The Lords of Arden (27 page)

 They were not to surface until the
fire-castles had collapsed into grey ash and the room was growing cold.

 John de Montfort lay on his back, a
louche look in the half-closed violet eyes. Orabella knew that she could give
him more than ten years; it made her feel unusually maternal. She pushed a lock
of the sweat-soaked auburn hair from his forehead and kissed him gently.

 ‘Are you going to fall asleep on me?’

 ‘I might. No, I’m listening.’

 She sat up, tracing one of her long,
almond-tipped fingers over his chest and across the taut lines of his belly.

 ‘My dear, I did not expect you to be so
considerate – so perceptive?’

 He opened his eyes wide, faintly
embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to say.’ He shrugged. ‘I am as I
am.’

 Her dark hair whispered over him like
drifts of sarcenet. ‘How did you learn to pluck at the nerve endings? A latter
day Orpheus drawing sweet notes from a discordant lyre?’

 ‘I work at it,’ laughed John with a
distinct lack of humility, ‘like anything else. And you make it so easy, My
Lady. That came quite close to perfection.’

 Orabella might have slapped his face but
he was too attractive a creature to mar. Instead, her insistent fingers snaked
into his groin again and dug viciously before her mouth came down on his yell
of anguish.

 ‘You’re an arrogant bastard, Johnny,’ she
said surfacing.

 ‘That bloody well hurt. You didn’t have
to cripple me!’

 Orabella said, ‘Kate will be waiting,’
but she let her lips travel down his body until the unbound hair whispered
tantalisingly, cruelly about his loins and she dropped a kiss in earnest of an
apology.

 ‘Don’t do that, if you won’t stay.’ He
was mildly irritated. ‘That’s a whore’s trick; leave them asking for more!’

 ‘And you would know?’ She sat up,
reaching for her shift.

 ‘I don’t have to pay for it. I’m
reasonably popular without.’ His smile was refulgent. Arms folded behind his
head he was relaxed in the perfect nakedness of youth.

 ‘I can imagine,’ said Orabella dryly,
much amused.

 ‘I suppose I shall be dissected before
the delectable countess. Do women talk of their conquests?’

 She laughed. ‘Oh, you have nothing to
fear. And I, shall I be reduced to a pot-house boast by tomorrow night?’

 ‘I keep my counsel, lady. You insult me
if you believe otherwise!’ He turned his back on her, searching for his shirt.

 ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Johnny, don’t sulk. I
need lacing back into this frippery.’

 ‘You can’t go, not now.’ He pulled her
into his arms again and held her close against him. She laughed softly,
delighted by his very obvious need for her and pushed him away.

 ‘I’m sorry; you’ll have to shift for
yourself when I’m gone.’

 For all his seeming sophistication he
flushed scarlet at that and said, ‘Go to hell, Orabella!’

 She kissed the set, mutinous mouth. ‘Thank
you for a remarkably delicious evening,’ bundled her hair into the unbecoming
headdress, swathed herself into her cloak and swept up the box with the
Mortimer Eagle safe inside. Then she was gone.

~o0o~

Kate was abed in their lodgings at the
Abbey Guest House. She sat up and pushed back the covers when Orabella entered
bringing the cold air from monkish corridors with her. Kate was swaddled in her
travelling cloak and shivering. ‘Thank God you’re back. I suffered an endless
evening discussing almshouses with the Abbess.’

 Orabella tossed her the rosewood box and
the Countess peered inside. ‘You don’t think it could be a fake?’

 ‘No,’ said Orabella, ‘the original is bad
enough. Who would want to counterfeit such a monstrosity?’

 Kate snapped the lid to and set the box
aside. ‘You were a long time. Something must have happened. You did, didn’t you,
you and the Montfort boy?’

 Orabella, stripped naked, was climbing
into the bed beside her. The Countess sniffed. ‘You look positively glowing,’
she tried.

 ‘It’s below freezing. I thought you might
have noticed.’

 ‘But you’ve got that look – like a cat in
a creamery.’

 Orabella struggled to pull the coverlet
up to her chin. The Abbess’s mattress was lumpy and scratchy, obviously
designed for mortification of the flesh.

 Kate, with a sudden nostalgia for a
certain sunny day at Coleshill said, ‘Was he good?’

 ‘Oh, yes,’ smiled Orabella, ‘he was good,
exceptionally good. Worth every pot-hole in the road!’ She turned her back on
the shivering Countess, wondered briefly about monastic fleas, and was soon
asleep.

~o0o~

In the morning Simon Trussel came in to
set all in order again. He wrinkled up his patrician nose. ‘It smells like….’

 ‘Just don’t say it,’ said John. ‘Just
don’t think about saying it!’

 ‘Her perfume,’ said Trussel, wounded,
‘jasmine with just a trace of….’

 ‘Whorehouse?’ finished John. ‘You pay a
lot for that in London.’

 ‘Vetiver was what I had in mind.’ Simon
plumped up a cushion energetically, made up the fire, shook out the discarded
blue robe and tossed the crumpled shirt into a laundry basket. He was not a
silent worker.

 John said, ‘Come here and sit down. I
assume these little instances of your displeasure, like your thumping hell out
of my prize possessions, denote your disapproval?’

 Trussel, perched on the end of the bed
with his back to him, nodded. ‘How much did you pay her – sir?’

 John laughed. ‘Mercenary little devil,
not a silver penny!’

 ‘Then where’s the pearl brooch, the one
you had of the slave girl at Coleshill. It was here last night.’

 ‘You notice far too much. Call it a
gift.’

 ‘It just makes her a high-class whore
then!’

 John threw a cushion at him, green and
gold with a silver trim. ‘Since when did you become my conscience? Since when
were you hired to become my censor? Are you listening, Simon? I told you when
you first came to serve me that it wasn’t going to be Camelot; I would never
become the perfect knight. You have tried, no one could have tried harder, but
I’m all too human and hasn’t anyone ever muttered in your ear
bad blood will
out
?’

 ‘No, they wouldn’t dare; I’d flatten
them!’

 ‘Thank you for that. Simon, are you going
to be like this all week? If so I’ll send you on an errand to Cousin Butler’s
and perhaps you’ll end up snowbound. Aunt Butler’s sons are all paragons of
chivalry, a delight to observe.’

 ‘You wouldn’t!’

 ‘Then fetch me a cup of mulled wine. You
can start reforming me again later in the week.’

 Trussel slid round to face him, arms
about his knees. ‘Was she very beautiful under the velvet and furs?’

 ‘You don’t ask things like that but yes,
she was. Now off with you!’

 Trussel scrambled to his feet and fled. The
door slammed back, the shutters banged, dark smoke billowed out from the hearth
and Ajax bounded in and made straight for the bone of the Blessed St. Edward. Montfort,
splendidly naked, rescued it with a flying tackle. It was the beginning of
another typical day!

~o0o~

There was a tangible excitement emanating
from the knot of people at the Lower Guard, to the assembled garrison above the
gatehouse, to the gathering in the great court. Peter de Montfort was riding to
Warwick to be received of Thomas de Beauchamp. He had not crossed the fourteen
arches of the bridge and ridden up the ramp since that day, thirteen years ago,
when the seventeen year old earl had turned him away from the gate into the
driving rain.

 Pikeman, Laundress and Pastry Cook, all
stood aside to watch his progress and to wonder at his presence after so many
years. At his back rode Bastard John, his handsome familiar. A figure ran
forward to snatch at Peter's bridle, but not until orders were given. It was as
well to note which way the cat would jump. Then Warwick moved out from the hall
to greet his neighbour; fastidiously polite. Peter dismounted and gave him his
hand to clasp but it was as if they were strangers meeting for the first time, with
constraint between them and more than a little wariness. Montfort was above
average height and had lately put on weight; his eyes were a warm dark brown
beneath heavy brows and a thatch of dark hair, greying at the temples. He wore
a military surcote of Montfort blue and gold and the trappings of his mount
bore the blue and gold stripes of his coat of arms, making a deep contrast with
Warwick's loose civil robes of cramoisy velvet.

 ‘Peter, this is a delightful, if not
quite unexpected surprise,’ Beauchamp drawled, ‘and John too. You are welcome
to Warwick both. Katherine, you have so often heard me speak of My Lord de
Montfort. He served my father well in his last years. John, sadly, we have
missed growing up; I hear you were in Derby's service?’

 John inclined his head; his bland
expression did not betray that he had ever set eyes upon the Countess. Kate was
relieved. One white hand strayed from the folds of her cloak to play nervously
with the brooch at her right shoulder; an outsize pearl, shaped like an eagle
and surrounded by diamonds. Montfort lingered long over her other hand. ‘I am
glad to see it restored to its rightful place.’ He straightened and his eyes
met hers as they had met on a summer's afternoon by the River Cole. He shrugged
his shoulders in a genuine gesture of regret. Warwick was ushering them towards
the hall and snapping his fingers for refreshments.

 ‘Peter, to what do we owe this visit?’
They were neither of them fooled by this show of hospitality.

 Peter said, ‘A strange tale, My Lord. Do
you recall the youth my sister returned to you after his trespass at
Beaudesert? He who claimed to be my son?’

 ‘I remember well. A likely tale! I was
distressed that any man of mine should evoke trouble between our houses; he has
been punished, I assure you, but he's young and …’

 ‘Quite, but I do have such a son. The
story is long but may it suffice that his existence was kept from me all these
years. I do have good reason to think that this boy spoke the truth.’

 ‘My dear man! I'll have him brought here.
Nicholas, ask Master Latimer to attend on us.’ He turned to Peter and proffered
him wine. ‘You've proof of this young man's identity? I shall be losing a
worthy fletcher.’ He laughed and for a moment Montfort caught a glimpse of the
boy who had once chased up and down the towers of Beaudesert and sped through
the wards on his fat little pony, yelling the war cries of his illustrious forebears.
Durvassal returned, Richard at his back. He stood aside to let the boy pass
into the hall, watching Peter de Montfort's face, as they all watched - Thomas
and John and Mikelton, Kate and Orabella. Peter saw a tall, fair young man in a
plain woollen cote; mulberry with a blue border. The young unlined face with
those vivid dark eyes was a handsome one. He had none of John's profligate
charm; his gaze was direct and uncompromising, steady and honest. He too was
carrying out his fair share of appraisal. He had sought this man out, forced himself
upon the de Montforts, shattered their peace and rattled skeletons in their
closets, but he was not prepared to give himself into their hands without a
good deal of thought on the matter.

 He moved slowly forward, graceful enough
in his carriage and bearing and bowed the knee to the Lord of Beaudesert; an
acknowledgement but without a hint of subservience.

 ‘On your feet, lad, and answer My Lord's
questions,’ said Warwick brusquely and left them to wander to a window as he
listened to the story he knew so well by now and which ended with Richard's
joining his household.

 Peter was saying, ‘There's little doubt
left in my mind that you are my son but the world always needs proof. Have you
the ring I understand your mother left with you in babyhood?’

 Richard glanced at Warwick's back. ‘I had
it, My Lord, until recently when it was stolen from me.’

 Peter shrugged. ‘No matter.’

 John had been seized by the desire to get
out of the hall, to go up onto the leads, anywhere rather than meet his brother
face to face. He moved to slip away but Thomas Beauchamp flung an arm across
his shoulders, proffering a cup of hippocras and a plate of saffron cakes,
stuffed with raisins.

 ‘Coward!’ hissed Warwick, waving a cup. ‘How's
the back?’

 ‘I heal quickly. Do I have to watch this
nauseating charade? Is it to be your fatted calf or ours?’

 Then Peter broke in - ‘I am certain for
my part that this is my son. Thomas, I thank your for your hospitality and will
trouble you no further. There are possessions you would wish to collect,
Richard?’

 Latimer did not move. He waited for Warwick to speak and forbid his going.

 ‘You are hasty, friend. I will not lose a
good fletcher on such a thin chance. Master Latimer has well over a year to
serve with me; he swore an oath binding him to my service when I took him in
last November. I should, of course, absolve him were the proof unchallengeable
but as things stand he is still my man. Bring me incontrovertible proof and I
will let him go to you.’