The Best of Men Page 6

  “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?

  CHAPTER TWO

  I.

  In 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.

  At length, setting aside her quill, she glanced up. “Tomorrow you must be measured for a suit of clothes. Yours are in a terrible state. It is not appropriate for a man of your rank to be so unconcern
ed as to how you go about. And it is high time for you to make amends for the anguish you caused us.”

  “Is that still possible?” he asked lightly, smiling at her.

  “Indeed it is. You know what a war could mean to our family. You are thirty years of age, Laurence. You must marry, and give his lordship an heir. Oh sit, will you!” He obeyed, crossing his legs. “We have a match in mind,” she continued. “If you thoroughly dislike the girl, as I presume you did the last, there will be others to choose from. But it must be done. Can you not see how his lordship has grown old, for fretting about you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, more seriously.

  “You should be.” Closing the account book, she got up to lock it away in her enamelled cabinet. “Are you not curious about this new prospect?”

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to consider my feelings, one way or the other,” he responded, still smiling.

  “You shall, once we arrange for you to meet her. And if I may beg another favour, keep your distance from the servants,” she said, as she settled back at her desk. “They won’t respect you if you treat them as equals. I don’t know why you persist in that.”

  “A bad habit I must have picked up abroad,” he murmured.

  “No, sir, you have always done so,” she corrected him. There fell a silence, and he had the impression that she was steeling herself to broach a more difficult subject. “I gather you sustained some wounds abroad.” Laurence merely nodded, unwilling to make things easier for her. “I trust that you … that you are not damaged permanently from any of them?”

  “Damaged?” he repeated. What a word to use, he thought to himself.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t pretend you misunderstand me,” she snapped, blushing again. “Are you capable of fathering a child?”

  He hesitated a little, enjoying her embarrassment. “I gave you the answer to that question some years ago, if I remember.”

  “Then I take it there is no impediment?”

  “Not as far as I’m aware.”

  “Laurence, I can only assume that you have led a rather loose life in the past. Were you ever infected?”

  He laughed, genuinely amused; he might as well be a prize bull for breeding, which in fact he supposed he was. “Not that I’ve ever noticed, though my good luck amazes me.”

  “I beg of you to put an end to such debauchery, in view of what is to come.”

  “Casar, casar, que bien, que mal,” he remarked, knowing that she hated to hear her mother tongue and that the old Spanish proverb, a wry comment on matrimony, would annoy her just as much.

  She frowned at him severely. “You shall marry, sir, for my peace of mind and for that of his lordship. And one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Elizabeth also told us that you do not want to serve in Thomas’ troop. If this is because of some foolish past rivalry between you, remember that he was a boy of nineteen when you last saw him. You will find him altered. He has been a most dutiful son to us, in your absence. He and his wife, Mary, stayed here at Chipping Campden after their wedding last year, though they would no doubt have preferred to establish their own household. Your father granted them a manor and some acreage near Gloucester, but as we had begun to lose all hope that you would return, we thought it best that he become acquainted with the business of the estate.”

  “Of course,” Laurence said. Poor Tom, he reflected; the prize had just been snatched away.

  “It will comfort his lordship to know that you and Thomas are together, if circumstances require you to fight. That is all,” she concluded. “You may go now, and break your fast.”

  “Thank you,” he said, forgetting to bow to her as he left. He was still thinking of his brother.

  II.

  He had been fifteen, and Tom almost ten. One afternoon in very late summer when rain prevented him from going to the river to bathe, he had escaped to his other favourite place, for both contemplation and a solitary, forbidden pleasure to which youths of his age were much addicted. The tall barn had been built for storing grain but was dilapidated and empty; he liked to sit on the topmost level, from which a platform extended so that men could toss sacks of corn down into the waiting carts. It provided an excellent view of the fields beyond, stacked with bales of fresh hay.

  As he arrived, the sky cleared and rays of sunshine began to filter through the disappearing clouds. He went onto the platform, took off his doublet and shirt and lay back to bask in the heat; and he had just slipped a hand lazily below the waist of his breeches when he saw Tom clamber out of the barn.

  “So this is where you hide!” Tom exclaimed.

  “Go away,” Laurence said, snatching out his hand and sitting up. Tom was forever tagging after him, being more and more of a nuisance with his incessant questions and his desire to ape everything that his older brother did.

  Tom peered over the edge of the platform. “Would it kill you if you fell? I’ll bet it would, unless you landed over in that haystack.”

  He chattered on and on in his grating childish voice, so to silence it Laurence asked, “Shall we see?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Tom said.

  As though a powerful drug had been released into his system, Laurence strode to the edge, feeling a weightlessness in his body that convinced him he could fly or float in the air.

  “No!” shouted Tom, but Laurence had already sailed off.

  He fell, squarely, in the midst of the nearby haystack and rolled down, laughing and exhilarated until he glimpsed his brother’s silhouette against the sky. Horrified, he jumped up and ran to catch Tom as he leapt, and they both collapsed together in a panting heap. Tom suffered a broken ankle and a few scrapes and scratches. Laurence was unharmed, though ridden with guilt at his own heedlessness. As punishment, he was thrashed so hard that he could not sit down for days, though he deserved worse. They could both have broken their necks. Afterwards, Tom shied away from him whenever he tried to apologise, and eventually he gave up.

  That September he left for his first term at Oxford, and when he returned to the house for the Christmastide holiday, the distance between him and his brother seemed even greater: he had made new friends, such as Ingram, and found himself bored by Tom’s company. He took to teasing Tom, and they would end up in fights that he won, since he was bigger and stronger. Over the years his brother grew almost as tall, and stockier in build, so the physical sparring ceased and they fought with words. These battles Laurence also won, sending Tom into speechless rage. By the time that Tom started at Merton College, at the age of seventeen, Laurence was off in London and visited home infrequently. If they chanced to encounter one another alone, Tom barely addressed him.

  III.

  “When did you hear?” Ingram asked Tom, as they rode towards Chipping Campden.

  “My father sent his valet two days ago with the news. I’m glad you came to find me before I set out – I was in need of some company,” Tom confessed, at which Ingram guessed that he must have mixed feelings about Beaumont’s reappearance. “Ingram, is my brother any different?”

  “I’m sure he is,” Ingram replied cautiously. “He saw some awful things while he was away. And he was wounded over there, almost killed.”

  “I can’t imagine him as a soldier, he was so poor at fencing. He used to hate any form of discipline. He always did exactly as he pleased.” Ingram smiled at the truth of this. “You know,” Tom went on, “I wanted to fight abroad, too, but my father wouldn’t allow it.”

  “He couldn’t afford to risk both of his sons in a foreign conflict.”

  “It will be different here.”

  “Yes, it will,” Ingram said, looking at him. He had Lord Beaumont’s good features and colouring, his hair and beard dark blond as his father’s would once have been. Save for a hint of his brother in the fine lines of his jaw and high cheekbones, nothing else betrayed their kinship.

  Certainly not his manner, Ingram thought: Tom carried himself with all the poise
and authority of a handsome young nobleman, in his well-cut clothes and expensive calfskin boots. Yet he had a sober, martial air about him these days that Ingram had not observed in him before. “How’s the troop?” Ingram asked.

  “I’m proud of the men, to be honest, though we’re still too few in number. I can’t wait to see them tested in the field.”

  “Soon enough,” Ingram said, unable to hide his own pessimism.

  “You’re not afraid of a war, are you?” Tom said, as though no one should be.

  “I am afraid, of what it will do to this country.”

  “Those scoundrels in Parliament should get what they’re asking for!”

  Tom spurred on his horse, and they passed the rest of their journey in silence. Upon galloping into the courtyard, he dismounted, flung his reins to the groom, and marched up to the house with his head held high, which made Ingram wonder if he was still angry from their brief political discussion. Ignoring the manservant who offered to take his hat and cloak, he entered the hall, with Ingram on his heels.

  Beaumont was installed in an armchair, slouched back, a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. He looked up at them and then slowly extricated himself from the chair.

  “Home at last, eh?” Tom said, in a brusque tone. “How are you, Laurence?”

  “I’m well, thanks,” Beaumont said, sounding formally polite. “And you?”

  “Never better.”

  Ingram started to laugh. “Is that all you have to say to each other after six years? How about a fraternal hug?”

  Tom approached rather awkwardly, his arms wide.

  “Oh, Tom – you don’t have to embrace me if you don’t want to,” Beaumont said, relaxing into a laugh also. Tom flushed and dropped his arms. “Here, have some wine,” Beaumont offered, perhaps aware that he had been ungracious.

  “Fond of the grape, as ever,” remarked Tom, still eyeing him as he served it out.

  “Of this wine, yes, especially after what I’ve been drinking for the past months.”