The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘No, of course not, but sit just the same.’ Warwick took to his own carved chair with its high wooden back and, looking totally relaxed, stretched out, hands at ease on the arms. ‘It has been such a long time. Welcome to Warwick, John de Montfort.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Did I need to be told?’

  ‘Lady A?’

  ‘Tender hearted as ever, dear soul; you have her to thank for your timely rescue. But you see, I knew you were coming and when you burst from the pie-crust like a chicken from the egg it was almost a fulfilment.’

  ‘Christ, the mummers!’ said Montfort faintly.

  ‘Yes, my merry men all, but I must admit I wasn't expecting your embryonic concealment. Was that a touch of your own? Rather ingenious.’

  Montfort had his head down on his arms, the water was trickling in icy rivulets over his body and the broken weals on his back throbbed hellishly.

  ‘Don't be too hard on yourself.’ Warwick had risen and was pouring out a cup of mulled wine.

  ‘Damn you, My Lord. If you knew, why didn't you stop it sooner?’

  Warwick's hard mouth twisted in a slow smile. ‘You play the spy, snooping about in disguise like some latter-day Robin Hood; you deserved an example making, but I hope you're not a man for a grudge.’

  Montfort's head came up suddenly from his arms and the violet eyes which were dulled and heavy lidded lit up in astonishment, then he began to laugh, head down again, hidden on his interlaced hands.

  Warwick slid the cup across the table. ‘You must need that.’ But when it was drained and Montfort had reached out for the jug to refill it he pushed it out of reach. ‘No, my young friend, you don't buy oblivion just yet, we have things to discuss.’ He shook him lightly by the shoulder and his fingers came away blood-smeared. He wiped them fastidiously on a napkin but pushed the jug nearer, got up and began to prowl relentlessly about the room. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Am I under restraint?’

  ‘No, you're free to go when you wish but I think you will have to accept our hospitality for tonight. Does that thought offend you?’

  Montfort shook his head.

  ‘Then I imagine you would like to see your brother.’

  ‘Is he my brother?’

  ‘I've never doubted it. You do want to see him?’

  ‘No, it makes no odds.’

  ‘Of course not. Your father will be here in a few days and he will pay dearly for a long lost son but you, John, what price do you put on a sibling's head?’

  ‘What you have always wanted from my father. What you have always known we kept close.’

  ‘So Peter would go that far for her son? I had hoped so.’

  John shook his head. ‘That is my offer.’

  ‘For a brother returned unharmed?’

  ‘For a brother eradicated.’

  ‘So!’ Warwick's eyebrows went up. ‘Richard melts out of the story, disappears inexplicably, throat cut and body secreted down some dark oubliette.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I do think that you should see him before you cold-bloodedly send him to his death.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That's morally indefensible, you know. What are you afraid of? He's like your father and there's something of the mother you despise. That might unman you, I suppose. He's young, he's sturdy, independent; he doesn't deserve to die.’

  ‘Shut up, for God's sake! You have my offer.’

  ‘Is the back troubling you?’

  ‘What do you think? Your answer, My Lord!’

  ‘I'll think about it. But I'll have to produce him for your father; after that we'll see. Now, I have guests in the hall. We’ll make contact after your father’s return. Goodnight, John.’

  ~o0o~

  Warwick did not prove niggardly with his hospitality. A bed in a small mural chamber off the solar, which let in some warmth from the damped-down fire and was furnished with clean linen, was more than Montfort could have expected and surely exceeded his deserts. He lowered himself onto the bed, far too weary and sore even to stoop down and remove his boots or strip off the tattered remnants of his black cote. He left the rush light at the bedside burning and lay listening to the sounds of the great fortress preparing for the night hours: voices below in the courtyard, gates clanging shut, a dog barking - abruptly silenced, someone whistling brightly a long way off, footsteps on stone flags, water sloshing over a window sill, shutters banging to and fro in the wind, an owl far away in the woods, calling to the frozen stars - and, gradually, the silence grew, magnified and took over as if the whole castle slept under some fabulous edict.

  But not quite all - a soft footfall roused him from his reverie, kid slippers in the passageway, the swish of a gown, the loud click-clack of the latch. He had his face turned away from the door, he waited for a sign to identify his visitor and the long silence told him that it could not be Kate.

  He said at last, ‘Lady A?’ And he was right, Orabella in her favourite indigo velvet, the colour of the night sky, moved around the foot of the bed and stood over him. Gone was the elaborate goffered headdress she had worn to the feast, her dark hair was covered by a simple gauze veil and plain gold fillet.

  ‘I come with a message from Katherine, but she must not be compromised so I am armed with bowl and bandage and concoctions of Lady's Mantle and White Horehound; ever the Angel of Mercy. Kate believes tonight's whole escapade was planned as a ruse that you might come to her; it flatters her vanity.’

  ‘But it's not true,’ John said, ‘Thomas knows why I am here. And I'm hardly likely to go a’ wooing now. You can reassure her on that score surely!’

  Lady A swept her gaze from his tangled hair down his long length. ‘Thomas appears to have been most forbearing, considering his feelings for your father; he could have slung you out neck and crop. Katherine wants her jewel back, the Mortimer Eagle, the vulgar brooch you flaunted at the Coleshill Joust.’

  ‘Then she can whistle for it. It was a gift.’

  ‘You can't sell it or pawn it, it’s too well-known. I hope you haven't tried.’

  ‘No, I recognized it. I'm keeping it against a rainy day.’

  ‘Rainy day! My dear, it will be a fully-fledged lightning strike if Thomas ever gets to hear of it! If you're short of funds I imagine Kate will buy it back.’

  ‘What a dreary exchange. Tell your countess that she may have it if she comes for it - for a price. On Wednesday, I hear she goes to Wroxall for a fast-day. She could spend the night at the Abbess's lodgings; it wouldn't be difficult to slip out and away to Beaudesert. Her incognito would be preserved.’

  Orabella laughed. ‘She couldn't do it, her nerves would be shredded before she left the abbey gate; she'd be a gibbering wreck by the time she reached Henley!’

  ‘Then I can't help her.’

  ‘Have you no chivalry?’

  ‘Not tonight, only a blind desire for revenge on the lady's husband. Just now, the idea of cuckolding him seems appealing.’

  Lady A ignored what she didn't feel required a sensible answer and only said, ‘Are you going to trust me with your back?’

  ‘You don’t have to – I can shift for myself.’

  She dismissed his words and she was gentle with the lacerated, broken skin. She bound the bracelets about his wrists; the flesh below the heel was raw.

  ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t realise,’ he said looking down at her handiwork.

  ‘It’s easier,’ said Orabella softly, ‘to blot out the agony with pain you can control yourself. Do you think you are the first man Nicholas has had flogged at the pillory?’ She tugged off his boots and removed the sodden rags which still clung to his body before drawing the thick coverlet up as far as she dared over his long length. ‘There, I have delivered My Lady’s message. I have ministered to the sick with moon-gathered herbs. I will say goodnight.’

  But he put out a hand and touched her sleeve. ‘Please stay.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed regar
ding him with a certain wary detachment. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just too many demons; too many black thoughts.’

  ‘And I have a husband who may be prowling about, racked with insomnia. He would not take kindly to finding me here!’

  ‘But Thomas Beauchamp…’ began John.

  ‘Oh, my liaison with Thomas brought mutual benefits. Thomas he could stomach. You he cordially dislikes.’

  ‘But he hasn’t set eyes upon me for years!’

  ‘Ah, but when the wind blows in from the west and brings the rain, then he remembers you.’

  ‘My Lady, you talk in riddles.’

  Orabella lay down beside him, matching his length, decorous as a funeral effigy, waxen and cold upon the bier. ‘I suppose you must have been about ten years old. It was a cold December day and we had supped well with your father. By the time we were ready to leave there was a thick blanket of snow. Your father persuaded us to stay the night and you were turned out of your room in the Audley Tower to sleep with the pages to provide us with a bed. Oh, but that didn’t suit Master John, so jealous of his privileges. Three days it took the snow to clear and so we stayed on as honoured guests. At last we took our leave, mounting down below the barbican steps. You chose the oldest trick in the book and probably the most effective – a slip of gorse under the saddle-cloth, the horse cavorting and Roger down in the mud with a broken collar-bone. It never did knit together quite as it should and has pained him ever since.’

  ‘I had forgotten,’ said John, ‘though I remember it pained me too at the time. It was one of the few occasions my father really leathered me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you wretch, the whole castle was quite aware of it; you yelled so loudly. And, afterwards, whilst I was pacing the floor, waiting for that antique bone-setter from the village to finish ministering to my husband, you were sobbing your heart out in the room below. That, my dear, is why I knew they couldn’t leave you out there in the courtyard for very much longer. I had no particular wish to see your degradation. Nicholas would have enjoyed it far too much.’

  ‘I am not ten years old any more.’ He was very quiet then and she knew she had touched a raw nerve, exposed his Achilles Heel. He took a hand and laid it lightly across her wrist in a brief caress. ‘Wroxall,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to tell Countess Kate.’

  Smiling, she sat up and slid her feet to the floor and left him without another word.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  October - 1343

  John de Montfort’s room in the Audley Tower was unlit, except for the fire-glow which was considerable. Young Guy sat on a satin cushion in the rushes next to the hearth, diligently polishing away at his brother’s sword and Simon Trussel, neatly attired in Montfort blue and gold, was perched on a stool, working away at his master’s boots. The room was habitually disordered. The Audley Tower being of drum construction, there were no corners but its circumference was littered with everything from horse furniture and a tourney helm to priceless books and a casket containing a bone of the Blessed St. Edward, about which a large alaunt sniffed appreciatively, thus verifying its authenticity. The alaunt rejoiced in the name of Ajax. He gave up investigation of the Blessed St. Edward and squatted down beside Guy, his damp muzzle pushing against the boy's knee. John was lounging across the foot of the unmade bed, half a pullet in one hand and a cup of wine in front of him on the floor. Occasionally, he would flick over a page in a book of hours with one desultory movement of a forefinger.

  Guy held the sword at arm's length, balanced precariously across his small palms. ‘Will this do?’

  ‘It'll do,’ said Trussel. ‘Thank you, My Lord. I appreciate the help even if he doesn't!’ He jerked his dark head towards Montfort. Guy smiled and clambered to his feet, pushing aside the hound and crossing the rushes to kneel at his brother's bedside, arms on the coverlet.

  ‘You never explained about Monday, John. It was an adventure, wasn't it?’

  Montfort flicked over one hand; the scars on his wrist were healed over. ‘Yes, it was an adventure but sometimes, for good reasons, things have to be kept secret, even from one's liege lord and brother. I'm sorry.’ He put out a hand and ruffled Guy's black hair.

  Trussel, abandoning the boots, said, ‘It's just a case of Cherchez la femme. He slashed through his wrists in a moment of rejection - all for the love of a princess, tall and fair with golden hair rippling free to her waist and eyes so blue you'd think little pieces had been cut out of the sky, and skin as white as dairy milk. She turned up her nose at him and there was nothing to do but end it all. Sad really.’

  ‘I don't believe a word,’ said Guy, uncertainty in his brown eyes. ‘John doesn't know any princesses. Isn't anyone coming down to supper, I'm ravenous?’

  John shook his head, waving his chicken bone. ‘You might take Ajax down with you, his self-control is beginning to ebb and there isn't a lock on the Blessed St. Edward.’

  Guy nodded and, catching the great hound by his collar, dragged him away down the stairs. Trussel kicked the door to with a resounding crash. Smoke eddied out into the room and they both started to cough. John shook himself out of his lethargy and began prowling about, making a half-hearted attempt to put the room in order. The bed hangings were of a dark murrey brocade, embroidered with gold oak leaves; the metal thread was a little tarnished and an experimental shaking of the drapes produced a patter of moths’ wings and desiccated crane-flies. The tapestries were Arthurian; Igraine, scantily clad, emerging from Tintagel; Vivien wearing even less beckoning from the shores of a lake.

  John paused at the window. ‘Tonight, I am expecting a lady. Not quite your princess, but you will treat her with as much respect and hold your tongue should you recognise her face. I want her brought up here immediately she arrives and I shall rely on you to look after her grooms; they are on no account to wander further than the gatehouse. Simon, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but you could have told me earlier. Look at this room! And you've nothing fit to play the lover in; your wardrobe is a disgrace!’ grumbled his squire. He grinned. ‘I can say what I like at this distance; I can't see you rousing yourself to clout me.’

  ‘No, you're right, but I'm chalking up all the insults and one day there'll be an almighty reckoning!’

  ‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell of that!’ said his squire cheerfully. He moved to the long chest at the foot of the bed, pulled out a fresh shirt and a long gown of figured brocade, cerulean blue, with open sleeves and a sable trim.

  John said, ‘I shan't want to be interrupted for anything.’

  Trussel rolled up his eyes. ‘I didn't come in with the milking herd. You've been too much on edge lately; if you make a good night of it perhaps you'll be better tempered tomorrow.’ He dodged a feinted blow, caught the edge of the bed behind his knees and overbalanced. Montfort had him pinned down by the wrists.

  ‘I don't need your advice; I don't need a dresser…’

  ‘You do!’ said Trussel as they wrestled together like schoolboys. ‘You need a bloody Master of the Wardrobe and a milliner. I know perfectly well why you want me out of the way; I'm not supposed to know you got your come-uppance three days ago.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The bracelets on your wrists, I imagine you've got the back to go with them. I wasn’t reared in cowl or cloister. My father has everything at Billesley: whipping post, pillory, stocks, right of gallows and a scold stool. Every Friday some old biddy got ducked squawking into the mill pool. What happened to you?’

  Montfort let him up. ‘Some day I'll tell you; not tonight though.’ But he unbuttoned his jupon, laid it aside and pulled his shirt over his head.

  ‘Holy Mary!’ Trussel whispered. ‘Striped gules and argent, sinister chief to dexter base and back again! My Auntie Alice does a marvellous goose grease ointment. I've got a pot in the dormitory but it could prove disastrous if the lady has a mind to get to grips…’ He ducked the bolster hurled at him and fled laughing for the door.

&nb
sp; ~o0o~

  It was Trussel who brought her to him, cloaked and hooded and romantically mantled in mystery. He withdrew with a deep bow and an expressionless face; when he chose he was the perfect squire.

  Montfort stepped forward, moving out of the shadows until the firelight caught him, burnishing the dark auburn hair, oiling the sleek sables which edged the blue robe he had belted casually over shirt and hose.

  ‘May I take your cloak, My Lady, and please come to the fire. It is a wild night for travelling.’ But even before she had tossed back her hood, revealing the frame of a white goffered headdress beneath its all enveloping canopy, and unfastened the emerald pin at her throat, he knew she was not Katherine; she was too tall and too slim.

  ‘Welcome, Lady A. I rather hoped you would come.’

  She wore a simple gown, blood red velvet moulding breasts, hip and thigh to pool about her feet.

  ‘I am Kate’s proxy. It must have been more than obvious that she could not ride here without discovery but she is beside herself over the wretched brooch. You do have it, I suppose?’

  He nodded and jerked his head towards a small satinwood box on top of the bed chest. ‘Take it.’

  Orabella moved across the room, her gown sighing though the rushes like the wind across a sea of ripe barley. The box was velvet-lined; the great pearl in its diamond setting was unharmed and startlingly genuine. Orabella, satisfied, snapped the lid down. She began moving about the room, touching things, examining the bed hangings, prowling before the tapestries.

  ‘These were not here last time. I remember you had dragons with coloured stones worked in for the eyes. You told me all their names. There was a purple one called Cedric….’

  John smiled at her. ‘That was half a lifetime ago but you are right.’

  ‘But once this was your mother’s chamber? I came here as a girl. You never really knew your mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wonder why. She is cloistered, it’s true, but not immured. Many men have mothers in convents. Some have them home for Christmas.’