The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  Sir John escorted his daughter up into her white tower and handed her gently into her cushioned chair. Mazera placed a chaplet of white roses about her brow and the stands, brimming over with villagers, retainers and visitors clapped dutifully. Sir John patted his daughter's hand and retired to sit in the sunlight with his cronies. Mazera, in apple-green fustian, sank down beside her mistress, hugging herself with anticipation.

  Beyond the sanded tiltyard, so carefully measured and fenced about and hung with banners of arms, the pavilions wavered in the swimming haze, bright against an incandescent sky. Below the tower, the arms of Clinton of Coleshill flapped outward in the breeze, argent and azure, charged with the golden fleurdeluce.

  The two housewives from Warwick town arrived at a leisurely pace on a pair of gentle nags, two family servants a respectful distance behind them. Both ladies were veiled; the tendency for such a fiery sun to lure forth a whole colony of freckles was well known. Orabella wore the lightest of velvets, in a deep Indian purple, powdered with silver roses, her dark hair bound up beneath one of the new goffered headdresses. Katherine was in amber silk, her surcote damascened in gilt and her heavy chestnut hair was held in a net of gold, bright with spangles.

  ‘I'll see that we commandeer a seat in the shade,’ said Lady A but the countess shook her head:

  ‘No, let the men look to the horses and then be off amusing themselves. I have a mind to be more than spectator, but first, let us study form. We'll take those two spaces just by the gate.’

  ‘Kate…’ warned Lady A and closed her mouth. What use in wasting breath upon a lost argument. She followed her mistress and they sat upon a rough wooden bench, crushed between Sir John's laundress and Johanna's fifteen year old kennel boy.

  At the declaration that proceedings were open the combatants of the home team, Clinton's nephews and cousins and distant kin and nearer neighbours, rode into the yard, each one garbed as Sir John had promised in the trappings of the infidel, in flurt silks and sarcenet and shimmering tissue, with brilliant sashes about their waists and fanciful turbans upon their hot heads, plumed and beribboned and damascened, and beside each mount strode the squires, each lad leading his master's captive, trussed in chains of plaited golden silk, teetering along on soft-slippered feet, hair unbound, each in her prettiest kirtle; the gigglers, the blushers, the whitely reticent, the bold and the demure; pantry maid and buttery girl, and at least two of the local whores, necklines gaping, breasts swelling above tight lacing.

  A strident trumpet call from the heralds in tabards of blue and silver summoned the challengers onto the field and the Lady Johanna's suitors nudged their destriers forward one by one to salute the Queen of Beauty in her tower.

  Johanna, nibbling eryngoes, face already shiny below the wilting roses of her chaplet, passed a jaded eye over each as their names and titles were announced: Archer of Umberslade, displaying golden arrows pointing heavenwards from his surcote; a Fulwood, a third son in red and silver, (Mazera whispered that it looked as if the moth had been at his horse-cloth); a Conyngsby, whose unfortunate, buck-toothed smile complemented the rabbits of his canting arms so well. Even the Queen of Beauty had to smile back and let fall one of the baudekin scarves neatly piled in a sewing basket at her side.

  ‘Ralph Shirley!’ This was a fearsome six-footer, the shield clamped to his left arm charged with a ferocious Saracen's head. Johanna looked wearily beyond to the lozenges of the Montagues, the quartered arms of the Butlers of Sudeley, the silver pikes of the Lucy's of Charlecote, the red cross of the Tamworth Frevilles, and the rampant lion of the de la Warres. She sighed and reached for another piece of candy.

  ‘And I myself as lady gay,

  Bedeckt with gorgeous rich array;

  The bravest lady in the land

  Has not more pleasures to command.’

  ‘My Lady?’ Mazera turned to her mistress.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Surely we're at an end. What is Arnald muttering about; I can see the perspiration breaking out on his bald pate. Is there going to be a late-comer?’

  ‘Yes, My Lady. See, here he comes. Milady, he bears no arms, he carries a blank escutcheon!’

  The powerful grey, caparisoned in white taffeta figured in silver, drew a little gasp of approval from Johanna and she lifted her gaze to his rider. The young man with the white shield wore a silk tabard over his coat of mail, warped with silver threads, a single white plume curled rakishly from the helm he carried and his bridle glittered.

  ‘Your name, sir?’ asked Arnald, the Master of Ceremonies, passing a warm finger beneath the neck of his cote and wishing the day were over.

  ‘I prefer to perform what feats I may unnamed and unknown.’ The young man inclined his head politely in Arnald's direction. He looked up at the Queen of Beauty, sticky but alert. One heavy braid swung threateningly forward. The rider was a handsome young man with dark auburn hair which haloed his head and would not conform to the fashionable sausage-like roll across the forehead. Beneath the dark brows the fringe of curling eyelashes shaded fearless violet eyes. He put his head on one side and gazed up at Johanna. ‘Ah, the Fleurdeluce,

  My sweet lady, lily white,

  Sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes,

  And the mirth of thy replies….’

  Johanna was wiping her fingers on the peacock blue velvet. ‘What does this bleached apparel signify, Sir Unknown? A virgin knight, a virgin honour?’ said she somewhat unkindly. ‘What is the mystic symbolism?’

  The White Knight - who by his silver spurs was only an esquire - swept her a bow. ‘I rather thought the colour suited me.’

  Mazera was all giggles. Johanna caught her eye and smiled, flicking back the tawny braids.

  ‘Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face,

  And the touch of thine embrace.

  Who but doth in thee delight….’ said the White Knight randomly plucking lines from Aucassin and Nicolette, usually a firm favourite with the susceptible young ladies of his acquaintance. He turned to ride away to join his fellows. Johanna dropped the last of the baudekin scarves to drift across his pommel. He kissed it and allowed his valet to tie it to his helmet

  Sir John de Clinton mopped his brow with a scalloped sleeve; the first hurdle was over. The challengers threw lots for an opponent and the dubious possession of a dairy-maid, although in reality the prizes were to be of a more practical nature, issued in chinking coin.

  The captive ladies were led away to a place of honour, chains dangling, and the serious business of the day began. Only Lady A saw the countess move from her side and felt the laundress and the kennel-boy move in about her and stretch themselves in comfort. Only Lady A saw the exchange between the veiled countess and the pantry girl in blue frieze, saw the new coins pass into the girl's hands, saw her struggling from her silken bondage before slipping away. Katherine de Beauchamp, wrists tied securely by someone's verderer's niece, sat down beside a yellow-haired prostitute and prepared to enjoy herself. Lady A shuddered. 'Thomas is likely to throttle her!' she thought.

  The clash of arms, the snorting, whinnying of horses, the excitement as lances snapped or rider became unhorsed, caused tension to mount as the hours went by. One of the Turks passed out from heat stroke, two of the challengers limped from the field with minor wounds. Orabella forgot the erring countess and laid bets with herself as to the outcome of each contest. Johanna had abandoned the eryngoes and was craning forward in her tower and Lady Kate found herself clutching the prostitute in her excitement, clouded in a cheap sandalwood perfume.

  Sir Edward de Clinton, known to Johanna as Second Cousin Ned, rode out in blue and gold to face the unknown challenger in white. The Turk's cap was tossed aside in favour of the tourney helm, his lance couched ready for the signal which would send him at a gallop towards his opponent. The young man in white and silver inclined his head towards Johanna and turned his horse to ride along the line of captive girls; the as-yet-unclaimed and those unredeemed by the unfortunate challengers. Lady Kate, in her si
lks and gauzes, looked like a queen amongst the milkmaids, her bold amber eyes caught his bright gaze and he leant down from his saddle to snatch at her veil.

  ‘By your leave, mistress?’ but she shook her head, eyes mischievous and, unpinning the great jewel which fastened her light cloak to one shoulder, she reached up and attached it to the white feather in his helm from whence floated Johanna's milk-white scarf. It was an outsize pearl, crudely shaped like a perched eagle and surrounded by large diamonds. It was undoubtedly vulgar and worth a fortune.

  Second Cousin Ned was an experienced man at a joust, there were few to equal him in the middle shires, he certainly envisaged no difficulties in besting this effete young man, glittering like a frosted snowdrop on a winter's morning. But before he entered the jousting ground a furtive little man in a dun-coloured cote had begged a word and, looking up and down and whispering behind his hand, had suggested that it might be more lucrative to let this boy win his laurels. And Ned did not know whether the attempt at bribery issued from the White Knight himself, from the Lord of Coleshill, match-making in the stands, or from the beautiful woman in the gold chains on the captives' benches. Ned would have struck out in disgust at the little man in the dun cote but he had slipped back into the crowds.

  Riding together to the tilt-yard Ned had leant across, a hand on the stranger's knee. ‘Whatever you want, boy, you will fight fair for it!’ he hissed. The other only raised his brows in surprise at the outburst and deemed no reply necessary.

  The two opponents were evenly and superbly matched with the heavy tourney lance. The crowd shouted and cheered itself hoarse and went wild with excitement at each atteint. Once, the unknown challenger came near to unseating Clinton; the man rocked in his saddle but regained his balance, reined in his mount and, turning to charge through the lists again, took the full force of the White Knight's lance upon his shoulder plate. The coronel was dissevered from the haft but Clinton, though winded, kept his seat again. His opponent was left staring, wry-faced, at the splintered shaft which now looked for all like the remains of a Twelfth-Night cresset. The crowd laughed delightedly. Sir Ned had dismounted and, with a mocking bow, drawn out his sword. His opponent tossed away his mangled weapon, leapt lightly to the ground and returned Clinton's salute with an elaborate obeisance, before drawing his own steel.

  Clinton, solid and Norman and unpretentious seemed unperturbed by the other man's quicksilver agility; the oak matched with the sapling ash. He took the buffetings as if the shock of each blow from the heavy blade failed to jar every bone and sinew in his body and the young man with the slim wrists, who should have wearied and tired and slackened in his attack, surprisingly pressed home every advantage with increasing vigour.

  Sir John looked on with a certain satisfaction. Johanna in her tower was leaning out over the awning, thumping a fist upon the ledge in her excitement and Lady A caught the countess's eye across the width of the yard and raised her brows questioningly. Kate only ran a pink tongue along her white teeth and laughed at her.

  Cousin Ned was down in the sand, his impressive blade describing an arabesque about him, dazzling the spectators. The man who wore Johanna's scarf and the Mortimer Eagle stood with one foot dramatically, if lightly, upon Clinton's reluctant form, the point of his own sword hovering inches above Ned's pulsing throat. It was, of course, a friendly joust but Sir John hastily flung his baton into the sand and, sheathing his blade, the White Knight gave a hand to Ned, elaborately brushing away sand and sawdust. Then he mounted his grey and rode slowly to the tower.

  Johanna, pink as a cook over a stew-pot, leant out to present the prize to the victor. ‘Sir, shall we know your name?’ she asked breathily.

  ‘You must forgive me, fleurdeluce, a sacred vow - a self-imposed penance. Nameless, I live on my wits; I borrow nothing from my family or forbears.’

  ‘Only the valour of your race, sir,’ said Johanna. ‘Blood will out, they say. You should acknowledge your sire. Even a horse is valued by the reputation of its stable.’ He smiled up at her without further words and took the hand she stretched out to him up to his lips. Then he turned and rode across the courtyard, dismounted and unbound the silken rope which was wrapped loosely about Lady Kate's white wrists. Their eyes met; the gaze of an amber-eyed girl in an amber gown, the challenging smile of a victorious young man with louche violet eyes. They had painted the pages of a romaunt for themselves, a web of fantasy, a summer's dream. The air was alive with a vibrant, tangible emanance, the crowd faded into a blur of buzzing colour.

  John de Montfort put his hands upon the white shoulders and drew her towards him and she lifted her full, red mouth for his kiss which, when it came, sealing her breath on a little gasp, was hard and firm and practised enough to set her soft whiteness thrilling with anticipation.

  Montfort drew away, his voice husky, ‘The white pavilion,’ said he without subtlety, ‘with the double silver valance, edged onde and nebuly.’

  She nodded and he remounted, wheeled his grey away and rode from the tiltyard. His valet, one of the Trussel boys from Billesley, ran forward to his horse's head, congratulating his master.

  ‘Holy Mary, I've a thirst on! Did you manage to chill the muscadel? I am expecting a lady; it might be inadvisable to disturb us.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the Trussel boy, ‘I managed to beg ice from Clinton's butler and sir…’ but the White Knight, dismounting swiftly, was already striding towards his pavilion, ducking through the flap. ‘I was going to say that she is already here!’ said the boy to himself, shrugging his shoulders. Then he turned his attention to the stamping grey to plant a kiss on the velvet muzzle and pull at the silky ears.

  The floor of the tent was scattered with bright cushions; silk and velvet, rayed and brocaded and tasselled. A flagon of wine was set upon an exquisite little campaigning table; mother of pearl inlay, one of the fruits of a discerning ancestor's foray into crusading country. The woman had made herself comfortable, stretched out upon the cushions. As he came towards her she set down her goblet and rose in one fluid movement, crossed to the table and poured him a cupful of the golden wine; the goblet was frosted with condensation, ice-cold to the touch. She was tall and slim, her slenderness emphasised by the close-fitting dark gown; Indian purple. Her face above a long neck was oval and flawless, creamy pale, with only a little colour high on the cheekbones. The fine eyes were sea-green, the dark brows winged from above her patrician nose like flying buttresses. Her hair was, in all probability, dark too, pulled back severely and completely hidden beneath the elaborately goffered headdress.

  ‘I was not expected and you do not know whether to be ingratiatingly polite or merely abusive,’ said Lady A. ‘We do not need introductions.’

  ‘No,’ said the young man. ‘It is many years; shall I bother to say that I could not have forgotten? I should have recognised the audacity to say nothing of the line in headdresses. Welcome, Lady A.’

  ‘I think you do not, however, know the name of your chained Andromeda, I have that advantage. I am also well-acquainted with the lady's husband.’

  ‘Ah…,’ said the White Knight with amusement, ‘he is away and the lady is bored; it is a common complaint.’

  ‘You have grown up, John de Montfort, since last we met. A fitting spouse for Lady Joan, and obviously commended by her father; a fitting arrogance for your father's son; a fitting memorial to your mother's shame.’ She let one of the long-fingered hands drift to encompass the glittering, showy magnificence of the pavilion. ‘Perhaps it is time I should make my reverence to the Bastard of Beaudesert?’ She had sunk into a curtsey, straight-backed, head bent. There were tendrils of dark hair curling at the nape of her neck from the terrible headdress. She rose to look him in the eye then took her seat again amongst the cushions. ‘If you wish to disarm please do not let me inhibit your progress. I am afraid your lad is performing a service for me. On pain of great unpleasantness he is to keep your captive milkmaid at bay until I have talked with you.’ She watched him as he beg
an to unbuckle his sword belt, his fingers working quickly and deftly at the buckles of his mail shirt and the fastenings on the quilted gambeson beneath. Orabella drained her cup. ‘The lady is Katherine Mortimer, Countess of Warwick, daughter of the White Wolf, wife to Earl Thomas, mother of his sons, chatelaine of his fortress, shrine of his honour and, as you mentioned earlier, the lady is bored. She does not look to cuckold her husband. Kate is as chaste as Diana outside the marriage bed. This perusal of your knightly charms is mere dalliance, the ways of the old Courts of Love where words whisper for kisses and a glance, caressing the body, is softer than importuning hands. And if there is betrayal, it is only because a song can draw the heart out of man or woman. She wishes merely to tantalise, to draw you after her, lemming-like, so that her lord will take his eyes from his service to the king, from his horses and hounds, his lordship of the courts, his preoccupation with ashlar and voussoir, arch and string-course - his vast building programme. I hate melodrama, John, but I think that if you touch her he will kill her, and if you let her enter here, there is nothing so certain in this uncertain world but you will hang and be glad of the rope.’

  He had moved to an open coffer and selected a blue robe. He belted it loosely over shirt and hose and turned his attention to her again.

  ‘And why, Lady A, should I believe that you care what fate awaits me? Because when I was eight years old I sat at your feet in the great hall at Edstone and you fed me ginger and saffron cakes? Because my father and your husband crouched over fires together and dreamed of a better world than the second Edward could ever provide? Because…’

  Orabella put out a hand and touched his lips lightly with one beautifully manicured finger. ‘Oh, I would not give a silverling to preserve your life, John de Montfort, but I would not see the shire in arms and the march ablaze between Warwick and Beaudesert, our houses feuding, over one girl's lightness and one man's lechery!’