Authors: Claire Letemendia
“It was given the same burial as he had hoped to give you.” Beaumont nodded, his face now as relaxed as before. “What are you doing, sir?” Pembroke asked uneasily, as Beaumont started to unfasten Radcliff’s sword.
Beaumont held it out to him. “This is for you.”
“I
was
wondering … how did you get it?”
“I took it from him before he died.”
“Ah, so you were watching when the end came.”
“Yes. Not a pretty sight.”
“Did he bequeath it to me?” Pembroke said, with a hint of mockery.
“No, my lord. You are to keep it as a constant reminder – from the Knights of the Rosy Cross.” Pembroke started, his heart thumping in his chest. “Your alarm is entirely justified,” Beaumont went on, “given how you have abused their symbols. They would never have sanctioned the murder of a king. And a Protestant king, at that.”
“What – what have you to do with them?”
“If you think hard, my lord, you already have the answer.” Beaumont smiled, flashing his even white teeth. “But let me make it easier for you. Why would Radcliff study so long with Dr. Seward? Not just to learn about the casting of horoscopes, surely. That’s child’s play, compared to the knowledge he desired.”
“By Christ.” Pembroke swallowed. “Is – is Seward an initiate?”
“As I said, think hard, and draw your own conclusion. It seems everyone is watching you, my lord, Parliament included – though you’ve less to fear from that quarter than from another, as I’m sure you must understand.” Beaumont looked about, as if admiring the décor. “What a fine place you have. If I were you, I’d stay here and enjoy it. And hunt some four-legged game for a change.”
“I might,” whispered Pembroke. “I might at that.”
“How did my husband die?” Kate asked Laurence, sitting down heavily on the bed and folding her hands beneath the expanse of her stomach. He felt suddenly sorry for her, as he noticed pieces of a baby’s garment laid out upon the counterpane beside her, ready to be stitched.
“We had the misfortune to run into the city militia,” he replied,
thinking of Radcliff in the circle of flames, baited by Pembroke’s guards. “They pursued us, and when we didn’t stop they fired. He was killed outright. I had to flee for my own life, or else I would have tried to bring back his body.”
“Why were you in London with him?”
“He wanted my assistance to get past the city defences. He must have confided in you what he was doing there.”
Her eyes flickered from side to side; she probably knew no more than was in the letter that they had both read, he thought. “You are a spy, aren’t you,” she said, surprising him. “You stole his private correspondence. He gave me to believe that you had destroyed him. Though the next time I saw him – the last time, in fact – he said you had resolved that problem.”
“Yes, we had.”
“You’re lying. He hated you, as doubtless you did him!”
“In our business, we can’t always choose our bedfellows. My history with him isn’t important any more, certainly not to you. I should tell you, however, that Parliament won’t take it against you that he sided with the King. Your estate won’t be touched.”
“How can that be? Unless my husband
was
a traitor, after all.”
“No, but the less you know of his activities, the safer for you,” said Laurence, tempted to smile at the enormity of the understatement.
She glowered at him. “How smug and superior you men are, with all of your secrets.”
He had to agree with her, though he made no sign of it. “I’m riding to Bristol, Lady Radcliff. Prince Rupert’s forces occupied it some days ago. Ingram must be there, with his regiment. Would you like me to tell him about your husband?”
“Yes, thank you. And please let him know that I shall write to him soon.” She picked up her sewing and began to fit the tiny pieces together, as if she were alone in the room.
“Good day to you, then,” Laurence excused himself. As he shut the door behind him, he heard a muffled sob and nearly went back in, then thought the better of it.
Madam Musgrave stood waiting for him downstairs in the hall. “How is she, Mr. Beaumont?”
“As you might imagine.”
“At least she has Sir Bernard’s property. And thank God – or should I say, God willing – she will have a child to console her. I did not enjoy such fortune myself,” Madam Musgrave commented, heaving a wistful sigh as they went together to sit by the fireplace, where she had laid out some refreshments. “In some twenty years of marriage, I took every potion in the herbals, I consulted wise women, I drank from holy wells, much as it went against my religion, and I wore rabbits’ feet and God knows what other charms tucked inside my shift. All to no avail.”
“Maybe the fault wasn’t yours.”
“That is what I would tell Mr. Musgrave whenever he expressed his disappointment in our childless state,” she agreed, pouring him a glass of wine.
“Do you – do you think,” he said hesitantly, “that a woman could conceive again, if she once was pregnant but had to – to get rid of it?”
“That would depend upon how the operation was performed, and the present state of her health. Have you some particular woman in mind?” Madam Musgrave inquired, her shrewd eyes fixed on him as she sipped from her own cup.
“What if it had been brutally done?” Laurence asked, avoiding both her gaze and her question.
“Poor creature,” she murmured. “It might be harder for her, and more difficult for her to bring another babe to term. Nonetheless, one should not give up hope. What about you, Mr. Beaumont – have you sired any bastards, to your knowledge?”
“I’m afraid I have,” he confessed, at which she laughed aloud.
“You should be glad that you have proof of your virility, unlike my late husband. You should get married, sir! You’re of the right age, neither too young nor too old. If you wait any longer you might become one of those confirmed bachelors, riddled with pox and gout and bitter memories. Find yourself a wife – although from what Walter has told me, most women will be hard pressed to match the beauty and wit of your mother, Lady Beaumont.”
Laurence almost choked on his wine as an image flew into his head of Isabella in his mother’s little office, drawing up accounts for the estate.
“Dear me,” Madam Musgrave said, laughing again. “You look as if the very words ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ signify to you lifelong slavery and sapped desire. You can ride into battle, you can endure being thrashed to a pulp, yet you cannot stick your finger in a ring! Where is your courage, sir? There are worse things than failure, and never to have tried is one of them.” He blinked at her, simultaneously shocked and exhilarated, as though she had just drenched him with icy water. “And by the bye,” she added, “you should speak with your father about Walter’s inheritance. Since Kate is settled with Sir Bernard’s property, I have no hesitation in granting Walter mine upon my decease. I want him to know that, and he may consider Faringdon as his own home as of now. I do look forward to meeting his future bride. Is Anne at all like you in character?”
“No,” said Laurence, smiling. “In fact, she and Ingram are rather alike – both good, honest souls. They’ll be very well matched.” Then he asked if he could borrow a pen and some paper; and when he had finished writing, he sealed the missive and gave Sam some coins to have it delivered to an address in Oxford.
At Bristol, Laurence went straight to Falkland’s quarters and recounted his discourse with Pembroke, omitting any mention of the Knights of the Rosy Cross.
“How certain can we be of the Earl’s promise?” Falkland inquired.
“I think he has every reason to keep it.”
“Then the conspiracy is dead at last.” Laurence nodded, struck by the thought that part of Khadija’s prophecy had now been fulfilled. “Meanwhile, here all is faction, Mr. Beaumont, in spite of the Prince’s triumph, or indeed because of it. Bristol was won at a terrible cost. The Cornish suffered grievous casualties, amongst them their finest officers. And as for the defenders, after they ran out of ammunition and surrendered, some were set upon by our side as they quit the city under truce. Prince Rupert had literally to beat his men off them. Yet Prince Maurice continues to enrage the local population with his indiscriminate plundering.”
“The foreign way,” Laurence remarked.
“Yes, and Rupert cannot rein him in. His Majesty seems unconcerned, and more sanguine than ever, since we now control the second greatest seaport in England. We also have four ships of the Navy,” Falkland continued in a despondent tone, as though he were enumerating defeats rather than successes. “We have overrun Dorsetshire, and Prince Maurice is threatening to wreak more devastation on all the ports thereabouts, if they do not surrender to him. We have blocked the flow of goods and livestock to the capital. We hear of disputes in London, where the House of Lords is again seeking compromise with His Majesty. It would seem that we could finish this war within the year. In fact, Digby and others in Council were encouraging the King to march on the capital while Parliament is still reeling from our victories. But on Rupert’s advice, he decided against such a course.”
“He was right to do so: our armies are too dispersed,” said Laurence.
“Exactly. He has settled on laying siege to Gloucester, to make a clean sweep of the west behind him. Our intelligence suggests that the city will not hold out for Parliament. The governor, Colonel Massey,
has intimated that he will open the gates to us if His Majesty appears in person and bids him do so.”
“Is this intelligence sound?”
“I would be more inclined to rely on it if it came from you,” Falkland said, smiling sadly. “We shall soon see. I forgot to ask, did you approve of the pistols I sent you?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord. They’re better than the ones I lost.”
“That pleases me, very much. Now, sir, you look in need of sustenance. You should go and get yourself a hot supper.”
“I shall, my lord,” Laurence said, but instead he went in search of Ingram’s troop.
The men were assembled for their rations in a straggling queue before the quartermaster. Each soldier received a small loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, and could hold his tankard under a barrel with the spout left constantly running, for a draught of precious ale. Scarcely a drop was wasted, since the quartermaster herded them through like cattle, and they went as docilely. Laurence was relieved not to be one of them. In the line he saw Ingram, who waved at him immediately and came over.
“Beaumont, you stranger! So we’re all in Bristol now. Though we may be marching for Gloucester tomorrow.”
“I know. Ingram, I have some news for you.”
“Good or bad?” Ingram asked, nervously.
“Both. My sister Anne may be getting married soon.” Ingram looked crestfallen. “You’ll have to ask her first, of course,” Laurence added, and relayed to his friend Madam Musgrave’s proposition.
Ingram let out a whoop, and hugged him. “Bless Aunt Musgrave! But you said –”
“Yes, I have bad news, too.” Laurence gave Ingram a similarly palatable version of Radcliff’s death as he had to Kate, and he gauged from Ingram’s reaction that it was not altogether unexpected.
“This spring I confronted him about his absences from the troop,” Ingram said, in a low voice, and he told Laurence all that had passed between them. “As I hadn’t heard from him again in so long, I knew I had to prepare myself for the worst. How tragic for Radcliff. And for Kate.” He fell silent, examining Laurence. “You’re keeping a great deal to yourself, aren’t you. I suspect you know who he was serving.” Laurence made no reply. “How is Kate?”
“Admirably composed, as always.” Laurence swiftly changed the subject. “Will you take command of Radcliff’s troop?”
“No. It will pass to Blunt or Fuller. I’m not cut out for an officer,” Ingram admitted, flushing.
“Nor am I, thank God,” said Laurence, at which he was pleased to see Ingram smile.
“What a pair of yokels,” Digby complained to the King, as the two Parliamentary messengers turned abruptly and walked away. “Fancy them striding off without the slightest obeisance to Your Majesty!”
In an open show of strength, the Royalist troops had assembled before the city of Gloucester anticipating its immediate surrender, but it now seemed they were to be disappointed.
The King, on his tall horse, wore an affronted expression. “Governor Massey was merely playing for time, and had no thought of capitulating,” he declared.
As you have played for time on many occasions
, Digby was tempted to comment. “An outrage, Your Majesty,” he said. “But if he is expecting help from my Lord Essex, he will have a long wait ahead of him.” He was irritated, too: at this very moment they could be moving on London, as he had recommended, instead of parleying with uncouth rebels.
“My Lord Falkland,” the King said, “what is your opinion?”
“If we must take Gloucester by force,” Falkland said, “let us be
merciful in the way we accomplish it. Those men’s faces were already pinched with hunger.”
“They shall have to start eating their orange cockades,” Digby jested, though neither the King nor Falkland appeared to appreciate his witticism.
“At Council tonight, we must decide whether to lay siege to the city or storm it, as Prince Rupert will no doubt urge,” His Majesty said. “My Lord Falkland, pray send out a message to all concerned. And we should move our formations to the outskirts.”
“How I lament Colonel Massey’s choice,” Digby heard Falkland shout to him, over the splashing of hooves in the mud, while they retreated. “He could have spared the townsfolk much hardship.”
“My dear Lucius,” Digby shouted back, “Massey is a Presbyterian, and they are as known for their stubbornness as for their lack of humour. Aha, behold your unlikely guardian angel,” he said next, of a rider approaching them.
“Why do you call him that?” snapped Falkland.
“Because he appears to me more diabolic than angelic.” As Beaumont reined in his horse beside theirs, Digby asked, “What do you make of it all, Mr. Beaumont? The rebels say they will be at His Majesty’s service as soon as they are informed of the fact by both Houses of Parliament.”