Claire Letemendia - The Licence of War

“I’d bet the list isn’t worth the paper it was written on.”

“For what reason?”

Laurence took a sip from his cup. “You yourself called Radcliff a lying rogue, and he was bargaining for his life when he supplied those names. He probably invented them. And anyway, if Pym got his spymaster from the Low Countries, he might not be English, whereas all five of the names most definitely are. And he can’t have been very long in England if Albright only mentioned him in that final letter to Digby. I didn’t hear so much as a whisper about him while I was in Falkland’s service.”

Seward adjusted his spectacles with a bony hand, and read aloud what Laurence had scribbled on a sheet of paper. “ ‘Victor Jeffrey, Anthony Burton, James Pritchard, Christopher Harris, Clement Veech.’ Radcliff produced the list in August. It is possible that the butcher had arrived in England before then, and that Radcliff possessed the connections in London to learn about him.”

“Yes, it is possible. Seward, I’m not going to London with Violet. I intend to leave tonight, alone.”

“That would be the height of idiocy,” Seward reproached him. “No matter your instinct about him, you cannot disobey his lordship.”

“His lordship is most welcome to dismiss me afterwards, for insubordination.”

“Are you talking in jest?”

“I’m absolutely serious. I passed the entire morning with Violet, and nothing in his behaviour or speech convinced me to rely on him. And if I am wrong about his loyalties, he must be under watch by Parliament as a known courier. As I said to Digby, we’d double our risk by moving about together. My friends in London have saved my life on several occasions, and I won’t have them exposed to more danger than they face each time they help me. I can make contact with Violet when he gets to Cheapside.”

“What if Lord Digby comes here asking after you?”

“You can tell him the truth.”

“Does Mistress Savage know what you are about to do?”

“No. His lordship insisted that I be discreet, and that I concoct a pleasing fiction for her to explain my absence — as if she’s unaware of my duties and what they might involve. It may be better for me to go without explanation, and let Digby tell her what he chooses. I’ll set matters straight with her when I return.”

“If she comes to me, what am I to say? I shall have to lie.”

“Hardly a novel sin for either of us — we’re still lying our heads off to cover up Pembroke’s conspiracy,” Laurence pointed out.

“Beaumont,” said Seward, in a hushed tone, “what must I do about the King’s horoscope? I have been pondering: should I alert him?”

“Do any of us wish to know when we’re to die? I don’t.”

“You are young. It is natural that you should fear death.”

“The King hasn’t yet celebrated his forty-third birthday. Is there no room for error in your calculations?”

“There is always room, in any human interpretation of God’s holy will,” Seward admitted.

“In that case I’d suggest you keep silent.”

As Laurence was leaving through the College gatehouse, a man in a suit of blue velvet and a cloak trimmed with gold braid came swaggering along Merton Street. “Lord Henry Wilmot, you dazzle me with your splendour,” Laurence said. “I presume you’ve no army manoeuvres today.”

Wilmot stopped and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Beaumont. What are you doing here?”

“I was paying my respects to the Queen.”

“I’m about to do the same myself. She has plans for me.” Wilmot grinned and tugged at his luxuriant moustache. “Connubial plans. I’ve been far too long without a wife, and without a son and heir. Ten years of dutiful fucking, and my dear departed Frances proved dry as a stick.”

“Has Her Majesty a prospective candidate?” asked Laurence, impressed by the Queen’s industry as a matchmaker.

“A rich widow — too Puritan in her religion, but I’ll soon change that.”

“With more dutiful fucking?”

Wilmot whipped off a kidskin glove and smacked him on the ear. “I shall miss your insolence.”

“As I shall yours.”

“God damn it, I’m sorry for you, man,” Wilmot said, sobering. “Digby’s no Falkland.”

“That he isn’t.”

“I haven’t forgotten the eve of Newbury Field, and the Council of War — Digby and His Teutonic Highness Prince Rupert and I were scrapping like dogs over a bone. Not Falkland — he was … serene. Even then, he must have decided how his life would end. Later I tried to stop him from-”

“We both tried,” Laurence cut in, thinking of his own words to Falkland. Remember your wife and children. They may be worth dying for. His Majesty’s cause is not . Falkland had still ridden to his death.

“He was more concerned about you than himself that night. Mistress Savage had broken with you, at the time.”

“So she had.”

“All is sweetness and light between you and your lover now, is it?”

“I’ve no complaints.”

“I don’t doubt it, my old cock. If I wasn’t in the market for a wife, I might give you some competition for her.”

“She’ll be flattered to hear that, my lord.”

Wilmot punched him playfully on the chest and sauntered towards the gatehouse. “Wish me luck with the Queen!”

Before going home, Laurence bought Isabella a present. His only other had been a necklace purchased from his friend Mistress Edwards. Today he chose a book.

Isabella came to the door herself. “Lucy is out visiting,” she said. “She promised to return by the hour of curfew. Though she persists in denying it, I think she has a lover somewhere. What do you think, Beaumont?”

Laurence recognised Isabella’s brittle tone; and he could guess the cause of it. “I think you have something else to ask me,” he said, trying to embrace her.

She ducked aside and went to sit in her chair, next to the window that gave onto the garden where they had spent many afternoons conversing and playing chess. “How was your first day in his lordship’s service?”

“Shorter than I’d expected. He introduced me to a Mr. Violet. I’m to work with Violet, but I didn’t much like him.”

“I know Violet — he’s an unctuous man. And … did you find her ladyship your mother at College?”

“Yes, and I told her of my proposal to you.”

“You did not have to. What did she say?”

“ Exactly what I expected.” Laurence knelt at Isabella’s slippered feet, pulled the book out of his doublet pocket, and placed it on her lap.

“Is this a gift?” He nodded. She opened it to the flyleaf, and her face melted into a smile. “Thank you, Beaumont.”

“Would you read for me?”

“You may disapprove of my pronunciation. I didn’t have the benefit of a tutor such as Dr. Seward when I was learning my Latin. Where should I begin?”

“At a random page.”

“Let me see …” She leafed through the book, and her eyes danced at him. “I shall start here. ‘ If you listen to my advice, you will not be in too great a hurry to attain the limits of your pleasure..’ ”

“Your pronunciation is perfect,” he said. “Don’t stop.”

“ ‘Learn, by skilful dallying, to reach the goal by gentle, pleasant stages. When you have found the sanctuary of bliss, let no foolish modesty arrest your hand ….’ ” And as she read on, he slid his hands up, gradually, beneath her skirts, to that sanctuary.

“I am selfishly glad Beaumont accepted Her Majesty’s supper invitation,” Digby said to Isabella, as Quayle brought them a water bowl and napkins to cleanse their fingers after the meal. She was particularly gorgeous tonight, in her bronze silk gown and her favourite necklace of enamelled rock crystal and amethysts; and he could imagine the source of her languid, dreamy air.