The Lords of Arden (24 page)

 Beauchamp grinned. ‘You should be
thoroughly ashamed of yourself. Happily, I enjoy a reputation which frees me
from that particular taint. You have an unfortunate tongue on you, boy.’

 ‘I'm sorry, but I was sorely tried down
there. I imagined I was left to rot; the total illogicality of the thought would
not take hold…’ the fine sheen of perspiration sprang out upon his brow.

 ‘The water's getting cold; make the most
of it and I'll see food is sent up to you. Can you understand? This is not a
punishment, but I cannot leave you free and lose you again. You are merely a
hostage until your father and I have concluded our business together.’

 Richard said, ‘I would have come back. I
did not know then that I had any reason to fear you.’

 ‘And do you fear me now?’

 ‘I don't think so.’ He was an honest
young man, the dark eyes did not waver as he fixed them on Warwick but there
were violet hollows beneath them, the imprints of stress, and a bruise high up
on one cheekbone.

 Thomas Beauchamp put out a finger and
touched it lightly. ‘I think you should fear me, Richard.’

 ‘The Lady Orabella thought so too, all
those years ago when she sent me packing back to London.’

 ‘Lady A cannot help you now. And no man
here can be bribed; I would hang a man for such disloyalty. Do you enjoy a cold
bath? Goodnight, Richard.’

 ‘Your cloak, My Lord.’ Richard reached to
take the costly black velvet from his shoulders but Warwick shook his head.

 ‘Keep it. I owe a debt to a dead man.’

 ‘My lord?’ Montfort could not know the
tortuous ramblings of this man's mind.

 ‘Don't trouble your head about it.’ He
opened the door and closed it softly behind him. The rasp of the key grating in
the lock sent a frisson of fear along Richard's spine and, when he had washed
away the taint of Tartarus, he wrapped himself in the thick folds of Warwick's cloak and sat for a long time upon the window sill, looking up at the stars.

Nicholas Durvassal had left the warmth and
shelter of the hall fire for the withered briars of the rose garden and the
cold ceiling of stars.

 ‘So the happy bridegroom is pacing out
the days and hours beneath his bride's chamber window, eager for the wedding
day?’ Lady A, mocking him from beneath the claw-like branches of an ancient
mulberry, left the shadowy embrace of its withered arms and came towards him.

 ‘Orabella, for Christ's sake! What do you
want of me?’

 She glided forward on soft slippered feet
and a galaxy of stones sparkled in her jewelled crespine. ‘I wish I did not
despise you, Nicholas. Why do you stay here and let Thomas rule you, let him
marry you to red-headed Rose? Why don't you set off, knight-errant, for the
tournaments of Europe? I don't think you are content to remain Beauchamp's
faithful hound or Kate's lap-dog. Why, Nicholas? Because you love Christine,
because of Thomas, because once you loved Kate? Oh, Kate is easy to love and
Thomas's service can become a compulsion.’

 ‘If I baulk at this marriage, I shall pay
with the loss of Spernall,’ said Durvassal as they began to climb up the old
Saxon mount, nearer to the flaring stars.

 ‘Then get yourself other lands, fight for
them. Carry Christine's favour from tourney to tourney, or better still, woo an
heiress on your own account - preferably one unrelated to Thomas,’ she added
dryly.

 ‘I will stay here, My Lady, and wait for
Spernall. It is my right; and who are you to hint at vacillation in me? One
night the dark sister dolorosa, black gowned and Madonna-like, untouched and
untouchable, and next morning, up with the sun, bedecked and bejewelled in
scarlet silk and floating gauze and come-hither smiles. And all the women ape
your fashions so that any man looking about him catches only your image in a
dozen mirrors and turns away from the shadow to search for the substance. You
flit from one identity to another, from trusted confidant and dusky familiar to
glittering harlot. But you cannot make or shape my destiny. Find another
acolyte for your witchery, I am not the man!’ He turned swiftly from her and he
heard the whisper of her gown as she left the hill.

~o0o~

John de Montfort was home from Ludlow, his arrival at Beaudesert coinciding with the return of his small brother from a
sojourn with his Butler kin at Sudeley, and preceding his father's homecoming
from Worcester by more than three weeks.

 John had found himself crowned victor in more
than one event during a spectacular week of pageantry and jousting, but had
sustained a leg wound in the grand melee which had been the culmination of the
festivities. He had ridden slowly along Henley High Street, with that
disordered elegance which was his hall-mark, in cinnamon velvet and with a hat
of tawny silk upon his head, lavishly embroidered with gold acorns. He scattered
largesse as the mood took him, though he could ill afford the gesture even with
a fat bag of prize money stitched into his saddle cloth. Simon Trussel, his
graceless young squire, following closely, was doubled up with laughter on the
neck of his bay and the escort, bringing up the rear with the sumpter mules, were
grinning broadly.

 Beyond the High Street and making for the
castle, Montfort set spur to Ferraunt and took the causeway at a gallop,
clattering over the planking of the lower bridge, thudding across the
frost-hardened earth of the bailey and setting the chestnut, arrow straight,
for the upper guard and on through the gatehouse tunnel into the courtyard.

 Trussel was out of the saddle and
obedient at his master's side. Elizabeth Freville moved from the shadows with
young Guy, exited and impatient, at her side. Montfort slid from his saddle but
leant for a while against his mount's flank, one hand twisted into his horse
cloth, knuckles white. There were beads of sweat upon the handsome face.

 ‘I told you, sir!’ hissed Trussel
furiously.

 ‘So you did.’ Montfort had recovered his
usual indolent composure.

 ‘My Lady,’ Trussel said, by way of
explanation, ‘he took a hit during the melee. It's worse than he'll have anyone
suppose. He should have made the journey in easy stages but he would not.’

 ‘No,’ said his Aunt, ‘when the gods
handed out cradle gifts to my nephew they were prodigal with good looks and
quick wit but niggardly when it came to common sense. John, can you walk?’

 They processed through the hall and it
was a prince's progress with servants appearing from every recess to pump the
young man's hand, to ask how he did or welcome him home.

 ‘I hope you trounced the borderers,’ said
Guy, skipping alongside his half-brother. ‘Nothing exciting happened at Cousin
Butler's, nothing at all.’

 A few yards from the solar door and
Montfort faltered at last to find Geoffrey Mikelton there with a strong arm
under his elbow. He pushed aside the arras with the other. ‘Easy, lad. So the
conquering hero must never be seen in moments of weakness? You'd better sit
down before you fall down.’

 Montfort smiled wryly. ‘Don't you think
they're aware of all my weaknesses out there?’ He sat in his father's chair and
let Trussel find a stool for the injured leg.

 Guy said, voice full of awe, ‘His boot's
full of blood, buckets of it!’

 And Simon Trussel, looking furious, bit
his lip and said, ‘If you're crippled don't blame me!’

 Elizabeth tutted, ‘No-one is going to
blame you for John's habitual foolhardiness but if you're looking for a long
career attached to a fixed star there are steadier orbs in the firmament; shooting
stars burn brightly but they soon come to earth. Now, shall we have some order
here? Guy, you could supervise the pack-horses. I don't want what appear to be
the entire contents of a camel caravan littered about your father's courtyard. Simon,
you can fetch a bowl and clean linen. That will be all Geoffrey, I know why
you're hovering like the Angel of Death but our news can come later. Now, out,
all of you!’ She clapped her hands like a housewife shooing chickens.

 ‘News?’ said Montfort.

 ‘It will keep. By the way, we have the
mummers here, on their way to Warwick to entertain the Countess for her
birthday a couple of weeks from now; some romantic nonsense the Earl has
devised to please her. Guy prevailed upon them to play for us for just one
night so I asked them to stay. Do you mind?’

 ‘Of course not, why should I?’

 ‘You look incredibly pale.’

 He ignored that. ‘Something has happened
here, hasn't it?’

 ‘Later. Here's Simon, I'll leave you to
his competence.’ She rose and passed behind his chair, pausing to place cool
fingers on his hot, damp forehead. ‘Burdock,’ she said.

 ‘My Lady?’ Trussel was removing his
master's right boot. He glanced up politely.

 ‘The best thing there is for the
purification of the blood,’ she said and swept from the room.

 Trussel looked up again from beneath his
dark fringe. ‘It's only a flesh wound,’ he mouthed. ‘Only a flesh wound! You're
a bloody fool - sir! This is going to hurt.’

 ‘I'm an Englishman,’ said Montfort, ‘I'm
not supposed to care. Is it infected?’

 ‘I don't know. Do I have to sniff at it?’

 ‘I imagine so, how else can you tell? But
you're meant to remove the bandages first!’

 ‘Perhaps your aunt could do better.’ Trussel
was unwinding strips of linen. ‘Do I yank at the last bit?’ He was looking
doubtful.

 Montfort nodded and turned his head towards
the back of the armchair, face hidden by the tangle of his auburn hair.

 ‘You're going to have to yell. It doesn't
matter,’ said his squire. But the victor of Ludlow had his even, white teeth
clamped upon the cuff of his velvet jupon.

 ‘It's quite clean,’ announced Trussel
cheerfully, ‘you won't go lame. A pity really, a limp is wildly romantic. The
ladies go for a man with a limp.’

 ‘Get out, Simon!’

 ‘Don't you want it bound up again? You
might as well sit it out, I can't work in instalments. A good squire has to
contend with anything, your father says…’

 ‘Christ, didn't you hear me!’

~o0o~

Later, when the boards were spread and the
cressets lit, it was a light-hearted company who sat down for supper, finally
moving the trestles away and settling to hear the mummers play.

 John sat in a chair close to the fire,
his injured leg upon a pile of cushions. Bess had a length of embroidery,
destined for her younger nephew's bed-chamber, across her lap and a pool of
bright silks scattered about her. Guy had pulled a stool close to John's knee
and every time there was a dramatic pause in the proceedings he embarked upon
quick fire questions concerning jousts and horses, Marcher Barons - and horses,
hounds - and horses, and were there any trick-riders amongst the mummers? John
said he didn't think so by the look of the sorry nags they had trailed up the
causeway and tethered in the bailey.

 Some of the mummers had formed a little
musical ensemble. Their leader had a pleasing baritone voice and sang all the
old favourites.

 Bess sent Guy up to bed at last and took
over the footstool, her embroidery laid aside. She did not look at John as she
said, ‘Earlier this week a boy came here, a lad of eighteen or so, a stranger. He
claimed he was your brother, your father's son.’ She thought John was still
listening to the song.

 ‘And what did you do?’

 ‘Sent him packing back to Warwick whence he hailed.’

 ‘There's an end then,’ said her nephew.

 ‘Yes. No! Perhaps he is your sibling. He
is like her and more than like your father; the same dark eyes. I remember
Peter at that age…’

 ‘Perhaps Lora Astley took other lovers,’
said Lora's son, unconcerned, though he remembered his father’s testament to
her fidelity.

 ‘Then you wrong her, John. Whatever she
was she remained true to your father. You had better not put such a theory
before him if you value your skin!’

 ‘So you do propose to tell him?’

 ‘Of course, then it’s out of my hands.’

 ‘He will go to Warwick.’

 ‘Yes, he will certainly wish to put his
mind at rest one way or the other. Are you tired, my dear? Why don't you get
off to bed?’

 Montfort smiled at her and shook his
head. ‘I want to speak to the Player King. They deserve a handful of coins. Would
you ask him over here?’ Bess nodded and the leader, a thick-set, black-haired
giant, moved swiftly to the fireside, making a low obeisance.

 ‘We pleased your lordship? Would he
recommend us about the shire?’

 ‘You could please me more - if you have
time to listen.’

 The giant shrugged. ‘The night is young. Can
I sit down?’

 Bess, moving about the hall, tidying away
her silks, letting fall a word or two here and there to favoured members of her
brother's household, cast a glance in her nephew's direction. He had his head
bent low, expounding something to the big man, laughing, rings flashing as he
spread his hands. Then she saw coins pass between them. Not the tawdry gleam of
silver pennies but the bright fire of gold lay in the palm of the Player King,
and the smile which followed him across the room and lingered at the corners of
her nephew's straight, set mouth, set her nerves on edge and she wished she could
have wiped it away and rubbed out whatever devilry he was planning. Thank
heaven that Peter would soon be home to see to his own affairs. She wanted to
be back at Tamworth before the winter snows set in. She tried to persuade
herself that her son needed her, that her daughters were poor, ineffectual
creatures and would be glad to see her home. She fell asleep that night quite
convinced of it.

~o0o~

A feast fit for a queen; and, indeed,
Katherine Beauchamp was queen that night, sitting at the high table, in the
place of honour, with her husband on her right. The excitement and happiness
were bubbling over from the shivering, shimmering height of her gold-spangled
headdress, topped with its fairytale coronet, to the tiny red-slippers which
tapped under the table to the beat of tambour and drum. Her dark eyes were
sparkling, her cheeks burning scarlet like the face of a painted doll, and her
round, high bosom strained beneath the low-cut gown, carnation red velvet edged
with ermine. The belt which was clasped precariously about her hips was studded
with balays, the pink eyes of each ruby winking back at the flambeaux set about
the tables.

 The boards were covered with fine white
linen and garlanded with evergreens and knots of crimson roses worked in
stiffened tissue. From the dais, the lower tables produced a sea of upturned
faces, flushed, expectant, and set to enjoy themselves. From the gallery came a
fanfare of silver trumpets and the service screens were moved aside to allow a
procession of liveried squires and pages to bring in an endless succession of
exotic dishes. A peacock in his pride, beak and claws gilded, headed the train
and was placed before the countess with sucking pig stuck with cloves and
accompanied by a Master Chef's ginger sauce, and then Katherine's favourites,
Pommes Dames, little roundels of beef and pork, currants and spices, rolled in
parsley, flour and egg yolk, baked and presented like little green apples; and
perch, simmered in almond milk, and saffron cakes and candied gillyflowers…