The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘Thank you,’ said Johanna.

  ‘But he treats you well, he is not – unkind?’

  ‘Aunt Bess, if we are to become friends, and I do need a friend, please say what it is in your mind to say.’ She shook her head at the offer of more wine and sat up, arms about her knees. ‘What you are aching to ask is, has he bedded me?’

  ‘Johanna, my dear, I would not be so forthright! It is none of my business.’

  The girl said, ‘We share a room. I sleep in the great bed; he retires to a truckle. No, he is not unkind; he has never touched me. When we are alone, we do not speak. In company he is unfailingly polite. He opens doors for me. Now it is not every woman who has a husband who opens doors, wouldn’t you agree?’ She rested her forehead upon her folded arms.

  Bess said nothing, searching vainly for an appropriate response. At last, the girl lifted her head and said, ‘At night, I lie awake, listening to his steady breathing; so near and yet a world away. Sometimes he is restless, tossing and turning and I long to go to him. Worst of all is when I know he is awake as I am, with who knows what thoughts, and there is no comfort to be had for either of us. Madam, have you looked upon your nephew lately? I am nineteen years old and, God forgive me for such impious thoughts, but I want him inside me where he should be. Is that so base a wish?’

  ‘Oh, my poor Johanna!’ Bess Freville took her in her arms and held her, rocking her gently as if she were a small child. At last she said, ‘If we put our heads together we can make all right; he is but a mere male. I admit I had guessed that there was a problem but I had thought, well, you are young and inexperienced; patience is not a common virtue in young men. Perhaps a little encouragement is needed. Might you manage that?’

  Johanna sat up and wiped her eyes upon her sleeve. ‘Madam, I am a Clinton, not a Turkish houri. Clinton women expect to be wooed!’

  ‘You’re a Montfort now, girl, and Montfort women learnt the art of compromise centuries ago. John’s mother wound his father about her little finger. Mightn’t you relax the Clinton values just a little?’

  ‘Absolutely not! He has behaved abominably!’

  ‘Well then,’ said Bess reasonably, ‘you could threaten to apply for an annulment – on non consummation of the marriage. That would hurt him – he has something of a reputation.’

  ‘But I have no wish to hurt him. And, as to his reputation, I am not such a green girl. Do you think I did not have him vetted before I made up my mind to take him? A handsome face and a fine body are not, I think, always divorced from a vicious mind.’

  ‘How perspicacious,’ said Bess dryly. ‘John, you will find, has a viper’s tongue but vicious? No, I suspect not.’

  Johanna was plucking at daisies in the short turf. ‘We started badly and now there seems no way to redeem the situation. I thought that I might go away, very soon.’

  Bess looked alarmed. Thoughts of Lora Ashley’s flight to Pinley came to mind.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, nothing permanent, but I’ve been invited to stay with your cousins, with the Montagues. After that, I’m bound to get further invitations; it’s a large family. It will give me space to breathe and he – he will fare better without me. I’ll mention it at supper. Perhaps you could endorse the idea, give it your blessing.’

  ‘I think that is a splendid plan,’ Bess smiled. ‘You will return a new woman. Come, we’re finished here. Go and don your best gown and pinch some colour into those pale cheeks!’ They walked up to the East Gate and through the sunless archway into the light beyond.

  ~o0o~

  Supper was always a public affair with the family exposed to all from the High Table on the dais; the household crowded noisily about the lower tables.

  Peter, tackling a hog’s pudding, looked a trifle hurt when Johanna mooted her idea.

  ‘So soon,’ he said, ‘and we were just getting used to your pretty ways. What has John to say about it all, losing his bride so soon after the honeymoon?’

  Johanna forced herself to look at her husband. John had a wine goblet in one hand, his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly about the stem and then relaxed. He glanced sideways at her.

  ‘Family ties are binding; of course she must go. Madam, I shall be inconsolable. I shall await your return with the greatest impatience.’ The words were formal enough but he had taken the sun-browned hand which lay flaccid upon the linen cloth beside her plate, turned it over and dropped a kiss upon her slim wrist. Then, for good measure, he flashed her the White Knight’s heart-stopping smile.

  Bess could not look at the despised, the spurned Johanna whose heart must have turned over at the unexpected gallantry, the wilful cruelty. She drew in an audible breath and caught her nephew’s eyes upon her.

  ‘What is it, Aunt?’ he mouthed across the table.

  ‘I think you’re in trouble,’ said his small brother, seated on his other side. ‘I always am when I get a look like that. You’ll see!’

  ‘Finish your supper, Guy,’ snapped Bess.

  ‘There,’ said Peter, ‘Johanna talks of leaving us and it’s gloomy faces all round. If we’re all finished, let’s repair to the solar.’ He pushed back his chair and the entire hall stood with him to a cacophony of scraping forms and stools. The family rose and followed him through to the solar. Bess seemed to be filling the doorway. She took Guy by the shoulders and turned him for the nearest stairway.

  ‘Bed now, Guy.’

  ‘But Aunt Bess, it’s too early. I never go up this early and I want to…’

  ‘Bed!’ said Bess again in a tone that brooked no argument. Guy fled.

  ‘And I,’ said her brother ‘am I not allowed to enter my own solar?’

  ‘But you were going down to the mews.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes, you said Aldebaran was lame and you wanted to check him over again tonight.’ Aldebaran was his favourite hawk.

  ‘Did I say that? Well, perhaps you’re right. I shan’t be long.’ He frowned at Bess. The signals flashing from the green eyes were plain enough. She wanted him out of the way. He cast a brief glance at the closed faces of his son and daughter-in-law, shrugged his shoulders and set off obediently.

  Bess held the arras aside, the solar fire was lit and welcoming. She inclined her head. ‘You two, in here. Now!’ The curtain swished back into place behind them and she faced them both, her tearful young niece and her troublesome nephew. Strange she though, she had only just realised that they rarely made eye contact. She took the girl by the shoulders. ‘Johanna, I suggest you go upstairs and start packing. I will have a courier sent on ahead to inform Cousin Montague that you start tomorrow. I am certain she will be delighted to see you. You can take Mazera and four of our men.’

  ‘Yes, aunt,’ stammered Johanna.

  Bess’s green gaze travelled beyond the girl’s shoulder towards her nephew, leaning against the fireplace with calculated nonchalance; her words were for Johanna. ‘And if, before you leave us, you dare to speak to this, this snake in the grass, then you are no Montfort and certainly never were a Clinton. And you will not be troubled by his presence in your chamber tonight; he’ll be sleeping elsewhere. Now run along. I’ll come up later; you must look fine for Cousin Montague; I believe they keep some state. Now go, go, you have much to do!’ She might have been shooing farmyard chickens. Johanna, alarmed, dropped her a sketchy curtsey and fled.

  Bess bore down upon her nephew who had the grace to look mildly disconcerted. ‘Don’t you ever do that to her again!’

  ‘Aunt, I said what I was expected to say. Father looked quite taken by it.’

  ‘You’re not married to your father. So that - that display in the hall, that little romantic gesture, was merely for his benefit; the dutiful son, the constant husband…’

  ‘No, of course not. I probably will miss her.’ But his smile was anything but regretful, his relief all too obvious. ‘And who are you to forbid me my wife’s bed? Those whom God has joined together etcetera…’

  ‘You’re a devi
ous, treacherous, canting little toad, Johnny. I know you haven’t bedded the girl.’

  ‘Ah,’ said John, ‘so she’s come tittle-tattling to you already.’

  ‘She has not. I fairly had to drag the truth out of her. You have put her in an intolerable position!’

  ‘But not, it seems, the one required. God, Aunt, that hurt!’ She had hit him then though she had to rise onto her toes to do it and some of the momentum was lost. Still, the imprint of her fingers stained his cheek for a satisfying time after.

  Bess said, ‘She has not repulsed you? She is no shrinking violet cowering in her smock. That I cannot believe of her. She is a bright, courageous girl.’

  John smiled, flexing his smarting jaw. ‘The flower of English womanhood: stout-hearted as an oak, straight as a beech, lithe as a willow and about as compelling as a quickthorn hedge!’

  Bess said, ‘You’ve never found copulation much of a problem in the past. Johanna is a sensible girl. Explain what is needed and I’m sure she’ll be pleased to help.’ It gave her a deal of satisfaction to see that he had flushed to the roots of his hair, even eclipsing the mark she had already left upon him. It was not, after all, what was expected from a middle-aged aunt. ‘Johnny, it’s just a biological act. You repeat it regularly until she’s pregnant.’

  ‘And what about romance, what about passion, what about good old lust? Poor Uncle Baldwin, he must have so looked forward to Friday nights!’

  ‘Your uncle’s dead!’ shrieked his aunt.

  ‘I’m not surprised!’ yelled John, dodging behind a table. ‘And don’t go for my face again, please.’

  ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘I’m twenty. You forgot my last birthday. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I just felt if you were younger I’d have great pleasure in marking you where it didn’t show, that’s all.’

  They were glaring at each other when Peter blustered in, ruddy from the night air.

  ‘I could hear you both shouting from across the wards.’ He stamped over to the fire. ‘Where’s Johanna?’

  ‘Packing,’ said Bess, ‘it’s been decided that she should travel tomorrow.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing here? Go up to her, boy. Make a good night of it whilst you have the chance.’

  John’s colour ebbed, leaving the mark on his cheek flaming against his fair skin.

  Bess said, ‘I’ve just suggested he goes down to the White Lion. Johanna will have gowns everywhere by now. Peter, this is the Montagues she’s visiting. I’m on my way up to help. There could be invitations to court; I might need to lend her some jewellery and then there are the headdresses to consider. He will only be in the way.’

  Peter grunted, ‘Such a pother over nothing. Oh, get off with you boy. But don’t be late back.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Goodnight.’ He made for the door, paused, turned on his heels and came back to Bess, stopping to kiss her forehead. ‘Bless you, aunt.’ Then he was gone.

  ‘Why did you hit him?’ asked Peter, pouring them both a cup of malvoisie.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Now settle down and tell me how you found old Aldebaran.’

  ~o0o~

  Johanna left soon after breakfast. She wore a tawny pelisse with a fur-edged hood which covered her hair and half eclipsed her face. She said farewell to Peter, Bess and little Guy at the upper barbican. John was expected to escort her to the Lower Guard. He walked beside her jennet. Neither of them spoke. When they reached the gatehouse, Mazera and Peter’s henchmen, who were to accompany her, rode tactfully through leaving husband and wife alone.

  ‘I wish you a safe journey, madam,’ said John tonelessly, and then, ‘I wonder if I should kiss you.’ He motioned to the knots of people either about their lawful business in the outer wards or standing in small groups, watching them curiously.

  Johanna said, ‘I think we said our goodbyes before we left the hall. We are only bread and circuses to them. We don’t owe them a show.’

  He nodded, putting out a hand to sooth her jennet’s tossing head. ‘Johanna, I’m desperately sorry.’

  She did not look at him. She set her Clinton nose towards the gatehouse and rode through and over the bridge and, if the little cavalcade of people wending their way along the causeway noted that she was crying, they took it as natural for a young bride, being parted from her handsome groom so soon.

  John went back to the Audley Tower. Soon, all traces of Johanna had been whisked away and stored in an old broom cupboard. A week later the tapestries re-appeared. Peter did not notice. Bess did not comment. Simon Trussel was whistling again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  September – 1343

  Warwick reined in his bay below the weir and waited for Durvassal to draw alongside. Etched against the cornflower sweep of the sky, Caesar's Tower, incredibly white in the midday sun, lay, a broken pillar, in the river below.

  ‘She's beautiful, My Lord.’

  ‘She wasn't built for grace or line, but I think our masons have contrived to give us more than utility.’ Abruptly, Thomas Beauchamp changed the subject. He had a firm hand on his squire's rein. ‘It's time we considered your future, boy.’

  The beautiful profile stiffened, the controlled features focused upon Warwick's dark eyes and rugged forehead. ‘My Lord?’

  ‘We should get you a wife, Nicholas.’

  Not a muscle moved beneath the fair skin. The arrogant nose was lightly powdered with freckles from too long an acquaintance with the sun the previous day; it gave him a look of vulnerability which Warwick had never noted before.

  ‘I have your welfare at heart. I would wish your partner to bring you a sizeable dower.’ Still no visible reaction.

  ‘I'm grateful for your attention, My Lord.’ Durvassal inclined his head.

  ‘No questions as to the identity of your future bride? Are you so content to let the choice be mine?’

  ‘I am content to have it so, My Lord.’

  ‘Obedience and humility should be well rewarded. I have made the necessary arrangements with your father and with her father; he will bring her to Warwick as soon as can be arranged.’

  ‘Bring her to Warwick?’ Durvassal started violently then, the blood rushing to his face.

  Warwick went on evenly, ‘It is the time for weddings. My own daughter has a husband eager to claim her; I have kept her at home too long; a father's indulgence. It can make no difference now but were you in love with her? With Mary?’

  Durvassal sounded weary, deflated. ‘I wanted alliance with your house. It seems I must be content to shine beneath my own device. No, My Lord, I was not in love with Mary, I am known for an opportunist - I have been well tutored,’ he added viciously.

  ‘Petulance,’ said Warwick, ‘is the refuge of little girls. I see you no longer have an interest in your future mating.’

  Durvassal jerked his head up and looked him full in the face. ‘One sow is much as another.’

  Warwick said softly, ‘I am grieved that you show such little interest. I took much trouble and thought when I chose a litter, knowing in what high regard you held the dam. But these riddles are foolish. Sir Hugh de Brandstone is delighted to have you as a son-in-law and I believe the Lady Rose has long cherished a child's admiration for you, so the whole venture could not have fallen out better.’

  Durvassal searched the cruel, dark face, almost beyond bewilderment. ‘My lord, is this a jest?’

  ‘Is that how it appears? I am glad you can take it in a light vein. No, boy, I do not jest. You have lifted your eyes to Warwick's daughter and you must pay for your presumption!’ He turned his mount towards the keep and spurred away, leaving his squire alone upon the river bank.

  ~o0o~

  Had Nicholas Durvassal known or cared he was the topic of conversation upon the other side of the river where Katherine de Beauchamp, leaving a hawking party, ordered two small pages to lay down saddle-cloths and gracefully sank down upon the woodland floor. She patted the ground at her side as an inv
itation for Lady A to join her, shooing the pages back to the sport they had abandoned. Katherine kicked away her shoes and let her stockinged feet feel the coolness of the lush grass. She wore a blue velvet gown and was aware that she looked ravishing. The knowledge had sweetened her disposition and allowed room for thoughts of others less happy than herself on such a beautiful autumn morning.

  ‘Orabella, sometimes I fear for Thomas. He has that streak in him which I can only suppose he has inherited from his father, a cruelty which transcends common sense.’

  Lady A smiled, ‘And the Mortimers have always been parfait, gentil knights?’

  Lady Kate pulled a face. ‘Orabella, no woman past thirty should be able to wear unrelieved white. What was I saying? Thomas and Nicholas? Hasn't Nicholas been a faithful squire since he was fourteen years old?’

  ‘I will concede that.’ Lady A was lying on one elbow, twirling a berried stem of a wild arum, a bright splash of scarlet.

  ‘Then he makes one mistake, one excusable faux pas and -’ she shrugged her plump shoulders.

  ‘Mary?’ questioned Lady A.

  ‘Yes, Mary. God knows, Thomas encourages his entourage to imagine they exist on a higher plain than the rest of the country. Can he then show his teeth because one of them has aspirations towards his own daughter? - and a by-blow at that when all's said and done.’

  Orabella smoothed out her skirts. ‘Durvassal has known Thomas long enough. Only a fool would imagine he could play games beneath the hound's nose without his picking up the scent.’

  ‘Even so,’ Katherine pursued the topic doggedly, ‘there are ways of showing displeasure. A few weeks’ banishment from Warwick in dire disgrace perhaps…’

  ‘Kate, what has Thomas done? You are ahead of me today.’

  The countess sat up, ‘Why, he is marrying Durvassal to Rose Brandstone, to his mistress's daughter. And it isn't harsh coincidence, hapless fate. Thomas realises what he is doing and Durvassal knows it!’