The Best of Men (7 page)

And so, after a journey of some twenty miles, Laurence was found quarters, nourishing food, hot water to wash, and clean clothes. By the next evening, he managed to complete his task for von Mansfeld, who was duly impressed. His rescue could not have been better timed. He heard subsequently that the hospital was razed to the ground by a mob of villagers furious at the depredations of the mercenary troops. Any wounded who had not perished in the flames were hacked to death.

Other work arrived for him while he recovered his full health, for von Mansfeld discovered that Herr Beaumont had an unusual aptitude with codes and ciphers. And since the prospect of facing gunfire again filled Laurence with the utmost panic, he did not object when, later on, some new duties were added to his conditions of employment. He travelled regularly throughout the Low Countries, the German states, and even into France to deliver messages. He frequented taverns and alehouses listening for gossip, and made tongues wag with alcohol. He bribed, he told lies, and he bedded women to learn their husbands’ secrets. He hung about alleys tracking down and sometimes dispatching enemy spies. More reluctantly, he assisted in the interrogation of prisoners, after which he suffered from nightmares and bouts of profound self-loathing that he tried in vain to banish with drink. He was good at his work, using finesse rather than torture to extract the truth. Over time, however, those around him
began to gossip that he treated his subjects gently because he was working under cover for the Hapsburg Emperor, and that he had only pretended to turn coat at the siege of Breda. The slander spread, and he was shunned and vilified. He would have been in more serious danger had not von Mansfeld come yet again to the rescue, offering him a place in his troop of horse.

In his quarters at Leicester, Lord Falkland was sorting through his correspondence in preparation for a meeting of Council. “Yet another begging letter, Stephens,” he complained to his servant.

“From whom, my lord?” Stephens asked.

“A fellow of my acquaintance named Charles Danvers, likeable enough but dissolute in his habits. No surprise that he says he has money troubles. He wants some kind of employment. He has a great ear for gossip, he tells me. What a recommendation!”

“Colonel Hoare is always interested in gossip, my lord.”

Falkland sighed. “Whenever I hear that man’s name, I am reminded of those duties necessitated by my office that I would rather not contemplate.”

“Every Secretary of State must have his spymaster. And he is a most capable manager of your agents.”

“That may be, but he takes too much pleasure in extorting confessions from anyone he has occasion to arrest.”

“He’s a military man, my lord,” Stephens observed, “and hence accustomed to the use of force where no other means will suffice.”

“So he is.”
And I know he frowns upon my scant experience in that regard
, Falkland nearly added. But if it came to war here, all might soon be remedied, he thought sorrowfully. He looked down again at the note, penned in an elegant hand with bold flourishes. Danvers might be too unreliable for clandestine work, though Hoare could be the judge of
that. They were in need of new agents, since some of their valued men had chosen to side with Parliament.

“My lord, if you please.” Stephens indicated the tray waiting by the fire. “Her ladyship would be concerned if you did not eat.”

“You are right, Stephens,” agreed Falkland, with a smile. “Dear Lettice would give me a thorough scolding. Burn these.” He passed a sheaf of letters to Stephens, who obediently consigned them to the flames; their wax seals gave out spitting sounds, as if protesting their own destruction. “I do not look forward to tonight,” Falkland went on, more to himself than to his servant, as he sat down to his food. “There seem to be few good tidings for His Majesty since he came to the north. The local gentry welcome him with declarations of loyalty, but they are hanging back from any more commitment than mere words. And the surrender of Hull to Parliament was a blow. Yet another port lost. With some diplomacy, it could have been avoided.”

Stephens coughed dryly as he filled Falkland’s glass, suggesting to Falkland that he had an opinion to express. “With all respect, my lord,” he said, “you cannot deny that His Majesty had cause to be affronted by the demands of Parliament’s Commissioners at Hull. They sought to bargain with their sovereign in exchange for delivering up to him one of his own cities.”

“They asked him to return in peace to London and negotiate with them. It was not such an outrageous request.” Falkland took a small sip of wine to chase down a morsel of roast fowl and wiped his mouth on the edge of the tablecloth. “I had better set out, Stephens. It would not do for me to be late.”

With a disapproving glance at the platter that Falkland had barely touched, Stephens went to fetch their cloaks and hats, and accompanied his master over the short distance to the royal apartments.

In the end Falkland was early. He found His Majesty alone with Lord Digby. This immediately set Falkland’s nerves on edge: if he
had to pick a single man he could hold responsible for the widening chasm between King and Parliament it would be George Digby, who seemed to change political colour as readily as a chameleon. Over the past year Falkland had been noting apprehensively the ease with which Digby had managed to insinuate himself more and more into the King’s favour.

“As I said at the g-gates of Hull,” the King was remarking in his soft Scottish accent, punctuated with a mild stammer, “let all the world now judge who b-began this war.”

“Your Majesty,” Digby said, “no one could honestly accuse you of sparing any effort to prevent armed conflict. You have been provoked beyond measure, and yet still you hold out the olive branch to your unworthy subjects.” He broke off on seeing Falkland, who bowed to them both. “How are you, Lucius?” Digby cried, addressing Falkland as ever by his Christian name. Such unusual familiarity irked Falkland, even though he guessed this was Digby’s intention.

“I am in good health, thank you, my lord,” he said, feeling awkward beside Digby’s suave and graceful presence. “And I am gratified to learn that the olive branch remains on offer, Your Majesty,” he continued, which the King acknowledged with a benign smile.

“I wonder what Prince Rupert will think of that when he arrives,” Digby said, playing with one of his blond lovelocks.

“Have you news of your nephew from Holland, Your Majesty?” Falkland inquired.

The King’s face instantly brightened. “Yes, indeed. We may expect him and his brother Prince Maurice to land here any day – that is, if they are not stopped by Parliament.”

“Such a bold young man will outstrip any attempt of the rebels to seize his ship,” declared Digby.

“Then he will have better fortune than you did on your late return from Holland,” Falkland said, at which the King began to laugh.

“My fate was cruel indeed!” Digby lamented. “First to be caught sailing in so humble a vessel as a fishing ketch, and then the sheer indignity of being taken in chains as a prisoner of Parliament to Hull! But you must admit that I did good business there,” he concluded, smiling again. “I almost had the Governor hand me the keys to the city.”

“Almost but not quite,” said Falkland. “Once the effect of your silver tongue wore off, he did not long remain persuaded that he should surrender the port to us.”

“It crossed his mind, however – and he
was
persuaded to release
me
.”

A fate less cruel than would have befallen you, had he surrendered you to Parliament
, Falkland was tempted to rejoin.

“As for his Royal Highness Prince Rupert,” Digby went on, “it was such a delight, all that time we spent together with Her Majesty in The Hague – nigh on six months.”

“You must have got to know him well,” the King said eagerly; he had not seen his beloved nephew since the prince visited England as a youth, Falkland remembered.

“I should say so, Your Majesty. He is very forthright in his manners, as one might imagine, since he has spent most of his twenty-three years in army service, and very handsome, too. He will make a splendid commanding officer, an inspiration to all those other bold young men who are flocking to the royal cause.”

And an irritation to the older ones, Falkland thought. “His Highness the Prince will not appreciate, then, that we intend to continue in our peace talks,” he said.

A haughty expression came over the King’s face. “My Lord Falkland, we do share in your eagerness to avert a war, but how many times must we s-suffer to be insulted by Parliament’s Commissioners? I am afraid there is in London a faction that will yield only to a drawn sword.”

“You have many staunch supporters in the upper House –”

“Such as Lord Holland, who lately confronted me at Hull, and the Earl of Pembroke, with his demands that I render up control of my m-militias? And Lord Essex, who refused to join me at York? And they are called the moderates!” Although the King still spoke softly, his words were an unmistakeable reproach to Falkland, who sensed that Digby was enjoying his discomfiture. “You have worked long and hard to win over those misguided souls,” His Majesty said more amiably, laying his hand on Falkland’s shoulder. “Do not for a moment believe that my desire for peace is insincere. Yet we must ready for the worst.” At this he left them, to greet some other members of Council who had entered the chamber.

Digby was regarding Falkland, his round blue eyes apologetic. “I am sorry, Lucius, that I was amongst those who urged your appointment to the Secretaryship. Yet I could conceive of no wiser a person, nor yet more learned, nor of more impartial disposition, to advise His Majesty at this critical juncture. I, and others, have placed a heavy burden upon you, and you must curse us for it.”

“I do not curse you. I am only puzzled, my lord, that
you
should have foregone this burden yourself,” Falkland said, although he knew that Digby’s shifts of allegiance had made him too unpopular a candidate for the office.

“I could not do it justice,” Digby responded smoothly. “I lack your nobility of character.” Then he burst into laughter, as if at his own performance. That he was genuinely amused by it, Falkland realised, was why for all his slipperiness he was hard to dislike. “Lucius,” he said, “on the next occasion we meet, please remind me that you are one of the few men I know who is not susceptible to flattery. Otherwise I shall continue to waste my breath as I have just now.”

“Why should I remind you,” Falkland said, “when I have so little to entertain me these days.”

Digby appeared pensive for a moment. “What you are lacking, Lucius, is the sweet influence of female company.”

“I know, I cannot bear so long a separation from my wife,” Falkland admitted, touched that Digby should have thought of her. “You must feel much the same.”

“Oh, Anne and I understand these things very well,” Digby said, with a shrug. “I am soon to be comforted, in any event, by the arrival of my lovely ward, Mistress Isabella Savage. She has decided to quit London – a most uncongenial place to anyone associated with my name – and is travelling north to join me.”

“Your ward? Is she still a child?”

“Dear me, no! She is a woman of some twenty-five years, and as yet unmarried, though one of the most ravishing creatures in all England. She was presented at Court upon her eighteenth birthday, and has been capturing hearts ever since. I am amazed that you should not have been introduced. But you did tend to hide away in the country with your academic friends, when not occupied with Parliamentary affairs.”

“They were my happiest times,” said Falkland.

“You have never heard of Mistress Savage, even by reputation?” Digby insisted, with a purposive curiosity.

“No, my lord,” replied Falkland, wondering that Digby should ask him. Why should he, as a devoted husband, have any special interest in this ravishing creature, or in Digby’s relations with her, whatever they might be?

I
n the comfort of his feather bed, Laurence drifted between slumber and full consciousness. He must have pushed aside the bedclothes during the night, for he felt warmth on his skin from the sun streaming through the open curtains. Gradually he became aware that he was not alone in the chamber: he could hear the swish of a woman’s skirts. His immediate thought was of Juana and the usual dull sorrow flooded through him, although while half asleep he could almost conjure up her presence like the ghost of a lost limb.

On opening his eyes a fraction, he was bemused to see his mother inspecting his saddlebag and the clothes he had left strewn on the floor as if she were hunting for something. With furtive care, she picked up his sword, which he had propped against a wall, and unsheathed it. For some time she examined the blade, frowning, before sheathing it again and replacing it quietly. He watched, yet more puzzled: what on earth did she expect to find? As she straightened herself to turn towards him, he quickly shut his eyes. He heard her approach the bed, and sensed that she was gazing down at him. He waited a long while for her to move, or to speak. At length she heaved a deep sigh, and muttered low under her breath a word, perhaps a name, that he did not catch. Her behaviour was beginning to unnerve
him. He sat up in bed and noticed her wince at the sight of his scar, which he quickly covered.

She retreated a step, flushing. “Laurence, do you not own a nightshirt?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said.

“And what have you been doing, to get so very black?” she demanded, in an accusatory tone. “As if you have been labouring naked!” He did not reply, but pulled the sheets up to his chin; she was the intruder, after all. “It is past ten of the clock,” she said. “You cannot lie abed all morning. I want to speak with you. You may find me in my chamber.” And she walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Conquering his irritation, he rose and dressed.

When he entered the little office that she kept on the upper floor of the house, he found her sitting at her desk, quill in hand, examining her account book. She ignored him, not even inviting him to sit, and so he stood, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, until she deigned to address him.