The Best of Men (72 page)

“Does Pembroke know what happened to his correspondence with Radcliff?”

“No. Indeed, he cannot even be aware that Sir Bernard kept any of –” Poole stopped, as a whistle pierced the air: Barlow’s signal. From up ahead, as though in answer, came a soft whinny and a stamping of hooves.

“We have to move,” Laurence said. “Take the near horse.” But as he lowered his pistol to untether both mounts, Poole swung out most unexpectedly and struck him below the ribs, winding him. More impressive yet, Poole managed to clamber into the saddle and urge the horse on, knocking Laurence over as it bolted in the direction of the fields.

“Stop or I’ll fire!” Laurence shouted after him, putting up his pistol again, though he could not see a thing.

Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Where’s the lawyer?” Barlow asked, helping him up.

“He gave me the slip. He went that way, on one of the horses.”

“No chance of catching him now. Make haste, sir, there are watchmen on the street.”

Barlow seemed to possess a feline instinct in the night. He located the other horse’s bridle easily, mounted, and had extended a hand to
help Laurence swing up behind him when a series of sounds ahead of them made them freeze: first the loud neigh of a panicked beast, next a man’s cry, and lastly a dull thud.

“He may have been thrown,” Laurence said. “Let’s go and find out.”

They went forward into blackness, but the horse found them, looming out of the dark like some nightmare apparition. Barlow grabbed its bridle and nudged Laurence’s elbow. “There’s the lawyer – he’s on the ground, sir.”

Poole was slumped at the base of a tree. Laurence squatted down to touch what felt like a leg. “Poole, are you hurt?” He searched upwards and this time felt a warm stickiness on Poole’s scalp. Then as he lifted him up, Poole’s head tilted back at an unnaturally acute angle. “God damn it,” Laurence swore, and to Barlow, “He’s dead.”

“In that case, let’s you and I ride north and split up once we get close to the new fortifications. You can pass through a gap near Shoreditch.”

They mounted and spurred the horses on, Laurence again tailing Barlow, as grateful for his cool efficiency as his astounding powers of vision.

At the appointed place, they reined in. “Barlow, you have to tell me,” Laurence said, “how can you see so well in the dark?”

“Practice, sir. Just blindfold yourself and walk around for a bit. You’ll soon have the hang of it. My father taught me. Since I was five years old, I been getting inside houses to open up the door for him. A darkman’s budge, we call it.”

“I wish I had your skills.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” Barlow said modestly, “but you ain’t never had to be a thief.”

“You’re wrong there – and I hope we can work together again.”

He gave Barlow a little extra for all the trouble and galloped away, disheartened; in one part of his mission, he had signally failed.

“So did you nab the lawyer?” Seward inquired, after inviting Laurence into his rooms. “Is he with Falkland now?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s somewhere else altogether,” replied Laurence, taking off his cloak; and he described Poole’s accident. “And as for the uprising, I think it’s doomed from the outset. I brought Falkland a letter from Waller, written in the simplest of codes. What a fool, to put down every detail. I had to transcribe it for Falkland, and he pretended there was nothing to worry about.”

“And what
is
the plan?” asked Seward, as Laurence sat down with a sigh.

“Waller estimates that a third of London will support the uprising, and four-fifths in the suburbs, though where he got his numbers from I’ve no idea. Then there are Royalists within London’s Trained Bands. On the night they’re assigned guard of Parliament’s fortifications, they’ll seize the magazine of arms and powder, and secure all major military positions. Certain prominent Members of Parliament will be taken hostage. His Majesty intends to dispatch a force of three thousand – horse and foot – to enter the city once the gates are thrown open. No one person knows the names of more than three associates involved. Waller says he has the support of Lord Conway and the Earl of Portland, in the House of Lords.”

“That is the extent of it?”

“Not quite. Falkland told me I’ll be travelling with a third companion, apart from my Lady d’Aubigny and Lady Sophia Murray, a Mr. Alexander Hampden.”

“Any relation to the Parliamentary commander of the same name?”

“He’s John Hampden’s cousin.”

Seward shook his head dismally. “And he can be trusted?”

“His Majesty trusts him, which has to be enough for
me
. Hampden is going to London to request an answer from Parliament to the King’s
demand of last April for the immediate surrender of his ships and forts.” Laurence rose and grabbed his cloak. “I’m losing patience with Falkland. He should let me go after Radcliff and leave this venture to those who are already up to their necks in it.”

“Instead he’s thrusting you back into the lion’s den. When must you depart?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Laurence said, as he wandered over to Seward’s bedchamber and took a glance around.

“If you are hunting for Mistress Savage,” said Seward, “I sent her to Clarke’s house at Asthall. I could not bend College rules indefinitely by keeping her here. She won’t be out of town long. Lord Digby is finding her accommodation.”

“Have they patched up their quarrel?”

“Yes, and a very judicious move of hers it was, too. No one else will look after her as he can.”

“That scheming arsehole only looks after himself. I want to see her before I leave for London.”

“No, Beaumont!” Seward exclaimed. “You cannot be distracted when you are about to undertake a vital assignment for the Secretary of State! My dear fellow, has your infatuation with Mistress Savage blinded you to reality?”

“Excuse me?” Laurence said, raising his eyebrows.

“You understand me perfectly well – as does she. In truth, for a woman, she is remarkably rational on the subject. Though she says she is indebted to you for your late exploit as her knight errant –”

“I must say, Seward, I do resent your discussing any of this with her when I’m not present to contribute to the conversation,” Laurence interrupted acidly. “As for what I did, she did far more for me, intervening with Lady d’Aubigny and putting up with Milne, which could be why she quarrelled with Digby. He can’t have liked her abasing herself with that pig. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she even helped
with the testimonial from Prince Rupert and Wilmot.” He stopped, on seeing Seward’s face. “So you knew! Why in God’s name didn’t you say anything?”

“She insisted on my silence. How old are you, Beaumont, thirty or thirteen? If you continue with her, she will have no advantage of it. She is used goods, as she is well aware.”

“How dare you speak of her like that!”

Seward moved forward and seized him by the sleeve. “Will you stop and listen to my advice?”

“Not about her,” said Laurence, and he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

It was a clear afternoon, hot for mid-May, and his horse fairly flew over the distance between Oxford and Asthall. Along the way, he boiled with anger at Seward; at the same time, however, he could not be sure how Isabella would receive him. What if her embrace outside Seward’s window had been merely an impulsive gesture of thanks for taking her away from Milne? She had been almost delirious at the time, and might not even remember that kiss.

When he rode up to Clarke’s house, she emerged from the kitchen garden that bordered it as though he had conjured her up just by thinking of her. Her hair was loose, newly washed and still wet, draped over her shoulders, and she wore an apron and gloves stained with fresh mud.

As he dismounted, she dropped him a curtsey. “Mr. Beaumont, you have caught me again when I am at my most unkempt. I was planting vegetables, a novel experience for me.”

Her tone and mode of address chilled him; the same as at the Blue Boar, he thought to himself. “Are you better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” She turned away, to the garden; the housekeeper was now approaching them, which gave him hope that propriety rather than indifference was inspiring her cool behaviour this time.

“Good day, madam,” he said, to the housekeeper.

“Mr. Beaumont, we did not expect you,” she said. “My Lord Digby was to send for Mistress Savage. His coach is due tomorrow.” Isabella nodded in confirmation. “Let me wash my hands and I’ll get you a draught of ale, sir,” the woman added. “My boy can tend to your horse.”

“No, thank you, I’ll do it,” Laurence insisted, darting a look at Isabella.

“As you wish, then. You may curry and water him in the barn, and put him out to graze in the far meadow. We’re still safe from horse thieves in these parts. Mistress Savage, you will want to go up and dress your hair for the gentleman.”

“I am not in the least concerned to impress Mr. Beaumont,” Isabella said, removing her soiled gloves and handing them to the housekeeper. “But I should speak with him.” She walked apart from Laurence to the barn, and as he unsaddled his horse she inquired, in the same formal tone, “How was your journey to London?”

“Not much of a success,” he said, starting to brush down the animal’s damp coat.

“Was it to do with the Commission of Array?”

“Partly.”

She asked no more questions, pacing about until he finished his tasks. Then she accompanied him as he led the horse into the meadow and set it free. “I am most grateful to Dr. Seward for sheltering me at the College, and now here,” she remarked, at length.

“Isabella –” he began, but she talked over him.

“Nonetheless, I shall be glad to return to Oxford. After sponsoring your game of cards with Captain Milne, Digby has paid him yet more money to desist from harrying me. And through considerable luck, Digby also found me a small house off the Woodstock Road, since I am not about to move back to my old lodgings. Do you know, it’s over a
month and that wound to his leg has still not healed. He has the most incompetent physician –”

“Isabella, I love you,” Laurence told her suddenly; and as the words leapt out of his mouth, he knew that he loved her as he had never loved before.

She frowned at him severely. “That cannot be.”

“Why not?” he asked, taken aback by her certainty.

“Think of who you are, and who I am. I have tried to keep a distance between us for your own good and mine, though I admit, my resolve did falter temporarily after you came so heroically to my rescue.”

“Which was nothing, compared to what you did for me.”

“Dr. Seward broke his promise.”

“Digby told me, not Seward.”

This seemed to perplex her, but she shrugged her shoulders. “Well, whatever the case, we behaved as friends should. Let’s not spoil our friendship now.”

“Don’t you …?” He sighed: it was as he had feared. “I’m sorry. How stupid of me to think you might feel anything more than that.”

She did not speak for a moment, her face softening. “Beaumont,” she said, “I have always wanted to be your friend ever since I first saw you, but, to be honest, I did not believe you were capable of true friendship with a woman. I suspected that you did not have much of a heart – that you were just a better copy of Wilmot and the many others who have sought me out for the usual reason. Then, at Shrewsbury, I discovered that I was wrong. And I realised that I must on no account fall in love with you.” There was a pause, which he dared not interrupt. “I armoured myself against temptation, and I was nearly invincible – until I saw the look in your eyes when I told you my sordid story. They say a woman’s tears come cheap, and I have seen men cry before. I have even made them cry. Yet
you
– once more, you surprised me. And you were so sweet to me at Merton, candid as a boy in your affection. You had no need to
declare it.” She lowered her eyes and went on sorrowfully, “I do love you, though I shall recover from it in time, as I have from my quartain sickness. Go, Beaumont, and forget what you said to me today. It was a fancy of your imagination – a passing dream, from which you will soon awake clear-headed.”

“No I won’t,” he murmured.

He stood gazing at her, and she at him; and she began to weep without making a sound, the water pouring down her cheeks. He could not bear to watch, for her grief was his own. Risking that she might push him away, he took her in his arms; and she clung to him tightly.

Unlike the night of the wedding, they had only grass for their bed, and they were quick with each other. Afterwards she appeared as dazed as he was himself. Then he remembered the necklace, and pulled it out of his doublet pocket. “This is for you. I heard you had to pawn your jewellery a while ago.”

“So I did!” She gathered up her hair so that he could fasten it about her throat. “Thank you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “I shall wear it with pride.”

“Isabella,” he told her, after they had restored their clothing, “I have to go to London tomorrow. You know why.”

She nodded slowly. “Are you afraid of what will happen there?”

“I can tell you already. The uprising will fail.”

“Will you be able to escape?”

“I can only hope so.”

“I am afraid for you, Beaumont, more than ever. And if you do come back to me, which by the grace of God I trust you will, I shall still be afraid. Digby may not want us to be together. He likes his power over me, and he is a keen observer of human nature. We must be very careful.”

“He should let you choose for yourself.”

“Brave words, as brave as your profession of love,” she said, kissing his cheek again. “You will have time to reflect, however, while you are
away from me. And I would prefer you be honest if you change your mind. Will you promise me that? Don’t spare me, if you have the smallest doubt.”

“I promise. But you should stop doubting
me
.”

“It is to protect myself,” she reminded him, soberly.

The light was fading as they left the meadow, his horse trotting after them, and as they entered the house, Clarke’s servant appraised them both, and the necklace, too, though she said nothing. She fed them a supper that they made an effort to eat, avoiding each other’s eyes, and they retired, Isabella to her own chamber and Laurence to Clarke’s. He slept soundly until late the next morning, when on his pillow he found a note in her flowing script. Digby’s coach had come for her, she wrote, and she had not wanted to wake him to say goodbye. She would be praying for him, she added.