Claire Letemendia - The Licence of War

“What’s wrong, my friend — are you ill?” Beaumont asked, crouching beside him and laying a hand on his thigh.

“No, Beaumont,” Seward said. “I have been working through the night.”

“It’s too much for you, at your age. What’s your urgent news?”

“I was working on … a horoscope.”

“A royal horoscope? Oh Seward, I thought we were finished with all that.”

“I could not rest until I had drawn His Majesty’s chart again, now I had the true hour of his birth,” Seward whispered. “I had to learn how far Radcliff had erred in calculating the date of his decease with the incorrect hour.”

Beaumont rose and took the chair opposite, propping his elbows on his knees. He cupped his chin in his hands and squinted at Seward through his lashes, as he had been wont to do as a gangly boy of fifteen when concentrating on his lessons. At one and thirty, he was lean-muscled and broad-shouldered, and more graceful, yet his movements had not lost their impulsiveness; nor had his character. “What did you find out?”

“By my reckoning, His Majesty has about six more years to live. Not even six; to be exact, five years and a little over three months — and he will die on the thirtieth of January.”

“Then you needn’t have been in quite such haste to tell me,” Beaumont said, with a slight smile.

“Radcliff did not err, as to the circumstances: the King will perish by violence.”

“Is that so surprising? We are in the midst of a war, though I pray to God it doesn’t last five more years.”

“If I have read his stars correctly, it is a war he might lose, together with his life.”

“Will you alert him?”

“You know very well it would be high treason to predict his death.”

Beaumont hesitated. “Last night I dreamt of him dead, perhaps as you were at work on your calculations.”

While he recounted the dream, Seward listened intently. “It is a clear warning to you, about the future,” he said, at the end.

“No, Seward: though I admit I was disturbed by it, I see it as a mess of my past worries and complete nonsense.” Beaumont began to laugh. “Still, Radcliff resurrected gave me a bit of a scare. And I had to envy Pembroke his armoured cloak.”

“Don’t be flippant. It is telling you that while you may not be pleased to serve Lord Digby, you must serve him as you served Lord Falkland, may God rest his soul, if you are to protect the lives of your King and Prince Charles.”

Beaumont relaxed back, and crossed his long legs. “How are things at Merton these days, with the Queen in residence?”

Seward snorted. “Now you are being evasive.”

“What would you prefer me to say? I am not pleased to be in Digby’s service. I’d rather have stayed in Wilmot’s Lifeguard.”

“Your talents would be wasted in the ranks. Besides, Lord Wilmot is an arrogant, immoderate fellow.”

“Minor flaws, compared to those of certain others in His Majesty’s camp,” Beaumont said, shrugging. “And he’s also the King’s Lieutenant General of Horse and one of our best commanders. Most important to me, he was a true friend when Falkland died.”

“He kept you drunk.”

“Yes, for which I’m eternally in his debt,” retorted Beaumont, with a heartfelt emotion that made Seward a little sheepish.

“I understand how stricken you were by Falkland’s demise. And I know you do not have a great respect for Lord Digby,” Seward added, more quietly.

“You’re wrong there,” said Beaumont, not bothering to lower his voice. “I have the greatest respect — for his guile and utter lack of scruple. Without those qualities of character, he’d never have obliged me to work for him. In my view, his appointment will be disastrous for the royal cause, and I dread to think what sort of cunning schemes he’ll suggest to the King, now he has more power in His Majesty’s Council. I’ll be his spy as I was Falkland’s, out of duty to the King and the Prince, but I won’t pretend I like it.”

“As I did once observe to you, Doctor,” remarked a husky drawl from the stairs, “if only Beaumont were not so useful.”

Isabella Savage unnerved Seward on most occasions. This morning as she came towards him he could hardly look at her. Her satin robe clung to the curves of her body, her dark coppery hair flowed loose, and her feet were bare. “Madam,” he said, getting up to bow, “excuse my early visit.”

“It’s a pleasure to receive you.” She strolled over to Beaumont and caressed his cheek with her fingertips. “I trust you were not among the scholars evicted from your chambers upon Her Majesty’s installation at the College?” she asked, as Beaumont slipped an arm around her waist.

Seward felt his cheeks redden. The heat between them was always palpable, yet today it seemed to him almost a physical presence, as though living in sin under her roof had intensified their sensual bliss. “No, madam: age has its privileges.”

“Indeed it should. To quote the wise Cicero, it is a burden as heavy as Aetna.”

Seward did not respond. Beautiful women were dangerous enough without an education; but that Mistress Savage should dip her nose into the classical authors and then flaunt her learning struck him as the height of immodesty, no less offensive to him than her déshabille.

“And to quote my father, Seward is a veritable jewel in Merton’s crown,” Beaumont told her, drawing her closer and leaning his head against her hip.

Seward rose, now thoroughly unsettled. “I should leave you in peace.”

Beaumont gave one of his wicked smiles, flashing his white teeth. “Small chance of any peace: my mother is in town, determined to arrange another betrothal for me. You might encounter her at the College. She’s lodged near to the Queen.”

“She called on us yesterday, Doctor,” Mistress Savage said. “How Beaumont takes after her — even in that flare to her nostrils.”

“Much as his brother Thomas resembles his lordship their father as a young man,” said Seward, wondering what had transpired at the meeting between these formidable females.

“I must visit her around midday,” said Beaumont. “If you’re not busy or sleeping, Seward, I could pass by your rooms.”

“Please do.”

Beaumont sprang to his feet; someone was rapping at the door. “Dear me, I hope that’s not her,” he exclaimed, with a comical frown at Mistress Savage.

He went and opened to a man in the Secretary of State’s livery; Seward thought he had the air of a weasel. “Good morning, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, studying Mistress Savage with salacious interest. “His lordship requests that you attend him immediately at his offices.”

“Would you remind me of your name, sir?” asked Beaumont.

“Quayle, sir.”

“Mr. Quayle, pray inform his lordship that I’ll attend him as soon as I’m more decently dressed.”

“I can wait for you, sir.”

Seward took the opportunity to leave. “Until later, Beaumont. Good day, Mistress Savage.”

On his way down the street, he heard a door slam shut. He glanced over his shoulder to see Quayle snooping through her front window.

Lord Digby sat at Falkland’s old desk, his round visage freshly shaved and his blond hair impeccably curled. He was still in his dressing gown, a quilted garment of scarlet satin, and on his head was a lace cap. To Laurence, he resembled some sleek Flemish cardinal in his Vatican chambers.

“How are you, Mr. Beaumont, and how is our darling Isabella?”

“We’re well, thank you, my lord.”

He surveyed Laurence keenly with his protuberant blue eyes. “Have you broken your fast yet?”

“No, my lord,” replied Laurence. “I was in too much of a rush to obey your summons.”