The Best of Men (83 page)

Earle shot him a reproving look and turned to Laurence. “Mr. Beaumont, I confess I am still mourning the death of my Lord Falkland. England has lost one of her greatest and fairest minds, and I a dear friend.”

“He was a better man than most,” Laurence said, with another glance at Digby, who had moved a few paces away with the Prince, as though uninterested in any enumeration of Falkland’s virtues; he and the boy were now engaged in some private chat, both of them laughing.

“He was the best of men,” Earle agreed. “He could not act ignobly, and it cost him the ultimate sacrifice.” Then he bent forward, to whisper in Laurence’s ear, “His Majesty showed me the regicides’ letters, and explained why he always doubted they could succeed. He wanted you to know, because he was aware of your impatience with him on the whole issue.” Laurence frowned, about to interrupt. “You see,” Earle hurried on
“his father King James was a strong believer in sorcery, and lived most of his life in fear of assassination – this last being understandable, given the circumstances of his mother’s life and death. For these reasons he kept from record the true hour of his children’s birth, so that no one could attempt an accurate prediction of their future.”

Laurence shook his head, astonished. “But what about Radcliff’s horoscope?”

“It was in error, His Majesty said. He even confided in me the correct hour of his delivery, which he had from Lady Ochiltrie, who looked after him in Scotland until his second year.”

“Good God,” Laurence murmured.

Digby and the Prince were returning, at which Earle straightened quickly. “Now, Your Highness, we must go back to our Aristotle.”

The Prince pulled a face. “He is such a dry study, don’t you think, Mr. Beaumont?”

Laurence had to laugh, though he was still stunned by Earle’s news. “Yes indeed, he used to put me to sleep.”

“I shall be visiting our friend Dr. Seward soon, Mr. Beaumont,” Earle said. “Should I tell him where he might find you?”

“I suspect he knows, but please do.” Laurence hesitated. “And could you also tell him what you just told me? I think it would be important to him to know that, too.”

“I shall, sir,” Earle said, and took the Prince’s arm.

“Goodbye, Mr. Beaumont, and Lord Digby,” the Prince called back as he and Earle departed.

To Laurence’s annoyance, Digby stayed, plucking an apple from his pocket and munching on it pensively. “Isabella refuses to talk to me,” he said. “She does not appreciate reasons of state, a typical feminine weakness to which I thought her immune. Could you help her to accept the necessity of my ploy?”

“I have accepted to serve you, my lord, but only in an official
capacity,” answered Laurence. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your relations with Isabella, as I trust you won’t in mine with her.”

“Goodness me, I can foresee that you will be very prickly to handle.”

“As they say, be careful what you wish for.”

Digby took another bite of his apple. “As to
what they say
, you might be amused to hear the silliest piece of gossip that is circulating these days about Lord Falkland. People are whispering that he did not charge bravely into musket fire because he was tormented to distraction by our current woes, but because he was stricken with grief at the death of a certain lady at Court – a Mistress Moray, is her name – with whom he had been madly in love!” He started to giggle. “Can you believe it!”

For a moment, Laurence was too enraged to speak. “Are you trying on purpose to lower my opinion of you, my lord?” he demanded, staring straight at Digby. “If so, you’re succeeding admirably.” Digby blushed, and looked away. “And if I ever catch anyone repeating that vile slander,” Laurence went on, “I swear, I shan’t be responsible for my actions.”

Digby cleared his throat a little nervously. “I must beg your pardon,” he said in a quiet voice, at last meeting Laurence’s gaze. “That
was
unworthy of me, and I stand corrected.” They were both silent; then he tossed aside his apple core and added cheerfully, “Oh well, I shall expect you to report for duty as soon as you are able. Sir Bernard Radcliff’s list awaits. Good day to you, sir.”

Over the next few days, Digby left Laurence and Isabella alone. They spent the time at their leisure, not rising from bed until late afternoon. In the evenings they often played chess, at which Isabella excelled, or simply talked. Both of them were reticent on certain subjects, however: he about his work for Falkland, and she about her past. But he was in no rush: with her he felt complete, and he derived as much satisfaction from their conversations as from their nights together.

Towards the end of the week, as they were drinking sack in the parlour, Lucy announced another visitor, much to their surprise: Lady Beaumont.

Isabella got up at once. “I should retire.”

“Please don’t,” Laurence insisted.

Lady Beaumont entered, followed by Geoffrey, holding her cloak. Laurence was immediately irritated, as she surveyed Isabella with far less enthusiasm than Prince Charles had shown. “Mistress Savage,” she said, after Laurence had introduced them, “Are you attending to my son in his convalescence?”

“I am endeavouring to, your ladyship,” Isabella responded politely.

Lady Beaumont gave her a bleak smile. “How kind.”

“I was about to see to our supper. Would you do us the honour of sharing it tonight?”

“I thank you, but no.”

“Pray excuse me, then,” Isabella said, and she curtseyed and disappeared.

“She has a rare beauty,” Lady Beaumont commented to Laurence.

“Yes, she has. How is my father?”

“Almost fully in possession of his normal strength and faculties. He wished to undertake this journey with me, yet I considered it wiser for him to stay at Chipping Campden. I heard of the fevers in town and did not want him exposed to them.” Laurence waited for her to continue; she seemed flustered, speaking more rapidly than usual. “Thomas came home to see him at last, with happy news. He has been granted a commission in Prince Rupert’s Lifeguard.”

“Oh, that’s very good. And Elizabeth? How is she?”

“Strong,” said Lady Beaumont, her expression softening. “We are proud of her.”

“Tell me, does my father know that I’m to be employed again by the Secretary of State?”

“Yes, Lord Digby wrote to inform us. He is full of praise for you, Laurence, particularly since you risked your life to protect him.” Laurence squinted at her, baffled. “Don’t pretend such modesty! He told us how you were wounded in a duel with some rogue who tried to attack him in the street. Hence his obtaining the King’s mercy for you, in the death of that despicable man.” More genius on Digby’s part, Laurence thought, and why contradict it? “Even if we are not altogether pleased at what you will be doing for him,” she went on, “we are reconciled to it, nonetheless, by a certain debt we owe his father, the Earl of Bristol.”

“What debt is that?”

“The Earl, or Sir John Digby as he was then, had been appointed Ambassador to the Court of Spain in 1611, the same year that your father was making his tour of the continent. Sir John knew my family by reputation as one of the oldest and noblest in Seville, and gave your father an introduction to us.” She paused, a discernible flush rising in her cheeks. “And that is how I met my husband.”

“Then the Earl of Bristol can take credit for both his son’s entry into the world
and
mine, if rather more indirectly in my case.”

“I suppose he can. Laurence, I do hope you are feeling better, because Her Majesty the Queen has requested that we join her and his lordship at a masque she has organized for the Court tomorrow. There are some … presentations that she wishes to make, that might interest you.”

“Ah,” he said; so his mother had come to field the possibility of another betrothal. “I’m sorry, but I must refuse.”

“There is no harm in your going out a little in society.”

“Thank you, but I have here all the society I want.”

Lady Beaumont pursed her lips, scanning the parlour as though it were some insalubrious hovel. “Could not my Lord Digby find you other accommodation?”

“I doubt it, Oxford is so overcrowded,” Laurence replied, smiling at her.

Lady Beaumont signalled to Geoffrey to bring her cloak. “I am lodged for the next week near Her Majesty’s quarters in Merton,” she said, in a tight voice. “You may call on me there, if you choose. Good day to you, Laurence, and please bid Mistress Savage farewell from me, since I do not expect to see her ever again.”

He accompanied his mother out, with a wink at Geoffrey, and then poured himself a much needed glass of sack. Of course, he reflected, the Queen would gladly oblige his mother by selecting those young ladies amongst her retinue who might be suitable brides for Lord Beaumont’s heir. And Laurence could not go out in society with Isabella, for although the Queen was reputedly less censorious about illicit liaisons than her husband, it was more acceptable at Court to commit adultery in private than to be an unmarried couple living openly in sin. Her Majesty probably enjoyed interfering in matters of love as much as she most certainly did in matters of state; on that last score, she was as much of a danger to the nation as her husband.

Laurence sat down and stared into the depths of his glass, swirling about the amber liquid. Pembroke had not been so wrong in the end: there would be no peace while the present monarch reigned. And if the regicide had succeeded, would that have been such a tragedy? Falkland’s death was more tragic to Laurence than the King’s could ever be. He recalled his moment of victory in the priest’s hole when he had exulted over the letters and the freedom they might buy him. How wrong he had been.

He closed his eyes, and as though one memory had triggered another, an image flashed before him, of Khadija leading him through the mysterious rooms of the Alhambra Palace. He felt the stem of his glass snap in his hand; suddenly the whole of Khadija’s prophecy had
returned to him with stunning clarity. Leaping up, he tossed aside the broken glass and ran to find Isabella in the kitchen.

“Come,” he said, grabbing her by the arm.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Upstairs.”

“Oh not now, Beaumont – we are just about to eat,” she protested, laughing, as he led her into the bedchamber.

“It can wait.” He sat her down on the bed beside him, and faced her directly. “Isabella, let’s get married at once. Why not? We can do it tomorrow, if you agree.”

“You impetuous creature!” She gave him a tender smile, running her fingers through his hair. “Must we fight everyone? That is what our marriage would entail.”

“Are you afraid to fight? You have the name of a queen, a great queen. You can’t be afraid.”

“Indeed I can be, after meeting her ladyship your mother! I felt quite naked beneath her scrutiny.”

“Then she saw you at your best,” Laurence said, gazing into her eyes.

At this, she became grave. “Beaumont, with you I’ll always be afraid. You are not the sort of man to lead a quiet life. If I did not love you so much, I should believe myself foolish to share it with you.”

“I’ll take care of us.”

“First practise your duelling skills. Speaking of which, Prince Charles asked me how you acquired this scar on your mouth,” she remarked, touching it. “He wondered if it was from another duel. I said I didn’t know, and that all your scars are a map of your past, about which I have much to learn.”

“As I do about yours.”

“You cannot see my scars,” she said, with a shade of melancholy. “Yet they are there.”

“They may not be as bad as you think.”

“
That
would be wishful thinking, my friend. No, we must accept that we have an uncertain future ahead of us, and enjoy the day. So I shall concede to you in only one respect,” she added, pulling him closer.

“Which is?” he asked, though he was beginning to have some idea.

She smiled again, languorously, and told him, “Our supper can wait.”

S
eward had arranged everything on his desk: clean sheets of paper, a freshly cut quill, and a pot of his favourite ink. Before starting work, he decided to prepare his pipe. He reached for a jar from the cupboard, and shook out from it a small, moist pellet: the last of Beaumont’s hashish, which he had been saving especially for just such an occasion. He heated and crumbled the drug, added a pinch of tobacco, and with a silent thanks to the old Moor of Cadiz, lit the pipe. Then, almost fearfully, he withdrew from his gown the brief note he had made after dining with Earle in College, and began to consult his dog-eared book of astrological tables.

Under the influence of the drug, his hand no longer trembled as he copied down various figures in separate columns. On a new sheet he drew a square, and traced inside it the dimensions of a horoscope. “Twelve spaces in all, for the cabal of twelve houses,” he mumbled to himself. “And in the spaces, I shall fill in the figures.” He did so carefully, checking them each time. At length, pausing to relight his pipe, which had gone cold, he inspected the result.

When he finished, it was dawn. Collecting his papers together, he stored them safely away in between the pages of a large tome, put on
his cloak, and slipped out. Although Beaumont had never liked early mornings and would complain about being roused from his bed, Seward could not wait to inform him: King Charles was to die not in the summer of the coming year but on the thirtieth of January, six years hence. Radcliff had predicted rightly, however, that the King would come to a violent end. Yet it was beyond even Seward’s occult skills to foretell who would cut him down.

The End

A
s a keen student of history, particularly that of the English Civil War, I made a deliberate effort to remain faithful to written accounts from and about the period, sometimes even using the recorded words of my non-fictional characters. The protracted peace negotiations between King and Parliament, the complex rivalries within the King’s camp, the confusing course of battles and skirmishes, and the failed Royalist uprising in London have been represented as accurately as possible, though the truth is often hard to identify well over three hundred and fifty years after the events. While my sources are too numerous to list here, I would like to acknowledge my great debt to C. V. Wedgwood’s
The King’s Peace
and
The King’s War
, as well as to S. R. Gardiner’s classic
History of the Great Civil War
and H. C. B. Rogers’
Battles and Generals of the Civil Wars
.