Authors: Claire Letemendia
Falkland stood to bow with the rest of them, and the King departed for his quarters. At once, the arguments began.
“What sheer incompetence to let Essex slip through and relieve Gloucester,” Digby exclaimed, to the obvious outrage of Prince Rupert and Wilmot. “Afterwards our intelligence was a shambles,” he went on, eyeing Falkland, “deceiving us that he would head north, when all the while he intended to plod home to London. And despite His Royal Highness’ noble efforts to prevent him,” he concluded, “he managed to march his army all the way past Hungerford through hostile territory.”
“We made Newbury too hot for him last night,” Rupert growled, glaring back at Digby. “And we’ve blocked the London road. We have the advantage of him, my lord, and we’ll prove it to him in the morning.” With this he marched out, followed by Boy.
“Temper, temper,” Digby murmured, gazing after him.
“I didn’t notice you amongst our ranks, while we were trying to intercept the enemy,” Wilmot sneered. “What important work kept you away, my lord – were you penning some lines for your newssheet?”
“My dear Lord Wilmot, how on earth do you think I got these? Not from an exploding quill!” Digby was indicating the powder burns on his cheek, still red and raw, that Falkland knew he had sustained in an earlier skirmish with the enemy.
“Gentlemen,” Falkland told them, “I shall allow you to continue this scintillating debate without me. I am going to bed.”
“My lord,” said Wilmot, “may we walk out together?” Falkland nodded, although he had no taste for any company tonight. “Why did you enlist with Byron’s regiment?” Wilmot asked, when they were alone. “If you must take part in the action, join me, as you did at Edgehill. You’ll be safer, my lord. I hear that you’ve been rather reckless in exposing yourself to fire ever since the siege at Gloucester.”
“Thank you, but I have made my plans.” Falkland stopped, seeing a tall figure in the distance who appeared to be waiting for them. “Did Mr. Beaumont prompt you to ask?”
“Yes, he did,” admitted Wilmot.
“He has been avoiding me, I think, for the past three weeks. I’m afraid I was sharp with him when we last spoke.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t put it down to that, my lord. He’s in the most maudlin state because his lover has rejected him. Digby told me all about it.”
“Who is she?”
“Isabella Savage. They had a brief dalliance in Oxford last June, and now she won’t have anything to do with him.”
Falkland thought of that day at Oxford Castle when Mistress Savage had bent down to touch Beaumont’s chest, as if to raise him from the dead. “What went wrong between them?”
“You can’t win with women like her,” said Wilmot, with an air of authority. “Once they have power over you, they get bored and move on to make some other conquest. I’m amazed that Beaumont shouldn’t have foreseen it.”
Falkland beckoned for him to come to them. The alteration in him was marked: even in the gloom of night, Falkland could detect how thin his face had become, a shadow of beard on his chin and upper lip, and yet darker circles about his eyes. He glanced at Wilmot, who quickly excused himself, reminding Falkland, “My invitation stands. We’re bivouacked near Rupert’s Horse.”
“God be with you tomorrow,” Falkland responded.
“And you too.”
“How are you, my lord?” Beaumont asked, after Wilmot had gone.
“Better than you, it appears.”
Beaumont gave a shrug, more resigned than indifferent. “My lord, I won’t offer you my advice, as I know you’ve had enough of it, but I just had to – to say to you, you will be careful tomorrow?”
“We shall all have to be careful.”
He sighed, a short, frustrated breath, as though Falkland were purposely misunderstanding him. “You can’t stop this war, but rather than sacrifice yourself, consider what you value that the war can’t change: your family, your friendships, your ideals.”
“You surprise me, sir. I did not imagine you such a philosopher.”
“I don’t love wisdom.” He smiled, with a hint of his old spirit. “I like life, even though it’s kicked me in the teeth a few times.” Then his smile disappeared, and he regarded Falkland with acute concern. “My lord, you believe you compromised yourself, that you lost your integrity. It’s not true. His Majesty compromised you, as he has so many of his servants in the past, and there’ll be others to come. Remember your wife and children. They may be worth dying for. His Majesty’s cause is not.”
“Treasonous words, Mr. Beaumont – good that only I can hear you,” Falkland commented, attempting humour.
“I only hope that you listen.” He smiled at Falkland again, more weakly. “Forgive me, my lord – I
am
giving you advice, after all.”
Falkland did not know what to say. They were quiet, still looking at each other. Then on impulse he reached up, being so much shorter, to embrace Beaumont. “I thank you, sir,” he whispered, releasing him. “Good night.”
“Good night, my lord,” said Beaumont, in a hoarse, muffled voice.
Falkland watched him go, his lanky form graceful in contrast to his actions, for he was sniffing and wiping his eyes and nose on his sleeve like a beaten schoolboy.
Before bedding down, Falkland wrote a letter to his wife in which he professed his love for her, and for his sons. When he had finished, he asked Stephens to set out a fresh shirt for the morning, as he had each night since the failed siege of Gloucester. Then he prayed, and settled down to catch what sleep he could. Tired as he was, he drowsed; and he seemed to be floating over his property at Tew. He soared effortlessly over trees and soft, rolling meadows, where sheep grazed, all bathed in golden sunlight. His house was spread out like an architect’s design below him, and he could almost brush the rooftops. He hovered, catching the scent of wood smoke from the chimneys, and wanted to descend and peer through the window, hoping for a glimpse of Lettice at her needlework, or of the boys playing. Yet he could not stop. On he went, over more countryside elegiac its beauty, the patched fields marked out by dry-stone walls; and there were great abbeys, with cathedral spires rising up towards him; and the sound of chanting, as of the monks that used to inhabit them. He was aware of an immense peace and happiness, now untroubled by the desire to direct his flight. But he was snatched, and pulled downwards; and as he woke to someone calling his name, he knew that although he
had had that dream many times, never before had he understood what it signified.
“My lord,” Stephens said, “Byron has been ordered to attack the enemy flank, on the hills outside Newbury. Early this morning Essex moved up and stole the high ground from us. He has a couple of field pieces up there and has already opened fire on our men down on the plain.”
Falkland rose hastily, unbuttoned his doublet for Stephens to remove it, pulled off his soiled shirt and drew on the clean linen, enjoying its crispness next to his skin. The Rector of Newbury had arrived to give him communion, and as he took the sacrament, he felt within himself that same profound peace and solemn joy. Trumpets were sounding all about the camp, and drums beating. He went out to find his horse saddled, and his pistols primed. He mounted, gave instructions to Stephens about the letter, and cantered over to the place where Byron’s Horse had started to assemble. They were to accompany a regiment of foot led by Byron’s uncle, and would proceed uphill, along a lane lined with tall hedgerows, to challenge those of Essex’s troops already positioned there. Byron was in a black mood, annoyed that this area had not been scouted and occupied earlier. They might have a difficult task ahead of them, he warned Falkland, because the thick hedgerows would give the enemy cover from which to fire, while they themselves would have little room to manoeuvre.
They set off, their scouts ahead on horseback, then the ranks of foot, and lastly two regiments of horse. As they toiled up the incline, Falkland could not see over the wall of green on either side, lush from the wet summer. The men appeared uneasy, glancing about and murmuring to each other. Shots rang out, and the foot began to cave and scatter, some seeking cover behind a grassy bank, yelling for the horse to come to their defence. The horse was still protected by a shoulder of hill, and Byron gave the command to advance, to reconnoitre.
Falkland pushed to the front, beside Byron. He saw that their line of advance was almost completely blocked by a hedge, save for a gap so narrow that only one horseman could press through at a time.
“Widen the gap!” Byron shouted.
In the same second, Falkland heard the whiz of a ball near his ear, and Byron’s horse screamed, blood pouring from its neck. Byron leapt off before it could fall and crush him, and the wounded beast tumbled into the ditch and lay, still screaming and quivering in agony, on its side.
Falkland could not bear the noise any longer. He looked from Byron to the gap in the hedge, cocked his pistol and charged.
Laurence surfaced slowly from a drunken sleep, to pounding at the door. “Who’s there?” he called out.
“A messenger from the Secretary of State, for Mr. Beaumont.”
He sat up in bed, rousing the woman whom he had forgotten was beside him, the sister of Wilmot’s latest mistress. As she yawned lazily, he wished that he could make her disappear with the morning light, which was not flattering to her after so much liquor and so few hours’ rest; nor probably to him, he reminded himself, as he slid out and searched for his breeches on the floor. Then he stopped: Falkland was dead, so whose messenger was this?
The night after the battle of Newbury, Falkland had been missing from Byron’s regiment. Prince Rupert had written to the Earl of Essex asking if he had been taken prisoner, and learnt that he must be amongst the fallen. His body was eventually found, so mangled and disfigured that it could only be identified by a mole on his throat. Laurence had felt sick when he heard, and for the whole week since he thought constantly of Falkland, tormented by the idea that there might have been something more that he could have said to prevent such a senseless loss. Against Prince Rupert’s counsel, the King had subsequently withdrawn
most of his forces to Oxford. Deeply grieved by the death of Falkland, and those of others who had perished in the muddy lanes and fields, His Majesty was unwilling to re-engage with Essex and suffer further casualties. Although harried by Rupert’s Horse, Essex had marched his army back to London, and a hero’s welcome. Meanwhile, Wilmot had taken charge of Laurence, knowing how much Falkland’s death had devastated him. He kept him occupied scouting the Oxford environs by day, after which they would drink away most evenings in town.
Still fastening his breeches, Laurence opened the door to a liveried servant. “Who
is
the Secretary of State?” he inquired.
“My Lord Digby, sir.”
“Since when?”
“The appointment was made yesterday. He wishes an audience with you,” the man replied, smirking; he had caught a glimpse of the woman.
Laurence shut the door and went to put on the rest of his clothes.
Upon arrival at the Secretary of State’s quarters, he bowed to Digby, who was humming a tune as he perused some documents. “Ah, Mr. Beaumont!” he cried, looking up. “My servant was able to ferret you out!”
“Congratulations on your appointment, my lord,” Laurence said.
“It was not entirely my choice, but Her Majesty urged me to accept.” Of course she would, Laurence thought: she resented the influence of Prince Rupert over her husband, and Rupert was no ally of Digby’s. “May I offer you some hair of the dog that so evidently bit you?” Digby asked, waving for Laurence to take a seat.
“No, thank you.”
“Very well, then.” Digby began again in a more efficient tone. “I know how you must mourn my predecessor, and I also know how well you served him. I should like you to continue in the service of the Secretary of State, as my chief agent. Amongst Lord Falkland’s papers, I have inherited a curious list that he received from a Sir
Bernard Radcliff, with whom I gather you were acquainted. It merits investigation – by you.” Laurence remained silent, waiting for Digby to speak his piece. “Unlike Falkland, I have a great enthusiasm for your profession, sir. I have always had my own agents here and there, and they will be at your disposal. I can give you all the latitude you require. There will be no lectures from me on the evils of dissimulation, nor shall I issue any moral rebukes. Do you grasp my meaning?”
“You would give me a free hand.”
“How we understand each other!”
There was a pause, during which Laurence regretted that he had not taken advantage of Digby’s other offer: he could have used a glass of wine. “My lord,” he said, “Lord Falkland released me from my duties early in August. Since then, as you’re aware, I’ve been serving with Wilmot – excuse me, with Lord Wilmot – and I don’t intend to leave him.”
“Has he seduced you so easily with liquor and women?”
“No. It’s my wish.”
“So you categorically refuse?”
“I do.”
“You might reconsider, in time.”
“I won’t. Is that all, my lord?”
Digby hesitated, shuffling the papers before him. “Isabella wants to see you.
Not
to renew your former friendship but in order to return to you something you gave her. A necklace, I believe.”
“She should have given it to you to return.”
“As I told her, but you know women – once they have an idea in their heads, they are as immoveable as mountains. There’s a banquet tonight, at Merton. She will be in attendance. Do spruce yourself up for the occasion.”
“What an excellent idea, my lord,” Laurence said.
All the city bathhouses were shut, clean water being in short supply
although the drainage ditches were overflowing from the heavy rains. He had to wash and shave in Seward’s rooms, while Seward mocked him for accepting the invitation. “Not your style, Beaumont, these frivolous Court events. Why are you bothering?”
“Oh, politics,” he said, shrugging.
He decided to arrive late. Isabella would guess where to find him if she had not seen him at table, for since the day had been dry and the evening was cloudless, torches had been set up to mark a path into the gardens beyond the College terrace so that the courtiers could filter out after their repast to take fresh air; and there was a special pavilion for the royal family where musicians were playing viols and assorted wind instruments. He waited, skulking in the shadows, until he saw groups of people begin to emerge from the brightness of the hall. Finally she appeared on Digby’s arm, the unwanted necklace about her throat. Laurence edged closer and concealed himself behind a wall.