Claire Letemendia - The Best of Men

“For over ten of which he couldn’t even be bothered to hold a Parliament,” Beaumont said, in his ironic way. “He only summoned it back because he was short of money. That doesn’t show much respect for his subjects.”

“I see you’re more informed than you pretend to be. Why did you ask for my opinion of events?” Beaumont merely shrugged. “I think you enjoy playing devil’s advocate. You always have.”

“Don’t be annoyed with me, Ingram. All I’m suggesting is that there seems to be wrong on both sides, and that the differences between King and Parliament could be negotiated — ”

“He’d have to surrender his royal authority to Parliament!”

“Isn’t that better than a civil war?”

“Good God. You sound as if you’d favour a republic!”

“There might be worse things,” Beaumont murmured, still smiling slightly. “But aren’t there some people left who want to avoid bloodshed?”

“There are, though at present they’re all crying in the wilderness. Look, man,” Ingram went on, feeling that he must set his friend straight, “Parliament has seized control of the Royal Navy, as well as London and most of our ports. It demanded that the King surrender the militias, an outrageous request which His Majesty refused in no uncertain terms. I believe the time for negotiation has passed. If the King raises his standard, I’ll be with him, and I trust you will be too.” An uncomfortable look crossed Beaumont’s face, and Ingram felt uncomfortable himself, trying to guess where his friend’s loyalties might lie. “Beaumont,” he said, “I’d like to introduce you to the man who’s raising my troop, Sir Bernard Radcliff. He served in the foreign war, as you did. He’s a fine fellow and an excellent soldier.”

“A rare combination.”

“How’s that?”

“The military life abroad did tend to corrupt,” Beaumont said delicately.

Ingram stood up, wobbling a little on his feet. “I have to piss.”

Beaumont grinned at him. “What, again ?”

“Yes, and don’t you finish my wine for me,” Ingram told him, grinning back.

When Ingram returned from the yard, the taproom was almost empty save for a group of newcomers drinking ale in a corner. They wore bright cockades in their hats and swords at their sides; local fellows, taking advantage of a coming war and a hot summer night to prowl the neighbourhood in search of trouble. Beaumont, meanwhile, was idly making patterns on the table with tallow drippings from a candle. The men were watching him, talking amongst themselves.

“You’re not from these parts, are you?” one of them barked out suddenly, from across the room. Beaumont paid no attention to him. “He’s a foreigner,” the man announced to his companions. “Like as not a papist mercenary sent over by our papist queen to cut our throats. Is that so?” He took a few steps closer to Beaumont. “Haven’t you got the manners to address me? Or don’t you talk my language?”

In former days Ingram had witnessed Beaumont engage in many altercations, more often than not leading to brawls, so he hastily intervened. “My friend is as English as you are,” he said, in a conciliatory tone. “And he’s no papist. He was away serving with the Protestant armies.”

“Can’t he speak for himself?”

Ingram frowned at Beaumont. “I think we should be on our way.”

“He’s not ready to leave yet,” said the man. “He’s still got half a jug in front of him. I think we should have a chat, me and your friend.”

“About what?” Beaumont asked equably, raising his eyes at last to inspect the man.

“About you, you son of a papist whore.” The man’s companions were waiting in smug anticipation, Ingram realised, as if they had witnessed such a scene before and knew how it would end. “Didn’t you hear me?” the man inquired, clearly nettled that his insult had elicited no reaction.

“I don’t have any quarrel with you,” Beaumont said, much to Ingram’s relief, but the man was not pacified.

“By Jesus, you’re asking for one,” he declared, striding over. “I’ve a mind to tan your arse with the back of my sword.”

“Beaumont, let’s be off,” Ingram said.

“Because of this gentleman?” Beaumont was pouring himself a fresh cup. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just had a bit too much to drink.”

“Say that again, you filthy cur,” the man growled.

Beaumont seemed oblivious until the man reached for the hilt of his sword. In the same moment Beaumont jumped up, overturning the bench with a crash, and caught him with two neat blows, to the nose and on the jaw. The man’s head snapped back and he fell, his sword still stuck in its scabbard. Blood trickled from his nostrils, and he lay without moving, a stupefied look on his face. It had happened with such speed that everyone was stunned into silence; then murmurs of indignation issued from the man’s companions.

“Beaumont, out!” said Ingram.

“All right, all right.” Beaumont took up his saddlebag, threw it over his shoulder, paused to empty his cup, walked past the enraged audience with an amicable nod, and followed Ingram into the yard.

Ingram grabbed his sleeve. “We’d better run, or they’ll make quick work of us.”

“No, no — he was the only one who wanted to pick a fight,” said Beaumont, moving at an unhurried pace.

“Beaumont,” Ingram said anxiously, “if you’ll allow me, I’d like to give you a piece of advice. Things aren’t what they were over here. Tempers have grown very hot, and it would serve you to be more careful. He was armed, for God’s sake.”

“Well thank you for that piece of advice, Ingram, but so was I.” Beaumont showed him a pair of pistols tucked into his saddlebag.

Ingram eyed them, feeling still more anxious: he had never shot a man, nor seen a man shot. “Good that it went no further. It might have if he’d seen them, or if you’d been wearing a sword.”

“That’s exactly why I kept them hidden, and why I left my sword behind where I stabled my horse. I’ve no desire to fight anyone at all,” Beaumont said, with an air of outraged innocence.

“You broke his nose!”

“Purely in self-defence.”

Ingram started to laugh. “And we didn’t even pay for that last round.”

“That’s unforgivable. Should we go back?”

“Certainly not. I should be off to bed.”

“Is someone waiting there for you?” Beaumont asked slyly.

“I wish!” said Ingram, still laughing.

They had arrived at a churchyard. Beaumont pushed him through the gate, and they sat down on the grass. After hunting about in his saddlebag, Beaumont produced a flask. He offered it to Ingram, who had a swig of the contents.

“That would put hair on anyone’s chest!” he spluttered, as the fierce liquor burnt its way down his insides.

“Not on mine,” said Beaumont, taking back the flask.

“Still smooth as a baby’s bum, is it? Well, at least you have plenty on your scalp.” Ingram chuckled. “Remember when we were up at Merton, how we had a bet as to who would start shaving first?”

“Which you won.”

“And now I’m paying for it! Kate’s always after me with one thing or another that she promises will restore my locks to their former glory.”

“How is your sister, by the way?” Beaumont asked, stretching out his long legs.

“Very well. She’s getting married next month, to Sir Bernard Radcliff.”

“Radcliff? Ah — your excellent soldier.”

“One of the best men I’ve ever met.” Ingram paused to stifle a belch. “Thank heaven she had the sense to accept him. We were at the end of our tether trying to find a match for her. She’s not so young any more. Twenty-two on her last birthday.”