Authors: Claire Letemendia
“It is nearly the end of November,” Falkland told him irritably, after dismissing Stephens. “Almost two months since we last spoke.”
“You must be pleased, my lord, that His Majesty has agreed to withdraw his forces from Reading,” Beaumont commented, ignoring Falkland’s veiled reproach.
“I am, yes. It demonstrates his goodwill in treating with Parliament, and once we are quartered in Oxford for the winter, I believe we shall be able to resume talks on a less hostile note.”
Beaumont raised his eyebrows, as if he thought there was small chance of that. “Have you seen any signs that your correspondence has been tampered with, my lord?”
“Not thus far. And what progress have
you
made, Mr. Beaumont?” Falkland caught him hesitating, and added, “Fear not, sir – we can’t be overheard.”
“One of the conspirators, Tyler, is dead. I’ll explain the circumstances later. But the other, Mr. Rose, was using a false name. He is most definitely Sir Bernard Radcliff, the man who married my friend’s sister. I’ve seen his handwriting on a document in her possession. It’s the same as on one of the letters I brought you. So I have to wonder,
what does this tell us about the Earl of Pembroke?” finished Beaumont, resting his light eyes significantly on Falkland.
Falkland cleared his throat; the information impressed him, yet as always he felt that Beaumont was keeping something back. “We have no grounds to accuse the Earl of Pembroke of complicity in the plot,” he objected.
Beaumont smiled again, sceptically. “My lord, what did you and Pembroke discuss last September?”
“I told you before. He said that he wanted to strengthen relations amongst us moderates.”
“Oh? No, as a matter of fact, you neglected to mention that,” Beaumont remarked, at which Falkland’s face grew hot. “What else, my lord?”
“That’s all,” said Falkland, reluctant to admit that Pembroke had written to him since, urging him again to cooperate on a private alliance.
“Is it?” When Falkland was silent, Beaumont said, “According to the horoscope, His Majesty is to die in June, less than two years from now. Has Pembroke ever said anything to you about that particular date?”
“Indeed he has not! Mr. Beaumont,” Falkland hurried on, “you were to bring me proof of Colonel Hoare’s duplicity.”
“I think I can, but you may have to wait a bit longer.”
“I shall be attending your sister’s wedding in December, to which your father generously invited me. Might you have something for me by then?”
“I hope so. My lord, what about Radcliff? We know
he
’s guilty –”
“Do you have the letter with his writing on it?”
“No, but I could find a way to get another sample of his script, through my friend, perhaps. You might take him into custody. At least we wouldn’t lose him again. Or better yet, have him shadowed.”
“I can do neither without Colonel Hoare learning of it. I am sorry, sir. We must settle one issue before the other.”
“Are you afraid to discover the truth about Pembroke?” Beaumont inquired, as if it were a casual question.
Falkland stifled an urge to curse. Were his thoughts so transparent? “It could affect the negotiations,” he replied.
“An understatement, if ever I heard one,” murmured Beaumont, giving Falkland a keen look, as though contemplating whether to say more on the issue. Then he seemed to shake himself, and added only, “We may appear to have plenty of time to catch these regicides, and of course you’re still hoping for some happy outcome from your talks with Parliament, but I suggest you be very guarded in your dealings with
one
of the Commissioners.” Stephens entered again, interrupting them, rather to Falkland’s relief. “Oh well, don’t be discouraged, my lord,” Beaumont went on, more amiably. “Just watch out for the wolves in sheep’s clothing. They’re quite common these days.”
“Please excuse me now, Mr. Beaumont,” Falkland said. “I am due to sup with Lord Digby.”
Beaumont got up, a mischievous expression on his face. “Speak of the devil. Or of the wolf, I should say.” And he bowed to Falkland and departed, with a friendly nod at Stephens on his way out.
“A peculiar person, my lord,” Stephens observed, as he helped Falkland on with his cloak.
“He is. Would you be inclined to trust him?”
“No, my lord. He resembles an Italian,” Stephens elaborated.
“Thank you, Stephens, I shall bear your view in mind,” Falkland said, and went out to his coach.
Over their meal, Falkland found Digby unusually quiet, but at last, as they were served a course of braised game, he announced, “You will be happy to hear that Prince Charles has conquered his measles. The King’s physician thinks him well enough to travel.”
“Then he will leave Reading tomorrow in procession with the King.”
Falkland was silent for a while, watching Digby eat, which he did in small bites, possibly to counter his tendency to plumpness. “Be honest, my lord,” said Falkland, “you think me like Sisyphus with his rock, trying again and again to reach a peaceful settlement.”
“No, I admire your determination. But do you truly think that His Majesty shares it?”
“I must pray he does.”
“Or else the radicals in Parliament would be vindicated in their opinion that he is not being quite open with them,” Digby said, with a little smile. “Still, there is another way to end the war. With enough foreign troops –”
“If His Majesty imports troops from Ireland, he will destroy any chance of reconciliation with Parliament.”
“Who said anything about the Irish?”
“Irish or French, what does it matter. You know what every Englishman fears. A Catholic invasion to re-establish the supremacy of Rome in this country.”
“Every
Protestant
Englishman, I think is what you mean. Did your mother not convert to the Roman faith, along with your younger brother?”
“We both have Catholics in our families.”
“We do, yes. I argued long and hard with my cousin Kenelm, trying to bring him to see reason. Alas, he remains adamant in his beliefs.”
“Belief and reason are old enemies. A pity there is not more tolerance. We are all children of Christ.”
“If every Englishman agreed with you, the kingdom might not be in this sorry state.” They were silent for a while, chewing their food. “I cannot wait to return to Oxford,” Digby began again. “I had such a wonderful time as a student at Magdalen College. And you will be nearer to home.”
“Not twenty miles away,” Falkland said, thinking longingly of his wife and boys.
“You must miss your intellectual gatherings at Great Tew – Tom Hobbes, John Earle, William Chillingworth – superb scholars, all of them.”
“It seems much like an idyll to me now, to sit about at leisure with good friends discussing everything under the sun.”
Digby took a sip of wine and mopped his lips. “Do you by any chance know a Lord Beaumont, who has a house not far from yours?”
“He was often my guest, as I was his.”
“He has a son who is serving with Wilmot, Laurence Beaumont. You must know him, too,” said Digby, in the probing tone that Falkland detested. “I met him when I was – yes?” Digby inquired of his servant, who had hurried in unexpectedly.
“My lord, Mistress Savage is here to see you.”
He looked flustered. “What can this be about? I apologise, Lucius.”
Mistress Savage entered a moment later, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold. “My lords, forgive me for disturbing you,” she said, as they rose to bow.
“What is it, my dear?” asked Digby, coming to put an arm about her shoulders. She frowned at him and then at Falkland. “Go on, go on,” Digby urged.
“I have news from London. The day before yesterday, Parliament intercepted a message that was to be smuggled upriver to one of the King’s secretaries. It was from some person in the Queen’s suite, and describes the assistance that he may expect from abroad. The Queen has promises of aid from Denmark, France, and the Low Countries. She is about to send over a hundred and twenty thousand pounds, and will land in England herself very soon. If the King can take Kent, London will be blockaded. If the city refuses to surrender, the King of France will lend three regiments of Englishmen in his service for an invasion.”
Falkland blinked at her, speechless with shock and dismay.
“How did you hear this?” said Digby.
“From the wife of a certain Member of Parliament. A most trustworthy source.”
Falkland felt sick. All along the King had been negotiating in bad faith, and Parliament now had the evidence to prove it. “We have been made fools of,” he exclaimed, “with our talk of peace.”
“It cannot be such a surprise to you,” Digby told him soothingly. “Her Majesty was publicly seeking help from the Danish king, who is after all His Majesty’s uncle, and we ourselves received his envoy here. What will be difficult to explain is the inopportune time.”
“Inopportune?” repeated Falkland, his voice rising. “By Jesus, it is worse than that! Parliament will think us a bunch of liars!”
As if the heat of Falkland’s reaction embarrassed him, Digby turned to Isabella. “Has His Majesty been alerted yet?”
“No.”
“Then Lucius and I must beg an audience with him at once.”
How can I even look him in the eye, Falkland thought, but he nodded.
Digby gestured at his kidskin shoes adorned with satin rosettes. “Excuse me for a moment, I must put on my boots to go out in this nasty weather,” he said, and bustled off.
Falkland sat back down, trembling, and drained his glass of wine. Mistress Savage slipped into Digby’s seat and laid a hand on his arm. “I have news for you, also, my lord.”
“You do?” he asked apprehensively.
“If you have not heard this already, Colonel Hoare has been inspecting your private correspondence. There is an informant, Captain Milne, who has seen him opening it and taking notes afterwards, I presume about whatever content he might use against you. Milne is in Prince Rupert’s Horse. He cannot come to you until the armies retire for the winter or Hoare may find out. But when the time comes, he will bear witness.”
“I ask you again,” said Falkland, wary of her connection to his host, “why are you extending yourself for me?”
“Out of respect for you, my lord. And for another man, who has an enemy in Hoare.”
“Who is that?”
“Mr. Beaumont. He will help me to arrange your meeting with Milne, which of course must take place in absolute secrecy. You may rely upon Beaumont.”
“May I, Mistress Savage?”
“More than you can rely on the King,” she said, very softly.
“We move out early tomorrow,” Wilmot told his officers. “Just a day’s ride, we’ll camp for the night and then attack the rebels at Marlborough the next morning. It will be good sport. More to the point, in one swoop we’ll block enemy access to the wool trade and complete our line of defence to the southwest.”
“How unfair of you, Wilmot, to leave Prince Rupert none of the glory,” Laurence reproved him, as the officers dispersed.
“It’s our last action before we hole up for Christmastide and I want my name on it,” Wilmot retorted, grinning.
They set out at dawn: Wilmot and Lords Digby and Grandison had amongst them four troops of horse and six hundred dragoons. Artillery completed the train. Wilmot had selected smaller guns, demi-culverins and sakers, to make better speed on the road, and before they left, he had sent his scouts ahead to report on the town’s defences. They journeyed towards Wantage, then turned west past the enormous White Horse, carved into the chalky soil in some bygone age. The mid-December wind blew bitterly cold across the Downs as they camped, waiting for the artillery to catch up.
The sky was still dark when they re-formed to approach on
Marlborough, and in the small hours of morning on the fifth of December the guns began to roar, followed shortly by a cavalry attack.
The townsfolk were at a strategic disadvantage: along the broad High Street stood a number of well-proportioned inns with wide stable-buildings that were easily penetrated by one wing of the Royalist cavalry, while the other wing filled the street. They were shot at ineffectually by snipers posted at upper windows and barricades, but faced no serious opposition, and the fight was soon over. Then, as at Brentford, the looting began. Dwellings, stables, barns, and warehouses were stormed and prisoners seized, along with bales of cloth, huge cheeses, barrels of wine, and hogsheads of oil. Wilmot’s men discovered a stack of Bibles and used them to fuel a bonfire that blazed away as the citizens were rounded up and forced to crack open their coffers.
Laurence was watching these proceedings with resigned disgust when Digby called him over. “A wealthy merchant lives here,” he said, pointing to the house opposite. “Let’s see what we may have off him.”
The man was alone in his parlour when they strode in with some of Digby’s officers; the servants were fleeing upstairs, where the rest of the family had presumably taken shelter.
“Five hundred pounds, sir,” Digby declared. “That is the price of your liberty, to be paid within four days at the latest. I hazard a guess you spent more than twice that amount on your splendid furnishings and would not care to see them destroyed.”
The man fell to his knees and burst into tears. “You blackguard soldiers have plundered me so, I can give you no more than a hundred!”
“How very unfortunate for you. Mr. Beaumont, pray hold your pistol to his skull and see if he hasn’t five hundred pounds.”
The man shrank from Laurence, who had raised his pistol reluctantly. “Spare my life! I’ve eighteen children to maintain and will have nothing left to keep them!”
“Eighteen children?” Digby exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Mr. Beaumont? Does it not seem to you an excessive number?”
“It certainly does,” said Laurence, amused by Digby’s air of outrage.
“God damn me,” Digby continued to the man, who winced at the blasphemy, “if you will be so short of money, why not tie the creatures up two by two together and drown them, as we do kittens?”
Laurence began to laugh, at which the man railed at him, “You are an impious creature, to find humour in the tormenting of a Christian gentleman!”