The Best of Men (66 page)

“I’m not convinced,” Laurence said, shaking his head. “It all seems so … fallible. And why would he put all his trust in Radcliff, when the man could so easily betray him, and indeed may have been planning to, all along?”

“Radcliff can be persuasive. He won me over, for a time.”

“Well
I
never liked him.”

“You wouldn’t,” Seward said dryly. “He is not your sort – too proper a gentleman by far.”

“And I bet Pembroke doesn’t trust him any more.”

“Pembroke may have accused Radcliff of treachery as soon as he saw the painting. He may also feel threatened on another front. While you were in Faringdon he came here to Oxford again, with the other delegates from Parliament. He met with both Earle and Falkland, who have since told me that he urged them more forcefully to join his secret
alliance. Earle refused outright, as I had advised him. Falkland was less adamant, yet unenthusiastic.”

“We should keep Pembroke guessing. If he knows we’re on his scent, he could sail for the continent and take refuge there for as long as he had to, and if Parliament were to win this war, he’d return with no damage done to his reputation.”

“Yes, I quite agree with you. Beaumont,” Seward went on, in a speculative tone, “what if Radcliff is really about to turn him in?”

“That’s what Radcliff is bound to claim, once he’s arrested. It’s his only way out of a traitor’s death – if I haven’t already killed him with that drug of yours.”

“No, no. It may give him a bellyache, but no more.”

Laurence sighed and yawned, stretching. “God, I’m tired. So what’s happening here in Oxford? I want to be prepared before I see Falkland tomorrow.”

“Hoare’s still being a menace in the courtroom,” replied Seward. “He is arguing that Danvers died of shock and that the murder charge is utterly spurious. And your brother has yet to testify. Hoare may be pinning on him the hope of impugning Falkland’s good name
and
yours, needless to add.”

“Has Hoare mentioned the conspiracy yet?”

“Oh yes. In his opening speech he claimed it as part of his justification for interrogating you. He said he would introduce as evidence the transcriptions you made of those first coded letters, and a record he kept of your meetings.”

“We have to make sure Hoare can’t use any of this in court. Pembroke may be watching the trial – from a distance, of course. We don’t want him getting too interested.”

They both mused over this, then Seward said softly, “I am delighted to see you on form again, my boy.”

“I am for the most part, though I haven’t got my full strength back.”

“It will come, God willing.” Seward cleared his throat. “I should alert you as to some other news. Mistress Savage knows about the uprising, from Digby. She told me that –”

“When did you last see her?” Laurence interjected.

“At Hoare’s trial. She says the revolt will happen in May. A Commission of Array will be smuggled into London, to set it off. Waller is involved, and Falkland will take charge of all correspondence between Oxford and London. She believes Falkland may ask you to assist him in these communications.”

Laurence groaned. “I suppose I’ll have to.”

“You virtually begged to fill Hoare’s shoes when you gave his lordship your deposition.”

“Yes, but first he
must
deal with the regicides.” Laurence hesitated, fingering the blank sheet of paper. “Did she tell you where she’s lodged?”

“I presume you refer to Mistress Savage. She is still at the Blue Boar.”

“Once I’ve delivered the letters to Falkland, I’ll go and see her.”

“Can you not wait until the end of the trial?”

“Why should I?”

Seward did not answer immediately, puffing away on his pipe. “From what I know of her, she could be a dangerous woman,” he said at last, through a cloud of smoke. “I hope you’re not cherishing any amorous feelings for her. Or lustful ones, either,” he concluded, beetling his brows at Laurence.

“You did it, sir!” Falkland exclaimed, as he scanned the letters. “I’m completely amazed!”

“I had some luck,” Beaumont said, with one of his charming smiles. “So,” he went on briskly, “Radcliff has probably rejoined his troop and is moving north towards Birmingham. If you give me a
small company of men, we could bring him back to Oxford within the next couple of days.”

Falkland sighed, inspecting him. Though slightly gaunt and sallow in complexion, he seemed untouched by his ordeal in Oxford Castle, apart from the scars on his face. Yet Falkland remembered him lying outside that noisome cell, bloodied and barely alive. How resilient he was, Falkland thought, a little enviously. “I know you are eager for an arrest, sir,” he said, “but circumstances have altered since your return, and although we are not having much joy of our current negotiations with Parliament, we might prejudice them if we were to make any startling announcements – or arrests.”

Beaumont screwed up his eyes as if he could not credit what he had just heard. “What are you saying?”

“Just that. We have to wait.”

“But you wanted Radcliff detained last year and I asked you to hold off until I could find evidence of his guilt! Now we have it – there’s nothing to stop you. He can give you all the answers, which you’ll certainly require before you take in Pembroke.”

“I would act, sir, but it is His Majesty’s request that we delay.”

Beaumont’s expression changed to one of combined outrage and disgust. “It’s
his
life that’s at stake here! How much more urgent can this matter be?”

“Nevertheless, it is complicated. He refuses to believe the man is a regicide.”

“Show him the letters! They’re in Pembroke’s hand!”

“There is no signature on them. They might be forgeries.”

“Pembroke’s mark is on the paper.”

“You have no proof that it
is
his mark.”

“Oh for God’s sake! We’ll get a confession from Radcliff!”

“How could we be sure it was the truth? He might be lying to save his life.”

Beaumont laughed scornfully. “How many men have been condemned in half an hour on less evidence than we have before us?”

“I have to agree with you on that,” Falkland said. “Which brings me to the main reason for the King’s delay. The memory of the Earl of Strafford’s fate still haunts him. In signing the earl’s death warrant, he sent to the block a faithful servant. Pembroke is yet more to him: a close friend, beloved by his father, who has sworn never to take up arms against him.”

“And we know why,” Beaumont said, in a furious whisper. “To dupe the King into trusting him!”

“Yes, but His Majesty will not be moved. As long as the supposed conspirators are under watch, he says he is not afraid of them. And in any case, my hands are tied until the middle of May.”

“When the Commission of Array will be proclaimed in London.” Beaumont swore rather inventively under his breath. “If London were truly so strong for the King,” he said next, “don’t you think it would have risen last year after Edgehill, when his army got as far as Reading?”

“As I told you, much has changed of late. There is discontent in many quarters. The citizens are rebelling against the exorbitant taxes they must pay to support the army, and are openly accusing the radicals in Parliament of feathering their own nests with the proceeds. And then they are complaining about the destruction wrought by Puritan vandals to so many buildings in the capital –”

“Every time His Majesty has been caught trying to pull the wool over Parliament’s eyes, the citizens of London have rallied behind their leaders,” Beaumont interrupted. “The date he’s chosen is well over a month away, too long to keep a secret, which is not that secret as it is. Parliament has an efficient web of spies.” Falkland nodded resignedly. “And wouldn’t it strengthen his chances of success in London, if he could show that one of the chief negotiators in Parliament had designs on his life?”

“Without more proof he will not consider that an option. Please, sir, may we close this topic and turn to another?”

“Yes, my lord,” Beaumont said, with an exasperated sigh.

“Tomorrow Hoare will call you as a witness. How do you propose to handle the questioning?”

Beaumont smiled, deviously this time. “You have all his private documents, don’t you, and my transcription of the first letters.” From the confusion on his desk, Falkland pulled out a leather book and a roll of dog-eared papers in Beaumont’s scrawling hand. Beaumont flicked quickly through the book. “Pembroke knows that someone’s on his tail, but he mustn’t find out who, or how close we are – he could easily escape us. Naturally he’ll be interested in this trial, since Hoare has talked about a conspiracy to regicide. So I intend to deny that the plot ever existed.”

“But that would mean lying under oath!”

“That’s right. And we must stop him getting his hands on any of this evidence. With nothing to support his claim, he’ll be sunk,” said Beaumont, slapping the book down on the table with a loud thump.

Falkland almost laughed at the bold-faced daring of his strategy. “How can we do that?”

“These are state secrets, my lord. The King must understand that we can’t have the conspiracy broadcasted about while Pembroke and Radcliff are still free. Deny Hoare’s records to the court on His Majesty’s authority. And I think, before tomorrow, that you should pay a visit on Hoare.”

“To what end?”

“To tell him he has no case. Let him sweat with fear until the morning.”

“But his guards will bear witness that he questioned you about the conspiracy!”

“If you remember, I told him nothing.”

“They went to Aylesbury with you, to arrest Poole!”

“Yes, but they knew no more than that he was a criminal of some sort and that we were ordered to bring him in. And anyway, they’re slavishly loyal to Hoare; they’re bound to tell his version of the story. Without evidence, their testimony won’t stand up against mine. They’re only commoners, my lord,” Beaumont added, facetiously. “Well, do we have a plan?”

Falkland nodded, his stomach churning at the risks involved. “I shall have to speak to the King. If he is agreed, I could go to the gaol this evening.”

“You might take the judge with you, so you can’t be accused of subverting the course of justice,” Beaumont said, with the same devious smile.

“I shall.” Falkland began to smile also. “Mr. Beaumont, I hate to nag you about such a trivial thing, but could you please make sure that you are dressed appropriately for your appearance in court?”

“Don’t worry, my lord – I’ve already enlisted the services of a tailor.”

“Then tell him to send me the bill,” Falkland said.

After his audience with Falkland, Laurence went immediately to the Blue Boar, and bounded upstairs to Isabella’s chamber. The door stood wide open, revealing a servant on her knees scrubbing the floor. “Mistress Savage has moved to rooms downstairs,” she said, on his inquiry, and told him where to find them.

He thanked her. About to go, he walked over to the window and looked down to the alleyway. In daylight, he could see the drop. Isabella had been right: he might easily have broken his neck before Hoare captured him.

He followed the servant’s instructions to a door off the main taproom, and with slight disappointment heard a male voice within;
Isabella was not alone. He knocked, and after a while a man opened. He was a little shorter than Laurence and blond, his moustache and beard reddish in colour. His face, good-looking in the way of northern Englishmen with Viking blood, was lightly pitted. Had Laurence been introduced to him abroad, he would have taken him for a Swede. “You must be Mr. Beaumont!” the man said, smiling. “I’m Captain Milne. We were to meet, on Christmas Eve.”

“Ah yes,” Laurence said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Milne waved him into the room, which was a small parlour with another door off it. In the room was a table covered in jugs and bottles, and Laurence guessed from Milne’s speech and relaxed deportment that he must have been imbibing. Isabella, who had been seated at the table, rose to curtsey. Her cheeks had an unnatural colour to them, of rouge; and in her eyes, dark and shining like wet glass, Laurence read no welcome, but a strange, dispirited expression, as if she were not happy at all to see him.

“Mr. Beaumont,” she said, in her husky drawl, “how good it is that you are so recovered.”

“Yes, I heard the Colonel gave you some pretty hard knocks!” guffawed Milne.

“And how are you?” Laurence asked her.

“Oh, the same as ever,” she replied, with a smile so manifestly fake that it wounded him.

Milne came over to her and patted her on the rear. “My sweet lady and I were having a little drink. Won’t you join us, sir?” Laurence did not respond, busy stifling his rage, though he knew it was unfair. Milne seemed oblivious, pulling out a chair for him and searching amongst the jugs. “Damn it, my love, we’ve finished every drop! Wait here with her, Mr. Beaumont, and I shall fetch some more from that cheapskate tavern keeper.” And he departed whistling, a jug in either hand.

“What are you doing with him?” Laurence demanded at once, as equably as he could.

“That should be obvious, to a man of your experience,” she said, sitting down again.

He hesitated, examining her. “I … I came here to thank you. I know you went to the Castle with Falkland, that day I was freed.”

“Yes I did – just to see the look on Colonel Hoare’s face when Falkland arrested him,” she said, with her hard laugh. “It was well worth my trouble!”

He nodded, and there was another silence between them. “Isabella, you don’t have to stay with Milne,” he blurted out. “You … you can’t
like
his company.”

“You mean that I should prefer yours?”

He felt himself flush. “I wouldn’t be so presumptuous.”

“You have been in the past.” She sighed, fiddling with one of her earrings. “Well, Mr. Beaumont, I accept your thanks. Is there anything else you have to say, before you leave?”

He gazed at her, wishing she would show some emotion towards him other than indifference, but she was behaving as if he were not there at all. “No,” he told her, at length. “Good day, Isabella.” And he bowed to her, and walked out.