The Best of Men Page 2

  She dropped Laurence’s hands and leant forward to murmur in his ear. “You must go home.”

  “Why?” he whispered, his voice as tremulous as the rest of him.

  “That is for you to learn.” She slipped from her arm a thin leather bracelet, which seemed to contain something stitched inside. “Here – it will protect you on the journey, and remove the worst of the poison,” she said, looping it about his scarred wrist. “Wear it until it falls off of its own accord.” As she fastened it, uttering words in another, incomprehensible language, he felt every nerve in his body tense and he could not avert his gaze from hers. Then she ran her hands over his face, as if to release him from her spell, and smiled sadly.

  He bowed his head, trying to comprehend what had passed through him, and when he looked up, he was half relieved to see that she had vanished.

  Yusuf was refilling the pipe. Apparently oblivious to his guest’s unease, he started to talk about the many ports he had visited, and the many occasions that he had braved death when his ships had been overrun by pirates, or swept into storms or wrecked on hostile shores; and he spoke of his love for the ocean, as whimsical a mistress as the goddess Fortune herself. “There is no life without her,” he concluded, “and maybe one day I shall set sail for a last time.” He fell silent, regarding Laurence with his dark, hooded eyes, before asking, “Which course will you choose tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know,” Laurence said. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Not so,” Yusuf told him quietly. “In your heart, you have already decided.”

  Part One

  England, July–August 1642

  CHAPTER ONE

  I.

  “How is it for you, Beaumont, to be in England again?” Ingram asked.

  Beaumont glanced around as if he might find an answer somewhere in the dank atmosphere of the taproom. “Strange,” he replied.

  “Well, you look much the same,” Ingram said, although this was not completely true.

  “But look at you, Ingram. You’ve lost some hair.

  “Ingram ran a hand over his scalp. “Kind of you to mention it.” Beaumont, he observed, had not lost any of his hair, which was as black as ever, wavy and unkempt, tied back with a piece of string. As always, he appeared conspicuously foreign beside his fellow countrymen with their red and pink complexions, even when he was not burned to his present dark brown by a harsher sun than theirs; indeed, his colouring had earned him the derogatory Latin nickname of Niger when they were at university together. He still possessed his attitude of relaxed grace, leaning back against the wall so that he did not have to sit up straight on the wooden bench. He was clean-shaven, though not very well, and not very recently. He wore no jewellery save the plain gold earring that had a special significance for Ingram: on the night Beaumont had got his ear pierced, he himself had lost his virginity at an Oxford brothel. While waiting for him, Beaumont had submitted to this small operation, performed by his favourite girl. When she wanted to give Ingram the same treatment, he had refused, blushing after what he had just done, and anxious to return to the safety of their college.

  It amused him to see that Beaumont’s clothes were in typical disarray: his collar was missing, the front of his shirt hung open, and his doublet lacked most of its buttons. Apart from his shirt, which seemed reasonably fresh, everything was stained and torn. His dishevelled state could not be taken as an indication of his material circumstances. Ingram had known him to have his pockets full of money and be no better dressed.

  Yet he had changed, Ingram thought. Though lanky as ever, he was broader in the shoulders: life in the army must have forced him into some more strenuous physical activities than drinking and bedding women. The shadowy skin around his pale green eyes had deepened in hue. His face was thinner, the lines on either side of his mouth now more pronounced, as were his high cheekbones, and he had acquired a small scar across his lower lip on the left side. His expression was not quite so mischievous as Ingram remembered; perhaps he even had a guarded look about him.

  “You hardly acquired that blackamoor colour fighting in the Low Countries,” Ingram remarked.

  “I was in Spain for the last two or three months.”

  “In Spain! To see your mother’s family?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then?” Beaumont shifted in his seat. “Let me guess,” Ingram said. “It was for a woman. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you in love?” Beaumont squinted at him. “Tell me about her. Was she some Spanish duchess bored by an inattentive husband? A courtesan more skilled in the arts of seduction than you?”

  “Enough, Ingram.”

  “It ended badly, I assume.”

  “Very badly.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you sail here straight from Spain?”

  “No, I flew,” said Beaumont sarcastically. “Let’s get some more wine.”

  He gestured at the serving woman, who approached at once with a new jug. He asked her name, at which she blushed and answered, giggling, and hovered by their table until summoned by another drinker.

  “Ever prodigal with your charm, aren’t you,” Ingram commented, when she had gone.

  “It doesn’t cost anything to be pleasant.”

  “Speaking of pleasant, this is the lowest tavern in Newbury. I wouldn’t have set foot in it if you hadn’t insisted. Why didn’t you come to my brother’s house, half a mile off? We serve much better wine.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Beaumont, availing himself of the inferior liquid, “but I didn’t think Richard would be happy to see me. And I like low taverns.”

  “As well I recall. Oh, Beaumont, I’m overjoyed to see you. I kept wondering if you were alive, hoping you were.”

  Beaumont responded with one of the beautiful flashing smiles that Ingram had never managed to resist no matter how much his friend might irritate him, and reached out to pat Ingram’s hand. As he did so, Ingram saw that he bore another much longer scar on the underside of his left wrist, a jagged white line that contrasted painfully with the skin around it and ran from some point hidden beneath his sleeve all the way down to the base of his thumb. About the same wrist was tied a curious leather band that he now pushed back beneath his sleeve as though he did not want Ingram to notice it.

  “How did you get the scar?” Ingram asked.

  “A game of cards,” he said, dismissively.

  “Still playing the tables, are you?”

  “If the need arises.”

  They were silent for a while; then Ingram said, “I’m glad you caught me when you did. I was about to leave for Oxford to join my troop.”

  “Your troop?”

  “I know – you’d think I’d be the last man to take up arms. But then you weren’t exactly full of martial spirit six years ago.”

  “I wasn’t, and I’m still not,” Beaumont said, with a laugh.

  “We may have no choice in the matter soon,” Ingram said, lowering his voice. “War is very likely.”

  “What brought it all about, Ingram – politics or religion?” Beaumont inquired, pouring for them both.

  Ingram sighed and considered. “As much the one as the other, I’d say. Parliament had its grievances over the King levying taxes without its consent, and imposing his prayer book, here and in Scotland. But there’s been rioting everywhere. You may not have heard yet – Parliament has accused His Majesty of being seduced by evil counsellors, Lord Digby above all, and Queen Henrietta Maria herself. Can you imagine – the radicals in the House of Commons were threatening to impeach her, to bring her to trial! They believed she was scheming to import Catholic troops from Ireland to stamp out the dissent in London. His Majesty had to send her to The Hague, they were both in such fear of her life. Hard to believe their own subjects would show such disrespect for her – and for a king who ruled in peace for so many years.”

  “For over ten of which he couldn’t even be bothered to hold a Parliament,” Beaumont said, in his ironi
c way. “He only summoned it back because he was short of money. That doesn’t show much respect for his subjects.”

  “I see you’re more informed than you pretend to be. Why did you ask for my opinion of events?” Beaumont merely shrugged. “I think you enjoy playing devil’s advocate. You always have.”

  “Don’t be annoyed with me, Ingram. All I’m suggesting is that there seems to be wrong on both sides, and that the differences between King and Parliament could be negotiated –”

  “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.
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br />   “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.”