The Best of Men (45 page)

The women had been recompensed as copiously as Meyboom, and Laurence had also given them money for Mistress Edwards to hire a lawyer and pay the fine to free herself and the other ladies from gaol.

Laurence burnt all Meyboom’s sketches, along with his own notes, in the fireplace; then Cordelia rolled the canvas up, wrapped it in layers of cloth, and fastened the whole with string. Jane had instructions for its delivery, through a series of bearers who could not be traced to Blackman Street, once Laurence was out of the city. That evening, they indulged in a final celebratory feast.

“Dear Mr. Beaumont, why d’you have to leave us?” Perdita cried, resting her head on his shoulder; she was tipsy from too much Canary wine. “We was having such fun.”

“I’ll come back again soon, and I trust by then that Mistress Edwards will be out of the Fleet,” he said, feeling sorry for them: Parliament, in its endeavour to root out vice, had only changed their lives for the worse.

Tom had come to adore Prince Rupert. Daring and resolute, Rupert endured hardship with his men, inspiring them equally by his personal example and his brilliance as a military tactician. The King had not pledged to lay down arms during the peace negotiations, so when it was reported that London’s Trained Bands were marching out of London ready to defend the city, Rupert had considered this sufficient cause to continue hostilities. On the twelfth of November, early on a misty Saturday morning, his men had attacked the enemy garrison in Brentford.

Some of Parliament’s forces scattered immediately. Others held their ground, and the two sides fought, much to the horror of the civilian population, laying waste to houses, gardens, and orchards. It was Tom’s first experience of street fighting, and he felt temporarily alarmed to be shot at from upper storeys and around corners, yet the Prince’s reputation drove fear into the enemy, and soon Parliament’s troops were in retreat, herded like cattle into the nearby river or into roped-off compounds, where they were held as prisoners of war. Once all opposition had been crushed, Rupert’s men broke into the houses of Parliamentary sympathisers and looted whatever seemed of value, from linens and plate to casks of wine and ale. They threw mattresses out of windows, sending a cloud of feathers into the street, tore sides of meat from larders, and chased the women, harassing the prettier ones and insulting the rest. Tom and his troop stormed into a chophouse and ransacked it, tumbling jars from the shelves and helping themselves to a tray of freshly baked pies. They were already drunk, and pissed in unison against the counter before they left.

The next day, Parliament had sent barges loaded with ammunition downriver to aid what was left of its army near Brentford, but Rupert’s sharpshooters exploded one and sank a few others. Only when Essex
drew up the Trained Bands at Turnham Green was the onslaught halted, for he had twice the Royalists’ number and easier territory to defend. The King’s infantry fell back, with Rupert’s cavalry protecting its retreat. At Reading, His Majesty resumed negotiations with Parliament, which was still furious about the sack of Brentford, and his army took a well-deserved break.

Colonel Hoare had been extremely cordial towards Tom during the recent action, complimenting him on his troop and taking pains to find him a decent billet at Reading. On his return from a foraging expedition one evening, Tom was intrigued to find a message requesting him to meet with Hoare alone, at a crossroads on the outskirts of town.

Hoare was waiting there when Tom arrived. “All’s well with you, Mr. Beaumont?” he greeted Tom briskly.

“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Tom.

“And your men?”

“On fine form.”

“Good. Let’s walk our horses, shall we?” They dismounted and led their beasts by the rein some way, until Hoare stopped and turned to him. “Tell me, have you seen your brother of late?”

“No, sir,” Tom replied, guardedly, “not since Edgehill. He must be with Wilmot’s Horse, as he was on that day.”

“What is your view of the King’s campaign thus far?” Hoare asked next, rather unexpectedly.

“I regret that we’re no nearer to London, sir,” Tom said. “And I’m tired of Parliamentary Commissioners. If His Highness the Prince had his way, there’d be no more talk of peace and we’d have chased Essex to Westminster by now. The rebels should be punished, not coddled with concessions,” he went on with more assurance, sensing Hoare’s approval. “The war could be won before Christmas if we marched on London straight away. At the first hint of Prince Rupert’s advance, those tailors and dyers would throw down their arms.”

“His Majesty is too patient,” sighed Hoare, patting his mount’s glossy neck. “And there are some around him, some of his most trusted advisors, who have an interest in weakening his resolve to fight.”

“Then they play into the hands of his enemies.”

“They are well intentioned but misguided. For example, I am sorry to say that my Lord Falkland, due to his conciliatory disposition, may be ill-suited for the office of Secretary of State at a time such as ours.” Tom said nothing, although he agreed. From his own acquaintance with Falkland at Chipping Campden, he had always considered him a scholar uninterested in politics and utterly averse to war, much like Lord Beaumont. “If we could persuade His Majesty of this,” Hoare said, “we would do him and our country an immense service. Not by casting aspersions on Falkland’s loyalty, of which there can be no doubt, but by demonstrating that he and his allies will only hamper the successful prosecution of the war.” Tom nodded vigorously but still did not interrupt. “Has your brother ever mentioned to you his involvement in espionage while abroad? Or that he is presently an agent of Lord Falkland?” Hoare inquired, his tone more confidential.

“No, sir!” said Tom, shaking his head in amazement; this cast a new light on his brother’s comings and goings from army duty.

“It was I who employed him,” Hoare said, “hoping that his impressive skills would be useful to his lordship.” Tom frowned: in that case, why had Laurence warned him to beware of the Colonel? “Yet I have a grave situation on my hands. There is reason to suspect that his lordship, in his earnest desire for peace, may be putting those skills to his own end, in order to communicate secretly with Parliament.”

“Beg pardon, sir!” Tom gasped. “Are you suggesting that my Lord Falkland is behaving treacherously? And that Laurence is abetting him?”

“Certainly not,” Hoare answered, so emphatically that both horses started, whinnying. “In truth, I am sad for Falkland. He cannot see how his enemies will abuse his trusting nature. And your brother, I am sure,
is acting out of respect for his lordship. Your father and Falkland are close friends, are they not?”

“They are, sir.”

“It would be most …
tragic
if any of this were to come out. Both Falkland and your brother would be seriously compromised.”

“Of course, sir,” Tom murmured; what a stain it would be upon his family’s honour, he thought.

“And that is why I require your help. I should like you to relay to me, in person, whatever you might find out about your brother’s dealings with Falkland.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, knowing that he must obey, but discomforted nevertheless at being asked to spy on his own kin.

“By the bye, he is not with Wilmot,” Hoare added. “He has not been seen in the regiment for over two weeks. I hear from my sources that he went to London, apparently with Wilmot’s blessing.” Tom remained quiet, his amazement transformed into understanding: naturally Hoare was dangerous to Laurence, because he could ferret out Laurence’s clandestine doings for the Secretary of State. “I am counting on you, sir,” Hoare said, “and I am sure that you will not disappoint me. I think you have much promise as a soldier, Thomas Beaumont, and I should know – I have been in service since I was a boy of twelve. A man could not choose a better education.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tom said, blushing.

“May I look forward to hearing from you?”

“Yes, sir.” Tom bowed smartly. “I am proud to do whatever I can to further His Majesty’s cause.” But he did not feel entirely proud as they mounted and galloped back to town together. Instead, he felt a deep mortification that the Beaumont name might be prejudiced by his brother’s conduct, and also a solemn responsibility: it was up to him to protect his family, as much as to serve the King.

“Who could have brought this here?” Pembroke demanded of his servant.

“We have no idea, my lord. It must have been left at the gates over night.”

“Were you
all
sleeping?” Pembroke took a paperknife and slit the cord around the package, then unravelled several yards of cloth to find a rolled-up canvas. It was not the first time that a painting had been sent to him unsolicited: his interest in art was well known, and many people had tried to curry favour with him by offering some item from their private collections. Usually the gift would arrive accompanied by an obsequious missive, but in this case there was none.

He brought the canvas to the window, the better to appraise its elegant lines and subtle use of colour. The Northern school, he opined, for it lacked the dramatic intensity of an Italian or Spanish master. As the artist must have intended, Pembroke was struck by a detail: the red rose proffered by one figure to another. It led his eye towards the marble tomb between them; and his gaze drifted downwards, to the sword upon it. Further down still, he noticed the inscription on the side of the tomb: a short line, in the code given to him by Sir Bernard Radcliff.

“What the devil is he playing at, to send me such a message,” he muttered, and ordered away his servant. Returning to his writing table, he inked a quill and copied down the line on a sheet of paper, and then searched in a hidden drawer for his book of transcriptions and set to work. “It cannot be,” he groaned. “It cannot be.” His heart was thudding, as after one of his nightmares. He looked hard at the canvas, and again at the script to ensure that he had made no mistake, but he was correct:
The rose has betrayed your secret
.

“Just a few days?” bawled Wilmot, as Laurence walked into his quarters. “You and your bloody impertinence!” Laurence handed him a roll
of parchment and waited patiently as he unfurled it with a violent gesture. “What is this – some sort of joke?”

“It’s a map. You’ll have to excuse my lack of skill as a draughtsman –”

“I’m in no mood to excuse you of anything,” Wilmot retorted, but his eyes gleamed as they darted across the paper. “Read it for me, Beaumont,” he said, at length. “Make sense of it.” Once Laurence had finished, Wilmot started to smile. “God’s balls, you must have been to every corner of the city! How did you avoid arrest? By making yourself invisible?”

“I considered that,” Laurence said gravely. “But even so, I couldn’t have done the work alone – it would have taken me too long. I had to summon up my familiars and send them out in whatever form would attract the least notice.” Wilmot stared at him, half credulous, until Laurence could not keep a straight face. “Never mind how I got the information, Wilmot,” he said, laughing. “Do you like my map any better now?”

“I do, yet you still make me very curious. Have you shown this to anyone else?”

“No, just as I promised you.”

“Then I shall take full credit for your discoveries when I present them to His Majesty.” Wilmot gloated a minute more over the map, before rolling it back up. “So, did you find that fellow Radcliff?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Remarkable that your imps couldn’t sniff him out. Well it happens I’ve a letter for you from your friend Ingram that might provide you with some clue. Oh, and there’s another from our friend Mistress Savage, and a third, which I couldn’t decipher.” Wilmot rose to fish about in a chest full of papers. To Laurence’s annoyance, the seals on his letters had been broken. “I have to know what you’re getting up to behind my back,” said Wilmot, shrugging as he passed them over.

Laurence began with Ingram’s, though he would have opened Isabella’s first had Wilmot not been watching him so closely.

The leg was mending, Ingram wrote, and he could walk without pain if he did not put weight on it; one of Lord Beaumont’s grooms had made him a pair of crutches to help him regain his mobility. Laurence skipped over the next paragraph, in which Ingram thanked him and the Beaumont household for all their kindness over the past month. Then Ingram continued,

Ingram concluded with a sincere prayer that he and Laurence would see each other soon.

In contrast to his warm effusions, Isabella’s note was a couple of lines, and started with a curt apology for troubling Laurence about such a trivial issue. “I regret to inform you,” she went on, “that my milliner has demanded a higher price for those Italian gloves I promised you as a gift for your mistress. Until then, I beg you to wait. I am close to striking a bargain with him.”

“Who’s the lucky lady, Beaumont?” Wilmot inquired suspiciously. “And what’s so special about the Italian gloves?”

“With all respect,” Laurence said, “it’s none of your business.” The last letter was from Seward, encoded as always, and even shorter than Isabella’s. He was back at Merton. Apparently his old enemy the Warden had paid off several witnesses and threatened others to suppress evidence in his favour, but at last he had been officially cleared of all charges.

Falkland thought that Mr. Beaumont looked extremely healthy and cheerful as Stephens ushered him in. He sat down uninvited, crossed his legs in a most ungentlemanly fashion, and cast Falkland a dazzling smile.