The Best of Men (26 page)

“You won’t go alone. I’ll send some of my guards with you. Once the transaction is completed, they shall bring him in to me. I’ll have the letters, and with luck and some persuasion he will confess, and we can net the other conspirators.”

“If he sees me with your guards, he may be frightened away.”

“Then you’ll be the lure, and they will come in to perform the arrest once you’ve done your work. If no meeting occurs, they will bring you back to me. And let me remind you what’s at stake if you try any tricks. I still think you may be implicated in the plot. I can have you held as my prisoner whenever I desire, and use all the means at my disposal to wring the truth out of you – a process with which I believe you are very familiar.” Laurence shut his eyes briefly; so Hoare knew of this, too. “Lord Falkland won’t help you,” Hoare continued. “He told me to deal with you as I saw fit. I am offering you a last opportunity to prove yourself loyal to us. You shall set off tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Laurence said, assuming a coolly polite tone, “but I can’t go straight to Aylesbury. As his lordship may have told you, my brother has been ill, here in town, and I’m on strict orders from my father to take him home. It’s on my way south. It won’t cost me more than a day’s delay.”

“Are you attempting to escape me?”

“I wouldn’t be so foolish. My life is in danger from these conspirators. I have every interest in helping you to catch them.”
Although I have no faith in your tactics
, Laurence added to himself.

“We’ll see about that. My guards shall go ahead with the letters. I won’t let you near them until it is absolutely necessary. Do you know the village of Thame, between Oxford and Aylesbury?”

“Yes.”

“I shall give you four days to get there,” Hoare said, with a magnanimous air. “My guards will be waiting for you at an inn called the Rising Sun. Make sure you are not late. Good day, Mr. Beaumont.”

“Good day, sir.”

Laurence walked out past the guards and into the street, where to his fury he saw Charles Danvers loitering. Danvers advanced with a hesitant smile that vanished as he noticed Laurence’s expression. Laurence seized him by the front of his doublet and smacked him across the face so hard that he stumbled back.

“By Jesus!” he shouted, touching a finger to his lip, which was bleeding. “What did you do that for?”

“Would you like some more?” Laurence took a pace towards him and boxed him on the ear.

“For God’s sake,” cried Danvers, “I never meant you any harm!”

A few men passing by had stopped to watch. “Get at ’im!” one of them yelled enthusiastically to Laurence, who shot out a last punch that sent Danvers to the ground, moaning and clutching his chest. Laurence considered leaving him there but in the end gave him a hand up.

“Look, man,” he gasped, “the drug was Hoare’s idea, not mine. He said he would like to recruit you for –”

“Please don’t try to excuse yourself,” Laurence said into his reddened ear. “And in future I suggest you stay away from me.”

Danvers opened his mouth to protest. Then a grin lit up his face; he was looking past Laurence, who turned, as a coach rumbled towards them. From within a woman was calling out Danvers’ name.

“Another actress?” Laurence queried icily, when the vehicle had drawn to a halt.

“No, it’s Mrs. Sterne,” Danvers replied, apparently surprised.

“Charlie,” she said, craning out of the window, “I’ve come all the way from Oxford for you!”

“Sweetheart, I’m unutterably flattered! You were right,” Danvers murmured to Laurence. “She
must
be in love with me.”

“Then she must be short of a brain,” Laurence said, without lowering his voice.

A second woman now leant forward and gave Danvers her hand. “Charles, who is your friend?” she asked, her voice remarkably husky, as though she were recovering from a bad cold.

“Laurence Beaumont,” he said, and to Laurence, “Mistress Isabella Savage.”

She smiled at Laurence so dazzlingly that he almost smiled back. What a face she had: like some Botticelli nymph’s, though she was dark rather than blonde. And her skin, exposed by the low neck of her russet silk gown, was glowing, without the pasty whiteness of most English gentlewomen. “Sir,” she said, “how is it that we have not met?”

“He was abroad until lately,” Danvers explained. “We knew each other from the foreign war.”

“Are you also serving with Henry Wilmot?” she inquired of Laurence.

“I may be,” he said, though after his talk with Colonel Hoare he doubted he could.

“Gentlemen, I am having some company at my quarters tonight. It is by way of a farewell, since I’m leaving Nottingham tomorrow. Would you join us?”

“Charlie, you will, won’t you?” Mrs. Sterne said.

“I shall indeed!” Danvers said.

Mistress Savage fixed Laurence with her languorous eyes, in which he saw little flashes of gold. “And you, Mr. Beaumont?”

“Thank you, but no,” he said. “I must leave tomorrow as well, early.”

“Where are you going?” He told her about returning Tom to Chipping Campden. “Then we shall be on the same road,” she exclaimed. “I am headed back to Oxford. We could travel together. If
your brother is sick, he will be far more comfortable in this coach than in a saddle.” She was right, he thought; Tom was still very weak. “Please,” she insisted, and he could not refuse, although instinct warned him that he might be making things more complicated for himself than they already were. “I’ll come for you at seven in the morning,” she added, with another bewitching smile.

Mrs. Sterne blew Danvers a kiss. “Until later, Charlie!”

Mistress Savage gave a signal to the driver and the coach moved on.

“I think Isabella fancies you,” observed Danvers.

“I’m unutterably flattered,” Laurence told him, imitating his servile manner towards Mrs. Sterne.

“Well let me tell you, Beaumont,” said Danvers, with an offended air, “she has connections in high places and she reports everything to her friend Lord Digby. So you should keep a guard on your tongue around her.”

“And you should have yours cut out,” Laurence spat back, which left Danvers appropriately speechless.

“You hired a coach?” Tom asked, as it drew up.

“Not exactly,” Laurence said. “Someone has offered you a ride in hers.”

Mistress Savage swung open the door. In contrast to the day before, she was dressed sombrely in plain grey with a broad lace collar covering her neck up to her chin, none of which diminished her beauty. When Laurence introduced her to his brother, she inquired, “How are you faring, sir? Better, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you, madam,” Tom said.
Who is she?
he mouthed silently to Laurence, but he got no answer.

“We must avoid Leicester, gentlemen,” she told them, as Tom climbed into the seat opposite her. “This coach belongs to the Earl of
Bristol and was lent to me through the courtesy of his son, Lord Digby. They are both disliked by Parliament these days. Leicester is rebel territory, and I should not want any stones thrown at our conveyance.”

“Whatever you wish,” Laurence said, not really listening, expecting Colonel Hoare’s men to appear at any moment and seize him.

But on the road south out of Nottingham, no one stopped them. The Colonel must be keeping to his word, Laurence thought.

At midday, as they broke to take some refreshment and water the horses at an inn, Tom could not eat; he was a sickly shade.

“Are you all right, Tom?” Laurence asked.

“Of course I am,” Tom said stoutly.

Late into the afternoon, however, the coach pulled up and Mistress Savage swung open the door. “Your brother requires the close stool,” she informed Laurence. “Digby’s father had the foresight to provide such a thing under the seat.”

“Oh no, I’ll tell him to get out,” he said.

“Please don’t. He’s embarrassed enough at having to ask. And in fact I would prefer to ride.” She jumped down, without waiting for assistance. “You can oblige me by lending me his horse.”

“It hasn’t had much exercise recently. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Let us see.”

She ordered the driver to put her saddle on it, and they started off. In spite of his worries, Laurence could not help admiring her grace, and the lines of her figure as she rode with perfect control, following the horse’s every motion. “You are very taciturn, Mr. Beaumont,” she observed, at length. “Is it a habit with you?”

“Forgive me, madam,” Laurence said. “So, do you live in Oxford?”

“I have no fixed abode,” she replied in her lazy drawl. “There are people in the city I must visit.”

“Aren’t you afraid to travel alone?”

“I can rely on Digby’s driver in case of any misadventures, of which
I’ve had none. In fact I get bored, sitting in that coach all by myself. I am so delighted that you agreed to accompany me. How long have you been back in England, sir?”

“About a month and a half,” he replied, privately amazed at how much had transpired since then.

“You returned to fight?”

“No.”

Something in his tone must have silenced her. Darkness was falling when she next addressed him. “We’ll turn off the road,” she said, “along this track. We shall spend the night at a house nearby.”

“My brother and I can’t impose. We’ll find some other accommodation.”

“You’ll find nothing else hereabouts, the countryside is very desolate. And you cannot prejudice your brother’s health by depriving him of a good night’s sleep.”

Again, he acknowledged, she was right, and he thanked her.

The coach took a narrow path, scaring away flocks of birds that were picking at the shorn wheat stalks, and over the crest of a hill, Laurence saw the house. It was of motley design, part stone, part timber, and part wattle and daub, agglomerated over generations. Some dogs barking vociferously in the yard must have alerted its owner, for as the coach drew up an elderly man emerged from the doorway holding a lantern in one hand. “Dear Isabella,” he cried, “I was wondering when you might arrive.”

“My faithful friend!” she said, dismounting easily and running to hug him. “We have two more to our party. This is Mr. Laurence Beaumont.” Laurence dismounted also, and bowed to him. “Mr. Beaumont’s brother, Thomas, is in the coach and may need to be taken to bed, I fear. He’s still weak after a bout of the flux. As for us, we are thirsty!”

The man laughed at this, and introduced himself to Laurence. “John Cottrell, Mr. Beaumont. My servant will tend to your brother
while we’re at table. I’ll have some hot broth prepared for him.”

It was only the three of them at supper. The night was mild, and the casements were open all about, letting in sweet country air and the noise of crickets. While they ate, Cottrell talked of the weather and the harvest, and the gleaning rites celebrated by his labourers; but eventually he began to yawn. “We simple folk aren’t used to staying up after dark unless there’s a moon and work can be done,” he explained.

“There is a moon tonight,” said Mistress Savage.

“But she’s a virgin still, a mere slip of a girl. Well, I’m to bed. Stay and drink as long as you wish, and pay no heed to me.”

“Thank you,” Laurence said, “but I should see to my brother.”

“I’ll show you to your chamber. Isabella, we shall put you in the one next to it, facing south.”

“I know,” she told him, nodding. “I shall be up soon.”

As Laurence and Cottrell ascended, Cottrell asked, “I hope it won’t inconvenience you to share your brother’s bed?”

He insisted that it would not, and they said good night.

The doorway to the bedchamber was so low that he had to duck his head to enter. Woodruff and lavender were strewn upon the floor in the old fashion, and Tom lay fast asleep on one side of the bed, snoring lightly. Not feeling tired himself, Laurence went over to the window and looked out at the ripening moon yellow in the sky, in a feathering of bright stars, and at the fields spread out, dotted with neatly rolled bales of hay. He could hear pigeons, from a nearby cote, and, as before, the rasp of crickets. Perhaps in some other country house Seward was looking out at the same moon, he reflected.

He sat down on his side of the bed and dragged off his boots, then started to unbutton his doublet. His throat was tight and his eyes stung, as though the herbs were affecting him; their scent overpowered the small chamber. But it was not that, he knew. Cottrell had reminded him of a quiet life tied to the change of seasons rather than the tumult
of unnatural events, the life led by most people that was now closed to him. In a little over a month he had succeeded in threatening the future of his family and ruining Seward’s tranquility, and if the duties and obligations of his rank had always weighed upon him, he would now have to fight in a war that he did not care about, for a side itself poiso-nously divided. The coded letters and his own past had made him a slave to Colonel Hoare, and he was being chased by a bunch of regicides. Fate had spared him so many times from death abroad, only to bring him home and play on him this awful joke.

His brooding was disturbed by a scream, short and sharp, then a moment later Mistress Savage called out his name. He opened the door, and at the sight of her felt considerably less gloomy: she wore a nightgown of the finest muslin, and her dark hair hung in loose, heavy curls about her shoulders.

“A bat,” she whispered. “A bat has got into the hangings of my bed. You must remove it for me.”

“I’m at your service,” he said, and followed her into her chamber.

She shut her door and motioned to a tiny black shape clinging to the curtains around the bed. “You will think me a coward. In general, I’m not, but I have a particular loathing for these creatures.”

“Why don’t you blow out the candle,” he suggested.

She did so, retreating as he shook the curtain, and the animal flew off obediently through the open window. “Thank you, Mr. Beaumont!” she said, as though he had just rescued her from some fire-snorting monster, and the triviality of her fear as compared to his own dismal plight struck him as so absurd that he began to laugh. “You are laughing at me!” she exclaimed, giving him a push, which he allowed to send him onto the bed.