The Best of Men (29 page)

“You may be certain, my lord, that some decision is very necessary at this juncture!” Pembroke fell silent as his driver came and swung open the door, drawing out an ingenious little set of stairs for Falkland to descend onto the street. As Falkland was about to make use of them, Pembroke held him back again. “You know Dr. John Earle, do you not?”

“Yes,” Falkland replied. “He is very dear to me and my wife.”

“He was once my chaplain. He left my service when our politics did not agree.” Pembroke sighed heavily. “It is my fondest wish to heal the breach between us, and beg his pardon. Earle was also, you see, my spiritual counsellor, and I am much in need of his guidance these days. Would you be so kind as to take him a letter from me?”

“I should be glad to,” Falkland said, trying to conceal more amazement; he had not imagined Pembroke capable of such humility.

Pembroke reached into a side panel in the cushioned wall of the coach and withdrew a slim, sealed document. “I shall remember this, my lord,” he said, handing it to Falkland. “And I look forward to our further communication.”

At Thame, Colonel Hoare’s guards greeted Laurence with evident mistrust, and they also had worrying news: some of the Earl of Essex’s troops were on their way to occupy Aylesbury for Parliament.

“If we all descend on the Black Bull together, we may scare our man off,” Laurence told them, though he thought the chances of finding Poole there were worse than slim. “And we should scout the place, before trying to arrest him. He may not be alone.”

The guards, on orders not to lose him, disliked receiving his instructions. After much argument, Laurence rode the nine miles or so into Aylesbury accompanied only by their chief, Corporal Wilson. They stabled their horses at the Black Bull, and walked into the taproom, where Laurence made inquiries of a maidservant.

“What d’you want with Mr. Poole?” she demanded.

“I’m an old friend of his,” he said. “Haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“He’s been staying for weeks now,” she said more amiably. “But he’s not in. He went out just this morning and hasn’t returned yet. He’s got our cheapest rooms, sir, at the back.”

“More than one room? He must have company, then.”

“Not at present, sir, though there are a couple of men who come and go.”

“I might know them,” Laurence said to Wilson, who was listening keenly. “What are their names?” he asked the woman.

“I’ve heard Mr. Poole address one of them as Tyler.” Laurence shrugged, as if he had never heard of any Tyler. “I’ve no idea about the other.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He’s a gentleman, sir, always polite and well dressed, with light brown hair and a touch of grey in his beard.”

“Hmm. Could be any number of my acquaintances.”

“When do you expect Mr. Poole?” Wilson interjected.

“I can’t say, sir.”

“Would you please pass on a message?” Laurence asked. “Tell him Mr. Beaumont will await him here, around eleven o’clock tomorrow. And thanks for your trouble,” he added, slipping her a few coins.

Outside they looked about, checking the number of entrances to the inn and calculating where the guards should be stationed so as to be inconspicuous, if Poole appeared at the meeting. Then they took a stroll around the back of the inn. The conspirators had chosen their accommodations well, Laurence thought: their windows gave directly onto a kitchen midden, the reek of which would dissuade anyone from loitering. But there was a thick vine clinging to the wall just below Poole’s window that appeared sufficiently sturdy to support the weight of a man, and might allow the possibility of breaking in.

As he and the guards ate supper in Thame that evening, Laurence suggested how they should proceed. “Wilson and I will ride in together, but I’ll enter the taproom by myself,” he said. “The rest of you should get to Aylesbury in good time. There are enough of you to post a single man at each exit of the inn, with about five to spare who should hold off on an arrest until Wilson gives the signal.”

“Who’s issuing orders here?” objected Wilson, though in the end he accepted the plan.

Hoare had instilled in his men a fair sense of discipline, but over supper, at Laurence’s subtle prompting, they indulged rather too freely in ale and mutton stew, and he gained some unexpected advantages: first, he discovered that Hoare had told them very little about their mission, other than that they must capture Poole, and second, by midnight they were all fast asleep in the large communal chamber. Even the man told to keep watch on Laurence was snoring away, his pistol on his lap.

Laurence rose stealthily and crept out, and down to the stables, then saddled his horse and headed again for Aylesbury. Silence had fallen over the town, and he met no one on the street, not even a night
watchman. At the Black Bull, all was just as peaceful. He tethered his horse and passed into the back courtyard, disturbing only a family of rats as it tunnelled through the kitchen refuse. He saw light at a window of Poole’s rooms. Breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench, he sought a foothold at the base of the vine and tested its strength before levering himself up until he hung almost parallel to the window. As he was wondering how long he could hold on, the casement flew open.

“Why didn’t you tell me what was in those papers I brought you?” came an angry voice that he guessed must belong to Tyler. Someone replied, too quietly for Laurence to catch any words, though he felt a ripple of excitement: Poole did indeed have company. “I knew Beaumont would make something of your code,” the first voice said, “him and that old warlock Seward.” Laurence cursed under his breath: Tyler must have found the letter to Earle while he was ransacking Seward’s chambers. “Don’t think I can be played for a simpleton just because I’m not schooled as you are,” Tyler carried on, sneeringly. “I’d say the more you learn, the less you see things for what they are. I can fix Beaumont tomorrow, as he arrives.”

“As you fixed that poor boy in the College?” Laurence recognised Poole’s voice, full of revulsion. “And what if he doesn’t have the letters on him?”

“He will.” A head emerged from the window, and Laurence squeezed himself back against the wall, out of sight. Someone spat into the yard, then the head disappeared, and an arc of liquid surged from within, finally dwindling to a patter of drops. “I pissed on a rat,” Tyler laughed. “Nearly drowned it.”

“Would you shut that casement,” came a third voice, extremely faint, and the window closed.

Laurence slid down from his perch and ran back to his horse, inhaling deeply to rid his lungs of the foul air. The third voice seemed somehow familiar, although he could not place it.

On his return to Thame, he roused the guards. As he was explaining how Poole was not alone, they glowered at him as if they trusted him even less than before. “We could make the arrest tonight,” he urged. “These other men must be Poole’s accomplices. We’ll have all three of them.”

“No, we’ll stick to the plan,” Wilson declared. “And from now on, Mr. Beaumont, no more tricks.”

Laurence lay down to rest until morning, sleepless, bemoaning this lost opportunity. After breakfast, he and Corporal Wilson galloped off for Aylesbury in tense silence. Wilson would only pass him the letters once they had arrived at the entrance to the Black Bull’s taproom, but at least he did not insist on their going in together.

As he walked through the door, Laurence half expected Tyler to be hidden in some corner, waiting to ambush him. Instead, however, he found the serving woman he had spoken with the day before.

“You asked me about that gentleman, sir,” she said. “His name is Mr. Rose, according to the innkeeper. He and Tyler got here yesterday evening, not long after your friend Poole.” She pointed across the room to a table where a hunched, black-clad figure was sitting. “There he is, sir.”

Poole looked much as he had on the last occasion, worn and fretful. “You’ve kept me waiting, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, standing to bow as Laurence approached. “I almost gave up on you.”

“Better late than never,” said Laurence, taking a seat opposite his.

“Do you have what I asked for?”

“Do you have my money?”

Poole placed a cloth bag on the table and opened it so that Laurence could see inside. Laurence, in turn, produced the letters, and laid them in front of Poole, who frowned at them in such a way that Laurence suspected he had not seen them before. How strange, and a pity to find out too late: he could have been given copies, rather than the real documents.

“This is all of them?” Poole inquired, confirming Laurence’s suspicion.

“Yes. What else did you expect?” he said.

“Why did you deny you had them, back in August?”

“I thought I might be able to make more off them than you’d offered me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t. I must thank you, Mr. Poole,” Laurence went on. “This money will buy me passage out of the country. I’ll be leaving as soon as I can, and this time I won’t return. I don’t like what’s happening here.”

“Who does,” said Poole glumly.

“By the way,” Laurence asked, on a whim, “why did you say the owner of these letters had been robbed at a tavern?” Poole frowned again. “It wasn’t a tavern, it was a bawdy house. The best in The Hague, as a matter of fact. I should know. I used to live there.” Poole gaped at him. “So you were lied to about that. You’ve got some nasty bedfellows, Mr. Poole. That servant of your master’s, for one. He must be straining at the leash, eager to finish me off. Tell your master it’s not worth the trouble.”

“You could still talk, if you broke the code,” Poole ventured.

“You must be well aware that I couldn’t break all of it. Besides, what would I say?” Laurence leant closer, to whisper in his ear. “That there’s a plot to spirit away the King and murder him, but we don’t know who the assassins are, nor how nor when nor where they intend to do the deed? It’s an absurd tale with an even clumsier plot, of which I now have not a shred of evidence. Goodbye, Mr. Poole.” He grabbed the bag and rose, but on seeing Poole’s face he sat back down again, quickly. “My God! Weren’t you told how it would end?”

Poole was rigid with shock; he had not even touched the letters. “I – I don’t know what you mean,” he quavered.

“It’s not my business how much this man has lied to you, but you should make it yours if you want to get any older. To be frank, I’m glad
to be rid of them,” Laurence said, indicating the letters. “They were becoming a burden to me. Now the burden is yours.”

“I thank you, Mr. Beaumont,” Poole said, as though he meant the opposite.

“Oh no, I thank
you
.”

Laurence turned once on his way out, and saw that Poole had not moved. He was equally dumbfounded at this turn of events, and sorry for Poole, who might be tortured and hanged for a crime of which he was innocent. There was no way to save him. Laurence had to save himself, and execute the most difficult stage of his plan.

He found Corporal Wilson alone. “My men haven’t come,” Wilson said urgently. “I don’t know what’s kept them.”

Laurence swore and rushed back into the taproom, with Wilson behind him. Poole had now vanished, no doubt upstairs to deliver the letters to Mr. Rose. “Let’s try the back entrance,” Laurence told Wilson, who cocked his pistol. “We can get in through the kitchen door and go up to his rooms.”

Just as they were crossing that other, foul-smelling courtyard, a shot blasted past them. Tyler, Laurence thought. They ducked, but a second ball caught Wilson on the arm. He cried out, dropping his pistol. And all of a sudden they heard a new sound: the combined thunder of hooves and clink of steel, far too loud for the ten or so riders they had been anticipating.

“Parliament’s troopers,” gasped Wilson, as the courtyard became a flurry of activity, people racing hither and thither.

“Let’s move,” Laurence said, and they pushed through the confusion to find their horses.

Mounting hastily, they charged onto the street. A party of some hundred cavalrymen were approaching in their direction. Laurence veered off towards the fields, Wilson a short distance behind, and they
spurred their horses to a gallop, leaping over the hedgerows, until they were some miles to the west of town.

“Slow down!” Wilson cried.

Laurence reined in and saw that Wilson’s sleeve was dripping blood. “Oh Christ,” he said. “Let me see the wound.” He tore open the cloth and examined it. “I’m sorry – that ball was meant for me.” With his knife he cut a strip from his own cloak and bound Wilson’s arm tightly, after which they let their winded animals move at a trot.

“I can’t jump no more hedges, sir,” Wilson panted.

“I’m
sir
to you now, am I? All right, we’ll go back to the road.”

Parliament’s troops must have passed by not long before on their way to Aylesbury, for the road was strewn with moist piles of horse dung. “Essex may have occupied Thame by now,” Laurence said. “I think it would be safer for us to head straight for Oxford.”

“How far is that?”

“About sixteen miles.”

Wilson clenched his jaw and nodded.

They skirted Thame and continued on the main road again towards Wheatley, their pace slackening. At this rate it would be some time before they reached the city, and Wilson was still losing blood. Then, up ahead, Laurence saw horsemen. About to pull Wilson into a thicket of trees to hide, he stopped. “Your comrades,” he remarked dryly.

Some of their horses were bleeding from shot, and a guard was dead, lying crosswise over his saddle. Another fellow had a gash to his thigh.

“What happened?” Laurence demanded of them.

“We skirmished with a few rebel stragglers on the road to Aylesbury – thought we’d show ’em what we were made of,” one boasted.

“Took down more than we lost,” the wounded fellow put in.

“You stupid arses!” Laurence yelled. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”

They looked more sheepishly at each other. “They gave us chase,” the first man admitted. “We had to retreat. Wasn’t no point in going back to Thame or we’d run into more of them.”

“Now, then, Mr. Beaumont,” said Wilson in a stern voice, as though regretting his earlier lapse of authority, “Colonel Hoare will want a word with you.”