The Best of Men (22 page)

Laurence touched his forehead. “Oh, Tom, that’s a high fever you have.”

“Mr. Beaumont,” the doctor intervened more politely, “may I introduce myself? I am Dr. Chapman, his physician, and let me assure you, sir, he is much improved since yesterday.”

“Improved? What are you giving him?” Laurence selected one of the bottles on the table. Inside, wrinkled, blackened objects floated about in a viscous solution. “What’s this? Pickled spiders? And this?” He indicated a curious instrument, a tubular metal construction attached to a plunger.

Chapman moved protectively towards the table. “The administration of clysters is of prime importance to the patient. He is taking a course of physics that will balance the humours in his body. I have been purging the effluvia with senna taken by mouth, and a pepper wash, by his nether parts. He has on waking each morning, and each night, a mixture of seethed egg yolks, peppercorns, and red wine. At midday, he takes a glass of ale containing a measure of grated dried stag’s pizzle, mercury, and tincture of shepherd’s purse.”

“That would make anyone sick. And the spiders?”

“They restore the throat. With a drop or so of melted butter, they go down very easily.”

“And come up as easily,” Laurence commented, glancing at the chamber pots.

“Sir, the vomit is a sign of imminent recovery.”

“He was vomiting when he came under your care. You’re dismissed.”

Chapman blinked at him. “Sir, I –”

“You may go.”

“With all due respect, it was your brother who engaged me, and it is for him alone to dismiss me, should he so wish it.” Chapman turned to Tom. “For the life of you, sir, do not allow him to interfere.”

But Tom could not speak. He was waving feebly at the pile of chamber pots. Not a moment too soon, Laurence thrust one under his chin. He disgorged some frothing liquid and lay back with a moan. Laurence removed the pot and set it on the table; there was dark blood in the vomit.

“A person of your rank cannot be used to such unsavoury labours,” Chapman observed. “You need me, sir, as much as he does.” In response, Laurence picked up the bottle full of spiders and flung it through the window. “My remedies!” Chapman gasped, as more bottles disappeared. “My payment, at least, sir!”

From his pocket Laurence took a handful of coins and dropped them with a splash into the chamber pot. “Take it and get out now, unless you want me to kick you down the stairs.”

Chapman grabbed the pot and made a rapid exit, not stopping to shut the door behind him.

“What’s happening, Laurence?” Tom asked hoarsely.

Laurence did not reply, digging out from his bags a flask of spring water and a cup into which he mixed honey, a pinch of salt, powdered ginger, and some drops of Martha’s poppy tincture. “Here,” he said. “It should plug you up, and put you to sleep.”

Tom had to be fed in spoonfuls, a process lengthened by his reluctance to ingest anything at all. He stirred fitfully for a bit, and then the drug worked its magic. Meanwhile, Laurence examined what remained of Chapman’s alarming pharmacopoeia and wondered if he should have let Tom’s body rid itself of the poisons naturally. Yet sleep was also curative, he thought. He would not have minded sleeping himself, for he was weary and saddle-sore.

He leant out of the window, and as he gazed down on the courtyard below, he thought of Mary and his facile assurances to her. He had seen men fitter and stronger than Tom waste away from this disease. He could not leave his brother until the fever passed, if in fact it did. His meeting with the Secretary of State would have to wait.

Not a propitious day for declaring war, mused Falkland. It was more like November than late August: large clouds hung in the sky, gobs of rain spattered everyone’s cloaks, and the King’s speech, delivered with some garbling of words by a herald, was practically inaudible in the strong breeze that made the royal standard flap about like a nervous bird.

“How unfortunate that His Majesty changed his script at the last minute,” Lord Digby remarked, shouting in Falkland’s ear. “The other version was superior.”

“Your work?” Falkland asked, one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing away.

“For the most part. Never mind, it would have been wasted on the wind. And what a poor showing,” Digby went on, gesturing at the assembled troops. “I’ve heard Parliament has twice our number mustered in London. Any regrets, Lucius?”

“No man of conscience can be happy today,” Falkland answered guardedly, “to see a monarch wage war against his subjects.”

“Ah well, the die is cast.”

“I think not. We can continue to negotiate. I have every faith in Culpeper’s mission to London.”

“But what is the chance that our terms for a settlement will be accepted by the radicals? All Culpeper will do is buy us some time – which, God knows, we need, to amass a decent fighting force.”

“That smacks of duplicity. Parliament’s Commissioners are men who just yesterday were our friends and colleagues. We must be honest and fair in our dealings with them. After all, they are some of them as eager for peace as we.”

“Yet as the Gospel says, no man can serve two masters. Are you not content with the one you have chosen?”

“He is my King. I could not choose to side against him.” Falkland looked over at His Majesty, who was mounted as usual on a very tall stallion. Beside him was his handsome young nephew, Prince Rupert of the Rhine, newly appointed Lieutenant-General of the Horse; and by Rupert was Boy, the white poodle that went with him everywhere.

“Young pup,” muttered Digby, at which Falkland smiled. “And here comes your trusty spymaster Colonel Hoare, who worships the Prince as faithfully as does Boy,” Digby added, as Hoare galloped up.

Hoare stopped briefly to salute them. He eyed Digby with undisguised loathing, then urged his horse over towards the Prince’s.

“What a man,” Digby exclaimed. “His face reminds me of a death’s head. I really can’t abide him.”

“Nor can I. But thanks to you, I must tolerate him.”

“Poor Lucius! Permit me to make amends by inviting you to a small collation after Council meets. Around ten o’clock. I have asked the Prince to attend but I don’t expect he will.”

“Have you two had a falling out?”

“Not as far as I am concerned,” Digby replied with a hurt expression, smoothing down the feather in his hat. “But it is as if he has forgotten all about our months of friendship abroad, and now he treats me like some neophyte who has no business in a council of war. He doesn’t seem to care how many people he offends with his brusque Teutonic manners. And he has offended a great many in such a small space of time.”

“So what was your purpose in inviting him to sup with you?”

“To show the extent of my good will towards him, in spite of his less than gracious behaviour towards me.” Digby stopped looking hurt and smiled at Falkland. “Please come, Lucius. Otherwise, if Rupert and his poodle fail me, I shall have to eat all alone, and that is so very dreary.”

“I shall come,” Falkland said; whatever Digby was machinating, he preferred to know as soon as he could.

Digby received him in quarters more comfortable than his own, explaining, “Unlike most of the townsfolk, my hosts are enthusiastic Royalists, and very partial to me – as they should be, since I have been made Governor of Nottingham.”

“Oh yes,” Falkland said. It was an honour recently bestowed and one that he had forgotten about.

“They have allowed me every indulgence,” Digby effused, “including the use of their cook and this private dining chamber where I can entertain.”

Falkland was unsurprised to find Prince Rupert absent from the table, at which three places had been laid, yet to his puzzlement he saw that Digby had another guest, a woman, who was seated by the fire at the far end of the room. When she rose to curtsey to him, he could not help staring at her, an impropriety most unlike him. But what on earth was Digby up to? They could not possibly discuss matters of state in her company.

“Isabella Savage, my Lord Falkland,” said Digby, and to Falkland, “Isabella and I have known each other since we were children.”

“You exaggerate, Digby,” she told him, in a low, husky voice. “I was still a little girl when you first took your seat in Parliament. My lord,” she said to Falkland, “I have often watched you there, from the galleries, but never had the privilege of a closer acquaintance. I am afraid I insisted on that privilege tonight.”

“The privilege is mine,” Falkland said, bowing.

“So, as of today you are both soldiers!”

“Lucius has some military experience already, with the Earl of Essex, in the Scottish campaign,” Digby put in slyly.

How typical of him, Falkland thought, to disguise a little thrust as a compliment. “True, I served under Essex,” Falkland said to Mistress Savage, “but we did not see much fighting, madam, and as you must know, His Majesty’s attempt to pacify the Scots ended in defeat.”

“And now Essex is your enemy. What a changed state of affairs.”

“One I regret,” he murmured, beginning to regret that he had come.

“Our simple repast is ready,” Digby said, as the servant entered bearing a platter of stewed fowl and a large pie with a standing crust. “Isabella, you shall take the Prince’s chair. Lucius, you shall sit opposite her. And I shall sit between you.”

An obvious ploy, Falkland told himself, but it worked: throughout the meal, he had to look at her; and if he did not look, he felt an idiot that he should so studiously avoid her.

When she turned aside in conversation, he noted a classical cast to her profile and long, slender neck; face on, she enchanted him with her deep brown eyes, hooded by sleepy lids, and her lips, half smiling in repose; and as she moved her head, he glimpsed a flash of auburn in her dark hair. He admired the slim fit of her gown, a bronze silk that brought out the honeyed colour of her skin, and the emeralds dangling from her ears, and her gestures, rather lazy, as was her drawling speech; though he guessed, from what she said, that there was nothing lazy about her brain. She unnerved him, and not just because of her beauty: she talked with a most unfeminine confidence.

“Nottingham is the same as Coventry: hostile to us, one might argue,” she remarked, tearing apart a wishbone. “My Lord Falkland, did you think it a good decision to raise the standard here? What do we have so far, a thousand men? If that?”

“His Majesty expects others, now that war has been formally declared,” Falkland said.

“But he has just sent emissaries of peace to London. Why should the local gentry commit to him? And it’s harvest time. How can you expect any farmer to desert his crops, when there’s no absolute certainty of war and even less certainty of getting paid to fight, if war does break out?”

“Isabella, you are plaguing him while he is trying to eat,” said Digby. “So quick she ought to have been in breeches,” he giggled to Falkland.

“Are you insulting my sex?” she asked Digby, her eyes sparkling at him. “If so, I won’t stand for it!”

“If I had my druthers, you would stand for Parliament! Lucius, don’t you think that if women were given the same education as ourselves, they would prove as capable in the political sphere?”

“There are many examples to be found in history,” Isabella said, before Falkland could answer.

“Our late Queen Elizabeth,” Digby said.

“And my namesake, the Queen of Spain.”

“These are princes, and may prove the exception rather than the rule,” Falkland said at last. “And I would not think it proper for women to assume all of our duties.”

“Which would you spare us, my lord?” she queried, with a devastating smile.

“The battlefield, madam, for one,” he answered, hoping to silence her.

“Ah, but what of the Amazons?”

“My darling Isabella, are you prepared, as they were, to cut off a breast to go to war?” Digby said, giggling again.

“There would be no need. We are not still shooting bows and arrows, as they were,” she responded.

“We may have to, if we continue to be so short of pistols and muskets.”

“Then in the interests of self-preservation I shall certainly leave warfare to you gentlemen.” She turned to Falkland, her expression more
serious. “My lord, what do you believe might come of the negotiations?”

“Some compromise, before the violence becomes widespread,” he replied.

“Would you go to London and plead for peace, if circumstances required?”

“Yes, I would, with all my heart,” he said vehemently, “if it could put a stop to any bloodshed. And I may yet.”

“His Highness Prince Rupert has been heard to say that we should not pander to rebels,” she said. “What is your view, Digby?” Digby was nibbling on a quail leg; with his full cheeks, he reminded Falkland of a large, blond squirrel. “How you hate to commit yourself,” she went on, with a hard little laugh.

“I follow the voice of reason, as does my friend Lucius.”

“You follow a great number of voices, but chiefly your own.”

“And what would
you
say, my dear?”

“That there is reason on both sides.”

“Aha! It seems that neither of us wishes to divulge our true feelings about this war.”

“Were you merely jesting, then, when you wrote from Holland to His Majesty urging him to take up arms against his people?” Falkland exclaimed, hearing his tone grow shrill with emotion.

Digby gave him a reproachful look. “Now, Lucius, you have hit below the belt.”

“Do you deny that you encouraged him to it?”

There was a silence, during which Falkland caught Mistress Savage studying them both with great interest, as though expecting they might leap up and engage in physical combat.

“Must we argue?” Digby said, casting them one of his incandescent smiles. “I can never tolerate an argument while eating.”

“Then let us attack a less controversial issue,” Mistress Savage said hastily. “Tell me, gentlemen, has the Prince got himself a lover yet?
I wager there are more young hearts waiting to be broken by him than there are troops serving under His Majesty.”

“Yours too?” Digby asked. “Or aren’t you susceptible?”

“I fear I’m not. I think I prefer more experienced campaigners.”