The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘But no haste to spend the night with the Lady Johanna? What is wrong with Lady Johanna?’

  John spread his hands. ‘Nothing so far as I know and I know little of her. I'm sure she's an admirable girl, a marvel in household management, cooking, sewing, preserving of quinces, curing the whooping cough; she even reads poetry! There's nothing wrong with her.’

  ‘Then I ask again, why are you here? Let them precede you to her door with tabor and pipe, flute and rebec.’

  ‘And when the door closes,’ said John, ‘what do I say to her? Madam, the weather could have been better. What did you think of the jellies?’

  ‘Stop being flippant. Be courteous. Be kind. She is in a strange house with her people gone from her and possibly frightened when all's said and done.’

  John said, ‘I need to get away for a while...’

  De Lobbenham’s eyes went heavenward. ‘Lad, you can’t make a bolt for it now, slip through the sally port as you always did when trouble loomed. You won’t be the first young bridegroom to suffer wedding-night nerves. I remember how bad-tempered your father was for days before the Lady Margaret and her entourage arrived.’

  John grimaced. ‘But being father he would do his duty, stern faced and martyred - poor Margaret, poor Johanna: tired little girls in stiff silver dresses, smiles wearing thin. And our two fathers, smug, self-satisfied, and full of roast swan, congratulating each other on the bargain over the stud fees!’

  ‘You are a hypocrite, boy. Who wooed and won the lady in white silk and feathers? You weren't so nice then about her feelings!’

  ‘Only one feather,’ said Montfort. ‘It was just a game, Father, proof that I could win her.’ He sat up then and swung his feet to the floor.

  De Lobbenham patted his knee in silent sympathy, got up and went out of the Chapel.

  ~o0o~

  Johanna was asleep when John de Montfort finally closed his chamber door against friends and family. The torches had burnt down in the sconces, a single, guttering candle only showed that the bride was curled up beneath the sheets, face beneath the mane of honey-coloured hair, hidden in the bolster. With relief, Montfort undressed and slipped carefully beside her, blowing out the candle. Tomorrow he could chide her for falling asleep on her wedding night. He lay awake, listening to the thunder rumbling about the hills, to the gentle breathing of the girl beside him and he fell asleep, at last, when the first raindrops rattled at the open shutters.

  In the dawn light Johanna stirred and sat up, reaching for her mantle. Her young husband lay in a rumple of bedclothes, auburn hair chaotic. She stood hesitantly wondering what the Lady Mellisent would have done in like circumstances: donned her most fetching gown perhaps, brushed out the spun gold of her hair and poured a cup of wine, brimming with southern sunshine, to present to her lord upon his waking. But she was not, never could be a Lady Mellisent. She stood over her marriage bed and whispered, ‘Dearest father, let us see what has been purchased with my body and my inheritance!’ She drew back the coverlet, dropping it lightly at the foot of the bed. John did not stir; his breathing was light and even.

  Johanna was a good judge of horseflesh but it would have been an exaggeration to have said that her experience of naked young men was anything but slight. She followed the line of his body from the disordered auburn hair which parted at the nape of his neck to reveal a spattering of freckles, and on down the line of his back, still golden from the summer sun, over taut, smooth buttocks and on along strong, long legs, scarred here and there from combat in the Lists.

  Johanna drew in a breath quite sharply. ‘Dear God,’ she murmured ‘but you are beautiful!’ She put out a hand as if to touch him but withdrew it as quickly; bent and pulled the coverlet over him again. He had nothing about him of the White Knight’s mystery; he was flesh and blood after all and no doubt flawed with the frailty of men, but the living girl who was now Johanna Montfort and who had left the Lady Mellisent far behind in the pages of fiction, found longing stirring within her and something rather unladylike called desire.

  She moved to the window and took in deep breaths of Henley air; everywhere looked fresh and green-golden.

  John muttered and flung out an arm and she turned from the view, back hard against the stone ledge of the window, enveloped in blue frieze from neck to toe like a surprise parcel. The young man's eyes narrowed against the light, half-hooded with sleep. He thought he remembered who she was. ‘Good morning, madam; you’re awake early.’

  Johanna said, ‘It's a beautiful morning; I am going riding. I trust my roan was looked to after I arrived yesterday.’

  John nodded, and then said hurriedly, ‘You really cannot ride out now, they will all be arriving with the spiced ale and we must be here to receive them.’

  ‘If you have a thirst, you may receive them,’ said Lady Johanna. ‘I am going riding!’

  ‘Girl, you can't!’ said John, alarmed that she might. ‘A bride is not expected to rise with the lark and go gallivanting about the countryside. It is the custom to remain blushingly fragile and to breakfast in bed.’

  Johanna flashed him a look of hauteur. It would not have been said in the romaunts, it would certainly never have passed the lips of the now defunct Lady Mellisent, but she was an essentially honest young woman. ‘I will ride. I wish to feel good horseflesh between my thighs this morning where I lacked the feel of a man last night!’

  ‘Christ!’ said John, angry to feel the colour rushing to his cheeks. ‘But you were sleeping, My Lady!’

  ‘And you were tardy, sir!’ She stood above him, fresh and wide awake, imperious and intractable.

  John shot out a hand for her wrist and pulled her down beside him. ‘Have I wed a shrew? You will take part in this morning's mummery for both our fathers' sakes. With this exception, I shall make few demands upon you.’

  ‘That,’ said Johanna tartly, ‘is rather obvious!’

  ‘For God's sake be quiet!’ John sat up, elbows on knees, hands pressed to his throbbing temples. How much had he drunk last night?

  Johanna obediently arranged herself neatly beside him and shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Go and have a long drink of water, it’ll flush your system out and I think you'd better avoid the bride-ale. I really hope you're not going to be sick, you have that kind of greenish pallor.’

  ‘Johanna,’ said John, ‘take your bloody horse. Ride him over a cliff if you can find one!’ He lay down with his back to her and pulled the sheet over his head. When the family arrived with the bride-ale they both found it expedient to be fast asleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  August - 1343

  The Worshipful Company of Bowyers and Fletchers held its examinations for seventh year apprentices annually at Fletchers' Hall. Richard Latimer and Raymond met inside the porch. It was mid August; London was hot and the streets stank.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Raymond said, ‘my hands are shaking so, I'll never hold a knife!’

  Richard, who had been rather uncommunicative up till then, suddenly smiled and pushed open the heavy oak door. They clasped hands briefly, wished each other the best of luck and passed into the gloom. There were already several apprentices standing before the work-benches and the adjudicator, whom Richard recognised as one of the Guild's hierarchy, motioned them to their places and they set out the tools of their trade, examining the materials before them: fine grey goose quills, brilliant peacocks' feathers, stout ash.....

  Hours later, the Guild's newest journeymen gathered appropriately enough at the Bowyer's Arms to celebrate. Harry Holt, appointed as Richard's successor as leader of the Bishopsgate 'prentices, drained a mug of ale and enquired, ‘What are your plans, Journeyman Latimer?’

  Richard shrugged his shoulders, ‘I haven't made up my mind, felt it was no good counting chickens.’

  Raymond said, ‘I'm for home, there'll be plenty of work in Coventry.’

  ‘Won't you miss London life?’ Harry was born and bred within the walls.

  ‘Coventry's a fine
city, cleaner too; three miles of walls, thirty two towers and twelve gates, you'd be impressed. I'll tell you who we're going to miss, our friend Arthur Chigwell. Law abiding journeymen fletchers don't brawl with the local ‘prentices. But seriously, what advantages will there be in a life of respectability and sobriety?’ They stared gloomily into their ale pots. It seemed sad but no one, just then, could think of an answer.

  ~o0o~

  The Master Fletcher's house was silent now, worlds away from the daytime clatter of the streets, the rumble of cart wheels, the shouts of traders. The light from a single lamp on the work bench cast deep shadows into the farthest corner of the shop. The curtain across the doorway was pulled aside, the shadows swayed drunkenly, a swirl of dust eddied under a chair and the light flickered and glinted upon an open sackful of peacocks' feathers; glowing verdigris and velvet brown. Simon Scarlet passed through into the shop, Latimer at his heels.

  ‘Sit down, Richard.’ He motioned the boy to a chair opposite his own. Latimer realised that perhaps this was the first time he had ever sat anywhere but at his bench in the ten years he had worked for this man; the first time he had faced him on anything like equal terms. Scarlet went across to the locked cupboard where he kept wine and drinking vessels for visitors and his more important customers. ‘You'll join me in a glass of malvoisie, Richard? I believe you'll remember I have a certain partiality for it?’ He turned to glance at the young man over his left shoulder, eyebrows raised. Richard smiled, sharing the joke, and Scarlet handed him a cup. ‘I suppose you'll be wanting to leave us now?’

  ‘I - yes, sir. Not that I haven't been very happy here, sir, or that I'll ever forget you and Mistress Scarlet; what you've done for me, taught me…’

  Scarlet waved an arm. ‘Yes, yes, forget about that. Here's to your future, Richard.’

  They drank in silence then Latimer said, ‘Before I leave, there is one thing I think I have a right to know.’

  ‘Then speak away.’

  Richard was staring down into his cup; he turned it by the stem. It was a while before he spoke. ‘When the Latimers brought me to you, ten years ago now, did they tell you who I was, my real name and why they fostered me?’

  ‘No, lad. Richard is your given name, that I do know, and I have reason to believe you were no kin to the Latimers. That is all I can tell you.’

  ‘Where are the Latimers? You do know?’ He set down his cup.

  Scarlet shrugged broad shoulders. ‘They went to Flanders just after, I never heard they had returned.’ He drained his own cup and was regarding his one-time apprentice gravely. ‘You intend to seek out your parents? There are none to help you that I know of. You're wrong, Richard, you must let sleeping dogs lie. What good did they ever do you? They abandoned you in infancy. You don't need them; you are your own master now. I thank God I don't know of anything worth while, for who knows what you might unearth.’

  Richard was musing, almost to himself. ‘They weren't poor villeins. Why should Latimer foster a poor man's child? Yet otherwise, why get rid of me? I can't condemn them, not knowing the circumstances.’

  ‘Then know this,’ Scarlet said fiercely, ‘your kinsmen all but sold you to Latimer - a generous enough sum, I'll grant you.’

  ‘Thirty pieces of silver?’ said the boy wryly.

  ‘Hardly, but an allowance as long as you were with the family; it was since transferred to me in place of the indenture fee. It ceased a while ago and we've heard nothing from them since.’

  ‘From whom?’ Richard was on his feet, very determined.

  ‘Don't romanticise. You believe yourself to be some noble's bastard, I suppose. Search for him, if you will, but in doing so you repudiate all London has taught you. You are Richard Latimer, Journeyman Fletcher, and a self-made man. Remember that when you think to beg at a rich man's gate.’ He brushed past him and out into the back of the shop. Richard sat for a long time, chin in hands, before he too crept silently up to bed.

  ~o0o~

  Mistress Scarlet had her hands covered in flour when Richard came to say goodbye. He wore his best cote and carried the remainder of his possessions in a leather bag, hanging from his shoulder. The Fletcher's wife handed him his dinner and a small bottle of wine.

  ‘Richard, you've nowhere to go. Why don't you stay with us until you find work?’

  Latimer shook his head, smiling. ‘I'll seek it beyond London, in the shires. Don't worry about me. But I'll miss you, all of you.’

  ‘We'll miss you, luv,’ Emma Scarlet was sniffing loudly. Suddenly, she put her arms around his shoulders and hugged him to her. ‘If ever you find your Lora tell her I was pleased to have the loan for ten years. I can't begrudge the loss of what's rightfully hers, when all's said and done.’

  ‘Who was she?’ Richard whispered, holding her off and fixing her with the dark eyes.

  ‘I don't know, luv. He as brought the allowance was nothing but a serving man. He came to us when he called upon the lorimer for his mistress. He always talked about her as Madam Maud, a very old lady. The last we saw of him he told us she was ailing. I suppose she's dead for she was nearing ninety. Perhaps she helped out of charity. We'll never know as I never even found out her surname. The man came from a place called Beaudesert; a true Norman name if ever there was one. Have you ever heard tell of it?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Never. Where in the world is it?’

  Emma Scarlet wiped her hands upon her apron. ‘I always thought it was in the middle shires. Now why? Ah, I remember. Old Hal - the servant - talked about his lord's lands marching with Earl Warwick's.’

  ‘It's something to go on,’ said Latimer. ‘If they're to be found I'll find them, but I doubt if I'll ever have the fondness for Lora I have for you - and tell Master Scarlet when I've made my fortune with my own hands I'll come back and visit you both.’

  ‘I'll tell him. Bless you, Richard!’ The fletcher's wife clasped him to her again and then he was away, running out of the shop.

  Wat caught him in the yard. ‘Good luck, Dick. Where are you bound? You seem purposeful enough.’

  Richard grinned cheerfully, ‘Corpus Christi, two years ago - the Tragick History - remember? I'm about to call upon his mightiness of Warwick, to offer him my services - as a fletcher.’

  Wat, somewhat flabbergasted, watched him saunter down the street and out of sight.

  ~o0o~

  The sky was leaden grey, heavy and forbidding and there was rain in the air; the breeze tugged at Richard's clothing. He pulled a patched cloak about his shoulders; faded watchet, it had seen better days. It was still early morning and his feet rang on the deserted cobbles. He passed the fountain at Clerkenwell, scene of many an adventure in the past. A scruffy urchin ran out of an ally across his path without even noticing him and stood in the middle of the street, cupped hands before his mouth:

  ‘Bowyers, apprentices - clubs!’ The familiar cry rang out, thrown backwards and forwards between the leaning houses. All at once London became alive. Shouting, scuffling bodies filled the street, knives flashed and the warden of the soke appeared in the midst of the fracas and came face to face with Richard Latimer.

  ‘You!’

  The young man shook his head with genuine regret. ‘Not this time.’ Nor ever again. In the midst of the brawling apprentices and scared, raging townsfolk he felt incredibly alone.

  Threading his way through the narrow streets backing onto the wharves of Billingsgate he had waved a hand as he passed the Chigwells’ shop. Arthur, lank black hair hanging in strings across his face was scrubbing at a slab, sleeves rolled up, hands red and chapped. He smiled good-naturedly and tossed a cod's head from the offal bucket in the direction of his old enemy. Latimer ducked with a laugh but did not pause.

  It was raining now, all pervading. The old cloak was thin and he wriggled his shoulders, already damp; he quickened his step. Warwick's great stone town residence on Thames Street had the river running below its south facade. In St. Laurence Parish it lay sandwiched between Ol
d Swan Stairs and the Hay Wharf. Downstream, across Lambeth Marsh, you could see the spires, the towers, the turrets of Westminster, and much nearer the higgledy-piggledy jumble of roofs which crowned the stews of Southwark. Southwark was a district to be whispered about beneath the blankets when the candle was out in the attic bedroom. Master Scarlet's apprentices had been dutifully warned to keep well away after nightfall when, behind lamp lit windows, the Ladies of the Rayed Hood were said to display their naked charms to the snare of any young man with a few pennies in his purse. Wat Stringer had ventured there one summer evening and had returned without a purse at all, having been robbed before he left, and with a tale he never told and a dose of something he could well have done without.

  From the lancets of the upper floor of the Beauchamp residence the bridge was an impressive structure; nineteen pointed arches of varying spans, stretched across the waters, the river frothing and gushing about the huge timber starlings. There was a gate at each end and the chapel of St. Thomas, somewhere in the middle, jostled between houses and shops. Beyond the bridge the view was obscured but turning your back to look west it was possible to see Blackfriars and the gardens of the Knights of St. John. Beyond the Fleet stretched Vintners' Wharf and Crane Wharf, Queenhythe, Timberhythe, Paul's wharf, Waingate and Fleur de Luce Wharf, and further still, beyond the Temple, the great mansions of the Strand, their gardens stretching down to the river's edge. Greatest of them all was the Savoy, Lancaster's palace. Richard thought how convenient it must be for Warwick, having only to take to the river to be in Westminster in half an hour or even away to Windsor.

  A few yards before him, a soldier, back to the wall, was cleaning his nails on a small dagger. His livery was easily recognisable; the scarlet surcote emblazoned with the gold crosslets of the de Beauchamps. For the first time, Richard noticed Warwick's twin badges, the curious devices of the bear and the ragged staff.