Authors: Claire Letemendia
Lady Beaumont clenched her jaw to suppress a yawn. As she stared out of the window at the quadrangle below, she at last saw her son walking out from beneath the Fitzjames Arch. He was late, as usual, and in animated conversation with a College servant. His boots were worn and unpolished, he was without hat or sword, his hair was carelessly tied back with string, and he could not have shaved for a day or two. What would Her Majesty think?
When the Queen’s page admitted him, Laurence bowed with his customary elegance to Her Majesty and the ladies. They got up to curtsey, Lady Beaumont included, though the Queen stayed seated.
“My Lady Beaumont,” said the Queen, showing her prominent front teeth in a smile, “he is you, in masculine form! Since you are the only gentleman here, Mr. Beaumont, you must sit beside me, and I shall choose a young companion to sit on your other side.” She surveyed her ladies, as if judging a competition. “Mistress Penelope Furnival!”
A blonde girl hurried to claim her prize. Lady Beaumont’s pulse quickened: she and the Queen had thoroughly explored the requisite issues of heredity, land, finance, health, and temperament for this match; and all appeared promising to her. But Laurence had slipped the net of betrothal twice in the past, and now there was the additional complication of Isabella Savage. Lady Beaumont considered herself no mean judge of beauty, and she could not deny Isabella’s attractions: a profile worthy of an Italian Madonna; skin the colour of rich cream; a figure slender yet ripe; a striking blend of intelligence and artfulness in her heavy-lidded, gold-flecked hazel eyes; and voluptuousness in the lines of her mouth. And who knew what courtesan’s tricks she employed to keep a man of Laurence’s experience beguiled in her bed.
Laurence smiled at Penelope as he might at his sisters, then focused his attention on the Queen. “I gave Penelope the part of the goddess Aphrodite in our masque last night, Mr. Beaumont,” the Queen told him, “and I played her mother, Dione.”
“Your Majesty was generous, to surrender a role for which you are so eminently suited.”
The Queen’s eyes sparkled. Everyone knew of her fierce devotion to the King, but Lady Beaumont had also noted her penchant for the company of good-looking young men, and for flirtatious banter. “I
had
to play Dione, sir, to His Majesty’s Zeus. You should have witnessed his entrance: he was lowered to the stage in a golden carriage, to a bolt of lightning and a rattle of thunder!”
“It is wonderful that he can still find time for these entertainments,” Laurence said.
Lady Beaumont caught the sarcasm, though fortunately it was lost on the Queen, who leant over and touched his sleeve. “It would be
a delight to see you in Greek dress. We are too constrained and …
déguisés
in our modern clothes.”
“I agree with Your Majesty: they are a terrible limitation to physical activity. In fact, I think we men should abandon clothing altogether and exercise naked, as did the Greek athletes.”
The Queen burst into laughter and clapped her hands. Her ladies joined in, though some of them were blushing to the roots of their hair. “Might you accept a part in our next entertainment?” the Queen asked him.
“Your Majesty, I have no talent for acting.”
“Necessity must demand that you play many roles, in the service of our Secretary of State.”
“Not half as many as he likes to play himself,” Laurence said to her, as though in confidence.
“Oh how right you are! His lordship is addicted to mischief.”
“Your Majesty,” intervened Lady Beaumont, “would you have the grace to excuse me and my son? We have a family matter to discuss.”
“On condition that you sup with us this evening, Mr. Beaumont,” the Queen said, as he rose.
“It would be an honour, Your Majesty, but tonight I must prepare to quit Oxford on a mission for his lordship.”
“Ah, well – then may God speed you on your journey, sir.”
Lady Beaumont steeled her wits for combat and followed her son out, down the stone staircase, and into the quadrangle. “Laurence,” she began, “what think you of Mistress Penelope?”
He turned upon her his annoying smile. “She’s very pretty.”
“Yes, she is. You might not remember: she is daughter to Sir Harold and Lady Margaret Furnival, of Lower Quinton. They are almost our neighbours, but six miles or so from us at Chipping Campden, across the Warwickshire border.”
“Are they!”
“I am hoping to arrange for you a more private interview with her.”
“To what end?”
“So that you may learn if she will suit you as a bride,” said Lady Beaumont, her patience evaporating.
“I believe the English Church only allows a man one bride at a time.” She gasped, as the significance of his words sank in. “Other faiths are more accommodating to human nature, though not liberal enough,” he went on infuriatingly. “If a man can have several wives, it seems to me that a wife should be allowed as many—”
“You have not …
married
that woman.”
“Not yet, but I did ask her to marry me.”
For a second, Lady Beaumont was dumbstruck. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Far from it, madam – all of my senses tell me that I want her for my wife.”
“From what
I
have heard about her at Court, without the kind intervention of Lord Digby she would be shunned by respectable society. She does not even know her own father, and she is notorious for her past affairs. It was sufficient insult that you dared present her to me yesterday! Oh Laurence, marriage to her is out of the question. Or …” A sudden thought flew into Lady Beaumont’s mind. “Is she with child?” His smile did not waver, but she saw a flicker in his eyes. “Laurence, that
you
should be deceived by such an old ruse. You cannot be sure the child is yours.”
“She is not with child.”
“Then bid her goodbye, before it is too late. You cannot destroy the good name of your family, and ruin your father’s health. Your duty is to him, as his heir.”
“Yes, it is,” Laurence said, his face softening.
“When might you come home to see him?”
“I’ll ask Lord Digby for permission, when I return from his business.”
“Will you promise until then not to engage in a lawful union with Mistress Savage?”
He sighed, and nodded. Reaching for her hands, he pressed them affectionately. “I must go.”
“Where are you going now?”
“To call on Seward.”
Lady Beaumont drew away. She could not bear his friendship with that old sodomite, but nor could she argue against it: Seward had been her husband’s tutor before he was Laurence’s, and Lord Beaumont thought the world of him. Yet whenever she heard his name, she shuddered inside, for a reason of her own.
“Do you ever tidy your rooms, Seward?” asked Laurence, looking round at the shelves piled high with dusty tomes and crowded with rows of jars and vials, and alchemical equipment; and on the big oaken desk, more books and scrolls of tattered parchment, and Seward’s silver scrying bowl engraved with arcane symbols. On the filthy floor were still more books and scraps of discarded paper, and plates that he must have put out for his cat to lick clean. In one corner stood the cupboard where he kept his packets of dried herbs and powders, odd-shaped stones and bones and crystals, and his bottles of awful homemade wine. Those from his friend Dr. Clarke’s cellars, however, were always delicious; and it was just such a bottle that he and Laurence were now sharing. The rooms never changed, and neither did Seward’s gaunt face and skeletal frame; and Laurence had not once seen him in anything but his black scholar’s gown and skull cap.
“There is order in my apparent chaos,” said Seward, fixing his rheumy blue eyes on Laurence as he polished his spectacles on the sleeve of his gown. “And who are you to criticise? As if you were the tidiest of people.”
“I grant you, I am slovenly in some respects,” said Laurence, “but I do make a point of soap and hot water, and clean linen – and occasionally I buy myself new clothes. You were wearing that same cap on the day we were introduced in my father’s library.”
“No, Beaumont, it is a facsimile thereof. The original met a sad end on the day I acquired Pusskins.” Seward looked over with paternal
pride at the striped cat sleeping curled by the fireplace. “He was a tiny kitten, but he ripped it to shreds with his needle-like claws and teeth.”
“Perhaps he thought it was a rat.”
Seward did not laugh. “You are in peculiarly high spirits, my boy, considering the day you have had. And you are obviously bridling at Lord Digby’s command that you work with this fellow Violet, whose allegiances you doubt, to find a man who butchered one of His Majesty’s spies.” Laurence shrugged; Seward did not even know of Lady Beaumont’s lecture. “
Could
this villain’s name be among the five on Radcliff’s list?”
“I’d bet the list isn’t worth the paper it was written on.”
“For what reason?”
Laurence took a sip from his cup. “You yourself called Radcliff a lying rogue, and he was bargaining for his life when he supplied those names. He probably invented them. And anyway, if Pym got his spymaster from the Low Countries, he might not be English, whereas all five of the names most definitely are. And he can’t have been very long in England if Albright only mentioned him in that final letter to Digby. I didn’t hear so much as a whisper about him while I was in Falkland’s service.”
Seward adjusted his spectacles with a bony hand, and read aloud what Laurence had scribbled on a sheet of paper. “ ‘Victor Jeffrey, Anthony Burton, James Pritchard, Christopher Harris, Clement Veech.’ Radcliff produced the list in August. It is possible that the butcher had arrived in England before then, and that Radcliff possessed the connections in London to learn about him.”
“Yes, it is possible. Seward, I’m not going to London with Violet. I intend to leave tonight, alone.”
“That would be the height of idiocy,” Seward reproached him. “No matter your instinct about him, you cannot disobey his lordship.”
“His lordship is most welcome to dismiss me afterwards, for insubordination.”
“Are you talking in jest?”
“I’m absolutely serious. I passed the entire morning with Violet,
and nothing in his behaviour or speech convinced me to rely on him. And if I
am
wrong about his loyalties, he must be under watch by Parliament as a known courier. As I said to Digby, we’d double our risk by moving about together. My friends in London have saved my life on several occasions, and I won’t have them exposed to more danger than they face each time they help me. I can make contact with Violet when he gets to Cheapside.”
“What if Lord Digby comes here asking after you?”
“You can tell him the truth.”
“Does Mistress Savage know what you are about to do?”
“No. His lordship insisted that I be discreet, and that I concoct a pleasing fiction for her to explain my absence – as if she’s unaware of my duties and what they might involve. It may be better for me to go without explanation, and let Digby tell her what he chooses. I’ll set matters straight with her when I return.”
“If she comes to me, what am I to say? I shall have to lie.”
“Hardly a novel sin for either of us – we’re still lying our heads off to cover up Pembroke’s conspiracy,” Laurence pointed out.
“Beaumont,” said Seward, in a hushed tone, “what must I do about the King’s horoscope? I have been pondering: should I alert him?”
“Do any of us wish to know when we’re to die?
I
don’t.”
“You are young. It is natural that you should fear death.”
“The King hasn’t yet celebrated his forty-third birthday. Is there no room for error in your calculations?”
“There is always room, in any human interpretation of God’s holy will,” Seward admitted.
“In that case I’d suggest you keep silent.”
As Laurence was leaving through the College gatehouse, a man in a suit of blue velvet and a cloak trimmed with gold braid came swaggering along Merton Street. “Lord Henry Wilmot, you dazzle me with your splendour,” Laurence said. “I presume you’ve no army manoeuvres today.”
Wilmot stopped and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Beaumont. What are you doing here?”
“I was paying my respects to the Queen.”
“I’m about to do the same myself. She has plans for me.” Wilmot grinned and tugged at his luxuriant moustache. “Connubial plans. I’ve been far too long without a wife,
and
without a son and heir. Ten years of dutiful fucking, and my dear departed Frances proved dry as a stick.”
“Has Her Majesty a prospective candidate?” asked Laurence, impressed by the Queen’s industry as a matchmaker.
“A rich widow – too Puritan in her religion, but I’ll soon change that.”
“With more dutiful fucking?”
Wilmot whipped off a kidskin glove and smacked him on the ear. “I shall miss your insolence.”
“As I shall yours.”
“God damn it, I’m sorry for you, man,” Wilmot said, sobering. “Digby’s no Falkland.”
“That he isn’t.”
“I haven’t forgotten the eve of Newbury Field, and the Council of War – Digby and His Teutonic Highness Prince Rupert and I were scrapping like dogs over a bone. Not Falkland – he was … serene. Even then, he must have decided how his life would end. Later I tried to stop him from—”
“We both tried,” Laurence cut in, thinking of his own words to Falkland.
Remember your wife and children. They may be worth dying for. His Majesty’s cause is not
. Falkland had still ridden to his death.
“He was more concerned about you than himself that night. Mistress Savage had broken with you, at the time.”
“So she had.”
“All is sweetness and light between you and your lover now, is it?”
“I’ve no complaints.”
“I don’t doubt it, my old cock. If I wasn’t in the market for a wife, I might give you some competition for her.”
“She’ll be flattered to hear that, my lord.”
Wilmot punched him playfully on the chest and sauntered towards the gatehouse. “Wish me luck with the Queen!”
Before going home, Laurence bought Isabella a present. His only other had been a necklace purchased from his friend Mistress Edwards. Today he chose a book.