The Best of Men (23 page)

“You speak of
military
campaigning, I assume,” he said, winking at her.

“Rupert has experience, even though he’s only twenty-three,” Falkland interjected, to steer their discourse into less ribald waters. “He served nearly ten years in his father’s army.”

“Don’t mention it to our host – he is somewhat envious of Rupert’s martial prowess,” commented Mistress Savage. “Digby, I do believe you wish for war just so you may be proved as fine a general as you are a man of politics. Am I right?”

Digby for once appeared annoyed. “It is getting late, Isabella,” he observed rather peevishly.

“Yes, I must go,” she said, rising. Digby and Falkland got up also, Falkland with some relief. “Digby, would you have my maidservant called?”

“I shall fetch her myself,” he said, and went out.

Another obvious ruse, Falkland thought, but what was the design behind it?

Mistress Savage came closer, and he saw that her eyes were not dark brown but hazel, shot with golden flecks. “My lord,” she said quietly, “you know Charles Danvers, do you not?”

“As an acquaintance,” said Falkland, frowning.

“He is estranged from his wife and has engaged in a love affair. His mistress, who is a friend of mine, told me that he is claiming you hired him as one of your agents. She does not lie to me. I think you would be wise to detach him from your service. He cannot even contain his own secrets, let alone those of anyone else.”

“Madam, may I ask why are you offering me this advice?”

“Because of how you spoke out tonight,” she replied, with apparent candour. “I would be sorry to see a man as noble as you come to grief. My lord, you are not like
us
.” And she glanced towards the door. “We are – how can I put it – in the world, and you have not yet been polluted by its dealings.”

She moved away from Falkland as their host returned with her maidservant, who held out her cloak for her to put on.

“Thank you for attending, Isabella,” Digby said.

“And I thank you for the wonderful repast, and wish you both well with the recruits,” she told them, in her former languid drawl. “And you with the peace negotiations, my lord.”

“Thank you, madam,” Falkland said.

“I hope we meet again, though it will not be for a while. I am soon to leave Nottingham.”

Digby kissed her on the cheek. “I shall visit you tomorrow, my dear.”

“Please do,” she said.

After she had gone, they resumed their seats at the table, and Digby made a few humming noises in his throat. “I am sure you are speculating, Lucius,” he said, at length. “Let me set matters straight. My wife and I are inseparable.”

“There is no need to explain.”

“But I would like to, in case you should have formed some mistaken opinion of Isabella. She is a sort of relative, to be precise. Her father is unknown to her. He is of noble blood. Her mother died when she was but four or five. Alas, the union from which she sprang had the sanction of neither Church nor state, and left her vulnerable, and that is why I took it upon myself to be her guardian. However, since she has attained an age at which she is able to lead her own life, I allow her perfect freedom. And, as you may judge, she makes full use of it.”

“If she is your ward, is it not your responsibility to erase the stain
of her parents’ indiscretion by finding her a husband?” Falkland said abruptly, still rattled by what she had just told him.

“I shall, by and by. Someone very old and very rich who will die and leave her a grand estate.”

“Yet she must still be subject to … to gossip.”

“As are we all.”

“With her bold talk, she does not make it any easier on herself.”

Digby inspected him, simpering. “I so adore to watch each time my Helen of Troy makes her first impression on a man. Even you were not immune, Lucius.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Digby. I am as inseparable from my wife as you are from yours.”

“But were you not horrified at the very idea that she should sacrifice one of those exquisite breasts to go to war? And they
are
exquisite, Lucius. I have seen them.”

“Digby, please,” said Falkland, blushing again.

“On one occasion only, when I had her painted by Van Dyke in ancient costume,” Digby said, with an air of wounded innocence. Then he took a sip from his glass. “What were you and she speaking of, before I came in?”

“She made some inquiry about Charles Danvers,” Falkland said, now wanting very much to leave.

“Danvers? Oh yes, I think he is paying court to a friend of hers. And who is Danvers to you?” Digby inquired, as if he were uninterested in the answer.

“Merely an acquaintance,” Falkland repeated, berating himself for letting slip the man’s name. “I should also retire, Digby. I have work to do still.”

“Lucius, you must not let your duties overwhelm you,” Digby said, sympathetically; but his eyes, like those of his ward, were calculating.

“Are you awake?” said Tom.

Laurence dragged himself up from the floor where he was resting, with his saddle for a pillow. “Yes.”

“I think I’m hungry.”

This was the first such comment that Tom had made in more than a week. For days he had hovered close to death, and although Laurence had moved him to a larger, airier room at the inn and had tended to him night and day, he was still vomiting, voiding, and delirious. Then at last there had been hope: he had slept soundly for some twenty odd hours and Laurence now knew on touching his forehead that the fever had passed.

“It was a near thing, Tom,” he said.

“Were you here, all the time?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose I should be grateful to you for looking after me.”

“I don’t want your gratitude – we’re brothers.” Tom said nothing. “We haven’t always been at odds, have we, Tom?” Laurence went on.

Tom looked thoughtful. “Remember when we were boys, the day we jumped off the top of the barn?” he said eventually. “You thought I was a coward, didn’t you. You thought I hadn’t the guts to do it.”

“I wasn’t thinking at all. It was pure stupidity on my part. We could both have been killed.”

“Then you went off to Merton, and when you next came home you were so pleased with yourself. You’d had your first fuck, and you couldn’t stop carrying on about it.”

Laurence smiled sheepishly. “How ridiculous of me. I’m sorry, Tom.”

“Are you? You wouldn’t even come near me, after six years, when I held out my arms to you. Even Ingram was embarrassed. And you had to make a joke of it, as you have of me ever since I was old enough to understand.”

There was a silence during which Laurence wanted to ask Tom’s
forgiveness. But Tom had closed his eyes, as if he would sleep. “I have to go out tomorrow,” Laurence told him. “I won’t be more than a couple of hours.”

“Do whatever you want,” said Tom. “You always do, anyway.”

There were soldiers posted outside the door to Lord Falkland’s offices, burly men armed with pikes. Their disdainful attitude suggested to Laurence that although he had washed and shaved earlier, he should have heeded Dr. Clarke’s advice to purchase some new clothes.

“Your name, sir?” demanded one of them. Laurence gave it, and he knocked and disappeared within. Laurence paced about, ignoring the other guards, until the man returned. “His lordship will see you,” he announced, as if granting that favour himself, and Laurence was shown in.

It had been perhaps seven years since he had met Falkland at Chipping Campden, but Falkland seemed much older than that time would warrant. He sat before a trestle table piled with documents, a harried expression on his face.

“Laurence Beaumont,” he said, smiling immediately. “Is his lordship your father well?”

“Yes, thank you, my lord.”

“And your family?”

“All except for my brother. He fell seriously ill and is only just recovering. I’ve been looking after him for the past week.”

“Here in Nottingham?” Laurence nodded. “Praise God he is feeling better.” Falkland gestured for Laurence to take the chair opposite him. “As you must know, I was expecting you.”

“You were?” said Laurence, with a frown.

“Yes. Your father wrote to me of your talents, and suggested that you might be interested to work for me as a cryptographer.”

“Oh. But that’s not why I came to see you, my lord.” Laurence stopped, conscious that he had spoken too bluntly. “I came to bring you these,” he began again. “My father knows nothing about them.” He took a roll of papers out of his doublet, almost frightened to part with it, and laid it on the table.

“I have only a few days before I must go to London for the negotiations with Parliament.” Falkland sighed, picking up the papers. “The truth is, I am rushed so from one thing to another that I do not have much time to spare. What are these documents?”

“They’re letters in code, my lord, and my transcriptions of them. They concern a plot to assassinate the King.”

Falkland dropped them hurriedly, as though they might scorch his hands. “How in heaven’s name did you acquire them?” Laurence told the story as succinctly as he could, describing the difficulties he had experienced with the code. After he finished, there was a pause. “Let me see if I understand you,” Falkland said, looking baffled. “We have evidence of a conspiracy, but we cannot discover the identity of the conspirators.”

“Yes, my lord. That’s the problem. But there might be some way to find out, with all the resources you have at your disposal.” Laurence searched for words to convince him; of course, the whole affair must seem half-baked, even suspicious. “The conspirators are in England now, and they’re breathing down my neck again,” Laurence went on, and spoke of his meeting with Poole, though he kept to himself the wreckage of Seward’s rooms at Merton, and his own subsequent chat with young Illingsworth.

“Are these men aware that you have broken part of their code?” Falkland asked.

“There’s a chance they may be. My lord, I would urge you to investigate this as swiftly as you can.”

“Let me first read the letters. Then we’ll talk very soon, I promise. Where are you staying in town?” Laurence gave the address, which
Falkland noted on a corner of one of the documents. “Mr. Beaumont, you were some years in the Low Countries, were you not? Did you return to England because of this conspiracy, or because of the political unrest here?”

Laurence was saved from having to reply, for they heard a dog yapping outside and the door burst open. A tall, dark young man in an armoured breastplate strode in, followed by a white poodle. “My lord,” he cried, a hint of German to his accent, “why won’t you reconsider your mission to London? What is the point, after Parliament has rejected Culpeper’s terms? It’s as if the standard were never raised!”

Rising to bow to Prince Rupert, Laurence had to conceal a smile: it was common knowledge that the royal standard had been toppled over by heavy winds shortly after it had been erected.

Another man now entered, of middle age, who surveyed first the room and next Laurence. “My lord,” he said, bowing to Falkland.

“We have not been introduced,” the Prince said to Laurence.

“This is Laurence Beaumont, Your Highness,” Falkland said. “He is the son of my friend and neighbour, Lord James Beaumont. He was lately serving in the war abroad.” Laurence bowed again to the Prince. “And this is Colonel Hoare, Mr. Beaumont.”

A professional soldier, Laurence guessed. Hoare was inspecting him as if he were some untrained recruit who should be whipped into obedience, and so he stared straight back, until Hoare looked away.

“How long were you in service, sir?” the Prince asked Laurence.

“About six years, Your Highness.”

“Were you at Breda?”

“Yes, I was,” Laurence said, hoping that there would be no more questions about his role in the siege, during which he had so belatedly discovered an enthusiasm for the Protestant cause.

“What a privilege, to take part in that glorious victory of ours,” the Prince said, making an assumption that Laurence let pass. Out of tact,
he also did not mention that he had more creditably fought at Vlotho in the same battle as had the Prince; it had been no glorious victory, but rather a crushing defeat for Rupert’s older brother, Charles Louis, and Rupert himself had been taken hostage and held for three years in prison by the Hapsburg Emperor. “Whose regiment are you with?” the Prince inquired.

“I haven’t enlisted as yet, Your Highness.”

“I would welcome you in mine. We need every good man we can find.”

“That would be an honour, Your Highness, and I’ll certainly consider it.”

“Mr. Beaumont,” said Falkland, with an air of closing their audience, “I thank you for coming today.”

“I thank you for hearing me out, my lord,” Laurence responded, and after a last glance at the letters on Falkland’s desk he excused himself, feeling uneasy, as though he had just played the wrong card in a game of high stakes.

Falkland was waiting for some comment; and it came.

“Such a dark fellow – he reminds me of the Lascars I used to see hanging about the Harlemmer Port in Amsterdam,” said the Prince.

“His mother is a Spaniard, Your Highness. That accounts for his looks.”

“She’s a papist, my lord?” inquired Hoare.

“No. For more than thirty years, as Protestant as you or I.”

“And what was his business?”

“He merely came to bring me Lord Beaumont’s greetings.” Falkland turned to Prince Rupert. “I am saddened that you disapprove of our offer.”

“By God I do.” Rupert threw himself into the chair that Beaumont
had recently vacated. “Why countenance the demands of rebels?”

Falkland thought of Mistress Savage, who had predicted the Prince’s response so accurately. “Your Highness, we must at least try to reach a bloodless solution to our arguments,” he said gravely.

“I wish you success, though I doubt you will have any.” The Prince jumped up and stretched out his arms, yawning. “For a whole night’s sleep I’d give a hundred of your offers to Parliament. Come, Boy, let’s be off.” And he left with his dog as swiftly as he had arrived.

“I must agree with His Highness, my lord,” remarked Hoare. “You’ll waste your breath in London.”