Claire Letemendia - The Licence of War

A blonde girl hurried to claim her prize. Lady Beaumont’s pulse quickened: she and the Queen had thoroughly explored the requisite issues of heredity, land, finance, health, and temperament for this match; and all appeared promising to her. But Laurence had slipped the net of betrothal twice in the past, and now there was the additional complication of Isabella Savage. Lady Beaumont considered herself no mean judge of beauty, and she could not deny Isabella’s attractions: a profile worthy of an Italian Madonna; skin the colour of rich cream; a figure slender yet ripe; a striking blend of intelligence and artfulness in her heavy-lidded, gold-flecked hazel eyes; and voluptuousness in the lines of her mouth. And who knew what courtesan’s tricks she employed to keep a man of Laurence’s experience beguiled in her bed.

Laurence smiled at Penelope as he might at his sisters, then focused his attention on the Queen. “I gave Penelope the part of the goddess Aphrodite in our masque last night, Mr. Beaumont,” the Queen told him, “and I played her mother, Dione.”

“Your Majesty was generous, to surrender a role for which you are so eminently suited.”

The Queen’s eyes sparkled. Everyone knew of her fierce devotion to the King, but Lady Beaumont had also noted her penchant for the company of good-looking young men, and for flirtatious banter. “I had to play Dione, sir, to His Majesty’s Zeus. You should have witnessed his entrance: he was lowered to the stage in a golden carriage, to a bolt of lightning and a rattle of thunder!”

“It is wonderful that he can still find time for these entertainments,” Laurence said.

Lady Beaumont caught the sarcasm, though fortunately it was lost on the Queen, who leant over and touched his sleeve. “It would be a delight to see you in Greek dress. We are too constrained and … déguisés in our modern clothes.”

“I agree with Your Majesty: they are a terrible limitation to physical activity. In fact, I think we men should abandon clothing altogether and exercise naked, as did the Greek athletes.”

The Queen burst into laughter and clapped her hands. Her ladies joined in, though some of them were blushing to the roots of their hair. “Might you accept a part in our next entertainment?” the Queen asked him.

“Your Majesty, I have no talent for acting.”

“Necessity must demand that you play many roles, in the service of our Secretary of State.”

“Not half as many as he likes to play himself,” Laurence said to her, as though in confidence.

“Oh how right you are! His lordship is addicted to mischief.”

“Your Majesty,” intervened Lady Beaumont, “would you have the grace to excuse me and my son? We have a family matter to discuss.”

“On condition that you sup with us this evening, Mr. Beaumont,” the Queen said, as he rose.

“It would be an honour, Your Majesty, but tonight I must prepare to quit Oxford on a mission for his lordship.”

“Ah, well — then may God speed you on your journey, sir.”

Lady Beaumont steeled her wits for combat and followed her son out, down the stone staircase, and into the quadrangle. “Laurence,” she began, “what think you of Mistress Penelope?”

He turned upon her his annoying smile. “She’s very pretty.”

“Yes, she is. You might not remember: she is daughter to Sir Harold and Lady Margaret Furnival, of Lower Quinton. They are almost our neighbours, but six miles or so from us at Chipping Campden, across the Warwickshire border.”

“Are they!”

“I am hoping to arrange for you a more private interview with her.”

“To what end?”

“So that you may learn if she will suit you as a bride,” said Lady Beaumont, her patience evaporating.

“I believe the English Church only allows a man one bride at a time.” She gasped, as the significance of his words sank in. “Other faiths are more accommodating to human nature, though not liberal enough,” he went on infuriatingly. “If a man can have several wives, it seems to me that a wife should be allowed as many-”

“You have not … married that woman.”

“Not yet, but I did ask her to marry me.”

For a second, Lady Beaumont was dumbstruck. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Far from it, madam — all of my senses tell me that I want her for my wife.”

“From what I have heard about her at Court, without the kind intervention of Lord Digby she would be shunned by respectable society. She does not even know her own father, and she is notorious for her past affairs. It was sufficient insult that you dared present her to me yesterday! Oh Laurence, marriage to her is out of the question. Or …” A sudden thought flew into Lady Beaumont’s mind. “Is she with child?” His smile did not waver, but she saw a flicker in his eyes. “Laurence, that you should be deceived by such an old ruse. You cannot be sure the child is yours.”

“She is not with child.”

“Then bid her goodbye, before it is too late. You cannot destroy the good name of your family, and ruin your father’s health. Your duty is to him, as his heir.”

“Yes, it is,” Laurence said, his face softening.

“When might you come home to see him?”

“I’ll ask Lord Digby for permission, when I return from his business.”

“Will you promise until then not to engage in a lawful union with Mistress Savage?”

He sighed, and nodded. Reaching for her hands, he pressed them affectionately. “I must go.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To call on Seward.”

Lady Beaumont drew away. She could not bear his friendship with that old sodomite, but nor could she argue against it: Seward had been her husband’s tutor before he was Laurence’s, and Lord Beaumont thought the world of him. Yet whenever she heard his name, she shuddered inside, for a reason of her own.

“Do you ever tidy your rooms, Seward?” asked Laurence, looking round at the shelves piled high with dusty tomes and crowded with rows of jars and vials, and alchemical equipment; and on the big oaken desk, more books and scrolls of tattered parchment, and Seward’s silver scrying bowl engraved with arcane symbols. On the filthy floor were still more books and scraps of discarded paper, and plates that he must have put out for his cat to lick clean. In one corner stood the cupboard where he kept his packets of dried herbs and powders, odd-shaped stones and bones and crystals, and his bottles of awful homemade wine. Those from his friend Dr. Clarke’s cellars, however, were always delicious; and it was just such a bottle that he and Laurence were now sharing. The rooms never changed, and neither did Seward’s gaunt face and skeletal frame; and Laurence had not once seen him in anything but his black scholar’s gown and skull cap.

“There is order in my apparent chaos,” said Seward, fixing his rheumy blue eyes on Laurence as he polished his spectacles on the sleeve of his gown. “And who are you to criticise? As if you were the tidiest of people.”

“I grant you, I am slovenly in some respects,” said Laurence, “but I do make a point of soap and hot water, and clean linen — and occasionally I buy myself new clothes. You were wearing that same cap on the day we were introduced in my father’s library.”

“No, Beaumont, it is a facsimile thereof. The original met a sad end on the day I acquired Pusskins.” Seward looked over with paternal pride at the striped cat sleeping curled by the fireplace. “He was a tiny kitten, but he ripped it to shreds with his needle-like claws and teeth.”

“Perhaps he thought it was a rat.”

Seward did not laugh. “You are in peculiarly high spirits, my boy, considering the day you have had. And you are obviously bridling at Lord Digby’s command that you work with this fellow Violet, whose allegiances you doubt, to find a man who butchered one of His Majesty’s spies.” Laurence shrugged; Seward did not even know of Lady Beaumont’s lecture. “ Could this villain’s name be among the five on Radcliff’s list?”