Claire Letemendia - The Best of Men

Beaumont made a shocked sound through his teeth. “Ancient! What about him?”

“He’s somewhat older than she is, I grant you, but he’s never been married. He fell madly in love with her. He came all the way back from service in Holland just to make his proposal. Wasn’t even bothered that she had such a small dowry,” Ingram added, stifling another belch.

“Then how could she refuse him! What about you, Ingram, have you thought of marrying again?” Beaumont inquired, more gently.

Ingram recalled his wife as he had last seen her, in death, her face ruined from the smallpox and her jaw tied up with a band of linen so that it would not fall open. It upset him that eight years later he remembered so little of her when she was alive. “I did consider it once,” he said, “but I couldn’t bring myself to speak to the woman. I’ve no property, and no great prospects, and now, with the war …”

“Oh yes, the war.”

Emboldened by alcohol, Ingram ventured, “Your family were at their wits’ end, not hearing from you all this time, apart from a couple of brief letters you sent. I’d like to see their faces when you appear at their door tomorrow. I’d like to see your face, too.”

“Please — let’s not talk about them.” Beaumont handed him the flask again, then got up and turned away to unlace.

“Families are splitting over their politics,” Ingram said, while his friend was relieving himself. “If there’s a war, they’ll have to face killing their own flesh and blood.”

“Not a happy prospect.”

“No, it isn’t. Beaumont,” Ingram went on, “I met your brother when I was last in Oxford.”

“What was he doing there?”

“The same as Radcliff. Raising a troop for the King.”

“Tom always enjoyed ordering people about,” Beaumont said, as he fastened the front of his breeches and sat back down.

“That’s unfair, man.”

“Why — has he improved with age?”

“He may have. And you mustn’t fall to arguing as soon as you see him. This is no time to air your private differences.”

“I’d say it’s the perfect time. War provides a cover for all sorts of differences, private and public.”

“I’m serious. You must look to your duty, as he is doing. There’s more than duty at stake, especially for you, as heir to your father’s estate. Isn’t it worth fighting to protect? And you were ready to defend your religion abroad — ”

“Come on, Ingram,” Beaumont said, laughing. “I wasn’t defending my religion. You know I’ve no religion to defend.”

“Shush, not so loud,” Ingram said uneasily.

“We’re in a graveyard!”

“All the same, we’re on consecrated ground.”

“Have another drink. Those are the only spirits I believe in.”

“I wish you would change your mind about — about that issue. No one can live without faith. It’s inconceivable.”

“For you it may be. But if I ever had any doubts, what I saw while I was away confirmed to me that there’s no God in heaven. Though hell exists, right here on earth.”

“You sided with the Protestants, didn’t you? You must have had some attachment to their cause.”

“I hate to deceive you, but our friend in the taproom wasn’t so far from the truth. When I arrived, I served with the Spanish infantry. Papists to a man.”

Ingram hesitated, as the information sank in. “You mean — you mean you fought for the Hapsburg Emperor?”

“Yes, but not for long. At the siege of Breda I discovered I was on the losing side, and probably wouldn’t come out of it alive. So I went over to the Dutch.”

“Sweet Jesus — you were a turncoat,” Ingram whispered.

“I wasn’t the only one.”

“But — I don’t understand — what made you join up in the first place, if you couldn’t care less why you were risking your life?”

Beaumont took a moment to answer, grabbing the flask from Ingram and tipping it to his lips. “I suppose I wanted to test myself,” he said, after wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I’d led such a soft, useless life until then.”

“I won’t dispute that. But how could you throw your lot in with an emperor who stole the Palatinate from the brother-in-law of our own king, and has sent his dearest sister and her family into exile?” Ingram demanded reproachfully.

“The Spanish happened to be the first troops I encountered. And I wanted to go where I wouldn’t be seen as what I am here: heir to my father’s estate, as you put it. They didn’t give a shit whether I was born in a castle or a pigsty. And they taught me a lot,” Beaumont added, passing over the flask again.

“Such as?”

“How to go without sleep for weeks and march day after day with my feet bleeding into my boots. They humbled me. They have great endurance and a sense of humour even in the worst of circumstances.”

Ingram quaffed from the flask, his head spinning. “Dear God! But weren’t you under suspicion after your abrupt change of allegiance?”

“Yes, mostly from the other Englishmen over there, though I made some friends amongst them in the Dutch service. Then you’ll be glad to hear that I did end up with a number of English and a mixed contingent of Germans and Swedes who’d been sent to help Charles Louis win back the Palatinate. Not a wise choice of mine, in retrospect.”

“Why? You were finally fighting for a noble cause.”

“Noble, perhaps, but doomed to failure, and partly by His Majesty our king, who wasn’t prepared to give his nephew enough funds to succeed. Poor Charles Louis lost hope of ever reclaiming his lands after his army was wiped out at Vlotho. You should have seen it, man. The fields were red with blood.”

“And then what did you do?”

Beaumont shrugged. “I fell in with another cavalry regiment under Bernard of Weimar. When he died, we were sold over to French command and pushed all the way south down the Rhine, taking town after town, and then across the river …” He tailed off, as if remembering, then shook himself. “Look, Ingram,” he said, gazing straight at his friend, “as you well know, there aren’t just Protestants fighting the Emperor — the French are as Catholic as the Spanish. And of those that are Protestant, there’s a host of little German states that shift alliances constantly, and of course the Swedes, who are still the most feared of the mercenaries. The destruction they wrought was incredible — most unchristian, you might say. It’s not a religious war any longer, if ever it was,” he concluded, in a bitter tone. “It’s a struggle for power — an obscene game played out all the way from the Alps to the Baltic Sea. So please don’t talk to me about causes. They make no sense to me.”

Ingram belched more loudly, gagging as the oily taste of the liquor came back up into his throat. “I feel ill.”

“Has our little talk upset your stomach?” Beaumont inquired, jokingly, but with an edge to his voice. Ingram did not answer, busy attempting to stand. His legs buckled and he nearly toppled over. “Let me help,” Beaumont said, grasping his shoulders to steady him.

Together they negotiated a circuitous route over holy ground, finding at last the gate through which they had entered the churchyard. They had not gone far when Ingram was violently sick, though it made him no soberer, and he had to lean on Beaumont for the rest of the way. Some time afterwards he was vaguely conscious of a voice raised in argument, and an icy weight crashed over his head, depriving him of breath. Then he was lifted up bodily, and he knew that he was being carried upstairs to his bed.

Stretched out on his narrow pallet at the Lamb Inn, in Oxford, Sir Bernard Radcliff was too hot to sleep, and too uncomfortable, for the blankets were alive with vermin. He was also troubled by an irrational foreboding. He had hoped to see Walter Ingram in the city that day, but Ingram had sent a message to explain that he would not be coming until the following afternoon. An old friend of his had got back from the war abroad and they were to meet for the first time in years.