The Best of Men (24 page)

“The Council is decided,” said Falkland, “and I should remind you that I am not the only minister inclined to negotiate. I shall leave in five days’ time, with Lord Spencer.”

Hoare scowled disapprovingly. “Yes, my lord.”

“Oh, and in my absence, and from henceforth, I do not wish you to assign Charles Danvers any confidential work,” Falkland added, thinking again of Mistress Savage.

“I have assigned him none. It was you who asked that I employ him as an agent, my lord.” Falkland was silent: he could not deny this. “He has his uses, nonetheless,” Hoare acknowledged. “There is often an advantage to such indiscreet fellows. No one believes them when they tell the truth. And his love of drink puts him in the company of men similarly inclined, who are also apt to be blabbermouths. But why your sudden request, my lord? Have you heard some news about him that has disturbed you?” Falkland hesitated, inadvertently laying a hand on the papers Beaumont had given him. “From Mr. Beaumont, perhaps?”

“No,” said Falkland.

Hoare pointed at the documents. “What are these, my lord?”

Falkland passed them over with a certain reluctance. “I have not even read them yet. Mr. Beaumont brought them to me, along with
such a muddled tale of codes and conspirators that I could scarcely follow it.”

Hoare took time to examine them. “My lord,” he said, afterwards, “there is treason written here! I must question this man at once!”

Falkland glared at Hoare, disliking his peremptory tone. “There is no need. I have promised to see him again myself.”

“Then I strongly advise my presence at your next meeting.” Hoare pulled out a sheet, which he thrust under Falkland’s nose. “Look, my lord.”

Falkland squinted at it and then at Hoare. “The Bible may forbid the casting of horoscopes, Colonel Hoare, yet it is scarcely a treasonable offence.”

“Indeed it is,” Hoare objected, a superior expression on his narrow, pallid face, “when it charts the life and death of our King.”

F
our days after Laurence had met with the Secretary of State, he received a message summoning him to another audience at six o’clock the following morning. “Must be something to do with our father,” he told Tom. “It’s an ungodly hour for an appointment, but Falkland says he has to set out for London immediately afterwards.”

“I want to go home,” Tom announced, sitting up in bed. “I’m well enough to ride.”

“We can leave once I’ve seen him,” said Laurence, although he wondered whether this would be possible: Falkland might insist that he remain in Nottingham to discuss the letters. “I should make sure our horses are fit for the journey,” he added, and hurried out before Tom could become too interested in his dealings with the Secretary of State.

He rode over to the fields outside the city where the cavalry was at drill, and for an hour or so he watched Prince Rupert’s and Henry Wilmot’s divisions at their manoeuvres. Prince Rupert’s men were the more organized and clearly worshipped their leader; an advantage in battle, Laurence thought, even if they were not yet trained to discipline.

By sunset, the riders were sweating and the horses flecked with foam. As orders were sounded to break rank, Laurence hailed Wilmot,
and they walked their mounts to the village around which the cavalry was billeted.

“Come to join up with me, have you,” Wilmot said, stating a fact rather than asking.

“Or I might serve with Prince Rupert,” Laurence said, to nettle him.

“I suppose you think I’m envious of that boy, but for the moment we’re the best of comrades,” Wilmot chuckled, though with a sarcastic edge. “He keeps reminding me how we fought together at the siege of Breda. As though I can ever forget it. The wound I got there still plagues me.” He smiled at Laurence maliciously. “You were at Breda, weren’t you.”

“Er, yes.”

“Is His Royal Highness aware that you were with the Spanish then?”

“I don’t believe he is.”

When they had settled at a table in a nearby tavern, Wilmot observed, “You know, Beaumont, there’s a lot of rumour flying about concerning your time abroad. It can’t surprise you, of course. With your looks, you stick out like a sore thumb. None of your shadowy past bothers me, however. To be frank, it interests me. You could do me a favour.”

“What sort of favour?”

“I need a cipher for my correspondence. And I’m telling you, man, you’ll be a lot better off with me than with Prince Rupert. If you served with him, you’d have to answer to Colonel Hoare, who’s in his regiment and is also Lord Falkland’s spymaster.”

Laurence recalled the iron-jawed soldier in Falkland’s chambers. “What kind of man is he?”

“Hoare’s spent his whole life climbing up through the ranks, and he’s a mean bastard,” Wilmot said, filling their cups. “I knew him from the Scottish War, and I once saw him thrash a fellow almost to death just for stealing a loaf of bread. He’s fiercely loyal to the Prince, far more so than to Falkland, I’d wager. He shares Rupert’s view that the only way to teach the rebels a lesson is on the battlefield.”

“He can’t like it that Falkland is negotiating for a peace.”

“He doesn’t. And I’m sure he knows that Falkland would love to be rid of him. But he’s too good at his work.”

“To be honest, Wilmot,” Laurence said casually, “it rather amazed me to learn that Falkland was made Secretary of State.”

Wilmot seized on this. “You weren’t here – you don’t know how it happened. He never wanted the office, but Digby, amongst others, pushed him forward. Digby couldn’t have it himself, because nobody trusts him. Like you, he has a dubious record in terms of his loyalties.”

“How so?” Laurence asked, ignoring the barb.

“It’s quite a tale. Over two years ago, he was caught duelling in the precincts of Whitehall and was imprisoned for it, much to his dis-gruntlement. Perhaps he thought the King would intervene on his behalf. Anyway, when he first entered the House of Commons, he took up with the radicals who were howling for the Earl of Strafford’s blood. Then he declared in Parliament that he wouldn’t support any such thing. But his speech had got out in print, and he had to issue an apology to the Commons, to excuse his shift of allegiance.”

“How very embarrassing for him.”

“Embarrassment is not a word in his vocabulary,” Wilmot sniggered. “Why, he changed his tune again completely once he moved up to the House of Lords. This January he was urging the King to prosecute five of His Majesty’s loudest opponents in Parliament. The Queen was won over to the idea, and I heard that she and Digby encouraged the King to go in person to the House of Commons to secure their arrest.”

“A shocking breach of parliamentary privilege,” remarked Laurence, laughing.

“And a slap in the face for the King. They’d been alerted ahead of time and escaped downriver by barge. But by then the whole city was in an uproar.”

“What happened to Digby?”

“Oh, he tried to wiggle out, claiming the King had been ill advised and that he’d had nothing to do with it. He was summoned to the House of Lords to explain himself, whereupon he promptly sailed for Holland. That was when the King also fled, with his family, to Hampton Court.” Wilmot grinned and licked his lips. “The best I’ve saved for last. Digby was fool enough to write to His Majesty from abroad advising him to take up arms against his opponents. Digby’s correspondence was intercepted and read out in Parliament, and he was impeached, just as the Earl of Strafford had been – charged with treason for levying war against the nation. That’s why he was arrested when he got back to England recently. Yet again, by some miracle of diplomacy, he managed to wiggle out. Ever since he’s been busy ingratiating himself with the King.”

“And what’s his strategy with Falkland?” Laurence inquired, to return to the Secretary of State.

“Think about it! Digby has enemies not just in Parliament but within our camp, too. Falkland, on the other hand, is universally respected. Digby must have counted on improving his own image by championing someone so principled, while pulling Falkland’s strings at the same time.”

“To achieve what?”

“Parliament will ask Falkland for some major concessions if a peaceful settlement is to be reached. Digby’s removal from the public stage will be one of them. The radicals might even demand that he be put on trial.”

“You mean he’s relying on Falkland to keep him safe from prosecution?”

“Yes, and no.” Wilmot poured them more from the jug. “Call me cynical if you like, but I believe Digby urged Falkland into office precisely because he’s an unsuitable candidate. Digby’s setting him up to fail – and along with him, the peace negotiations.”

“You
are
a cynic,” Laurence said, laughing again, though Wilmot’s theory intrigued him. “In your view, is there any chance of peace?”

“I think Falkland is pissing in the wind.” Wilmot regarded Laurence through narrowed eyes. “So what do you say – will you enlist with me?”

Laurence sighed. His feelings had not changed about army service, yet it was becoming evident that he would not be able to avoid it indefinitely now that war had been officially declared. “You’d have to give me a certain amount of latitude,” he said. “I’ve some business to sort out.”

“You want to come and go as you please?”

“Only for a while.”

“Hmm. Will I get my cipher?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Then we have an agreement. Look who’s here,” said Wilmot, in a louder voice. “Our mutual friend. Everything well in the camp?” he asked of Charles Danvers, who had sauntered up to their table.

“The opposite, I’m afraid,” Danvers said, taking a seat. “The men are arguing with the quartermaster about their rations. They didn’t have their full share of cheese today, and what they did get was mouldy.”

“Oh, bugger it – I must deal with them.” Wilmot rose and slapped Laurence on the shoulder. “Don’t forget what we discussed.”

“I won’t,” Laurence said, smiling up at him.

“Good old Wilmot, you can always depend on him to look after his troops,” Danvers said, when Wilmot had gone. “You two were having a very deep conversation. What about?”

“Just politics,” Laurence said.

“Did he by chance mention his own foray into the political arena?” Laurence shook his head; Danvers was clearly dying to explain. “He was chucked in the Tower of London last June and then expelled from Parliament, on a charge of plotting to bring the army into Parliament to intimidate the rebels.”

“Was he, indeed.”

Danvers winked at him slyly. “Wouldn’t have been a bad thing if it had worked. Beaumont, what plan have you for tonight?” he asked, in a different tone. “There are some actors I could introduce you to. Actresses, to be precise, not boys in women’s clothing. They’re from France.”

“A more enlightened country than ours,” Laurence commented.

“I’d say – I don’t know why people here are so averse to putting a woman on the stage. The ladies were invited to perform in London this spring as a novelty, but with Parliament ready to close down all the playhouses, they had to escape from the capital. They came to Nottingham to beg His Majesty’s assistance with papers of safe conduct or some such thing. You speak French, don’t you? Mine’s atrocious. I’ll take you to their lodgings in town.”

“All right,” said Laurence, with a shrug. He had to ride back into Nottingham in any case, and felt he deserved a few hours of female company after all the time he had spent at Tom’s bedside.

The actresses turned out to be a disappointment. Even in the dimly lit room where they received their visitors, Laurence could see that two out of the five were well past their prime. Danvers had obviously established a special rapport with the only alluring one amongst them. Another was scarred from the smallpox, while the youngest, a plain girl of about sixteen, looked about to die of shyness when Laurence addressed her.

The women were pathetically grateful to be able to communicate with someone in their own tongue, and although hospitable, they must have been very low on funds, for the wine they served him was pungent and sour. Out of courtesy he choked down a glass, but when he saw that Danvers and the prettier actress had disappeared, he assumed to practise a language more universal than French, he decided to leave.

As he was saying good night, the young girl asked if he would mind translating an official paper that had been granted to them for their journey home. Reluctantly he agreed, and she led him to another
chamber where she said they might find some writing instruments. Walking with her, he felt oddly heavy and clumsy: he had to concentrate on putting one foot before the other, and when she sat him down on a low couch, he could not resist closing his eyes for what seemed to him only a second. With an effort, he opened them again to find her on top of him, her expression more frightened than lustful.

“What are you doing?” he asked, hearing the slur in his words.

“Monsieur Danvers said you would like to make love,” she told him.

“Well he was wrong.”

He tried to get up but his limbs would not respond. Her face hung above him like a misshapen moon, and then, abruptly, the moon was eclipsed.

Laurence woke with a pounding headache. He heaved himself off the couch and staggered over to look out of the window. The sun was high in a lucid expanse of blue. A beautiful day, he thought irrelevantly. He had long since missed the hour of his meeting with Falkland.

In the main room, he found one of the older women in her dressing gown taking breakfast. When she saw him, she stood and curtseyed. “Monsieur,” she said, “thank you for sparing my daughter. Monsieur Danvers promised us an escort to the coast if we would provide you with an evening’s amusement. Yet my girl would have paid too high a price.
Elle est pucelle
.”

“Where is he?” demanded Laurence, feeling an ominous queasi-ness in his guts.

“He left earlier this morning. I am sorry, sir – I see you are not well.”

“I’m not. You must excuse me,” he mumbled, and she showed him to the door.

A couple of armed men in buff coats were waiting outside. “He looks sick as a dog!” one of them jeered.