Authors: Claire Letemendia
Khadija now grasped him by the hand and led him in silence through the labyrinthine palace, past ornate columns and arches, their multicoloured tiles festooned with Arabic inscriptions, and then through endless, enormous rooms that grew more and more obscured by shadow; and he was afraid.
He and Juana reached Granada in the blazing heat of early June with only one horse: he had had no choice but to shoot hers after it had broken a back leg. The animal’s death unnerved him, as though it were an evil portent, for Juana was now questioning other travellers, many of them gypsies, as to the whereabouts of her family. He assumed from her disappointment that she had not yet gleaned any information.
In this southern city she was received with less prejudice, however, and they were able to buy a room at the largest inn, with a view of the Alhambra Palace in the distance. Looking out upon it, he could not help thinking sadly of his father, who had often talked to him of its colourful history when he was a boy.
In bed that night, he was visited by an insatiable lust, as if by filling Juana with himself he could bind her to him more tightly. At dawn, he opened his eyes to see her standing naked by the window, her interest attracted by some scene in the street below. She had put on weight: her ribs were hardly visible, her stomach curved where it had been hollow, and her breasts were fuller. She pressed both hands over her belly, smiling with such an air of private mystery that he felt excluded, and more terrified of losing her. As she turned about, he pretended sleep.
He heard her rummaging on the floor for her clothes, and dressing, and tiptoeing to the door. The latch squeaked open and shut, and he imagined her running down the stairs, out into the blinding sunshine. He waited, sweating beneath the thin sheets. Would she ever return, and what held him back from following her? But not long afterwards she burst back into the room, a jubilant smile on her face.
“My people are camped not far from Cadiz,” she announced. “It will be some days’ ride, so we must set out straight away if we wish to catch up with them. We must buy another horse – no, two good horses, to make faster progress.” Jumping on the bed, she threw her arms about him. “Are you not glad for me?”
He did not answer.
During their journey, they had no intimate contact. She claimed that she was sore after their night in Granada, and he guessed that she was punishing him for it, as they travelled over the Sierra de Almijara, past Ronda, to Medina Sidonia, and further west still. Secretly he hoped that she had been given false directions, or that her people had moved on elsewhere. Then one evening, as dusk began to fall, they espied on the horizon a column of wagons and horses moving along the crest of a hill, lit by the red glare of sunset. Before he could stop her, she galloped across the plain to meet it. When she came abreast of the column’s leader, they leapt from their mounts, and the fellow picked her up off her feet and spun her about so that her skirts danced in the breeze. Jealousy surged through Laurence: in all the time he had known her, he had been the only man that she had allowed to touch her. He spat his bile out on the sand, and stayed where he was.
At last Juana and her companion remounted and rode in his direction, the ragged column following them more slowly. Juana drew up, the fellow a pace behind her on a fine black stallion; he was holding it on a short rein, clearly unused to a horse of such mettle.
“Who is he?” Laurence asked her.
“My cousin, Pedro, also known as el Guerrero, for he fought in the wars like you,” she replied.
He and Pedro inspected each other with mutual animosity until the rest of the column arrived: there were more men on horseback, women and children and bawling infants in carts drawn by emaciated donkeys, and a half dozen ill-assorted dogs, their coats full of mange. Even after his own experience of a vagabond’s lot, Laurence found them a pitiful sight.
“And all these are my people,” Juana declared proudly.
A banging noise startled Laurence awake; he was in a state of acute sexual arousal, for the first time since his beatings. Comforted by this, despite the inconvenience, he scrambled over to open the door. Madam Musgrave’s face was looking down at him through the small exit at the top of the stairs. “Sir! You can come out now!”
Willing his tumescence to subside, he stuck the bread, cheese, and flask into the empty chamber pot and handed them up to her. Then he went back for his own things and emerged, his doublet held strategically in front of him.
“Can you believe,” she said, as she slid the panel back into place, “the troops went right past my house without stopping, and then who should arrive but Sir Bernard Radcliff!”
“Radcliff?” he repeated, his arousal quickly dissipating.
“Yes! He wanted to get in here straight away, to fetch his precious coffer! I managed to put him off for a bit so that he wouldn’t find
you
instead. Goodness, you look pale, sir, though no wonder – you haven’t had any fresh air for hours.”
“Where is he?”
“With Kate, but I shall be calling them for supper shortly. Now go and wash off all that dust – there’s hot water in your chamber.”
Laurence thanked her and descended to his room, his heart beating wildly. He had just closed the door behind him when he heard a knock and Radcliff’s voice. “Mr. Beaumont? May I enter?”
“In a moment, if you please,” he responded, as he pulled out the letters and stuffed them under his mattress. Ripping off his doublet, which was covered in dust and cobwebs, he turned it inside out and threw it on the bed, took off his shirt and used it to clean his breeches. Then he went over to a side table, where a jug and basin stood waiting for him, and poured out some hot water. “Come in,” he said, a little out of breath, starting to wash.
Radcliff entered, smiling affably. “How are you, sir? Aunt Musgrave told me you are here recovering from a dreadful ordeal at the hands of Lord Falkland’s spymaster.” When Laurence said nothing to this, he went on, “I trust you are feeling better?”
“I am, thanks,” Laurence replied, busily soaping.
Radcliff indicated the bed. “May I sit?”
“If you like,” said Laurence ungraciously, though he was tempted to smile as Radcliff settled himself there.
“It is a shame that I must set out again after supper,” Radcliff said next. “My men are readying for a march tomorrow; Prince Rupert is to attack Birmingham. When did
you
arrive at the house?” he demanded, more bluntly.
“About a week ago. Why do you ask?”
Radcliff appeared to be making some mental calculation. “You must have been in very poor shape,” he commented. Abruptly he rose and approached Laurence, studying him up and down, as though appraising his physique.
“If you don’t mind, Radcliff,” Laurence said, wishing he had kept on his shirt, “could we have this conversation after I finish my ablutions?”
“But we might not have another opportunity to speak together in private.” Radcliff looked away, as if pensive. “Remember that summer
day in Oxford when we first met? From all that Ingram had told me about you, I judged you to be the sort of fellow who cared only for wine and women. I have since revised my opinion. I now see your qualities, sir. You are admirably free of any hunger for power, or for the respect of others, which often amounts to the same thing. You are that rare creature, an
honest
man.” They were both silent for a while, Laurence marvelling at Radcliff’s effusive praise. “However,” Radcliff resumed, in a less friendly tone, “I know you are not here for the reason you gave Madam Musgrave. I also know what you are up to, and what you suspect about
me
. But I should warn you that things may not be as they seem.” He stopped once more, clearly waiting for Laurence to speak.
Laurence picked up the jug and tipped it over himself, splattering Radcliff’s clothes, at which Radcliff had to jump back. “You should listen to me,” he hissed angrily, flicking off the droplets. “I am not what you think I am.”
“Really?” said Laurence, drying himself on a towel. “Then what
are
you? Another honest man?”
Radcliff looked about to answer when they were interrupted by Kate. “Sir Bernard, Aunt Musgrave is asking for you!” she called, from the door. Radcliff had left it ajar, and now it opened an inch or two, as though she might enter.
“Wait there for me, Kate – Mr. Beaumont is not decent,” he said.
Nor are you
, Laurence wanted to add.
“We
must
speak before I leave,” Radcliff murmured to him, and walked out.
Laurence dressed and hastily brushed away more cobwebs and dust with the towel, then whipped open the door to see if Radcliff might be lingering outside. He had gone, but Kate was still there. “He has my letter,” she whispered. “I saw it in his doublet pocket, while he was changing his shirt. And the seal is still intact!”
“What do you want me to do about that?” Laurence inquired
impatiently; he was hoping somehow to steal away from the house before supper.
“I must read it! Please help me get it from him!”
Laurence considered; he did not want Radcliff chasing him on the road to Oxford, and besides, the contents of her letter interested him. “We’ll dose his wine at supper,” he said. “I have a drug that will put him to sleep. Now go down at once and stay close to him. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
She nodded and ran off, without a word of thanks.
He retrieved the other letters, rolled them up tightly and concealed them in his doublet, then grabbed the vial of Seward’s medicine from his bedside before descending to the kitchen. There he procured from the cook a thin-bladed knife of the kind used for filleting fish, and some thread, after which he joined Madam Musgrave’s party at the fireside. She was exclaiming over the household’s lucky escape from the soldiers on patrol. No one referred to his absence or where he had spent it, and he had to hope that Radcliff would not find out.
At table, he sat on Radcliff’s right side. Opposite him, Kate picked at her food in the usual way, while Radcliff shovelled his down, obviously in a hurry. Laurence ate as slowly as Kate, longing for an opportunity to slip him the drug.
Madam Musgrave was in an ebullient mood. “Let’s drink a health: to your coming child, Sir Bernard, and to the safety of my property,” she said, motioning for her butler to serve them wine.
Laurence waited until the old man came between him and Radcliff to fill Radcliff’s glass, then deliberately shot out an elbow, sending a cascade of wine across Radcliff’s lap. “Oh, how clumsy of me!” he said, as Radcliff leapt up, glaring at him. “I’m terribly sorry,” he added, and as the women fussed over Radcliff’s sodden breeches, he dumped the contents of the vial into Radcliff’s glass.
Radcliff was too distracted to notice, though Kate did; Laurence caught her fixing on the glass as she resumed her seat. He nudged her knee under the table, and she looked away.
“Drink up, everyone,” Madam Musgrave encouraged them all, and Radcliff emptied his glass reluctantly, grimacing at the taste. Another round was poured, and she chattered on and on, as Laurence prayed that the drug would take effect before the end of the meal. “Mr. Beaumont,” she said eventually, turning to him, “you did not tell me, where did you hone your skills at the gaming table?”
He shrugged and smiled. “Oh, here and abroad.”
“Yes, Ingram informed me that you are a consummate cardsharp,” said Radcliff, with leaden emphasis.
“Such fast fingers,” Madam Musgrave said, through a mouthful of stew. “I told him he could make a living off it!”
“Perhaps he has,” Radcliff murmured, rubbing his eyes.
“I did for a while,” Laurence admitted.
“When was that, sir?” Kate asked, giving Laurence a kick under the table with the toe of her slipper; Radcliff had leant back in his chair and was stifling a yawn.
Laurence kicked her back somewhat harder. “In between campaigns, when I was abroad.”
“How curious that both you and Sir Bernard fought over there and yet you never once encountered each other,” Madam Musgrave said to him, waving to the butler for a third round.
“I believe Sir Bernard was in the Dutch service,” Laurence said, as the butler refilled their glasses. “I fought mainly with the Germans. Though it
is
strange that we didn’t cross paths.” He gave Radcliff a sidelong glance. “Especially in The Hague, which was where most of us went during the winter months.”
Radcliff appeared not to be listening; his eyelids drooped promisingly.
“Sir Bernard, were you much in The Hague?” she asked.
“What, madam?” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it; he was beginning to struggle, Laurence knew.
“In The Hague, sir,” she shouted, as though to a deaf person.
Radcliff blinked, and half rose. “Please excuse me … I must go up and prepare for my journey.”
“You have plenty of time to get back to Oxford before dawn. Stay a while before you ride out.”
“Madam, I cannot,” he told her, one hand on the table to steady himself. Then he almost fell, clawing at the back of his chair.
“Sir Bernard, what is the matter?” she inquired. “Do you feel unwell?”
“I … I must have taken too much wine.”
“I think you should rest for a while, sir,” she advised, as he staggered to his feet. “It would be dangerous to ride in your condition.”
“Yes, sir,” Kate joined in solicitously. “Just sleep for an hour or two and you will feel much improved.” Radcliff said nothing; he was tottering about like a drunk. She rushed to her husband’s side. “Mr. Beaumont, he needs support! Can you take his other side?” Laurence obliged, and together they steered him towards the stairs and up to her chamber.
“I might be sick,” Radcliff muttered, slumping back on the bed. “Give me the pot.”
Kate fetched it, but his eyes had already closed.
“Help me lift him so we can take off his doublet,” Laurence told her. When this was done, he shook Radcliff by the arms. “Wake up,” he urged, “wake up.” Kate had retreated into a dark corner, clutching the doublet. Laurence shook him more roughly, to no response.