he said, reaching for Ingram’s hand.
Ingram squeezed his in return. “You do, but I wish you could break free of him, so that you had no need to lie to anyone. And I wish you would take Kate that letter as soon as you can.”
“Then I shall go tomorrow after drill,” Radcliff told him, “and be back before we set off for Birmingham the next morning.”
“M
r. Beaumont, time to get up – we’ve work to do!” Madam Musgrave shouted, outside Laurence’s door.
He struggled out of bed yawning, having scarcely slept. Kate had begged again for his help to get into the priest’s hole, and after prevaricating a little he had agreed. Late into the night they had tried in vain to find the hidden mechanism. Although Kate never mentioned the ghost, she was quaking with fear, gasping and clutching his sleeve at the smallest noise. Weary of these histrionics and eager to get her out of the way in case he actually succeeded, he had told her to retire and let him continue alone. But he had enjoyed no better luck.
Downstairs, as he was taking a quick breakfast, Sam ran in flourishing a letter. “The carrier just brought it for you, sir, from Oxford,” the boy told him importantly.
“Thank you, Sam,” Laurence said, recognising Seward’s neat, old-fashioned handwriting on the cover.
Sam was peeking at it. “Is that how your name looks, sir?”
“Yes. Can you read?” Sam blushed and shook his head. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” Surreptitiously Laurence had fished a coin out of his pocket, and now he began to stare at Sam’s rather prominent left ear. “What have you got there?” he inquired.
“Where, sir?” said Sam. Laurence touched his ear gently, produced the coin as if from thin air, and tossed it to him. Sam gazed at it, awestruck; then Laurence started to laugh and he followed suit. “How did you do that, sir?” he wanted to know.
“Magic,” replied Laurence, with a shrug.
Sam looked anxious. “It won’t vanish, sir, will it?”
“Not if you keep a close eye on it.”
“Thank you, sir! Thank you!” said Sam, and he scampered off, while Laurence ripped open Seward’s letter, which for once was not in their code.
Seward wrote that the trial of Colonel Hoare had opened five days earlier but was taking far longer than anyone had predicted, due to his dragging out rules of procedure and harassing witnesses so doggedly that he had been able to twist their testimony in his favour. He must be a more skilful lawyer than he was an interrogator, Laurence thought, surprised. Hoare had managed to cast a bad light on Captain Milne, offering evidence that the man had a grudge against him and was a habitual drunkard and a swindler. And Laurence’s deposition had been ruled inadmissible, since Falkland had taken it without the presence of a neutral party. Hoare therefore demanded the right to question Laurence about his association with the Secretary of State and the demise of Charles Danvers. Hoare was also asking for all his own private documents, seized by Falkland upon his arrest. And now the trial had ground to a halt until Laurence Beaumont could testify in person. “You must come to Oxford at once,” Seward concluded.
Just as Laurence finished reading, Madam Musgrave rushed in with an alarmed expression on her face. “Nat’s arrived back from town to tell me that there are soldiers coming! They may be rebel troops! You must take one of my horses, sir, and flee.”
“No – they might catch me on the road.” He hesitated. “Why don’t I hide in the priest’s hole?”
“I suppose you could,” she said dubiously.
“Please,” he insisted. “And tell no one in your household where I am.”
“Very well, sir. Gather whatever property you brought with you and meet me on the third floor.”
He was already waiting for her at the head of the stairs as she plodded up carrying a flask, a wrapped bundle, and, with typical practicality, a chamber pot. In the bedchamber, she went over to the fireplace, but rather than operating some mechanism on the mantel, as he had expected, she pressed first at a panel on the nearby wall. It opened, to reveal a small lever. Kate had not known about this, he thought. Madam Musgrave turned it, and only then approached the mantel. She moved aside part of the carved stone, beneath which was a second lever. He held his breath in anticipation as she wound it clockwise. A large panel on that same wall suddenly slid back with miraculous ease.
“There’s a staircase within,” she said. “Count the steps as you go down. There are twelve, for the apostles of Jesus Christ, as I was told as a child.” Brushing aside cobwebs, he lowered himself into the space, and descended the stairs. “Are you at the bottom, sir? Then feel to the left of you for a metal latch and push hard.” He did, and a door creaked wide.
The priest’s hole fitted between two walls. The ceiling was so low that he could not stand up straight, and the close, mouldy atmosphere reminded him unpleasantly of his cell in Oxford Castle. Without light he could not see a thing, though there was a draught from above; the place must somehow have been vented.
“It is not commodious, sir,” Madam Musgrave yelled down. “The priests cannot have been as tall as you. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to escape by horse?”
“No, this will be much safer,” he called back.
“Come and I shall lower you these supplies.” He stumbled up to the entrance, and she passed them to him. “I’ll open up the panel and knock
loudly when the danger has passed. Good luck to you, sir – and perhaps your wish shall be granted, and you’ll have a spirit for company,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. Then she gave him a lighted candle, to see his way down again.
Shut up in the hole, he appreciated her forethought: the flask was full of wine, and the bundle contained a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, and more candles. He sat on the floor and assessed his surroundings. Against all four walls were stacks of belongings. He began to rifle about. There were chests, none locked, that contained clothing layered with dried herbs to keep out moth, an ancient shield emblazoned with a faded coat of arms, and a broken spinning wheel. There was even some evidence left of the priest, for a wooden crucifix still hung on one wall with a silver Christ upon it, now blackened and almost indistinguishable, and amidst a pile of books Laurence found a Catholic missal, its pages glued with mildew.
Finally, in a corner behind a roll of bedclothes, he discovered a small, padlocked chest. He felt within his doublet for his knife to attack the lock, but realised that in the rush to hide he had left it behind in his chamber. He could not blow the lock open with his pistol; a shot would make too much noise. His candle guttered, and he lit another, gazing hungrily at the little coffer. Then he reached up and loosened the crucifix from the nail that held it to the wall. The thing was made not of silver but of some baser substance. He pried the Christ figure off easily, for the wood was partly rotten, and with his pistol butt bashed one of the outstretched hands into a more pointed form, to insert in the keyhole. It would not turn.
He stopped and took some wine. He was sweating, the room suddenly hot and oppressive. He removed his doublet and sat for a while, frustrated. Of course, he thought next, the
nail
would fit. He plucked it from the wall, ran it back and forth into the hunk of cheese to grease it thoroughly, then tried it in the lock. He had to light another candle,
and after much fiddling and dropping the nail, and cursing as he hunted for it on the floor, he pushed it in again and found a slight purchase. He twisted it gently and heard a click, and the lock fell open.
He paused a moment to calm himself. The chest might only contain some of Madam Musgrave’s treasures. But to his joy there were letters. The top few he recognised as those he had sold back to Joshua Poole. Beneath was a bundle of new correspondence, in the same code, in Pembroke’s hand, which was all he could distinguish in such dim light. Digging deeper in the chest, he brought out a quill, some blank sheets of paper made of the same distinctive parchment as the letters, a bottle of ink and a seal without initials, and in a small velvet pouch, a pair of gold earrings. He took part of the blank sheaf of paper, calculating that it might come in useful, and tucked it away in his doublet with the correspondence, then put back the other items and shut the chest. Slipping the padlock back into place he checked to be sure it had locked and returned the chest to its former position.
Though giddy already, he drank off almost the whole flask. The conspiracy was foiled at last, he reflected, and his life could change after more than a year of being hounded and nearly murdered, and of endangering friends and family.
As the flame of his candle dwindled to a mere speck and flickered out, and as the wine began to work its way into his system, a lassitude born of sheer relief flooded over him. Closing his eyes, he curled up, his head on the roll of bedclothes, and dozed off.
He dreamt that he was walking with Khadija in the Alhambra Palace, her indigo robes rustling as she moved, and she was telling him a story about the end of Moorish rule in Granada. “One of its last kings fell in love with a Spanish slave girl,” she was saying, “and she converted to his faith. She became his second wife. His first grew jealous and angry, thinking that her own son might not succeed to the throne.”
“And the wives fought?” he asked.
“No. The King did, with his eldest son, who defeated him. Years later, the son was defeated by the Christians and forced to sign away his kingdom.” Khadija turned to him, her face glowing. “The slave girl took a Muslim name when she married – Zoraya, the morning star. But her Christian name had been that of a queen.”