The Best of Men Read online

  “Drop the bottle,” he said. Saint-Etienne hesitated, then threw it aside. “Now please leave, unless you wish me to draw blood.”

  “The gypsy has my money,” the Frenchman responded, his tone menacing. “Give me back what’s mine and I shall go, or on my honour as a gentleman, I’ll make sure that this house is closed down within the month. If you have friends in The Hague, so do I.”

  At this, Simeon relented. “Fetch the boy and search his clothes,” he told the grooms, who had rushed in, panting.

  The gypsy was dragged up and had his cloak ripped away. In the bright candlelight he seemed more a youth than a boy, though delicate in feature and still beardless. He wore a tight cap on his head that the men also stripped off; and as they did so, a cascade of long black hair fell out.

  “Saints alive!” cried Marguerite. “It’s a woman.”

  “I don’t care if it has a cunt or a cock between its legs,” said Saint-Etienne. “I want my money.”

  The gypsy had been clutching her chest. Now she bent over and shook out half a dozen coins from the front of her shirt, glaring at him with wild, defiant eyes.

  “Is that everything you stole?” Laurence asked her, though he could not have cared less if she had kept all of it.

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Not even close to the sum you mentioned, Seigneur de Saint-Etienne,” Simeon commented, as a groom picked up the coins. “So much for your honour as a gentleman. Pray take your money and relieve us of your presence – and don’t return.”

  Saint-Etienne swung about, to face Laurence. “I will return, and as God is my witness, on that day I’ll slit you from stem to stern.”

  “Why don’t you go and fuck yourself,” sneered Laurence, and the grooms hustled Saint-Etienne out.

  “You could not have made a worse foe, Monsieur Beaumont,” Simeon told Laurence grimly afterwards. “He’s one of the most talented duellers in France.”

  “And one of the most conceited pricks, which is some achievement in his country.”

  “So you went to all this trouble to teach him a lesson in humility?” Laurence shrugged, somewhat less elated as he noticed the pool of blood accumulating at his feet. “You crazy fellow,” Simeon said. “I can’t believe you’ve survived as long as you have – you must be as lucky in life as you are at cards. Sit down, before you fall over, and let me attend to that cut.”

  Laurence obeyed. His vision was beginning to fog and his ears were ringing. Just then he felt someone tug at his good arm, and looked, as through a mist, to see the gypsy crouched beside him. “Thank you, kind sir,” she mumbled, in oddly inflected Dutch. “I am forever in your debt.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I.

  Since seven of the morning Radcliff had been at drill with his troop in the meadows outside Oxford, and as the sun reached its zenith he decided that they should break for their noonday meal. They were growing increasingly listless, though on hearing the drummer beat out Radcliff’s command, they let out a cheer and dispersed with great alacrity to receive their rations from the quartermaster. Radcliff was also in need of refreshment, his throat sore from yelling orders. He had arranged to meet Walter Ingram at the Lamb Inn, where he was staying, and he invited two of his men, Blunt and Fuller, to come along.

  “There’s a garden at the back that should provide some relief from this heat,” he said. They accepted gratefully; both of them had sweated damp half-moons at the armpits of their buff jackets, and Blunt’s face was burnt to a raw pink.

  They walked their horses into town, where the traffic was so dense that they could scarcely pass, and the stench of ordure, human and animal, forced Radcliff to cover his nose.

  “Some effort must be made to clean up after the troops,” he remarked, “or else they’ll be falling like ninepins from the foul air.”

  “That one’s just falling from strong drink,” said Blunt, as an inebriated recruit weaved across their path.

  “It’s as well there’s talk of imposing a curfew soon,” Fuller added. “Too many tossers like him. Bad for morale.”

  The Lamb, when they reached it, was as crowded as every other tavern in Oxford. While its reputation as a superior establishment attracted the higher ranks and other gentlemen of quality, Radcliff had chosen it mainly because he could have a private chamber upstairs to himself, however small, in case he had to send out or receive any messages for Pembroke.

  “Well now, this makes a change,” Fuller commented, as they strolled into the shady garden after leaving their mounts with a groom to be rubbed down.

  Trestle tables and benches were set up amongst the trees, and an aroma of roasted meat drifted out from the inn’s kitchen. As they were settling in, a new party of men arrived, splendidly attired, with colourful silk sashes about their waists. They seemed to have had a table reserved for them by the Lamb’s proprietor, and they received prompt service, flagons and bottles appearing before them at once, as if by magic.

  “Important folk,” Blunt said, eyeing them with jealous disgust.

  “Yes, that’s Henry Wilmot, with the blue sash,” Radcliff said, “and the man beside him is Charles Danvers. I know them from the Dutch cavalry. The others I don’t recognise.”

  “Henry Wilmot,” Fuller repeated, in an awed tone. “Wasn’t it he who led the charge against the Scots, at the battle of Newburn two years ago?”

  “And got captured by them afterwards, for his valour. He was Commissioner General of the King’s Horse in that war, so he’s sure to be given a similar command here.”

  Radcliff observed Ingram coming in, and stood to catch his attention. A pitcher of ale arrived just in time, for Ingram looked as hot and sweaty as they were, and as thirsty. They exchanged a quick greeting, and gulped down their ale.

  “Nothing better than that, after a long ride,” Ingram said, licking the foam from his lips.

  “Where did you come from?” Blunt asked.

  “I was at Chipping Campden in Gloucestershire where my friend’s father, Lord Beaumont, has his seat. Beaumont and I rode in together, but he had some errand to do before meeting us. He should be here soon.”

  “Have you spoken to him yet about our troop?” Radcliff inquired, picturing again a bluff country nobleman.

  “Yes, though it turns out he may have other plans. There’s a chance he might be employed by the Secretary of State, who is a neighbour of Lord Beaumont’s.”

  How very convenient, Radcliff thought. “Employed in what capacity?”

  Ingram seemed to hesitate. “I believe he has some experience with ciphers, from his time in the German army. At any rate, Radcliff,” he went on hastily, “you’ll have a lot in common. At least, I hope you will.”

  A girl came bearing their plates of capon and pork, and cheese and onion pasties. Blunt and Fuller pounced on the food, chewing noisily.

  “How are the men at drill?” Ingram asked Radcliff, who had selected a drumstick and was about to bite into it, careful not to spill grease on the front of his doublet.

  “We’re making progress,” he said, “though this weather tends to sap the men’s energy. Oh, and I’ve purchased twenty new pistols. Some fellows will still be without but I haven’t the funds to buy more. Nonetheless, I’d like to train them all properly in the use of their weapons before the month is up. We can’t have any lives lost through accidents, and they must learn to load and fire more speedily.”

  “They must,” agreed Fuller, “or they’ll be finished off in no time if it comes to an engagement.”

  Ingram flushed; at practice recently he had failed to hit a target, sending the ball way overhead. “We’re not hunting ducks on the wing,” Blunt had teased him, and he had been visibly offended.

  “So, Ingram, did you enjoy your reunion with Beaumont?” Radcliff asked.

  “What I remember of it. He brought me back to Richard’s house in a sorry state. Richard was not pleased.”

  “Your brother could forgive a little excess. You hadn’t seen Beaumont in
years.”

  “Richard’s never been very forgiving of Beaumont. He thinks Beaumont’s had a bad influence on me ever since we were students up at university.”

  “And is Richard correct?”

  “In some ways, yes,” Ingram said, laughing, as the girl set a fresh round of ale before them.

  Radcliff now saw another man arrive at Wilmot’s table. He was tall and spare, his skin very dark, and his hair so black that it had almost a blue sheen to it, like a crow’s plumage. He wore no hat nor armour, nor even a sword. He looked, in fact, rather shabby. Wilmot got up and clapped him on the shoulder, as did Charles Danvers.

  “There he is – that’s Beaumont,” exclaimed Ingram.

  Radcliff was surprised: this did not fit his image of Beaumont at all. Ingram called out to his friend, who waved back, and after a brief word to Wilmot, approached. Radcliff was amazed not only by the colour of his eyes but by his whole appearance. It could not be, Radcliff told himself.

  “Beaumont,” Ingram said, “may I introduce Sir Bernard Radcliff, and Corporals Fuller and Blunt.” Too upset to rise, Radcliff extended his hand, which Beaumont grasped politely; his palm, unlike Radcliff’s, was dry. “Some ale?” Ingram asked him, as he took a seat.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “We meet at last, sir,” said Radcliff, exerting the utmost control to hide his shock. “Ingram told me you served six years abroad. We’re looking for men of your calibre. You would be most welcome to ride as an officer in our troop.” Beaumont inclined his head minimally, as if to acknowledge the offer. “Although you may have a prior commitment,” Radcliff continued, curiosity getting the better of him. “To my Lord Falkland, or so Ingram mentioned.”

  This time Beaumont made no response. He cast Ingram a sidelong glance, at which Ingram winced back at him with an air of mute apology.

  “Here’s to the King,” Radcliff said, distributing ale amongst them.

  “To the King,” chorused Blunt and Fuller.

  About to reach for his cup, Beaumont pushed back his sleeve with a casual movement, exposing his wrist. Radcliff tried not to stare. Sweat broke out on his brow, and a while passed before he could speak. “A war wound, is it?” he said, pointing at the scar.

  Beaumont smiled and shook his head, his face lighting up in a charming manner. “I got into an argument over some cards,” he replied. He had an undistinguished accent, lacking the crisp intonation typical of an aristocrat.

  Radcliff swallowed, his mouth parched in spite of the ale. “When did it happen?”

  “Oh, last winter.”

  “And where were you then?” Radcliff said, aware from the slight impatience in Beaumont’s eyes that he was pressing too far. But he was now almost certain.

  “In The Hague.”

  “Knife, was it?” Fuller put in.

  “No. Someone cut me with a broken bottle.”

  “Nasty, that,” Blunt said.

  Radcliff picked up his cup to raise it to his mouth, then quickly set it down again; he was feeling sick to his stomach.

  “What’s the matter, Radcliff?” Ingram asked. “You don’t seem well.”

  Radcliff essayed a smile. “Must be the heat.”

  “You’re white as a ghost, sir,” Fuller said. “You should rest. We’ll see to the drill this afternoon.”

  “I do thank you,” Radcliff said, through his teeth, as they all got up. “A short sleep is probably what I need.”

  “You have to leave, too?” Beaumont asked Ingram.

  “Duty calls.” Ingram gestured in the direction of Wilmot. “You can always rejoin the Commissioner General, Beaumont. He seems to be a great friend of yours.”

  “When it suits him,” remarked Beaumont, with a laugh. “But no, I’ve something else to do. I hope you feel better soon,” he said to Radcliff.

  “Thank you, sir.” Radcliff bowed to him, and the party broke up.

  Radcliff waited until the others were out of sight before heading inside and upstairs to his chamber. He went in, shut the door, and lay down on his pallet, taking deep breaths to calm the fluttering in his chest. What a calamitous stroke of fate! He could not have predicted it. Blinded to his own future, he was like a man fighting with one arm tied behind his back.

  Gradually, however, his nausea abated. He was looking at things from the wrong perspective, he realised, as if from the wrong end of a spyglass. There must be a design behind it all: he and Beaumont had met so that he could regain what was rightfully his.

  More optimistic, he descended to the taproom and paid a boy to deliver a message for him. Half an hour later, he heard three raps at the door to his chamber.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Tyler entered, ducking so as not to hit his head against the doorframe; as always, he wore his wide-brimmed hat tipped low, perhaps to hide the fact that one of his eyes was askew, lending his face a permanently sinister quality.

  “Did you avoid the garden on your way in, as I told you?” Radcliff asked at once.

  “Aye,” Tyler said. There was nowhere for him to sit, so he squatted on his haunches, resting his massive forearms on his thighs. “Wouldn’t do for us to be seen together.”

  “Indeed it wouldn’t. And now we must be particularly vigilant. Remember the cardsharp at the brothel? Monsieur Beaumont, as they called him?”

  “How could I not, after you had me chase him and his slut across France.”

  “Well, he’s here in Oxford. I was introduced to him this afternoon in the garden.”

  “By the very devil!” Tyler removed his hat, which left an indentation in his thick hair that would normally have provoked Radcliff’s mirth. “How in hell –”

  “It came about through Walter Ingram, who was badgering me to meet a friend of his, lately returned from the Low Countries, a nobleman’s son by the name of Beaumont. Not for the life of me would I have expected it, but he is the same Beaumont.”

  “You must be mistaken!”

  “You couldn’t mistake a man like him. He is exactly as the Jew’s grooms described him to us, scar and all.”

  “Might he have recognised you?”

  “Certainly not. Neither he nor the gypsy saw me that night. Tyler, we have been given a wonderful opportunity. If Beaumont still has my correspondence, I may be able to retrieve it. Of course he’ll have spent the gold, but the letters –”

  “Why would he bother keeping them?” said Tyler, scratching at the stubble on his chin. Radcliff frowned, for it was a good question. Still, he had not forgotten what Ingram had let slip about Beaumont’s experience with ciphers. “And if he did, what could it matter?” Tyler went on. “You said the code couldn’t be broken, so why worry?”

  “I am not worried, Tyler – I just want the letters for my own satisfaction,” Radcliff answered shortly.

  “Oh, I see now.” Tyler grinned. “Whatever I didn’t do abroad, I’ll do here.”

  Radcliff let out a harsh sigh. “Listen to me. We are in England. Beaumont is not some Jew’s minion whose throat you can slit in a dark alleyway without any consequences. His father is a respected peer.”

  “I shall make it look clean.”

  “I forbid you to try it yet. We could lose any chance we might have of getting back the letters. Is that understood?”

  Tyler assumed a sulky expression. “When have I disobeyed you?”

  “Not once, and rest assured, I shall reward you for that in time.” Radcliff paused, then said more quietly, “I know from Ingram where Beaumont’s family estate lies, in the Cotswolds, and can easily ask when he might next be there. We shall confront him on his father’s territory, which will come as something of a jolt to him, I believe. I shall send Poole to demand that he surrender the letters for a reasonable sum.”

  “You said his father was a peer! Why would he need money? Even if he spent your gold, his dad must be rich enough to keep him.”

  “I have thought of that. If the money doesn’t spark his interest, Poole will suggest what the letters could
cost him should he refuse to hand them over. The mere hint of menace to his noble family could be enough, though if he fails to bend, you might be allowed to demonstrate to him that our threats are far from idle.” Radcliff smiled at Tyler. “Only play your highest card when it is imperative for victory: a rule of gaming with which Beaumont must be very familiar.”

  “Poole can’t game.”

  “He’s a lawyer. He games with words.”

  “Words,” murmured Tyler disdainfully, yet Radcliff could see that he was flattered to be held in reserve.

  “Beaumont won’t be hard to keep track of around here, and I can also provide you with information about his movements from Ingram. I want you to stay on his tail, as you did in France. But if he catches sight of you, we are both finished – you above all. Is that clear?”

  Tyler nodded and stood up, his head grazing the beamed ceiling; he was fingering the brim of his hat. “Why won’t you tell me what’s in those letters? I risked my neck to get them for you.”

  “You were paid generously, even though you were unsuccessful.”

  “If I hadn’t fallen sick in Paris, I wouldn’t have lost him.”

  “And you found him, and lost him again.”

  “I did my best. I wanted him and the slut dead as much as you. He may be the son of a lord, but I know him for a canny rogue. He could still do you mischief. Let me take him down!”

  “Not until I know about the letters. After that, we shall see. Good day to you, Tyler.”

  When his servant had gone, Radcliff sat back down on his pallet and heaved another sigh. How to raise enough money to tempt Beaumont into handing over the letters, if he still had them? Radcliff’s own scant funds were almost spent in outfitting the troop. He had no choice: he would have to sell some of the jewels that Pembroke had given him for Kate as a wedding present.

  II.