The Best of Men (54 page)

She bowed her head, then looked up again and said quietly, “Walter, I know for a fact that he has not set foot in Longstanton for months.”

“Don’t be absurd! He went there on and off throughout the campaign – too often, for his troop.”

“Away, yes, but not there.” She took a breath. “I wanted so much to confide in you, yet I was … afraid.”

“No need to fear,” he encouraged her.

“Before Aunt Musgrave and I came here, Sir Bernard’s steward stopped by her house. He was on his way to Hungerford, to spend the Christmas season with his wife’s family, but he wanted to pay his respects to me for Sir Bernard’s sake. He said that all was well at Longstanton. Parliament has made absolutely no move to sequestrate it, even though Sir Bernard has been unable to afford the taxes that are being levied on all the neighbouring Royalist estates.”

“Are you sure he was Radcliff’s steward?”

“He showed me proof, in Sir Bernard’s writing; he’d thought to bring it, as we had never met before. And he asked me why the master had been absent since the summer.” Ingram muttered an exclamation. “I did not know what to say,” she continued, “except that my husband was busy at war and would visit when he could. Where can he be, when
he claims he is at his estate?” she demanded agitatedly. “And why has it remained untouched by Parliament? Walter, my husband and your own friend is lying to both of us. He told the same barefaced untruth in front of his lawyer! Is that man party to his secret?”

Ingram shrugged, mystified. “Have you spoken of this to Aunt Musgrave?”

“No. But do you recall Sir Bernard’s fuss about his letter, which I now curse myself for not opening? The moment he arrived, he made me return it to him. It must contain some answers!”

“You should ask him outright, instead of letting your imagination run riot.”

“And your friend Mr. Beaumont is hiding something, too,” she rushed on. “When he caught sight of the letter –”

“So he
did
see it?”

Kate blushed. “Yes, he did. It fell on the floor as I opened yours, and he picked it up for me. He looked stunned for a second, and inquired whether it was my husband’s writing on the letter. I said yes, and then he pretended there was nothing to it.”

“That is odd,” admitted Ingram. He would have dismissed the whole tale, yet now he recalled how very interested Radcliff always was in Beaumont, and how Beaumont had questioned him about Radcliff that last time they saw each other.

“Walter, you must talk to Mr. Beaumont and find out what he knows.”

“Yes – but no matter what, Kate, your husband is devoted to you.”

“I pray he is not lying about that, too!” she moaned, wringing her hands together. “Until we can learn more, don’t tell him anything. Swear you won’t.”

“I swear.”

“And you will talk to Mr. Beaumont?”

“I’ll ride to Chipping Campden before December’s out. But stop
fretting, Kate,” Ingram reassured her. “There must be some simple explanation for all this.”

On the night of his arrest, Laurence had been manacled and conveyed at gunpoint to Oxford Castle. Hoare’s guards had marched him past the common pound, now full of Parliamentary prisoners, and up several flights of stone steps to a solitary doorway. There they removed his manacles, stripped him of his knife and spurs, and of what money he had on him. They pushed him inside, where by the light of their torches he could tell he was in one of the Castle’s garderobes. Before the door clanged shut, he saw a dry space that he could occupy, barely four foot in length, and less in width. Everywhere else the floor was covered in slippery mould. Close to his little patch, a stone seat with a hole in it projected over a shaft, above and below which towered walls stained with centuries of human waste. He could not stand up fully, so low was the ceiling, the atmosphere was so putrid that his gorge rose whenever he took a breath, and he was shivering with cold, since he had left his cloak at Isabella’s chamber. From time to time he had to huddle back to avoid being splashed as buckets were emptied down the shaft into the conduit of sewage beneath the Castle, sending a fresh reek to combine with the staler odours of his cell.

He attempted to sleep, but the freezing draughts and the sheer stench of the place deprived him of rest. Counting the hours, marked by the striking of church bells, he wondered how Hoare had known where to find him. And how much could Hoare know about the meeting that was to have occurred later that night?

Shortly after midday came the tramp of feet and the grinding of bolts, and the door opened to reveal the Colonel himself. “Mr. Beaumont, do you like your quarters?” Hoare inquired, standing some distance from the threshold.

“Oh yes, so thoughtful of you to supply the jakes,” replied Laurence. “Few cells can be as well appointed. What am I charged with?”

“I’ve a great many questions to ask you, sir,” said Hoare, brushing off the one Laurence had put to him, “but I’m in no immediate hurry, since it is the festive season. You may continue to enjoy your solitude for a while, and then we’ll speak again.”

“Is Mistress Savage still in your custody?”

“You care about her, do you? She’s a pretty bitch, I’ll grant you.” With this, Hoare stalked away, and his guard shut the door again.

Over hours that turned into days and nights, Laurence recognised that through all the hardships of war he had at least faced injury and death in the company of other men. Isolation in a veritable sewer began to wear far more insidiously upon his nerves, and after a while he could think of nothing but being warm again, and of breathing clean air that did not catch in his throat and nostrils.

On what he thought was his fourth evening, a new guard came to deliver his scant ration of bread and water. He was now so desperate that as the door was about be shut on him again, he stuck his hand in the way, risking crushed fingers.

“Fetch Colonel Hoare,” he begged. “I have to talk to him.”

“You get back in,” the guard muttered, giving him a shove, and bolted the door.

Another slow hour went by, then Laurence heard approaching footsteps. To his surprise, the visitor was not Hoare but Charles Danvers, dressed in a suit of crimson velvet trimmed with lace beneath a cloak of the same shade, with an ornamental rapier at his side, and a pair of fine calfskin boots dyed to match his clothing.

Laurence jumped up and slithered to the doorway, from which Danvers had since retreated, pressing a hand to his nose and mouth. “Beaumont!” he said, his speech muffled. “What an atrocious hole!”

“What’s the charge against me?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Does Falkland know where I am?”

“I’ve no idea. You look terrible!”

Laurence was seized by a fit of coughing, after which he spat over his shoulder. “Hoare must want me to die of gaol fever. Another night in this place and I may.”

“I’m sorry, man. You’ll have to wait to see him; he’s left Oxford for a bit. As soon as he returns, you’ll be able to set things to rights.”

“Set
what
to rights? I don’t even know why he’s arrested me. Tell Falkland that he must come and get me out.”

“He’s at Great Tew, with his family. It’s Christmastide, remember.”

“Would you go there for me? Please, Danvers.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Danvers turned to the guard. “Private Wright, is Mr. Beaumont not permitted some decent food and a blanket?”

“Colonel Hoare said he wasn’t to receive nothing from outside,” Wright said, with the confidence of one performing his duty.

“What money do you have on you?” Laurence asked Danvers. “You still owe me from the last time we played cards.”

“What you going to buy with it, where you are?” Wright growled, as Danvers hunted in his pockets.

“That’s an excellent question,” Laurence said; and he fancied he could hear Wright thinking.

“A man should pay his debts,” Wright said, at length.

Danvers surrendered some coins, which Laurence stuffed in his pocket. “Beaumont, Isabella Savage came to see me yesterday. She’s free, you’ll be glad to hear. Digby made sure of that. She said you took a nasty beating when they arrested you. She seemed most upset on speaking of it. She wanted to come here, but Hoare’s forbidden you any visitors.”

“What are
you
doing here, then?”

“He must have made an exception in my case,” Danvers said, with a childlike assurance that failed to deceive Laurence.

“I’m glad to see you, anyway,” he said quickly; in his straits he needed even this false friend.

Danvers readjusted his cloak. “It’s late, Beaumont. I’d better go.”

“You must talk to Falkland,” Laurence implored him. “Will you do that?”

“I’ll try,” he said, and sped off.

As Laurence could have predicted, Wright did not immediately shut the cell door. He strolled about, fingering his matchlock pistol, apparently in deep cogitation, then stopped to regard Laurence, who was still at the doorway. “It does occur to me,” he said, “that I’ve disobeyed orders letting you take that money.”

Laurence counted it out and piled it a few inches away. “Go on, it’s yours.”

Wright started to move towards it but reconsidered, to Laurence’s immense frustration; he had been ready to spring up and make a grab for the pistol. “You won’t catch me with that trick,” Wright said. “Toss over the coins.” And he scooped them up lovingly. “Well, Mr. Beaumont, you
are
a fool, easily parted from his money.”

“That may be, but from Danvers you have only five pounds out of the fifty I lent him.”

“And so?”

“And so there’s more money in it for you, if you treat me well.”

“Colonel Hoare don’t have it in mind to treat you well.”

“Think about it. My friends aren’t poor. If you let them in to see me, you could make an easy profit. You’re not Hoare’s slave. He doesn’t need to know everything, does he?”

Wright merely snorted in response and left, bolting the door. Not long afterwards, however, in the spirit of Christmas charity, he said, he brought Laurence a blanket, threadbare and stiff with grime, and a hunk of mouldering cheese, both of which he threw on the floor as he might a bone to a dog.

Falkland was so deep in thought that he jumped up a little tardily after his guests to applaud Lettice’s performance at the virginals.

“A glass of Malmsey?” she suggested to everyone, and they drew their chairs in by the fire while Stephens came round with the sweet wine. After some healths were drunk, Falkland’s neighbour, Sir Henry Paget, complimented Lettice on the jam tartlets that she had made; and they became quiet, munching and sipping.

“Poor Lord Beaumont – what a scene at his daughter’s wedding,” Sir Henry remarked eventually. “His eldest son was always incorrigible, but he surpassed himself on that occasion. He was caught with a woman in his bedchamber!”

Mistress Savage, Falkland thought, a twinge of alarm passing through him. “He might have wished to speak to her more privately,” he said. “The wedding was such a loud affair, one could not hear oneself think.”

“According to Lady Morecombe, who by accident witnessed them together, he was speaking to her very privately indeed – and not to her mouth,” Sir Henry added, with unmistakable emphasis, although a couple of the ladies exchanged querying frowns.

“But is he not betrothed to Lady Morecombe’s daughter?” Lettice asked.

“Yes, and I hear that Lady Morecombe graciously permitted the arrangement to continue despite everything. I would be less inclined to forgiveness. I should not let any child of mine near him.”

“I found him perfectly respectful, even kind, when he came here that same night to see my husband,” Lettice said, at which Falkland felt immediately uneasy.

Old gossipmonger that he was, Sir Henry pounced on this. “I did not know you had dealings with him, my lord. Lady Beaumont told me at the feast that he was serving with Wilmot’s Horse.”

“He is,” Falkland said. “And my wife is right, as ever. He is not such a bad fellow as one might suppose, and I am sure we would all agree that what an unmarried man does in his own bedchamber is his business and no one else’s.”

Sir Henry flushed at the rebuke.

“Sir Henry, you have such a fine singing voice,” interjected Lettice hastily. “Would you care to grace us with an air? I shall accompany you.” And the rest of the evening passed without further mention of Beaumont’s name.

After the guests departed and Falkland came at last to bed, Lettice was still sitting up by candlelight. “My lord,” she said, “I have been patient, as a woman should, yet you owe me some explanation. You barely eat, you sit pondering in the dark, and tonight you were as distraught as ever I have seen you. That was not lost on our company. Sir Henry wanted to know if you were suffering from some malady, he considered you so unlike your usual self. Lucius,” she went on, reaching for his hand; she rarely used his Christian name, and he felt pain on hearing it. “I have shared many hardships with you. You cannot shut me out. You know whatever passes between us will never be repeated by me to anyone. Tell me your worries.”

He sank onto the bed and put his head in his hands. “Oh my love, all that I believed in has been turned upside down.” She was silent, caressing his back. “In Council, His Majesty talks of peace, which you know I have worked towards honestly throughout the years, even before I took the office of State. But from abroad the Queen encourages him to pursue hostilities while misleading Parliament’s Commissioners about his intentions. More openly, Prince Rupert and Digby are urging him not to treat with rebels. They want this abominable slaughter to continue! And I must be his mouthpiece, when the Commissioners come to Oxford. He will use my reputation to cozen them into
thinking that he is ready to compromise.” He laughed sourly. “Naive, dithering Falkland! I am well aware of his opinion of me.”

“Lucius, it cannot be so!”

“I tell you, there is more honour in the Earl of Essex’s heart, in John Pym’s, and John Hampden’s, and in many of the other so-called rebels, than I can find in that of my King.” He sighed, and went on, “If only his duplicity were my sole concern. Lettice, my own spymaster, Colonel Hoare, may be working to have me forced out of office. He, too, is of the war party, and I suspect him of hunting for proof that I am in secret contact with Parliament, offering concessions of which His Majesty would disapprove.”