The Best of Men (76 page)

“That has a fine ring to it!” said Lord Beaumont cheerfully.

Laurence started to laugh, as he folded up the letter. “It’s going to make Wilmot unbearably smug.”

Lady Beaumont’s face relaxed into a small smile. “Now, Laurence, it is time for your father’s nap. Pray go and call Geoffrey to assist him to bed.”

When his father had been settled comfortably, Laurence excused himself, and as he often did when the weather obliged, he went down to the river to bathe.

Undressing at the bank, he waded through the shallows and plunged in, breaking the smooth surface. What could have inspired his mother’s odd behaviour today, he mused, as he floated lazily on his back; she had been so much friendlier towards him since he had come home. Then he thought of Isabella. Over the three weeks or more since they said goodbye he had missed her like a part of his own flesh, yet he had written to her only once, to inform her of Lord Beaumont’s recovery. Although he felt no less certain of his love for her, he knew that it had not been a particularly eloquent letter. In fact, he now worried that she might have found it inadequate. He should reiterate his feelings for her, but the words did not come easily to him.

Diving deep into a colder current of water, he surfaced gasping. Instantly his stomach contracted with fear: on the near bank, a man in black stood watching him.

He exhaled with relief on hearing Seward’s voice. “Come out, Beaumont!”

Unlike Joshua Poole, Seward did not avert his gaze as Laurence emerged from the water, but examined him instead with more than academic interest. Eventually he said, “Please cover yourself. I may be old, but my fires have not given out.”

“And I thought
I
was too old for
you
,” Laurence joked, pulling on his breeches. “So what on earth brought you all the way here?”

“Beaumont, something most untoward happened yesterday. Sir Bernard Radcliff visited me at Merton.”

“Good Christ.” Laurence sat down beside him on the grass. “What did he want?”

Seward recounted the conversation. “I am certain that he is a lying rogue, but he is trapped like a fish in a barrel,” he went on. “And we know there is some truth to his assertion that Pembroke is sniffing at your heels. I spoke with Falkland, and he has impressed upon His Majesty the need for action. Yet it is a delicate matter. His Majesty would still prefer to retain every possible ally he has in the House of Lords.”

“He’s fooling himself, in Pembroke’s case.”

“Wipe that sneer off your face, and listen. We are to meet – Falkland, you, Radcliff, and myself. His Majesty has agreed to preserve Radcliff from a traitor’s death in exchange for his switch in loyalties, and also a list he has apparently made of Parliamentary agents. Then, under the Secretary of State’s authority and safe conduct, you and he will travel to London and engage in negotiations with Pembroke.”

“
Negotiations
? Pembroke should be brought to trial, and so should Radcliff! Is the King going to let Pembroke get away with plotting his death?”

“You and Radcliff must persuade him that the conspiracy is stillborn, and that if he so much as dreams of any violence against His Majesty, or any of His Majesty’s servants such as yourself, he is finished.”

“Or I may be, if things go wrong. Radcliff could easily change his tune again, once we arrive in London.”

“We have his letters, don’t forget.”

“True. But, as you said,” Laurence reminded Seward, “he’s a lying rogue.”

It was a still, sultry evening turning to dusk, the sky streaked with gold and rose in the west; and to the east, a few pinpoint stars glittered against the deepening blue. Radcliff could hear wood pigeons cooing in the trees and invisible animals stirring the hedgerows, and he could smell the sweet odour of leaves and damp sod beneath his horse’s hooves. All this would be the same whether he lived or died, he thought. What self-important creatures men were.

He dismounted in Madam Musgrave’s courtyard and gave the stable boy his reins. “Don’t unsaddle him, Sam,” he said. “I shan’t be staying.”

He walked along the stone path, through well-tended flowerbeds fragrant with the scent of roses and lavender and rosemary; and with distinct dread, he entered the house.

Madam Musgrave and Kate both leapt to their feet on seeing him. “Sir Bernard,” Madam Musgrave exclaimed, “where have you been? Walter wrote to us that you had vanished from your troop to go to London. He is frantic with concern for you!”

“I know, I know,” Radcliff said, assuming a carefree tone. “I shall catch up with him later – there’s an appointment that I must first keep tonight, and then I ride for Oxford.” The women exchanged consternated looks, suggesting to him that his bluster failed to convince them. Then he realised how he must appear: he had not had occasion to trim his beard or change his linen, and his clothes were hanging loose on him. He embraced Kate, thrilled to feel the swell of her stomach against him. “As you see, my dear, I am whole and hearty,” he assured her.

“You do not seem hearty, sir,” Kate said, rather fearfully.

“Aunt Musgrave,” he hurried on, “I must beg your pardon – I should like a short time with my wife before I depart.”

“Can you not even sup with us, sir?”

“I regret not. My dear, let’s take a stroll outside.”

He guided Kate off before Madam Musgrave could object, and they went along the same stone path that he had followed earlier, into the apple orchard beyond, where the trees were heavy with green fruit.

“Did you get back the letters that awful man stole from you?” she demanded at once.

“Oh yes – Mr. Beaumont and I have resolved that problem.”

“Don’t treat me like a child! Is your life in danger because of what he did?”

“I am no more at risk than I ever was – we
are
a country at war, my sweetheart! Although I do have some distressing news – my lawyer, Joshua Poole, passed away recently. But my documents, my will and so forth, are still at his chambers. I gave you the address –”

“You came to say goodbye. I won’t see you again.”

“My dearest, stop!” He seized her and kissed her. “Kate, please trust me. You have nothing to worry about.”

But she did not look persuaded as they walked back to the house.

Madam Musgrave was waiting with a parcel wrapped in cloth. “A taste of our supper,” she said, offering it to him. “And never again leave your wife so long without news of you, if you can possibly help it,” she scolded, as they accompanied him to his horse. “It’s not the only time you’ve been neglectful, sir.”

He ignored this, saying, “Until soon, ladies. May God bless you.” And he galloped off without turning back. When he had gone a little way, he hurled Madam Musgrave’s package violently into the bushes.

At Faringdon, he left his horse outside the Cross Keys Inn, the place of his appointment, and walked into the taproom. Looking the picture of ease, Beaumont was sitting with his feet propped up on a bench, his shirt and doublet hanging open, and his hair tied back loosely. He was engrossed in reading a newssheet.

“Mr. Beaumont,” Radcliff said, at which he glanced up and smiled. “We should talk elsewhere.”

“Of course,” he said, tossing aside the newssheet, and rose in a leisurely manner.

As they went out together into the courtyard, Radcliff studied his profile; the flare to his nostrils and the upward slant of his eyes and fine brows were reminiscent of a drawing Radcliff had once seen of some Oriental prince.

“Unbearably hot weather,” Radcliff commented, trying to imitate Beaumont’s relaxed air.

“I find it quite agreeable.”

“Your Spanish blood must account for that.”

“Blood’s all the same, don’t you think?”

They passed through the gates to the yard, and into the quiet country road beyond, where after a silence, Radcliff began, “I must admit, Dr. Seward has scarcely altered in these many years since I last met him.”

“I doubt either of us will be as fortunate as he,” Beaumont said, with a laugh.

“You don’t expect we’ll reach his age?”

“The odds aren’t all that good. How I wish you’d never been robbed – in The Hague, I mean,” Beaumont added. “It would have made life much less difficult for me.”

“But you can’t regret stealing my letters from the priest’s hole.” Radcliff halted, to face him. “Did my wife know that you had been in there?”

“Does it really matter now?” Beaumont grinned at him with sudden brilliance. “
I’ve
a question for
you
, Radcliff. Who was your favourite girl in Blackman Street?”

“What are you talking about?” Radcliff said sharply.

“Or at Simeon’s house, then? I knew all the women – as in the Bible, you might say. Who did you prefer? Oh, I remember, it was Marie, wasn’t it.”

Radcliff’s hands curled inadvertently into fists. “May we get to the point? Will you come with me to London?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I don’t believe in suicide.”

“Is that what you think it would be?”

“Don’t you want me dead?” Beaumont responded in a casual tone; he might have been asking Radcliff the time of day.

“My feelings are irrelevant,” Radcliff said, his jaw clenched. “Part of my bargain with Lord Falkland is to ensure your safe return to him.”

“Then I’ll be most obliged to you. Let’s talk about Pembroke,” Beaumont went on, more seriously. “How could he hope to seize power with so few accomplices?”

“He had more than you were aware of, or I, probably. And then he did not require a large force if he could succeed in building his reputation as a peacemaker, even as he was –” Radcliff broke off.

“Plotting to murder the King. How did that sit with you?” Radcliff said nothing. “Even if he succeeded, there’d be no peace. I hear he can’t even govern his own tongue. How could he govern a kingdom? You haven’t answered me, by the way. How did
you
feel about regicide?”

“It was a necessary evil. And it was predicted.”

“Ah yes, the horoscope. What did Pembroke promise you that would make it worth taking such a risk?”

“You would not understand. Your family circumstances are more blessed than mine.”

Beaumont shook his head sceptically. “You weren’t exactly starving.”

“Look at me, Mr. Beaumont,” Radcliff said, mastering an urge to draw out his sword and plunge it into Beaumont’s guts. “I am a small landowner, not starving, but of modest means, and though gently born, unimportant. At forty, past the prime of my life, I find myself
worse off for the increase in taxes than when I inherited at twenty-five. My only chance to rise has been through the condescension of my superiors. Men such as I cannot so much as piss in the wrong corner, lest we offend someone who might be useful to us at some future time. Now look at you. You scorn the pretensions of society and rank. When I said you were an honest man, in a way I meant it. You can afford to challenge convention, just as Pembroke can let loose any profanity he wishes. And you have friends in high places. Falkland, and Wilmot –”

“You had Pembroke, though all along you were prepared to sell him out if you had to. You’ve been hoist by your own petard. You should have betrayed him earlier.”

“Where would that have got me? Again, I am not you. See how effortlessly you gained the confidence of the Secretary of State. Falkland gave the letters credence because of your father’s name. He trusted you.”

“And Pembroke trusted
you
because of your astrological skills. Is he really that superstitious?” Beaumont queried, as if it were an afterthought.

“I do not consider astrology a superstition. But yes, he is in other respects.”

They were quiet for a while; then Beaumont said, “So you’ve been hunting about London for intelligence on Parliament’s spies.”

“I was lucky to have some useful connections in that regard. It’s not to save myself, as I told Dr. Seward. I just want my wife to be able to raise our child without shrinking with shame at my memory.”

“She won’t shrink, Radcliff. She’s not the sort.”

Radcliff glared at him, livid. “What do you know about my wife?”

“No more than I ought to,” Beaumont said, laughing again. “Now, Falkland is waiting for us. Shall we go to him?”

Stephens woke Falkland around midnight.

“I had that dream again, Stephens,” Falkland said.

“Of Great Tew?”

“Yes. It is always so refreshing.”

“My lord, Dr. Seward and Mr. Beaumont are here with Sir Bernard Radcliff.”

Falkland sat up quickly, a sweat breaking over him; at long last, he and Radcliff would meet. “What does Radcliff look like, Stephens?”

“He has a grey aspect, my lord. He strikes me as a very sober man.”

“And how is Mr. Beaumont with him?”

“Watching him as a fox might its quarry.”

“Thank you, Stephens. Tell them that I shall join them directly.”

Falkland had been sleeping dressed. He put on his boots, and tidied his hair before the looking glass, all the while thinking of that first day when Beaumont had come to him with the letters. “I pray I am not sending him to his death,” he murmured to his own image, and walked out.

In the other chamber he found them all seated around the table. Radcliff and Seward made as if to rise, but Falkland motioned for them to stay where they were. Radcliff’s expression was both dignified and respectful; how one could be deceived by it, Falkland thought.

He turned to Seward. “Doctor, is Sir Bernard Radcliff apprised of His Majesty’s offer to him?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And you too, Mr. Beaumont?”

“Yes,” answered Beaumont, his eyes on Radcliff. “A ten-year sentence and a small fine. Not bad, for a would-be regicide.”

Radcliff bit his lip but did not speak.

“Sir Bernard, the list, if you please,” said Falkland. Radcliff produced a rolled document and placed it on the table. “Thank you. You
may leave us.” After Radcliff had gone, Falkland asked, “Are any of the names familiar to you, Mr. Beaumont?”

Without permission, Beaumont had picked up the list and was examining it. “No, though that means nothing.”

“I must agree with you about Sir Bernard. It infuriates me that he should be so leniently treated.”