The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘Richard happens to be right but blackmail is an ugly word. Shall we say that your son in my hands may help you to make me a gift of certain engines of war, at present in your possession? Go home and think about it, Peter. Richard is safe until I have an answer from you. After that I can make no promises; the pressure may need to be applied.’

  Montfort looked weary; he put a hand on Richard's shoulder. ‘Courage, lad, I'll have you out of here.’

  ‘Not his way,’ muttered Richard. ‘Don't do anything; I have a plan. I'll join you at Beaudesert.’

  Peter turned abruptly, John at his back, and strode from the room; they heard his retinue ride away across the bailey and into the distance. Warwick turned to Richard. ‘If you give me your parole you can go back to the fletchers' quarters; I imagine you are finding captivity irksome.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘I'll make no bargains with you, My Lord. How you dispose of me is your affair and on your conscience.’

  ‘Meaning that you intend to seize any opportunity offered to part company with us? I don't advise it and, if you try, I shall see you suffer for it.’

  ‘As my brother suffered at your hands?’ flashed Richard.

  ‘Ah, Bastard John; you heard about that. Did Nicholas tell you? Of course, he would. The courtyard at night, a tableau vivant with son et lumiere, but that would appeal to you, wouldn't it, Sebastian, that pure sense of theatre. But I could not indulge you. Thwart me and your wages will be far more basic and eminently fitted to your youth. Don't scowl, it doesn't suit you. Do you have all you need in your ivory tower?’

  ‘It matters little for I'll ask for nothing!’ retorted the boy, nettled by his earlier threats. ‘You play cat and mouse!’

  ‘Perhaps, but what irks you is the fact that I never even needed to bait the trap, you walked in of your own free will, trusting as a new born babe. What do you think of your father?’

  ‘Is he my father?’

  ‘Yes, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Perhaps he will lay claims, force ownership upon me - I don't think I can exchange one prison for another.’

  ‘You don't have a choice; you've opened Pandora's Box. When I relinquish the rights of overlord, Peter de Montfort will move in with a father's rights and, independent soul that you are, you have much to learn about the ways of courts and kings - even a bastard son has obligations.’

  ‘I think it gives you pleasure to taunt me, My Lord. Summon my gaoler if you will and let me be out of your sight!’ And, surprisingly, Warwick did as he bade him, leaving him with a curt 'goodnight'. Two of the earl's archers closed in, one on each side; he was taking no chances.

  ~o0o~

  They met upstream from the mill where the cells of the Holy Men pitted the sandstone cliff like coney burrows and had proved sanctuary for many a hermit. Their most famous tenant had been Guy of Warwick himself, the legendary slayer of the Dun Cow, knight and pilgrim and lover, who had ended his days here. Now there was nothing; a deserted chapel, a warren of caves, home of rabbit and raven, and a colony of bats.

  Thomas Beauchamp and John de Montfort arrived separately, to tether their horses in the nearest cavern, both were unattended, both plainly dressed, anonymously cloaked against the chill wind. They walked the overgrown path beside the river in the shelter of the cliff.

  ‘My price,’ said Warwick, ‘remains the same whoever is doing the asking. Perhaps I should take your father's offer, a simple exchange - the engines of war for one bastard son - living. So much easier than covering up a death, an undeserved one at that.’

  John shrugged. ‘What's one boy more or less off the face of this earth? In a year or two he might perish in battle, waste away of the winter cough, who knows?’

  ‘That is in the lap of the gods, not in my gift. And how will you square with your father over this? You, the first born, the dearly beloved; Cain slaying Abel.’

  ‘He never needs to know. The boy was making tracks home; he lost his way and was set upon by lawless men. It happens.’

  ‘And suppose, our bargain completed, I let fall your part in it to your father?’

  John smiled, sure of himself. ‘Would he believe you, after all these years of feuding and enmity? Your word against his own son! I doubt it. What is it to you, My Lord, who hands over the goods; you will have what you want.’

  Warwick ceased his perambulation and turned towards him deliberately. ‘If Peter de Montfort delivers the engine by his own hand or that of one of his officers he shall take Richard de Montfort live away with him. If it is delivered by your hand then Peter Montfort will lose a son, my oath upon it.’ He held out a gauntleted hand and smiled, a glittering rictus of a smile, and John felt a cold sliver of fear slide down his spine. For a moment, he left the hand there, suspended in air, whilst his violet eyes searched the dark face for treachery, then he too smiled and extended his own hand.

  ‘Give me a few days, a week at the outside. That is all I shall require.’ He bowed low, spun on his heels and strode away along the river path. Beauchamp heard the beat of his horse's hooves fade away into the winter evening but it was a long time before he sought his own mount and returned to Warwick, eminently satisfied with life. The night had closed in; the trap was sprung.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  November - 1343

  Richard de Montfort chose the next evening to affect his escape. He was allowed half an hour's exercise at sunset, a perambulation along the allure stretching from the Bear Tower to the Gatehouse. He was accompanied by an archer who, though allowing him to walk alone, watched him eagle-eyed. Any attempt at flight could ensure an arrow in the back and, beside, he would still have had to get through the main gate unless…

  Tonight, the sunset, crimson and gold, flamed in the feathered ripples of the Avon, flowing on, wine-dark, beneath the old bridge. The forest land, bare now, but in places still too deep for the rose-glow's penetration, had a dark mystery of its own, closing in about the fortress as the dying eye of the sun disappeared from sight.

  Richard wore his old, darned mulberry cote and hose and no cloak. The way he was going it would have been an impediment. He stood shivering in the biting east wind, measuring the distance between the allure and the nearest flight of stone steps which would take him down into the courtyard, waiting until he had his courage screwed up to take flight, to turn his back on the deadly arrow.

  A figure moved out onto the wall-walk ahead of him, a young girl in a dark green surcote over a light kirtle. She held her skirts bunched in one hand so that her little green slippers peeped out from below the hem. She wore no veil and the hair which cascaded below her filet was an autumnal dark red. Montfort recognised the child on the pony, the girl who had said she was to marry Nicholas Durvassal. She was not as young as he had thought but still only about fourteen years old. Rose Brandstone had come to Warwick in the weeks before her marriage to serve as one of Kate’s demoiselles or, more likely, for an eye to be kept on the girl; she was known not to favour the proposed marriage. He made her a bow. His gaoler stiffened but what was he to do? This girl was a lady, he could not shoo her away as if she were a naughty little page. He kept a weather ear open and moved a little nearer.

  ‘So this is the fearsome prisoner of the Bear Tower,’ mocked the Lady Rose, casting a glance at the archer and lifting her brows. Her eyes were the bluest of blue, the colour of every field speedwell before the midday sun fades sky to watchet. She swung herself up between two merlons, her back to the darkening heavens. ‘I am to be married tomorrow, married past redemption.’ She smoothed her skirts about her, set her head on one side and eyed Richard coquettishly.

  ‘To Nicholas?’

  The freckled nose wrinkled and she nodded. ‘I have a new gown of silver brocade, and Nicholas has bought me a white palfrey to ride away with him to Spernall after the ceremony. I shall have a saddle cloth of silver with ribbons and bells and white silk roses for my hair; white blossoms for Rose-Red. It’s all so ridiculous! Nicholas detests me. He will shut
me away in his precious manor house and I shall stand at my window and watch him ride away as the Lily Maid must have gazed after Sir Lancelot.’

  Richard smiled at her. ‘Nicholas has been spoilt. I imagine he'll mellow.’

  Rose twisted a glowing tendril of hair about her fingers. ‘You'll be leaving here soon. Oh, there's so much for a man to see and do: ships on the tide, sailing for the east to return with pigeon's egg rubies, silver tissue, bales of silk shot with rainbow colours, veils shimmering with starlight, coffers full of gleaming bezants, necklaces of ivory…’ he was still smiling but his mind was racing on, far away from her. The sentry was bored and cold.

  Richard said, ‘I must go back to my prison and you should be at supper. Let me help you down.’ He put up his arms, clasping her about her tiny waist. The red hair fell forward and whipped about his face. He said, ‘Lady, for what I am about to do, forgive me,’ swung her down, whisked her in front of him, his arms tight about her, and was already backing his way along the allure towards the steps. He shouted out to the sentry, ‘When I get down to the courtyard, I'll release her. Loose a shaft at her and you slay Nicholas Durvassal's bride! I should think twice about it if I were you.’

  Rose was pummelling at his arms; he was crushing her rib-cage. She kicked backwards at him with the slippered feet but her cries were muted and when they reached the steps and he had to descend sideways, manoeuvring her with difficulty, she allowed herself to go limp as if all the fight were out of her. Montfort backed away across the courtyard, suddenly loosed her and thrust her aside, turned and ran for the shadows. Then the arrows did come but he had reached the empty shell of the new Caesar Tower. In the inky darkness at its base he sorted about until, amongst the mason's blocks and pulleys he found a stout length of rope. He coiled it about his shoulders and entered the lower floor. The blackness was almost total; the window let little light into the room. Richard picked his way carefully amongst the mason's rubble, making for the small white square, and suddenly it was blotted out and he became aware of another's breathing, yards away.

  ‘Richard Montfort, is it you? You are expected. We've been waiting, Nicholas or I. I'm glad you haven't disappointed us. No, I wouldn't disappear the way you came; the hue and cry is up.’

  Richard, recognising the voice, knew that William Lucy could not possibly see him or know that he had the coil of rope. He kept silent, working in a half circle away from the voice but still towards the window, uncoiling his rope.

  ‘Out of my way, man, I'm armed!’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that, boy!’

  Richard payed out his rope, swinging the tail of it in increasing circles in a trick he'd learnt of Arthur Chigwell down on the wharves. He judged his opponent’s position and, without warning, struck.

  The rope whipped round Lucy's legs, tightened and, with a jerk, he was over. Richard tossed the coil after him and sprang up onto the sill of the tiny window, thrusting his shoulders through the aperture. The Lord of Charlecote, winded, was struggling to his feet. ‘You fool, make that jump and you'll break every bone in your body! It's too far and the blocks for the third story are just below. You'll never get to the river!’

  But the warnings fell on deaf ears. Montfort hung for a moment from the stone coping, jumped down onto the outward sloping foundations of the massive stone tower, wavered precariously, recovered his balance and slithered down towards the water's edge. There was no time to waste, he ran down to the river and plunged in, swimming strongly. He was minutes in the icy water when the baying of the hounds started up on the far bank, following the river's course downstream. It would be impossible to escape that way. He turned back towards the weir and, yards away from the edge of the foam he crossed to the other bank. There were no sounds above the creaming threshing waters. He hauled himself upon the banks of the ait, aware that sooner or later the dogs would pick up his scent. Crossing the river again on the far side of the island he was in the Earl's chase. The leaves, thickly spread, made a soft carpet but not a silent one. He leant his back against the trunk of a giant oak, listening. But all he could hear was his own harsh breathing, one with the painful heaving of his own breast. He struck off again, seeking the thickest shelter.

  It was Nicholas, with the perception of a cat, who first caught the glimpse of a moving shadow. It was Nicholas who knew the terrain. Fleet of foot he was in pursuit but it was hard to move silently amongst the sad remains of the autumn's harvest of bracken, and Montfort whirled round to face his opponent. One shout would bring the dogs down upon them. Nicholas did not speak, this was his quarry, he was moving forward by inches and Montfort could not tell whether he was armed. Possibly he had been at supper when the alarm was raised; he would never have had time to fasten his baldric but he would be carrying a knife. The younger man sprang, he flung himself upon Durvassal and wrested the weapon in a coup which even Arthur would have admired. The knife plunged into a tangled thicket of rose briars and bramble vines and the two went down together, struggling to recapture it. Even then, Nicholas could have called out and had a dozen men to aid him but he could not consider defeat and took a savage pride in his own physical fitness. Had he not trained under England's great soldier-earl? Every muscle was keyed to react to the messages of a coolly calculating brain. His opponent was gutter-bred. Oh, he did well enough with the long bow, Nicholas grudgingly remembered. But the arts of chivalry! His type wielded a sword like a meat-axe and he could never have mounted a good piece of horse-flesh in his life.

  Nicholas had discounted the most important fact of all, Richard was desperate. If he won this bout he would be hunted across the shire, relentlessly, with slim chance of making the marches of his father's lands; if he lost it was back to imprisonment and who knew what besides. Richard used every hook and hold he had ever used in the wildest of the London riots and Nicholas was surprised at his young opponent's strength. Over and over in the bracken and leaves they wrestled, both so completely unaware that they were gradually being ringed about by Warwick's archers and that the Earl himself, immaculate in black and gold, was advancing. The archers parted to let him through. Beauchamp snapped his fingers.

  ‘Enough, Nicholas! Richard, you fight like a sewer rat. Take him!’ He turned to Durvassal who was attempting to dust himself down. ‘Why were you fool enough to leave yourself open to such an attack?’

  Durvassal's handsome face was sullen before the Earl's chiding, like a small page caught scrumping in the Abbot's orchard. Warwick waved an arm in Montfort's direction. ‘Back to the fold with him; we'll follow on.’

  The courtyard was aglow with torchlight as they passed under the gatehouse arch. But despite the brightness Richard felt chilled to the marrow of his bones. His wet cote hung upon him, smelling of river weed and leaf mould. His hair curled upon his forehead, damp and dank. He saw William Lucy regarding him with amusement rather than enmity and Lady A, richly cloaked, was standing in the shadows with Katherine's damsels clustered about her, all chattering with excitement. The hall had been abandoned, food still on the tables. Richard was too angry with himself at his botched attempt to feel hungry. He was jostled through the hall towards the solar steps and prodded into the firelit room.

  The cressets were lit, the shutters fastened against the winter wind. He was alone with Beauchamp and Durvassal and this time there would be no escape. Warwick was ignoring him. He faced his squire and motioned for the young man to disarm him, to remove his spurs and gauntlets and help him out of his surcote. His jupon was of unrelieved black. Together with the dark hose and long riding boots it gave him a lean, satanic look. His shadow was a giant upon the walls.

  ‘What are we to do with you, Richard?’ The words were those of an exasperated elder talking to a small child.

  Montfort was on his guard but he said, ‘You have no right to hold me prisoner!’

  ‘And what other way can I hold you? You had the whole castle by the ears tonight, perhaps you found that amusing. You winded Will Lucy and what I cannot countenance is your use o
f the Lady Rose as a counter in your escape. That was a despicable act from any man. I would have thought better of you.’

  ‘Desperate diseases require desperate remedies.’ But a flush of shame had crept unwillingly into the boy's face. He was not quite old enough to take the criticisms of his elders and toss them aside unperturbed.

  ‘Desperate remedies,’ mused Warwick. ‘The man who let you escape has been flogged.’

  That did bring fire to the dark eyes. ‘What else could he have done, seeing I had the girl as a shield? Visit your spleen on me, My Lord, if you must!’

  ‘I have said before, I want you whole for as long as it suits my purpose. Others can be proxy and suffer for your misdemeanours. Next time a man will hang. Will you care to put it to the test?’

  Nicholas laughed, ‘Well said, My Lord, he is too lily-livered to want a man's death on his conscience. You have him there!’ He was the old Nicholas again, in spite of the mud spatters on his hose, the button wrenched from the figure-hugging scarlet jupon. Even the silver-gilt hair had swung back into place about the narrow face. Richard was soaked through, dirty, stiff and cold. He had nothing to lose. He launched himself at Durvassal and the young man, taken off guard, was forced to defend himself.

  Warwick stood back. They had a fine hatred between them which had been nurtured over the ten years since, in the shadow of Nottingham Castle, Durvassal had picked upon a small boy and called him a thief. Let them knock hell out of each other, the exercise would do Nicholas good, shake him out of his usual indolence. Montfort had been cooped up too long. Let them fight it out and finish what was begun in the woods. But Nicholas, when all was said, fought by the rules, in the same way that he would have jousted by them and waged battle by them. Richard wrestled - no holds barred, but when he caught Durvassal with a wicked low punch that doubled him up, Warwick surged into action, tore them apart and sent Montfort across the room with a blow to the chin that sent him crashing across the table, three parts unconscious.