by Helen Burton
‘You can't,’ gasped Richard, ‘you damned well can't do that to me!’
‘It is your choice, my dear; an ignominious home-coming, I do admit. Rendel, take him, I'm weary of his argument.’
‘No, My Lord, I'll do as you say but you owe me an explanation and, damn you, I will have it!’
Warwick sighed, ‘Oh, out again both of you, but be on hand, I'll call when I need you. Sit down, Richard.’ He motioned to a table. ‘And listen, for I won't repeat myself. You are to leave now and by the back ways because I shan't be keeping the bargain I made with your father. I made another one, with brother John. The ransom is the same but the stakes are subtly different. Your father stresses that he needs you quick. John prefers that you should be dead. I choose to deal with John; I have my reasons.’
‘And yet you're preparing to double-cross him?’
‘You should thank your stars that I am! Now you must avoid meeting with anyone on the way and you must go quickly, there isn't time to make you understand.’
Richard was on his feet. ‘You knew John wanted my death, that day you warned me against yourself. Why should you spare my life now?’
‘By God, Richard, there isn't time for a bloody inquisition. Perhaps I don't even know the answer.’
Montfort knelt and kissed his hand, grave as any courtier, and Beauchamp raised him to his feet, a hand firm on each shoulder. Then he took a ring from his own little finger and pressed it into the young man's palm; an amethyst in a gold setting, a lady's ring - pensez de moy - Lora's ring. The boy's dark eyes were bright with unshed tears, a mingling of gratitude and sheer relief and more than a little bewilderment. Warwick swore at him, ‘Christ, boy, don't do that on me.’ For a brief moment he pulled the fair head against his shoulder, and then stood him off with a shake. Richard turned and fled.
~o0o~
The young man in black, who rode alone through the Upper Guard at Warwick and out into the snow light of the Great Court, had none of the sureness, the outward arrogance of Bastard John, who had come a-calling with Peter de Montfort only a few days before. Warwick strode out to meet him from the comfort of his hall. His red and gold jupon was effulgent beside the young man’s understated dark elegance. Montfort slid one leg over his pommel and alighted gracefully. He gave the 11th Earl of Warwick a bow which was little more than a businesslike nod.
Thomas Beauchamp had to admit to himself that he knew very little of Peter Montfort’s eldest son; there had been a gap of almost a decade between them as children which set them worlds apart. He looked for the sweet singer who had risen, phoenix-like, from the gilded pie; he looked for the boy Nicholas had pilloried and whipped for his insolence; he looked for the confident conspirator who had paced the river at his side beneath the caves of Guy’s Cliffe, but all he saw was a handsome chancer who knew he was sleepwalking into disaster and was powerless to stop what he had begun.
‘A devilish bad day to be upon the road,’ said Thomas for something to say.
‘Indeed, My Lord. But I have the consignment we treated for.’
‘Excellent. Let your men enter. I would see what you have brought us; whether you have kept your part of our bargain.’ He stood back and watched as the carts from Beaudesert trundled across the cobbles; saw them run smartly into the nearest stable block and clicked his fingers for two of his captains to follow. The doors swung to behind them.
‘They will need checking over. You would expect that of us,’ said Warwick easily.
‘My brother….’ began John.
Thomas smiled. ‘Not here, later. But shall we say that Richard de Montfort will not trouble these walls again. Now, food and ale for your men and you must dine with us; the Countess will insist.’ He put an arm to Montfort’s elbow and steered him indoors. Katherine was inside the solar, hemmed about by progeny of various sizes and both sexes; toddling tots and boisterous babies.
‘Why, John’ she called above all the hubbub, ‘were you unable to keep away from us? We shall take that as the perfect compliment, shall we not, My Lord? Orabella, a cup of malmsey for our guest. Have you met? But of course, you are old friends; close friends, I believe.’ Her smile was malicious as she gave him her hand. A bevy of nursemaids arrived to cart the children away.
‘John will dine with us,’ said Thomas, ‘please keep him entertained. I have a matter that must be attended to.’ He swept out without another look at his guest and strode for the stables.
Katherine, a regal vision in violet velvet, said, ‘I expect you are hoping to be home before dark.’
‘No, My Lady, I do not return to Beaudesert. I travel to Ashby for the winter jousts.’
‘Ashby!’ cried Katherine. ‘I adore Ashby. I wonder, would it please you to wear my favour? I might find something pretty.’
‘No!’ said Orabella and
‘No, thank you,’ said John simultaneously.
Katherine laughed, showing sharp, white teeth. ‘A pity, you rode so well for me at Coleshill. How is Johanna?’
‘She is travelling,’ said Orabella. ‘She enjoys travelling.’
‘Orabella, my lute please. John shall sing for us.’
A small page, affecting invisibility, had brought a stool, but was wondering how close to his adored mistress he should place it. John snatched it from him and set it down a safe distance from Kate’s plump, pretty fingers. He didn’t want them homing for his hair.
Orabella had moved to a side table and swept up the beribboned plaything. She leant over John’s shoulder, veils fluttering and said, ‘You will need to tune it.’ But the other hand rested upon his neck in the briefest caress. ‘What have you done?’ she hissed. He flicked the ribbons away and bent low to tune the instrument without replying.
Then Warwick burst in, making straight for the fire. ‘All’s well and we’re ready to dine. John, we’ll talk later. Kate, John shall sit between us as our honoured guest. Yes, I insist.’ He was all smiles, like an anticipatory crocodile, and full of bonhomie as they went into the hall, climbed the dais and took their places, elevated above Thomas’s vast household.
Katherine, glancing at John, said, ‘You’re hardly eating anything.’
‘I’m sorry, it is very good.’
Warwick brandished a mutton chop. ‘I see Gilbert is back from his errand. Someone send him up here; I need his news.’ He signed to one of his squires who bowed obsequiously and went to touch the man on the collar. Cap in hand he climbed the steps and louted before the Earl.
Thomas nodded. ‘You made good time; that was well done. Did you follow my instructions?’
‘To the letter, My Lord.’
‘Well, speak up!’
‘The young man, My Lord, we delivered him to the Lower Gatehouse just as you said. He was no trouble, My Lord; affable lad really. His family will be pleased to have him home, no doubt.’
Thomas said, ‘Did you hear that, John? Good news. Your brother has reached Beaudesert.’
‘Bravo!’ said Kate. ‘We were all very fond of Dickie, you know.’
John had paled noticeably. He started to rise but found himself yanked back into his seat by a plump white hand on the trailing sleeve of his cote.
‘Don’t,’ hissed the Countess, ‘say anything. What you utter in this hall can not be set aside. Try the custard; it’s the cook’s new recipe. I thought, a little more sugar perhaps?’ She leant across him to her husband. ‘Thomas, there must be other news; surely Gilbert found time to stop for a jug or two in Henley.’
The man turned to her eagerly, pleating his cap. ‘Yes, My Lady, they are all talking. Peter Montfort’s men were set upon on the high road, and some said to be gravely injured. His constable, old Mikelton - a grouser if ever I heard one but a good heart at that – barely escaped with his life. Now there’s a man with a tale to tell his master if he dares. The eldest son, him they call Bastard John, handsome young devil but chancy, if you know what I mean, they say he instigated the attack to rob his father. Now why would he do a thing like that? There�
�s felony on a grand scale. It’s being said the boy will hang but then, they have to catch him first. It’s my guess he’ll abjure, leave the country…’
‘That would be sensible,’ agreed the Earl. ‘But go and see yourself warmed and fed. We’ll hear more later.’ Beauchamp turned back to his family. ‘Now,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I think we should retire to the solar before John says something we shall all regret. Orabella, you may accompany us if you wish it. Pillow talk, I find, is so unreliable. You may as well hear us at first hand.’
‘My Lord,’ said John through gritted teeth, ‘you insult the lady.’
Thomas looked amused. ‘I forgot to ask. How is Johanna?’
‘She’s travelling. She enjoys travelling,’ chorused Kate and Orabella.
They trooped, all four, back into the solar where the Earl and Countess took to their quasi-thrones and Orabella sank down upon a stool below a window and reached for her embroidery basket.
John waved aside the offer of a seat; standing, his height gave him some advantage over the seated Earl.
‘As you wish,’ Thomas said. ‘I imagine you have something to say. Speak away.’
John was still incredibly pale but his voice was steady enough. ‘My Lord, you have played me false. I have delivered what I promised and I know you are not displeased. When was Richard released?’
‘As soon as Geoffrey Mikelton was seen to move out from Beaudesert with his precious cargo. I knew then that your father was set on keeping his side of the bargain. To give him his due, he was not a man to renege over a promise. It seemed pointless holding the boy longer. Our business was concluded.’
‘And our agreement?’ choked John. ‘Did that mean nothing? Your father, My Lord, was held to be a man of honour. Is there no entail for honour?’
‘Have a care, boy. Orabella won’t save your precious skin a second time. And who are you to match a father’s honour against a son? Do I hear the pot calling the kettle black? I remember Harry Derby said you were an amoral young wretch - and now turned the most unnatural of natural sons. Take heart in that I have, at least, saved you from the sin of fratricide.
‘And did you think I would not have you watched? How uncharacteristically naïve. And when I had been able to satisfy you that Richard was dead, what then? You would have been away to Ashby, where your touchingly gullible father believes you are spending your days in sport and dissipation, and where, I have no doubt, there are friends enough to vouch for your presence in the inns and at the gaming tables, if not in the lists. And when your father discovers that his Constable was set upon, his men maimed and left for dead by the hand of hooded desperadoes, who does he blame? Thomas Beauchamp, a man of no honour, it seems, a man who would break a promise and do away with his hostage in cold blood!’
‘It was worth a try!’ said John with a flash of the old insolence. ‘Now you shall not detain me. I have an appointment at Ashby.’
It was Katherine who interposed then, waving a bejewelled hand. ‘Fool of a boy, is there a Tree of Arms that would bear your name without some crony of your father’s demanding it be struck off? If you go to Ashby you are a dead man!’
‘You could not,’ said Warwick, looking him up and down, contempt in every line of the handsome, dark face, ‘even put your heart successfully into this gross betrayal of the man who fathered you. You let Geoffrey Mikelton go free to ride home and raise the hue and cry. What self-respecting brigand would have let him live to tell the tale. The Montfort blood in you must rise up at its dilution with that of your base-born mother!’
It was quick-witted Kate who saw the boy go for his dagger, a fraction before her husband did, and she was out of her chair and between them. ‘Thomas, Thomas, don’t bait him! That is unworthy. He has no redress. He is already a wanted man with a father threatening the noose. What more can you do to him!’ With one hand behind her back she was signalling that John should sheath his weapon again. Thomas kissed his wife and motioned her back to her chair. ‘For what it might be worth, I have no quarrel with you, John, but your father and I have a history. There is hurt between us and I have long sought revenge. When Richard fell into my hands, I rejoiced. But Richard deserved better than to be made the unwitting instrument of his father’s undoing. You, I discovered, fitted the part so much better; the eldest son, the feckless, faithless, treacherous and the best beloved. You played your part so beautifully. Peter de Montfort will know the full pain of betrayal as he visited it upon me long ago. And in the end, I did not need to lift a finger. John de Montfort, you shot your own bolt. At least have the grace to admit it.’
‘Thomas,’ said Katherine, ‘turn him off if you must but stop haranguing the boy. I have heard enough!’
Thomas laughed. ‘I could do that and where would he go, a Wolf’s Head, a hunted man? Or should I put him under lock and key and deliver him to his father’s justice tomorrow. An uncertain fate indeed. Another thought came to my mind. John, you trained under Henry of Derby?’
‘My Lord, you know I did.’
‘Then you could serve me, make yourself useful…’
John said, ‘You tear my reputation to shreds, you call me by every filthy epithet you can dredge up and you ask for my service and my loyalty!’
‘Well, who else will take you now?’
‘But you do not trust me…’ John was fighting with incredulity. This man was far ahead of him; he could not think fast enough.
‘And do you trust me?’
‘No, My Lord. How could I?’
‘Then,’ said Thomas, ‘we should get along very well. Is the bargain struck? Are you my man?’
John shrugged his shoulders and put out a slim wrist. ‘My hand upon it but this is as dark a partnership as Arden has ever known!’
Warwick was crushing the slender bones in his punishing bear’s grip. Unbelievably, he was smiling. ‘My Steward will find you lodging. Come, Kate. Orabella, John, goodnight.’
John made for the fire, kicking the last of the glowing logs into life. Orabella sank into the Countess’s chair. ‘I’m not going to say anything.’
‘Why not, everyone else has a knife in my ribs? Is he always like that?’
‘Thomas is Thomas. He really has no enmity towards you. He’s an excellent master but he’s no Henry Derby.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Less of the campaigning camaraderie. You will need to keep a respectful distance. Thomas’s tongue lashings are not for the faint-hearted and usually designed as a spectator sport. But he means it when he says he bears you no ill-will. He has a fine hatred for your father though, and how it will irk Peter to see you at his side. That is why you are here.’
‘Orabella, I can’t see a way out.’
‘You’ll think of something, you always do. Why don’t you write to Johanna?’
‘Johanna?’
‘Your wife, remember her? If anyone is capable of smoothing your father’s rightfully ruffled feathers, I guess it would be Johanna.’
‘I couldn’t ask. Do I get a room of my own? Will you come to me?’
‘Yes, you might, and no, I won’t.’
‘Your husband’s here?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because you have some serious thinking to do and because I am not at your beck and call.’
‘But we get on so well.’
‘So you thought you might use me to restore some of your sadly deflated amour propre?’
‘Something like that.’
‘At least you’re honest. You know, there’s nothing wrong with Richard.’
‘I wish you’d kiss me.’
‘Then one thing would lead to another and you’re very good at the other.’
‘I know.’ John flashed her his brilliant, heart-stopping smile. It usually worked.
Orabella had risen. She put an arm about his neck and pulled his face down for a practised kiss and said, ‘Such a pity that your intelligence is not also located in southern latitudes,
’ and, letting a hand slide inward from his narrow hips and latch into his groin for a tantalising moment, she was gliding away without a backward glance.
The man who had crept in to cover the fire said with grotesque cheerfulness, ‘Not really your lucky day, sir. Well, better fortune next time!’
John did not think it worth a reply.
Chapter Twenty-Four
December - 1343
Richard de Montfort's gaolers left him at the lower gate, took the hand he stretched out to each of them and finally, ungrudgingly, wished him good luck before turning to ride back towards the high road. He went on alone across the bridge and through the gatehouse, up the steep incline of the outer bailey only to be challenged at the barbican and ultimately passed through. In the shadows of the inner courtyard he dismounted and found that silent hands had taken charge of his mount and shuttered faces were ready to direct him to the solar. He passed unannounced through the tapestried curtain and found the family assembled.
Peter was pacing the floor, hands behind his back, head jutted forward, whilst Bess, in her brother's chair, sat rigidly upright, stony-faced, watching his perambulations. The child, Guy, was crouched upon a stool, seeking invisibility whilst old Geoffrey Mikelton slumped upon a bench by the wall, held his bandaged head between his hands and stared dejectedly between his feet. The other figure, standing by the table, thin and wiry, sharp-faced, was Peter's chaplain, Jack de Lobbenham, summoned to the family conference and now casting about for words of comfort and wisdom. Peter turned at the far wall and began to stride back again towards the fire.
‘I'll hang him!’ The words exploded from him. ‘If he falls into my hands again, I'll hang him. Flesh of my flesh he may be but I'll cast him out of my heart like the devil he's proved!’
