The Best of Men (3 page)

“He’d have to surrender his royal authority to Parliament!”

“Isn’t that better than a civil war?”

“Good God. You sound as if you’d favour a republic!”

“There might be worse things,” Beaumont murmured, still smiling slightly. “But aren’t there some people left who want to avoid bloodshed?”

“There are, though at present they’re all crying in the wilderness. Look, man,” Ingram went on, feeling that he must set his friend straight, “Parliament has seized control of the Royal Navy, as well as London and most of our ports. It demanded that the King surrender the militias, an outrageous request which His Majesty refused in no uncertain terms. I believe the time for negotiation has passed. If the King raises his standard, I’ll be with him, and I trust you will be too.” An uncomfortable look crossed Beaumont’s face, and Ingram felt uncomfortable himself, trying to guess where his friend’s loyalties might lie. “Beaumont,” he said, “I’d like to introduce you to the man who’s raising my troop, Sir Bernard Radcliff. He served in the foreign war, as you did. He’s a fine fellow and an excellent soldier.”

“A rare combination.”

“How’s that?”

“The military life abroad did tend to corrupt,” Beaumont said delicately.

Ingram stood up, wobbling a little on his feet. “I have to piss.”

Beaumont grinned at him. “What,
again
?”

“Yes, and don’t you finish my wine for me,” Ingram told him, grinning back.

When Ingram returned from the yard, the taproom was almost empty save for a group of newcomers drinking ale in a corner. They
wore bright cockades in their hats and swords at their sides; local fellows, taking advantage of a coming war and a hot summer night to prowl the neighbourhood in search of trouble. Beaumont, meanwhile, was idly making patterns on the table with tallow drippings from a candle. The men were watching him, talking amongst themselves.

“You’re not from these parts, are you?” one of them barked out suddenly, from across the room. Beaumont paid no attention to him. “He’s a foreigner,” the man announced to his companions. “Like as not a papist mercenary sent over by our papist queen to cut our throats. Is that so?” He took a few steps closer to Beaumont. “Haven’t you got the manners to address me? Or don’t you talk my language?”

In former days Ingram had witnessed Beaumont engage in many altercations, more often than not leading to brawls, so he hastily intervened. “My friend is as English as you are,” he said, in a conciliatory tone. “And he’s no papist. He was away serving with the Protestant armies.”

“Can’t he speak for himself?”

Ingram frowned at Beaumont. “I think we should be on our way.”

“He’s not ready to leave yet,” said the man. “He’s still got half a jug in front of him. I think we should have a chat, me and your friend.”

“About what?” Beaumont asked equably, raising his eyes at last to inspect the man.

“About you, you son of a papist whore.” The man’s companions were waiting in smug anticipation, Ingram realised, as if they had witnessed such a scene before and knew how it would end. “Didn’t you hear me?” the man inquired, clearly nettled that his insult had elicited no reaction.

“I don’t have any quarrel with you,” Beaumont said, much to Ingram’s relief, but the man was not pacified.

“By Jesus, you’re asking for one,” he declared, striding over. “I’ve a mind to tan your arse with the back of my sword.”

“Beaumont, let’s be off,” Ingram said.

“Because of this gentleman?” Beaumont was pouring himself a fresh cup. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just had a bit too much to drink.”

“Say that again, you filthy cur,” the man growled.

Beaumont seemed oblivious until the man reached for the hilt of his sword. In the same moment Beaumont jumped up, overturning the bench with a crash, and caught him with two neat blows, to the nose and on the jaw. The man’s head snapped back and he fell, his sword still stuck in its scabbard. Blood trickled from his nostrils, and he lay without moving, a stupefied look on his face. It had happened with such speed that everyone was stunned into silence; then murmurs of indignation issued from the man’s companions.

“Beaumont, out!” said Ingram.

“All right, all right.” Beaumont took up his saddlebag, threw it over his shoulder, paused to empty his cup, walked past the enraged audience with an amicable nod, and followed Ingram into the yard.

Ingram grabbed his sleeve. “We’d better run, or they’ll make quick work of us.”

“No, no – he was the only one who wanted to pick a fight,” said Beaumont, moving at an unhurried pace.

“Beaumont,” Ingram said anxiously, “if you’ll allow me, I’d like to give you a piece of advice. Things aren’t what they were over here. Tempers have grown very hot, and it would serve you to be more careful. He was armed, for God’s sake.”

“Well thank you for that piece of advice, Ingram, but so was I.” Beaumont showed him a pair of pistols tucked into his saddlebag.

Ingram eyed them, feeling still more anxious: he had never shot a man, nor seen a man shot. “Good that it went no further. It might have if he’d seen them, or if you’d been wearing a sword.”

“That’s exactly why I kept them hidden, and why I left my sword behind where I stabled my horse. I’ve no desire to fight anyone at all,” Beaumont said, with an air of outraged innocence.

“You broke his nose!”

“Purely in self-defence.”

Ingram started to laugh. “And we didn’t even pay for that last round.”

“That’s unforgivable. Should we go back?”

“Certainly not. I should be off to bed.”

“Is someone waiting there for you?” Beaumont asked slyly.

“I wish!” said Ingram, still laughing.

They had arrived at a churchyard. Beaumont pushed him through the gate, and they sat down on the grass. After hunting about in his saddlebag, Beaumont produced a flask. He offered it to Ingram, who had a swig of the contents.

“That would put hair on anyone’s chest!” he spluttered, as the fierce liquor burnt its way down his insides.

“Not on mine,” said Beaumont, taking back the flask.

“Still smooth as a baby’s bum, is it? Well, at least you have plenty on your scalp.” Ingram chuckled. “Remember when we were up at Merton, how we had a bet as to who would start shaving first?”

“Which you won.”

“And now I’m paying for it! Kate’s always after me with one thing or another that she promises will restore my locks to their former glory.”

“How is your sister, by the way?” Beaumont asked, stretching out his long legs.

“Very well. She’s getting married next month, to Sir Bernard Radcliff.”

“Radcliff? Ah – your excellent soldier.”

“One of the best men I’ve ever met.” Ingram paused to stifle a belch. “Thank heaven she had the sense to accept him. We were at the end of our tether trying to find a match for her. She’s not so young any more. Twenty-two on her last birthday.”

Beaumont made a shocked sound through his teeth. “Ancient! What about him?”

“He’s somewhat older than she is, I grant you, but he’s never been married. He fell madly in love with her. He came all the way back from service in Holland just to make his proposal. Wasn’t even bothered that she had such a small dowry,” Ingram added, stifling another belch.

“Then how
could
she refuse him! What about you, Ingram, have you thought of marrying again?” Beaumont inquired, more gently.

Ingram recalled his wife as he had last seen her, in death, her face ruined from the smallpox and her jaw tied up with a band of linen so that it would not fall open. It upset him that eight years later he remembered so little of her when she was alive. “I did consider it once,” he said, “but I couldn’t bring myself to speak to the woman. I’ve no property, and no great prospects, and now, with the war …”

“Oh yes, the war.”

Emboldened by alcohol, Ingram ventured, “Your family were at their wits’ end, not hearing from you all this time, apart from a couple of brief letters you sent. I’d like to see their faces when you appear at their door tomorrow. I’d like to see your face, too.”

“Please – let’s not talk about them.” Beaumont handed him the flask again, then got up and turned away to unlace.

“Families are splitting over their politics,” Ingram said, while his friend was relieving himself. “If there’s a war, they’ll have to face killing their own flesh and blood.”

“Not a happy prospect.”

“No, it isn’t. Beaumont,” Ingram went on, “I met your brother when I was last in Oxford.”

“What was he doing there?”

“The same as Radcliff. Raising a troop for the King.”

“Tom always enjoyed ordering people about,” Beaumont said, as he fastened the front of his breeches and sat back down.

“That’s unfair, man.”

“Why – has he improved with age?”

“He may have. And you mustn’t fall to arguing as soon as you see him. This is no time to air your private differences.”

“I’d say it’s the perfect time. War provides a cover for all sorts of differences, private and public.”

“I’m serious. You must look to your duty, as he is doing. There’s more than duty at stake, especially for you, as heir to your father’s estate. Isn’t it worth fighting to protect? And you were ready to defend your religion abroad –”

“Come on, Ingram,” Beaumont said, laughing. “I wasn’t defending my religion. You know I’ve no religion to defend.”

“Shush, not so loud,” Ingram said uneasily.

“We’re in a graveyard!”

“All the same, we’re on consecrated ground.”

“Have another drink. Those are the only spirits I believe in.”

“I wish you would change your mind about – about that issue. No one can live without faith. It’s inconceivable.”

“For you it may be. But if I ever had any doubts, what I saw while I was away confirmed to me that there’s no God in heaven. Though hell exists, right here on earth.”

“You sided with the Protestants, didn’t you? You must have had some attachment to their cause.”

“I hate to deceive you, but our friend in the taproom wasn’t so far from the truth. When I arrived, I served with the Spanish infantry. Papists to a man.”

Ingram hesitated, as the information sank in. “You mean – you mean you fought for the Hapsburg Emperor?”

“Yes, but not for long. At the siege of Breda I discovered I was on the losing side, and probably wouldn’t come out of it alive. So I went over to the Dutch.”

“Sweet Jesus – you were a turncoat,” Ingram whispered.

“I wasn’t the only one.”

“But – I don’t understand – what made you join up in the first place, if you couldn’t care less why you were risking your life?”

Beaumont took a moment to answer, grabbing the flask from Ingram and tipping it to his lips. “I suppose I wanted to test myself,” he said, after wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I’d led such a soft, useless life until then.”

“I won’t dispute that. But how could you throw your lot in with an emperor who stole the Palatinate from the brother-in-law of our own king, and has sent his dearest sister and her family into exile?” Ingram demanded reproachfully.

“The Spanish happened to be the first troops I encountered. And I wanted to go where I wouldn’t be seen as what I am here: heir to my father’s estate, as you put it. They didn’t give a shit whether I was born in a castle or a pigsty. And they taught me a lot,” Beaumont added, passing over the flask again.

“Such as?”

“How to go without sleep for weeks and march day after day with my feet bleeding into my boots. They humbled me. They have great endurance and a sense of humour even in the worst of circumstances.”

Ingram quaffed from the flask, his head spinning. “Dear God! But weren’t you under suspicion after your abrupt change of allegiance?”

“Yes, mostly from the other Englishmen over there, though I made some friends amongst them in the Dutch service. Then you’ll be glad to hear that I
did
end up with a number of English and a mixed contingent of Germans and Swedes who’d been sent to help Charles Louis win back the Palatinate. Not a wise choice of mine, in retrospect.”

“Why? You were finally fighting for a noble cause.”

“Noble, perhaps, but doomed to failure, and partly by His Majesty our king, who wasn’t prepared to give his nephew enough funds to succeed. Poor Charles Louis lost hope of ever reclaiming his lands after
his army was wiped out at Vlotho. You should have seen it, man. The fields were red with blood.”

“And then what did you do?”

Beaumont shrugged. “I fell in with another cavalry regiment under Bernard of Weimar. When he died, we were sold over to French command and pushed all the way south down the Rhine, taking town after town, and then across the river …” He tailed off, as if remembering, then shook himself. “Look, Ingram,” he said, gazing straight at his friend, “as you well know, there aren’t just Protestants fighting the Emperor – the French are as Catholic as the Spanish. And of those that are Protestant, there’s a host of little German states that shift alliances constantly, and of course the Swedes, who are still the most feared of the mercenaries. The destruction they wrought was incredible – most unchristian, you might say. It’s not a religious war any longer, if ever it was,” he concluded, in a bitter tone. “It’s a struggle for power – an obscene game played out all the way from the Alps to the Baltic Sea. So please don’t talk to me about causes. They make no sense to me.”

Ingram belched more loudly, gagging as the oily taste of the liquor came back up into his throat. “I feel ill.”

“Has our little talk upset your stomach?” Beaumont inquired, jokingly, but with an edge to his voice. Ingram did not answer, busy attempting to stand. His legs buckled and he nearly toppled over. “Let me help,” Beaumont said, grasping his shoulders to steady him.

Together they negotiated a circuitous route over holy ground, finding at last the gate through which they had entered the churchyard. They had not gone far when Ingram was violently sick, though it made him no soberer, and he had to lean on Beaumont for the rest of the way. Some time afterwards he was vaguely conscious of a voice raised in argument, and an icy weight crashed over his head, depriving him of breath. Then he was lifted up bodily, and he knew that he was being carried upstairs to his bed.