The Best of Men (52 page)

One day, while watering their horses at the banks of the Guadalquivir, they spied a great coach in the distance thundering towards them surrounded by clouds of dust. The only other human presence they had witnessed for some time had been the occasional peasant and his donkey, so this seemed to them a remarkable sight. The
vehicle was drawn by four white Andalusians with shining manes, and the soldiers riding postillion were armed.

“They must be wealthy people,” Juana commented. “The brigands in these parts will be after them.”

“I hope they don’t shoot us first,” Laurence said apprehensively.

The coach slowed before them and a man peered out. His complexion was jaundiced and he was sweating beneath his plumed hat. To some passenger within he muttered, “Gypsies, my dear!”

A woman’s face now appeared at the coach window, her hair in ornate curls about her temples, her cheeks flushed, rich jewels dangling from her ears. “
Mira
, Don Fernando,” she said, “they are half-naked, like beasts of the field!” At this, Laurence saw Juana tugging up the front of her dress and folding her arms over her chest, to hide the mild curve of her breasts. He himself was without a shirt and felt unpleasantly exposed.

“Ask them,” Don Fernando said to one of his soldiers, who growled sharply, “Which way to Jaén?”

The woman, meanwhile, continued her inspection of Laurence and Juana. “How unfair, that such precious white teeth should be gifted them!”

“If your skin were as black as theirs, your teeth would shine as bright. You,” Don Fernando said, beckoning to them, “open your mouths wider for the lady. Show us these pearls that nature has wasted on swine.”

Laurence nudged Juana’s elbow; she was bristling visibly at the taunt. “Keep calm,” he whispered.

“Open your mouth, girl!” the soldier yelled at her, jumping down and brandishing a whip.

She gave him a haughty glare, her mouth clammed shut. Predicting trouble, Laurence stepped in front of her and addressed the occupants of the coach in his most correct Castilian. “Excuse me, but if you desire the road to Jaén, you missed it some way back, at the crossroads. You should take the right-hand path.”

“
Madre de Díos!
Where did you learn to speak like that?” the woman demanded. “Were you a servant in Madrid?”

“That’s a musket wound on his side,” Don Fernando said, pointing. “He’s too tall for a gypsy, and his eyes are too strange a hue. What are you, you scoundrel, a half-breed Moor? A deserter from the army?”

“No, sir,” Laurence said, impressed by the accuracy of his last guess.

“Does the girl tell fortunes?” the woman inquired.

“I’m afraid not,” Laurence replied.

“Then open her mouth for us, boy,” said Don Fernando. “Show us her teeth.” When Laurence did not move, he said to the soldier, “Give her a lick of the whip.”

They were silent save for the snorting and stomping of the horses in harness, then the soldier swung his arm back. Laurence anticipated the whip’s trajectory, and caught the leather tongue as it cracked down.

“By the devil’s arse, let go, you son of a bitch!” cried the soldier, attempting to free the whip, to which Laurence hung on, though it stung his palm and fingers.

“They are worse than beasts,” announced Don Fernando. “And I don’t like the look of this rogue. It could be a trap, and he may have friends ahead.” He waved at the driver. “Let’s be off!” Laurence released the whip and the soldier went back to his horse, uttering more curses. And the coach wheeled about and rattled off.

Juana flopped down on the ground as though her legs could no longer support her. “Monsieur,” she said, “why did you put yourself at risk for me again?”

“Because I would do anything for you,” he blurted out.

“Then never desert me!”

He fell on his knees in the dirt beside her, unable to credit what he had just heard. “When you find your people, you won’t need me any more,” he said, willing her to contradict him.

“I shall always need you. This I swear by God, by the Virgin, by my
very soul.” Taking his hand, she kissed his palm, where the whip had left a vivid welt. “No one can part us, as long as I have life in my body.”

He should have laughed off her declaration, or said nothing and remained sceptical. But instead, like an idiot, he let himself believe her.

Lord Falkland’s manservant greeted Laurence as always, with a brief inclination of his head. Tickled by his pomposity, Laurence asked, “What’s your name?”

“Stephens, sir,” he said, raising his eyebrows, as if it were an impertinent question. “His lordship is not in his chambers. He is taking some air.” Through the window he indicated a courtyard bordered with rose bushes where a short figure was pacing about.

“Thank you, Stephens,” Laurence said. “Do you ever smile?”

“I have not had cause for it lately, sir.”

“Hmm. And how is his lordship?”

“With all due respect, sir, you would do better to ask him yourself.”

“I shall,” Laurence told him, and went to join the Secretary of State.

“Mr. Beaumont,” Falkland said rather curtly, as he approached, “I thank you for your message yesterday, and I am sorry that I was too occupied to see you then.” Since he offered no explanation, Laurence let this pass. “How much did you reveal to my wife?”

“As little as I could. She was worried about you and what took you to Oxford.”

“Yes, yes, I can understand why,” Falkland murmured, running a hand over his face; he was grey with fatigue and his hand trembled.

“If I were you, I’d be honest with her, but that’s just my opinion. What do I know about wives.” Laurence frowned at him. “Are you well, my lord?”

“I am merely tired. I have not slept since I left Great Tew. What … what news do you have for me?” Falkland said next, under his breath.

“I’ll bring Captain Milne to you on Christmas Eve.”

“Where?” Falkland’s eyes now darted about, as though Milne might spring out from around some corner to surprise them.

“In Christ Church, at eleven o’clock. It should be busy at that time with the midnight service. You must go alone to the Lady Chapel and kneel down as though praying. If you don’t see me within the half hour, leave. If there should be any change of plan, I’ll let you know before then, or Is – Mistress Savage will.”

“Can we depend upon her?”

“At this point, we haven’t much choice,” Laurence said, more irritably than he had intended.

“As I’ve said to you before, I’m not used to intrigue. Far more your province than mine.”

“Oh, one more thing, my lord,” Laurence added, in a low voice. “I meant to tell you when we spoke at the wedding, but if you recall, our conversation was somewhat abruptly curtailed. I went to London in November to look for Radcliff, who was missing from his regiment after Edgehill. I suspected that he’d been taken there as a hostage. I was wrong. He was at Pembroke’s house all the while.”

Falkland blinked at him. “My God! So you’ve known since November that Pembroke is master of the conspiracy.”

“Yes. And I don’t care about your negotiations. I want to bring in Radcliff next week. We can interrogate him together.”

Falkland nodded; he appeared dazed. “As you think fit, Mr. Beaumont,” he said.

Tom looked down at Mary as she lay pale and weak in their bed, and then at his mother. He wanted to rage out loud at the injustice of it: his child was lost.

“You have not yet begun to endure what is a woman’s lot,” Lady
Beaumont was telling Mary. “Now bid your husband goodbye, and no more tears.”

“You won’t be away too long?” Mary begged of him.

“Promise I won’t,” he said, and touched her cheek with his lips.

“Thomas,” said Lady Beaumont, as they descended the stairs, “admit that you think the sight of your face after the fight provoked her to miscarry.”

Tom fingered his bruises, less swollen for three days of remedies from the still room. “Why else would it happen?” he responded bitterly.

“She told me she had the pains earlier and was bleeding before she went to bed that night.”

Tom said nothing. He still held Laurence responsible.

When they entered the hall, they found Lord Beaumont with Elizabeth, Ormiston, and Sir Robert Stratton, who had prolonged his stay on the excuse of a bad cold.

“Thomas, you must not be too discouraged,” Lord Beaumont said. “Stratton was just telling me that his wife Diana slipped her first child, and yet they have now a pair of fine sons and another babe on the way. It is well known that Nature deals so with imperfections. Aristotle, if my memory serves me correctly, once wrote –”

“On the subject of imperfections,” Lady Beaumont cut in, “I received word today from Lady Morecombe that she has decided to overlook Laurence’s misconduct. Alice is prepared to do so as well. It does not much surprise me, given how those Morecombes stand to benefit from the marriage.”

Tom gaped at her. “So there’ll be no more consequences for him than if he’d broken wind and neglected to apologise? He
arranged
for Lady Morecombe to witness that disgusting scene! He did it all on purpose, can’t you see?”

There was an awkward pause.

“Thomas says he must leave for Oxford,” announced Lady Beaumont.

“Should you not be with your wife, given her circumstances?” Lord Beaumont objected.

“I wish I could stay, but there’s an issue of supplies for my troop that I must attend to,” Tom said, struggling to subdue his anger.

“I shall ride back with you, if I may,” Stratton said. “My lord, my lady, you have been too hospitable, and I thank you both.”

As Stratton went to ready himself for the journey, Ormiston took Tom aside. “What’s the true reason for your going, Tom? It’s Christmastide: we’ll have no action for a month, at least. Are you intending to find your brother?” Tom glowered at the floor. “You must forget your quarrel. What he did with that woman was in poor taste, but if he had fought with you afterwards, God knows what greater damage might have been done.”

“I’ve no need of your advice,” Tom spat back, livid. “And if you want to keep the peace between
us
, you won’t interfere again.”

On the way to Oxford, Stratton suggested that he and Tom break their journey at Woodstock, now stuffed to the seams with Royalist billets, and get a meal in an alehouse. This they did, and while they sat thawing their feet before the fire, drinking from their mugs, Stratton remarked, “It must have been a very low sort of trollop who came to your brother’s chamber that night.”

“I know who it was: her name’s Isabella Savage,” Tom said. “She’s one of those women at Court who live upon their looks and their cunning. And, of course, their easy virtue.”

“Dear Christ! It is my misfortune to know her too!”

By the time their meat had arrived, served on hearty slices of bread in the old style, they were assembling a fuller list of her crimes.

“Digby’s courier, is she,” Tom muttered; so she might have visited his brother for more than carnal purposes that night. “And she escaped from your house dressed as a boy? Hard to believe she’d fool anyone in that guise.”

“Because of her, my entire household was confined at Wytham and I lost some lucrative contracts,” Stratton complained. “If I see her again, I shall be tempted to wring her neck. As for your brother –”

“I should wring
his
neck.”

“I have more cause. I strongly suspect that he once had the gall to make advances to my wife.”

Tom feigned appropriate surprise and dismay. “When?”

“This summer, on his return from the other war.”

“She must have been horribly affronted.”

Stratton picked up his mug and toyed with it. “She will never again receive him alone, nor do I ever want him in my house. Out of discretion, I’ve not mentioned it to your parents, nor shall I tell my wife the details of this latest unsavoury episode. She still has a misguided affection for that Savage creature, and as it is she cannot bear to hear so much as your brother’s name, after his outrageous behaviour towards her.” Poor Stratton, mused Tom; either he had too much pride to admit that he had been cuckolded years ago, or he was unaware of the fact. Stratton took a quick gulp of ale, straightening his shoulders. “I’d call him out myself if he came anywhere near my door, but he’d probably refuse to settle with me as a gentleman should, just as he refused you.”

“We can only pray that he’ll get his comeuppance one day,” Tom said, setting down his mug and rising. “Well, sir, let’s cover those last miles, since we’ve eaten our fill.”

“I trust our conversation shall remain private, sir?” Stratton asked anxiously.

“I give you my word,” Tom assured him.

A
t half past nine o’clock on Christmas Eve, Laurence left Merton College for the Blue Boar. He had arranged to call on Isabella shortly before he met Captain Milne, who was to be waiting for him in the cloisters of St. Mary’s Church; he would then take Milne to Christ Church. But his conversation with Falkland had made him somewhat uneasy about Isabella’s role in their plans, so he had decided to set out early; he half anticipated surprising Digby in her chamber, or possibly even Milne.

In the streets, he encountered only bunches of revellers on their way to or from some Christmas celebration. The Blue Boar’s horn windows were bright with candlelight, and he could hear exuberant voices carousing within. As he entered, he inhaled the smell of tobacco smoke and the mixed odours of roasting meat and spiced ale. Festooned with branches of holly, yew, and mistletoe, the small taproom was crowded with people laughing, and singing and raising cups.

He pushed through them, then quietly mounted the stairs to Isabella’s chamber and listened outside her door for a moment. Hearing no voices, he knocked.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

“Me,” he replied.

She admitted him, shut the door behind him and bolted it; there was no one else in the room. “I did not expect you for at least another hour,” she said curtly.

“I beg your pardon, should I go and come back later?” he inquired, with mock politesse.

“Of course not.”