Authors: Claire Letemendia
“On me?”
“A bit late for that, don’t you think. Why did you try to kill me tonight?”
“B-because I’ve loathed you from the moment I set eyes on you.” Radcliff was panting for air. “You had everything I ever wanted, and yet you had no respect for it.”
“Hmm. Any last words for your wife?”
“T-tell her I wish I – I could have seen our child.”
“You might have, if you’d played by the rules.”
Radcliff tried to nod. “And tell Ingram I’m sorry.”
Beaumont gave a little laugh. “Sorry? You’re only sorry you got caught.” He must have found the sword, for Radcliff heard a swishing noise as it was thrust back in its scabbard.
Radcliff felt for Beaumont’s arm and gripped it with all the strength he had left. “Please, for the love of God, put that blade through me. End my suffering.”
Beaumont did not speak, for what seemed an eternity. Then, very quietly, he whispered, “No.”
L
aurence could barely recognise his old college: where previously few women were ever to be seen, Queen Henrietta Maria had established her entourage, packed into accommodations designed for half the number. Fashionable ladies and gentlemen milled about, playing at games or airing their lapdogs in the quadrangles, and there was a babble of chatter, the sound of someone playing a lute, and a heavy waft of perfume in the air.
He was weaving through the throngs of courtiers when a sharp blow stung him on the shins, and he looked down to see a young, blond dwarf, impeccably costumed, brandishing a diminutive walking cane.
“You could have knocked me over, sir!” cried the dwarf. “You shall apologise, or by my honour you’ll pay the price.”
“Very sorry indeed,” said Laurence, scowling at him.
“Such riffraff they are letting in here these days!” the dwarf complained, as he stalked away.
Seward, fortunately, was at home. “Dear Beaumont, how relieved I am to see you!” he said, welcoming Laurence in. “I feared for your life all this time.” Then he took a sniff. “What is that appalling smell?”
“The Thames,” Laurence replied.
“Goodness! You must tell me all about your adventures, if we can
hear a word over this infernal racket. Privileged as we are to house a royal guest, I cannot countenance the disorder that has ensued. Females in large numbers are more of a curse than any Biblical plague.”
“I don’t know about the women, but some dwarf just hit me with his walking stick.”
Seward chuckled. “That would be Mr. Jeffrey Hudson, Her Majesty’s little friend. She is devoted to him, and his pride is out of all proportion to his size.”
“She likes her men as short as she is, doesn’t she. Her husband’s no exception.”
“Now, now, Beaumont. Sit down. You look ill tempered.”
“I am,” said Laurence, pulling up a chair for himself. “I’ve just come from reporting to Falkland and the King. His Majesty said he was most dissatisfied with the way I left things in London.”
“Why, what happened there?”
For the second time that day Laurence told his story, interrupted by many exclamations on Seward’s part as he described how close he had come to a watery death.
“Radcliff was a treacherous knave,” Seward commented, at the end.
“Pembroke’s no better.”
“Indeed not – you were fortunate to escape his clutches.”
“Oh, but His Majesty is of a different view,” said Laurence, not bothering to hide his disgust. “He suggested that before leaving, I should have discussed terms with Pembroke and secured his written promise to abandon the conspiracy. The King claimed that I had disappointed him yet
again
.”
“Will he send you back to complete your mission?”
“I’m not sure he trusts me to make a success of it. But Pembroke is still a threat to
us
, Seward. Radcliff told him I was your associate, and being the sort of man he is, he’ll come after us even if he gives up on his ambitions regarding the King. That’s why I took this.”
Laurence had Radcliff’s sword wrapped in his cloak, and he now laid it on Seward’s desk; there were bloodstains dried into the green leather of its scabbard, a lasting memorial of its owner. “Remember what you said about the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross, that Pembroke had desecrated its symbols? And here they are on the blade – the same as on his paper.”
Seward gazed down at the weapon, then frowned at Laurence. “Would you confront him with it?”
“It could be enough to convince him that he should leave us alone. Radcliff told me he was superstitious. And he may suspect that you taught Radcliff about the Brotherhood.”
“It has nothing to do with superstition! He has a sword of Damocles hanging over his head. So you are going back whatever the King decides.”
“I must. Ah well – Falkland and I will see His Majesty tomorrow, and I’ll find out whether he’s giving me another chance.”
“Let’s pray he does.”
“Poor Falkland,” Laurence remarked, with a sigh. “He needs all the support he can get, and he knows it. You should have seen his expression yesterday after we left the royal apartments.”
“Your fealty to him does you credit. But, Beaumont, what might Radcliff have been planning to do that night, after he got rid of you? Would he still have betrayed Pembroke, or was he seeking to creep back into his master’s good graces?”
“Who cares. He did a stupid thing and he paid dearly for it.” Laurence rose and stretched. “Excuse me, Seward, I must be off. Would you look after the sword for me?”
“Yes, but where are you going?”
“Don’t ask,” Laurence said over his shoulder, as he walked out.
On the way to Isabella’s house, he grew apprehensive: he had kept her waiting a very long time for news of him. Yet he was unprepared
for her maid Lucy’s terse greeting. “Mistress Savage cannot receive you, sir,” she said.
“Is she sick?” Laurence asked anxiously.
“No, sir. She bade me tell you that she cannot receive you – ever.”
“I understand why she may be upset, but I must talk to her.”
“Mr. Beaumont, please go away.”
“Has Digby forbidden her to see me?” Lucy shook her head. “What is it, then? There must be a reason,” he said, more urgently. “I have to hear it, from her!”
“No, sir. Just go!” cried Lucy, and shut the door on him.
He banged on it for some time, but no one answered, so he climbed over a small gate to the side of the house and ran into the back garden; he and Isabella had often liked to sit out there in the early evenings, talking together, and the window of her bedchamber was just above. Increasingly desperate, he shouted up, “Isabella, please! Give me a chance to explain!” But the window remained closed, and the curtains drawn.
Falkland opened his Bible at an unexpected book, the Song of Solomon. As he scanned the familiar verses, he thought of his wife, and to his surprise he felt a stirring in his body quite inappropriate to the circumstances, for he was about to accompany Beaumont again to the royal apartments. Although he shut the Bible quickly and tried to concentrate on more serious matters, the yearning for her did not pass until Stephens entered, followed by Beaumont. He was clean and freshly shaven, dressed in the plain black clothes he had worn to Hoare’s trial, but Falkland caught the reek of alcohol on his breath almost immediately, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Mr. Beaumont,” Falkland said, “were you drinking with Dr. Seward last night?”
“No, I was alone.”
“You seem out of sorts. Not bad news of your father, I trust?”
“No, my lord.”
“Such a wet summer, most injurious to the health,” Falkland said, to break Beaumont’s taciturn silence, as they walked over to Christ Church. “Fever has laid low troops, townsfolk, and courtiers, without regard for social status.”
“At least there’s some justice in the world,” Beaumont muttered, which made Falkland smile.
His Majesty was seated in an ornate armchair, a letter in his hand. He frowned at Beaumont, but addressed them with less reserve than he had the day before. “My lord, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “I have here a communication from my Lady d-d’Aubigny. She assures me that Mr. Beaumont did everything he could, under d-difficult circumstances, to ensure her security and that of Lady Sophia Murray, and that he quit the French Embassy in May on the Ambassador’s expressed order.”
Falkland saw Beaumont lower his eyes as if to check an impolite response; he must recognise that was as much of an apology as he could expect from the King.
“For this reason, sir,” His Majesty continued, to Beaumont, “I shall overlook the mistakes you made in your n-negotiations with the Earl of Pembroke. I wish you to call upon him again in my name. Let him know that I should like to be able to count on his unswerving loyalty in my dealings with Parliament, as he pledged to me some time ago, or else the content of his letters shall be made public. And have him sign a document to that effect.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Beaumont said, his face impassive.
“My Lord Falkland will supervise the details of your journey. I thank you, gentlemen, and I shall await your lordship at Council tonight. We may have a fresh report of the present siege at Bristol. My nephew has high hopes that the city may be stormed tomorrow and
victory will be his. It would be a magnificent prize, to control such a vital port,” the King concluded, beaming at them.
So that you can bring in troops from Ireland
, Falkland added to himself,
as your headstrong wife has always urged you to do
. “Let us pray it can be taken without too much loss of life,” he said.
The King nodded graciously, and they were dismissed.
“My Lady d’Aubigny has come once more to your aid,” Falkland observed, as he and Beaumont crossed the rain-soaked College lawn.
Beaumont seemed distracted, as if pondering another issue. “My lord, I’m not going to London. This time I’d like to meet Pembroke on his own territory, at Wilton. Can you arrange that for me?”
“Won’t it be more dangerous?”
“He wouldn’t dare touch the King’s emissary,” Beaumont said, with scathing irony. “Besides, I’ve never seen his house. My father says it’s very splendid.”
“I can send a guard with you – in fact, as many as you wish.”
“Thank you, but I’d prefer to travel by myself. There is one thing you could get for me, however: a brace of pistols. I lost mine when Radcliff tried to drown me. They were French flintlocks.”
“Yes, of course. I shall have them delivered to you at Merton.” As they walked on, Falkland had an urge to confess to Beaumont his feelings of utter despair, in spite of the King’s blithe optimism about taking Bristol. Instead he asked, “How long do you think this war will continue?”
Beaumont turned to look at him piercingly. “Do you want my honest opinion?” Falkland nodded. “For some years more.”
Falkland swallowed, and nodded again. “Ah well, if Prince Rupert manages to occupy Bristol, it is likely that His Majesty and the Council of War may join him in the West Country. You might have to find me there. Although if Rupert fails, I could yet be where I am now.”
“Knowing the Prince, I’ll find you at Bristol,” Beaumont said. “Good day, my lord.”
Pembroke listened to spurs clanking in time with the tread of feet coming nearer and nearer, and was reminded of a play he had seen in which an avenging ghost had appeared, to much the same sounds, and borne witness to his own murder. Then Pembroke forgot about the play, for here was the man who had told him of Radcliff’s treachery. Beaumont bowed, regarding Pembroke with those transparent, feral eyes; were he cast for the stage he would make a perfect assassin. And, to Pembroke’s amazement, he was wearing Radcliff’s sword.
“Well, sir,” Pembroke said, “you’ve balls, I must admit, to demand that I receive you here, though perhaps I should have expected something of the like, after your daring escape from my London house.”
“Why, thank you, your lordship,” Beaumont responded serenely.
“Let us make this brief. I gather that His Majesty is offering me terms. What are they?”
“His discretion in exchange for your cooperation.”
As Beaumont explained, Pembroke felt as if the ground were opening beneath him into a gaping void. He became incensed that all his years of careful work should have come to this. “Mr. Beaumont, you were a soldier in the foreign war, were you not?” he asked, when Beaumont had finished. “You saw what hell it was. I wanted to spare our country from ruin.”
“You wanted to rule it.”
“With the support of a new Parliament. Charles Stuart has tried to rule without, as if by ignoring his people’s grievances he could make them disappear. And look how he added to them. He sought to impose his bishops on us, his taxes, his duties on our ports. Over and over again, he has refused our peace initiatives and treated our Commissioners like
so many criminals. Soon he will bring in Irish troops, even as he pretends to work towards a settlement. He is a Janus – two-faced! Should I trust his word?”
“I think you have no choice. And, after all, you
did
pledge yours.”
Now more fascinated than afraid, Pembroke studied him. “How many links there were between you and Sir Bernard – first that bawdy house in The Hague, and then William Seward!”
“And Lady Radcliff. She’s the sister of my closest friend.”
“Unbelievable,” Pembroke murmured.
“On that subject, I know you were protecting Radcliff’s estate in Cambridgeshire. Is there a danger that it might be sequestrated upon his death? After all, he was posing as a Royalist – or rather, a
malignant
, which I believe is the current Parliamentary term for His Majesty’s supporters.”
“How much does Lady Radcliff know about my connection with her husband?”
“Nothing that could hurt you, as yet.”
“If you keep it so, I shall ensure that she does not lose the property, though it is a mere few acres of marsh. Have we a bargain?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Sir Bernard said that she is exceptionally lovely. Is she?”
“In appearance, yes.”
“Then she’s bound to find herself another husband.”
Beaumont’s expression altered marginally, as if he had just registered in Pembroke a flaw of character for which he felt the utmost disdain. “What happened to the body?”