The Best of Men (86 page)

Digby motioned to Quayle, who advanced with a small package of rolled-up linen held at arm’s length. “Where should I deposit it, my lord?”

“On the floor. Have a look, Mr. Beaumont. It was in a bag of correspondence that arrived this morning from London.”

An ominously ripe odour emanated from the package. Laurence squatted down and unfurled the linen. A pair of human ears fell out of the cloth onto the flagstones with a wet splat; they were blackened and oozing decay. “Oh Christ,” he said, recoiling. “Whose are they?”

Digby clapped a hand to his mouth. “Had they been yours, sir, I might have recognised them from the gold ring in your left earlobe,” he said, in a muffled voice. “On more careful examination, you will behold a pearl earring.” Laurence now noticed it, beneath the gore. “The ears belong, or should I say
belonged
, to an agent of mine, Hector Albright, who ran certain errands for me in London – soliciting funds and pledges of more active support from our Royalist friends, and so on. I assume that he was seized and tortured under questioning by whoever committed this barbarity.”

“Was there any message for you, apart from his ears?” Laurence asked, straightening, nauseated by the smell despite his empty stomach.

“None at all. I tend to doubt he survived the mutilation. In his last letter to me, he wrote that Parliament, under the auspices of John Pym and his ludicrously titled Committee of Public Safety, had imported a spymaster from the Low Countries to root out suspected Royalists in the City. He might be the butcher.”

“Did Albright know his name?”

“Unfortunately not.” Digby gestured for Laurence to cover up the ears. “It could, however, be on the list that I inherited from my Lord Falkland.” Producing a sheet of paper from his desk, he flourished it at Laurence, who inspected it as if he had never seen it before. “Five names, of purported rebel spies. Are they familiar to you?”

Falkland had posed Laurence the same question; and he gave Digby the same answer. “No.”

“I told you I want you to investigate it, as your first assignment in my service. Falkland notes here that he got the names from a Sir Bernard Radcliff, with whom I believe you were acquainted, yet he did not say who Radcliff was to
him
. What can you tell me about Radcliff, Mr. Beaumont?”

Again, Laurence would have to twist the truth to keep secret the plot against the King: although the list itself was not connected, Radcliff had given it to Falkland as part of a desperate bid to save his own neck after his guilt was revealed. “I was introduced to him by my friend Walter Ingram,” Laurence said, starting with the truth. “He married Ingram’s sister. I met him just a couple of times. He was killed back in August – I can’t remember how he died,” he added mendaciously. “But Prince Rupert might: Radcliff was an officer in his Horse. I was unaware of Radcliff’s association with Lord Falkland.”

“What rubbish,” Digby said. “You were Falkland’s chief agent. You knew all of his spies.”

“No, my lord: as you had your Albright, Lord Falkland must have had his Radcliff – without my knowledge.”

Digby cast him a sceptical glare. “At any rate, I am sending you into London, sir, to find out about this list, the rebel spymaster, and what happened to Albright. I have someone to accompany you. He has served as courier to Their Royal Majesties in many a delicate situation. He is a goldsmith by trade – ample justification to visit Oxford frequently, bringing wares from his shop. Quayle, get rid of that package and fetch in Mr. Violet,” Digby ordered.

Quayle reluctantly scooped up the offensive bundle and carried it out.

Laurence, meanwhile, felt a mild foreboding: he had heard of Violet as a slippery character who managed to elude arrest by the authorities in London. Might Violet be playing on both sides of the game?

A man not much older than himself entered and bowed, doffing his hat. His plain fawn suit matched his complexion, and his sparse hair, and beard. “Your lordship – sir,” he greeted them, in a reverent tone.

“Mr. Violet, this is Mr. Laurence Beaumont. We were discussing Albright’s fate.”

“Dreadful, my lord, very dreadful.”

Digby made a humming noise in his throat. “Old Queen Bess used to call
her
spymaster Walsingham ‘Moor,’ and ‘her Ethiopian,’ because of his swarthy skin,” he said. “The title would fit Mr. Beaumont admirably, don’t you agree, Mr. Violet? His mother hails from Spain.” Violet appraised Laurence, as if not sure how to answer. “His exotic charms prove an invaluable asset to him with the ladies,” continued Digby, “yet they render him conspicuous, as does his height. He was nearly seized in London this spring, when we last attempted to encourage an uprising for His Majesty.”

“Might he adopt the guise of a foreign merchant, my lord? I have truck with Venetians, now and then. Do you speak Italian, Mr. Beaumont?”

“I do,” said Laurence.

Digby beamed. “An ingenious idea, Mr. Violet. Prepare to travel with him tomorrow. How long will the journey take, in your estimation?”

Violet scratched his nose pensively. “If we set out in the morning, we should be in Reading by dusk, my lord, and the next day ride on to the City outskirts, to the house of friends of mine. We’ll bide there overnight, and then pass through the fortifications on the morrow. I can accommodate you at my establishment in Cheapside, Mr. Beaumont.”

Laurence merely nodded; about sixty miles to London and his Arab stallion could ride forty a day without tiring. In less than the
time estimated by Violet, he could be with his own trusted friends in the heart of Southwark.

“Thank you, Mr. Violet,” said Digby. “Is he not the quintessential mole?” he inquired of Laurence, when Violet had gone.

“He appears so, my lord.”

“He disappears, sir, unlike you,” Digby said, with a feminine giggle.

“My lord, when you asked me to serve you, you suggested that you would give me
a free hand
.”

“How I appreciate your gift of memory – but those were your words, not mine.”

“Whatever the case, let me deal with this investigation as I think fit.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Digby responded unapologetically. “I cannot afford your capture by Parliament, and Violet is a native of London. He knows his way around far better than you.”

“I’m sure he does, my lord. But wouldn’t it be wiser for us to travel and operate separately, to avoid suspicion? I have my methods of coming and going, as he has his. If he’s seen with me in Cheapside, we may both be in danger of arrest.”

“No, you must stick with Violet. And in case of any difference of opinion as to your work, you are to follow his advice. You shall spend this morning together organising your plans. And don’t forget to copy out that list of names. He should have a copy, also.” Digby tossed the sheet at Laurence, who returned it.

“I have it memorised, my lord.”

Digby was twirling a blond lovelock between his well-manicured fingertips. “You must invent some excuse to Isabella for your absence. We cannot have her fretting about you.”

“With respect, she’s not a child and I’d prefer to be honest with her.”

“My dear Mr. Beaumont, honesty is not in your nature. And in your duties for me, I have every right to command your discretion. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“
I
can still see the child in her,” Digby said, more amiably. “And years of caring for her as my ward have endowed me with an acute understanding of
her
nature.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Laurence, imitating Violet’s reverential tone.

“Mr. Pym has been at the Commons all day, sir,” the secretary said to Veech. “Do not be long with him. He is very tired.”

“It was he who called me here to Derby House,” said Veech, and strode into John Pym’s chamber.

Pym was huddled in an armchair by a roaring fire, a blanket over his knees. On a table at his elbow lay an untouched plate of bread and meat, a vial, and a horn cup. Sweat shone on his forehead, and the pain in his bloodshot eyes told Veech that he was suffering from a bout of the sickness rumoured to afflict him more and more. It might soon kill him. And who then would take up the burden he had assumed: of solving the disputes in Parliament between moderates and radicals, and among the religious sects; of forging an alliance with the dour, canny Scots; and of levying funds for what so many viewed as a traitorous, ungodly rebellion against their anointed monarch?

“What tidings, Clement?” Pym asked hoarsely. “We have not talked in a while.”

His insistence on Christian names irked Veech. These Puritans loved pretending to themselves that they were all the same before God, even as they looked down their noses at their servants. “I caught a spy, a week ago. He gave his name as Hector Albright, and under examination revealed that contraband may be about to enter London smuggled in empty wine barrels belonging to the Vintners’ Company – arms, or powder, I’d suppose.”

“Another foiled Royalist plot could be helpful to us. You were not with us then, Clement, but last May our discovery of the King’s scheme
for a revolt in London worked marvellously to our advantage. There is nothing like fear of an enemy within the City to unite the factions in Parliament,” Pym said, shaking his big head.

“With your permission, I’ll have an extra watch put on the docks and conduct a search of all imported barrels.”

“Yes, yes, though you may need a warrant from Parliament for the search. The Vintners are a respected Company.”

“Many of them are malignants,” said Veech.

“What a term for our enemies:
malignants
!” Pym grabbed his vial, poured a few drops into the cup, and swallowed the mixture. “I have a malignant enemy lurking within
me
, Clement, though it is not binding the rest of me together. It is tearing me apart. I might not witness the end of this great struggle to restore our freedoms.” He paused, wheezing. “You were in the Holy Land, and on the Barbary Coast.” Veech tensed; how much did Pym know of his personal history? “Are we Christians any more righteous in our conduct towards each other than are the Jews and the Mahommedans?” Pym went on.

“The Jews live to count their money,” Veech replied: it was a harmless question. “And they skulk about serving whoever will let them live. As for the Mahommedans, they’re the finest and bravest of warriors, and the most brutal when they exact revenge.”

“I pray that such brutality will not become
our
habit. Sometimes I wonder if I am wrong to oppose my fellows in Parliament who would compromise with the King, for the sake of peace. What is your opinion, Clement?”

Veech stifled a laugh. He had encountered no just rulers and very little justice in the lands that he had travelled, and in his view, Charles Stuart was a king who had declared war on his own people. As for brutality, once the beast of war was let out of the cage, it would not slink quietly back in. And Pym had brought Veech to England to be the beast, to do what Englishmen quailed from doing, though they wanted it done. “I have no opinion, Mr. Pym,” he said. “I obey your orders.”

Pym coughed, and licked spittle from his lips. “Where are you keeping the spy?”

“I’m not keeping him any more: he died in gaol.”

“How?”

“How most men die there – of a fever.”

“God rest his soul,” Pym said quickly; he did not believe the explanation, Veech thought.

“Albright couldn’t tell me who has charge of Lord Digby’s operations in the City,” Veech said. “But Digby had written to him about a Mr. Beaumont, who was Lord Falkland’s intelligencer.”

“Beaumont would be an obvious choice. It was he and the King’s cousin by marriage, Lady d’Aubigny, who brought in a royal authorisation for the May revolt. Beaumont escaped, while the lady fared less happily. She was arrested at the French embassy and imprisoned briefly in the Tower.”

“You set her
free
?”

“How else could we treat a young woman of noble blood whose husband fought bravely and died at Edgehill Field? We are not yet as vengeful as the Mahommedans.”

“I trust we wouldn’t have to set Mr. Beaumont free, if he were arrested.”

“No, but he is also of noble stock, son to Lord Beaumont of Chipping Campden. If you arrest him, Clement, he must not die of gaol fever,” Pym said, in a deliberate tone. “After his trial, a ransom would likely be offered to us, or an exchange negotiated for some prisoner of ours held by the King.”

Would you pay a ransom for me, in the same circumstances?
Veech could have asked.
Or would you let me hang, because I am not the son of a lord?
“Who can give me a description of Mr. Beaumont?” he inquired, instead.

Lady Elena Beaumont delivered Mitte, the Queen’s lapdog, a surreptitious kick to stop the spoilt animal snuffling round her skirts. The
other ladies assembled in the Warden’s chamber at Merton College, where Queen Henrietta Maria held her cramped little Court, did not notice: they were listening, rapt, to the tale of Her Majesty’s perilous voyage to England from The Hague last February. Lady Beaumont could have recited it from memory. “
Imaginez-vous,”
cried the Queen, and chattered on in her accented English about how her women had expected to drown in the stormy waters of La Manche, and had confessed their most secret sins to her, as they might to a priest; and how Parliamentary ships had tried to prevent her vessel from landing; and how, as they arrived at Bridlington Bay, they were bombarded with enemy fire; and worse yet, how they were forced to escape from the house where they had sought refuge and hide in a ditch, leaving poor Mitte behind.

“And Your Majesty had the courage to go to her rescue,” effused one of the ladies.

The Queen set back her narrow shoulders. “Courage runs in my blood. I am the daughter of France’s greatest king, and my husband has himself dubbed me his She Generalissima, on my request.”

“Please tell, Your Majesty, about how your brave cavalcade was met in Stratford by your royal nephew,” another lady said wistfully.

“Who would not lose her heart to Prince Rupert – he is so gallant and handsome,” the Queen concurred, “but he can be so brusque in his manners. It is the German in him.”