Claire Letemendia - The Licence of War

“That is lucky for you: what I have to show you might otherwise upset your digestion, as it did mine.”

Digby motioned to Quayle, who advanced with a small package of rolled-up linen held at arm’s length. “Where should I deposit it, my lord?”

“On the floor. Have a look, Mr. Beaumont. It was in a bag of correspondence that arrived this morning from London.”

An ominously ripe odour emanated from the package. Laurence squatted down and unfurled the linen. A pair of human ears fell out of the cloth onto the flagstones with a wet splat; they were blackened and oozing decay. “Oh Christ,” he said, recoiling. “Whose are they?”

Digby clapped a hand to his mouth. “Had they been yours, sir, I might have recognised them from the gold ring in your left earlobe,” he said, in a muffled voice. “On more careful examination, you will behold a pearl earring.” Laurence now noticed it, beneath the gore. “The ears belong, or should I say belonged , to an agent of mine, Hector Albright, who ran certain errands for me in London — soliciting funds and pledges of more active support from our Royalist friends, and so on. I assume that he was seized and tortured under questioning by whoever committed this barbarity.”

“Was there any message for you, apart from his ears?” Laurence asked, straightening, nauseated by the smell despite his empty stomach.

“None at all. I tend to doubt he survived the mutilation. In his last letter to me, he wrote that Parliament, under the auspices of John Pym and his ludicrously titled Committee of Public Safety, had imported a spymaster from the Low Countries to root out suspected Royalists in the City. He might be the butcher.”

“Did Albright know his name?”

“Unfortunately not.” Digby gestured for Laurence to cover up the ears. “It could, however, be on the list that I inherited from my Lord Falkland.” Producing a sheet of paper from his desk, he flourished it at Laurence, who inspected it as if he had never seen it before. “Five names, of purported rebel spies. Are they familiar to you?”

Falkland had posed Laurence the same question; and he gave Digby the same answer. “No.”

“I told you I want you to investigate it, as your first assignment in my service. Falkland notes here that he got the names from a Sir Bernard Radcliff, with whom I believe you were acquainted, yet he did not say who Radcliff was to him . What can you tell me about Radcliff, Mr. Beaumont?”

Again, Laurence would have to twist the truth to keep secret the plot against the King: although the list itself was not connected, Radcliff had given it to Falkland as part of a desperate bid to save his own neck after his guilt was revealed. “I was introduced to him by my friend Walter Ingram,” Laurence said, starting with the truth. “He married Ingram’s sister. I met him just a couple of times. He was killed back in August — I can’t remember how he died,” he added mendaciously. “But Prince Rupert might: Radcliff was an officer in his Horse. I was unaware of Radcliff’s association with Lord Falkland.”

“What rubbish,” Digby said. “You were Falkland’s chief agent. You knew all of his spies.”

“No, my lord: as you had your Albright, Lord Falkland must have had his Radcliff — without my knowledge.”

Digby cast him a sceptical glare. “At any rate, I am sending you into London, sir, to find out about this list, the rebel spymaster, and what happened to Albright. I have someone to accompany you. He has served as courier to Their Royal Majesties in many a delicate situation. He is a goldsmith by trade — ample justification to visit Oxford frequently, bringing wares from his shop. Quayle, get rid of that package and fetch in Mr. Violet,” Digby ordered.

Quayle reluctantly scooped up the offensive bundle and carried it out.

Laurence, meanwhile, felt a mild foreboding: he had heard of Violet as a slippery character who managed to elude arrest by the authorities in London. Might Violet be playing on both sides of the game?

A man not much older than himself entered and bowed, doffing his hat. His plain fawn suit matched his complexion, and his sparse hair, and beard. “Your lordship — sir,” he greeted them, in a reverent tone.

“Mr. Violet, this is Mr. Laurence Beaumont. We were discussing Albright’s fate.”

“Dreadful, my lord, very dreadful.”

Digby made a humming noise in his throat. “Old Queen Bess used to call her spymaster Walsingham ‘Moor,’ and ‘her Ethiopian,’ because of his swarthy skin,” he said. “The title would fit Mr. Beaumont admirably, don’t you agree, Mr. Violet? His mother hails from Spain.” Violet appraised Laurence, as if not sure how to answer. “His exotic charms prove an invaluable asset to him with the ladies,” continued Digby, “yet they render him conspicuous, as does his height. He was nearly seized in London this spring, when we last attempted to encourage an uprising for His Majesty.”

“Might he adopt the guise of a foreign merchant, my lord? I have truck with Venetians, now and then. Do you speak Italian, Mr. Beaumont?”

“I do,” said Laurence.

Digby beamed. “An ingenious idea, Mr. Violet. Prepare to travel with him tomorrow. How long will the journey take, in your estimation?”

Violet scratched his nose pensively. “If we set out in the morning, we should be in Reading by dusk, my lord, and the next day ride on to the City outskirts, to the house of friends of mine. We’ll bide there overnight, and then pass through the fortifications on the morrow. I can accommodate you at my establishment in Cheapside, Mr. Beaumont.”

Laurence merely nodded; about sixty miles to London and his Arab stallion could ride forty a day without tiring. In less than the time estimated by Violet, he could be with his own trusted friends in the heart of Southwark.

“Thank you, Mr. Violet,” said Digby. “Is he not the quintessential mole?” he inquired of Laurence, when Violet had gone.

“He appears so, my lord.”

“He disappears, sir, unlike you,” Digby said, with a feminine giggle.

“My lord, when you asked me to serve you, you suggested that you would give me a free hand .”

“How I appreciate your gift of memory — but those were your words, not mine.”

“Whatever the case, let me deal with this investigation as I think fit.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Digby responded unapologetically. “I cannot afford your capture by Parliament, and Violet is a native of London. He knows his way around far better than you.”

“I’m sure he does, my lord. But wouldn’t it be wiser for us to travel and operate separately, to avoid suspicion? I have my methods of coming and going, as he has his. If he’s seen with me in Cheapside, we may both be in danger of arrest.”

“No, you must stick with Violet. And in case of any difference of opinion as to your work, you are to follow his advice. You shall spend this morning together organising your plans. And don’t forget to copy out that list of names. He should have a copy, also.” Digby tossed the sheet at Laurence, who returned it.

“I have it memorised, my lord.”

Digby was twirling a blond lovelock between his well-manicured fingertips. “You must invent some excuse to Isabella for your absence. We cannot have her fretting about you.”

“With respect, she’s not a child and I’d prefer to be honest with her.”

“My dear Mr. Beaumont, honesty is not in your nature. And in your duties for me, I have every right to command your discretion. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“ I can still see the child in her,” Digby said, more amiably. “And years of caring for her as my ward have endowed me with an acute understanding of her nature.”