The Lords of Arden (33 page)

 ‘Christmas gifts,’ said John, ‘usually
appear better wrapped and tied in tinsel bows; half the fun is opening the box.
Wouldn't you agree?’

 ‘I take it,’ said Mariana, ‘that you were
expecting someone else.’

 ‘That is the story of my life. You
wouldn't expect me to give you her name?’

 ‘I'm not really interested and I've slipped
the peg in the latch; we needn't be disturbed.’

 ‘I assure you, I'm not - disturbed,’ said
John but it took an effort of will.

 ‘Oh, but that's a lie,’ Mariana rose in
one moon-white, fluid movement, to sit, mermaid-like, before him in the sea of
his coverlet. She was very young, her body without blemish.

 ‘I am not interested in schoolgirls and,
as you rightly assumed, I have an assignation.’

 ‘And she has more to offer?’ Mariana's
white hands moved to the cord which fastened his robe, her fingers working
nimbly at the knot. Her black, gypsy’s hair tumbled to his thighs. She heard
him catch his breath and laughed softly.

 ‘You're Warwick's daughter,’ said John
practically. ‘I have told you before, I have one man after my skin, I'll not
place my neck in another noose.’

 ‘A man of honour speaks, or else a
coward!’ jeered Mariana, beginning to be angry. Kneeling before him, her hands
moving beneath the breast of his robe, she caught the sheen of perspiration on
his pale face and smiled into the violet eyes. He pushed her ungently from him
and strode to the door, belting his robe as he went, jerking out the latch pin
and pulling the door wide. ‘Orabella,’ he said, ‘for God's sake get her out of
here!’

 Lady A swept in, resplendent in flurt
silk and red brocade, veils fluttering about her face, all promise without open
invitation; a rose full-blown sweeping down upon the bud. She stood above the
girl with the milk-white limbs and midnight hair. ‘Have you?’ Her words were
for John.

 ‘No, of course not; but she doesn't make
it easy.’

 Orabella snatched at the girl's cloak and
thrust it at her. ‘Did any see you enter this room?’

 ‘I'm not such a fool! And do you think I
came uninvited?’

 John shrugged his shoulders. ‘If I said
she was a hot little trollop who would believe it?’

 ‘Oh, Orabella would,’ said the girl, ‘but
Orabella is her own yardstick.’

 ‘I remember,’ said John, ‘you warned me
about her. If she's decent would you take her back to her nurse?’

 ‘Damn you, John de Montfort, damn you! You
think you can treat me like a child. It will not be a child's revenge, that I
can promise you. You think you can shame me, cast me out? Oh, you will regret
this night's work.’

 ‘The only thing I shall regret,’ said
John, when Orabella returned to take up his lute and pluck softly at the
strings, ‘is that I didn't give her a good spanking!’

 Orabella smiled. ‘You would both have
enjoyed it too much. But don't underestimate her, my dear; you have made an enemy.
Be on your guard!’

Edward, with the noble enterprise of France before him and the chivalric ideal always at the forefront of his thoughts, was set
upon founding a permanent Round Table. By proclamation, he summoned the
greatest knights in the land to come to Windsor in mid-January to take part in
a week of jousting and ceremonial. With legends of Arthur's Camelot in mind, he
was determined to establish a permanent base and, thereafter, to found an order
of knighthood to rival all others. When the time came for the great embarkation
for France and the fulfilment of the Vows of the Heron, he would be backed by
an army of knights fully committed to his cause and bound together in the
strongest of brotherhoods.

 Windsor could not hold the great names
that were to converge upon its round tower. A city of tents flourished in the
river meadows and days of preparation went into the building of stands to flank
the measured ground of the lists. The castle became the home of a vast bevy of
ladies and their entourages who had been invited to accompany their lords. Taking
up an inordinate amount of space were their wardrobes, as it was inconceivable
that a gown could be worn on consecutive days. Trunks and saddle-bags cluttered
every corner, whilst small pages darted up and down stairs with messages,
colliding with tiring women, their arms laden with silks and brocades, and maid
servants flourishing goffering irons and curling tongs.

 Monday, January 19th was, for most of the
kingdom, a dull day with leaden skies, promise of snow and a sharp east wind;
for the King's guests it was the beginning of the most glittering occasion
witnessed in a colourful reign.

 Just beyond the fenced off enclosure of
the lists stood the Tree of Arms, an ancient oak, last week stark against the
winter sky, now gilded and bedecked with leaves of silver and gold foil and
hung with the arms and achievements of every visiting knight and squire,
displayed for all comers to see and under the critical eye of the heralds, for
fear that anyone should slip in whose arms had been abased or whose right to
bear them should be suspect. Prominent were the leopards of England, for Edward
himself would joust tomorrow. Six Earls were upon the guest list, nine
Countesses and numerous lesser barons, knights and squires. All were free to
inspect the arrayed shields hung against the winter sky.

 The festivities were to begin with a
banquet, the King personally escorting each lady to her seat in the hall whilst
the men sat down to sup in torchlit pavilions in the courtyard. The hall was
ablaze with cressets and flambeaux, the minstrel gallery suspended, wavering
above the wreathing, rising smoke; the musicians played discreetly whilst the
ladies were seated. A fanfare of silver trumpets announced the arrival of two Queens, Philippa and Isabella, the Queen Dowager, freed from house arrest at Castle Rising
to grace the occasion. Both royal ladies wore identical gowns of crimson
velvet, edged with ermine; a gracious complement from Philippa to her
mother-in-law. Isabella was still a beauty, the flesh pared down a little,
wings of grey at her temples. Philippa was blooming. She sat beside Katherine
Beauchamp and they compared notes on their forthcoming confinements. Kate
should have been at Warwick, dreaming in her fireside chair, a rug over her
knees. It was no time of year to travel but Thomas knew better than to forbid
her attendance at what was reckoned to be the social event of the year; so she
had travelled down by charette with Lady A and Mariana in attendance.

 After a banquet whose number of costly
dishes had run into double figures, the boards were cleared away and the Queens moved to the thrones set out for them on the dais whilst the floor was swept clear
for the dancing to begin. For most this meant an undignified scamper up to
their rooms and a speedy change of costume, for the latter part of the evening
was to take the form of a masque and the guests had been supplied with
fantastic disguises: vizards in the shape of dragons and elephants, swans and
conies. Thomas Beauchamp, in black velvet, trailed a cape of peacocks' eyes; John
de Montfort allowed Simon Trussel to button him into an alarmingly short jupon
made entirely of gold and silver spangles and finished with a gryphon's tail,
whilst Orabella wore a white sheath stitched over with swansdown which puffed
away at every draught. The tall, well-muscled man in the leopard's head, who
manoeuvred her out onto the wall walk and tried to kiss her, said he hoped that
the rising gale might divest her further.

 John de Montfort, drawn into the ring
dances beside a tall young woman in a black mask and a ripple of tinsel
ringlets which fell to her waist and, threaded with tiny silver bells, gave out
a sound like wind-chimes, contrived to keep her at his side for the unmasking
ceremony which traditionally took place at the wicked hour of midnight, as soon
as the bells chimed out. But minutes before, as he turned to pay some
outrageous compliment to Lady Derby, aquiver in rose-madder fish scales, the
girl had slipped away, taken to the stairs and vanished among the warren of
rooms and antechambers about the oval tower. He asked Orabella who she was but
she shrugged her pale shoulders, causing another fall of swansdown, and claimed
not to have noticed the tinsel ringlets and Thomas said there were half a dozen
girls in black masks. When at last John found a vacant cushion and sank down at
Lady Kate's red-slippered feet, she only laughed and said didn't he know that
long flowing hair, whether tinsel or floss or just plaited straw, was the
traditional way of representing a virgin and at Edward's court they were
probably as rare as dragons’ teeth and far more of a novelty. If this one was
what she purported to be, she presumably wanted to stay that way.

 John went to his costly pavilion - sky
blue with a gold trim - unusually bad-tempered, and clouted the hapless Trussel
about the ear for falling asleep and letting the brazier go out. They both
spent a cold and miserable night huddled in their cloaks. There was a film of
ice on John's shaving water in the morning.

~o0o~

In later years, looking back, the next few
days came together as a handful of pages flicked over in a book of hours; a
colourful blur packed with incident. Here and there the book fell open and let
the memory dwell for a moment longer upon the jousting: a king against his
peers; golden Edward charging down upon My Lord of Arundel; upon the velvet
queens sitting in the draped stands, clasped hands at their breasts as they
held breath or closed their eyes until relief sighed out as their menfolk
clattered safely out of the sanded yard; upon nights of dancing, each hour
bringing greater licence and daring; snatched kisses in deep window seats,
fumbled couplings in tapestried alcoves; upon a solemn Mass in the chapel, the
air quivering with fervent voices, the King swearing an oath to found a
permanent Round Table here at Windsor, seeing himself a latter-day Arthur,
renewing the glories of Camelot, his knights his paladins; Derby and Warwick,
Pembroke and Arundel echoing the oath taking; Lancelot and Percival, Galahad
and Gawain again, without the saving grace of a Holy Grail but still shot
through with the fire of Edward's presence, the bolts of his enthusiasm.

~o0o~

Johanna Montfort, she of the tinsel
ringlets, had managed to elude her husband that first night. The second evening
she had abandoned carnival dress and appeared in the peacock blue velvet she
had worn at the Coleshill joust, with her hair braided up within a glittering
gold crespine. He still failed to recognise her.

 Taking to the floor in a ladies’ dance
which involved a variety of wheel movements and much balancing back and forth,
she found herself hand to hand with Orabella.

 ‘Lady Aylesbury?’ smiled Johanna.

 ‘Have we met?’ Orabella reversed, looking
her over.

 ‘I believe,’ said Johanna, ‘that you have
the loan of my husband.’

 ‘Johanna? My dear, I assumed you had no
further use for him.’

 ‘On the contrary, the day will come when
I shall require his return, and in good working order.’

 ‘You have only to ask.’ Orabella reversed
again. They made their reverences to each other and passed on in different
directions.

~o0o~

On the third day of the jousting, John de
Montfort had been called upon to squire Thomas de Beauchamp to give Nicholas
Durvassal the chance to enter in a lesser series of bouts, staged purely to
give the army of esquires a competition of their own. Montfort wore Warwick's red and gold livery, a short close-fitting jupon over scarlet hose, and Warwick’s badge at his breast. Thomas was splendid as always from the trailing mantling of
his tourney helm to his polished golden spurs; his horse cloth and bridle
glittered with gems. It was the showy magnificence beloved of the populace who,
given the choice, would never have exchanged these circuses for bread. A crust
could comfort the belly for an hour or so, such a spectacle was food for the
dreams of many a winter's night.

 John led Warwick's grey forward, snorting
and tossing its head, pawing at the sawdust, excited by the crowd. They halted
for the Earl to mount and he did so adroitly, lifting his head to stare about
him from his high vantage. Behind him blossomed the pavilions: scarlet and
gold, popinjay green and sable, sky blue and ermine, Indian purple and silver. John
knew all the livery colours, every noble device. There was little he had
forgotten of lessons learned in Derby's household; the memories flooded back. Beside
the royal tent, set a little apart, he had recognised the blue and white of Lancaster. He caught Beauchamp watching him, enquiry in the blue eyes, and averted his
gaze.

 The stands were crammed to capacity, silk
awnings flapping in the stiff breeze; a moving panorama of faces, a fluttering
of opalescent veils about pale complexions, the winter sunlight coruscating
from the jewelled bosses which supported heavy coils of plaited tresses about
their owners' ears; the sheen of taffeta, the oiled gleam of sables. Here and
there stood excited little knots of pages, clutching each other and giggling
like convent schoolgirls. Where the royal stand, carrying its burden of the
greatest, the richest, the most exquisite ladies in the land, came to an end, a
group of mounted figures caught the attention. A dozen young men, close fitting
hose moulding the calf, tightly buttoned jupons opened at the neck to expose
the trailing points of the silk shirt, daggers richly fashioned in goldsmiths'
work, jaunty caps trimmed with ermine or embroidered with roses; young men of
the town bent on pleasure. Thomas Beauchamp gave them a second and a third look
and John followed his gaze. The pleasure, it seemed, was theirs to give more
surely than to receive. The jupons clung like glove leather to round, swelling
bosoms, the rakish caps covered long locks, the smooth thighs imprisoning fine
horseflesh promised a night of fire and sensuality. They were high-class
whores, ready to bestow themselves upon the victors at whim. But there were one
or two amongst them from better stables, lured by greater excitements than
cushioned seats in the stands could provide. John de Montfort clamped his eyes
upon the nearest, a tall golden girl in sorrel velvet with legs which went on
for ever and a nimbus of blonde curls peeping out from a cap of silver fur.

 ‘Get that shameless little hussy out of
here!’ grunted Warwick between his teeth.

 ‘My Lord?’

 ‘You heard me. I don't care what you do
with her but keep her out of sight until you can furnish her with a decent gown
and all the trimmings.’

 ‘But which one, My Lord?’ John was
amused.

 ‘Dear God, boy, your wife of course, the Clinton girl! It may amuse you to see her playing the painted jade but her saintly mother
was my aunt. How do I answer to her in heaven for a debauched daughter?’ But
John had grabbed the nearest unoccupied mount - a sturdy brown cob - and was
across the tilting ground and out of earshot.

 What was she thinking about? Did she
intend to shame him for his inattention? Had a few weeks at court turned the
nut-brown maid into a common trollop? He led his mount alongside hers and
hissed, ‘Johanna, what are you about? Ride back with me at once and keep your
eyes decently lowered.’

 She laughed. ‘You are suddenly attentive,
sir. I prefer to remain here. I have a grandstand view and have collected
several supper invitations.’

 ‘Supper!’ spat John. ‘I will have you out
of here - now - and there'll be no return unless you have the wherewithal to
hand to see yourself appropriately attired.’

 ‘I stay. Didn't you hear me?’ She tossed
her head and the little fur cap bobbed fetchingly.

 A herald on the sidelines, fingers blue
with cold about his silver trumpet, had his eyes glued to the curve of
Johanna's calf; she really did have extraordinarily good legs. John realised
that he had never seen them; he had never bothered to find out what lay beneath
her armour of worthiness. He was angry with her, irked with himself. She caught
the trumpeter's eye and her lips parted in a faint smile; no conspiracy, more a
secret mirth, a contained triumph. John leant across and got an arm about her
waist, having her out of the saddle and across the neck of the cob, her feet
clear of the stirrups, her protests smothered in the suffocating nap of his
horsecloth. One hand on her belt he gathered the reins of both their mounts and
led away towards the tents. Behind him the first faint ripple of amusement grew
and spread and set them rocking in the stands. Whoever she was she was justly
served. The fur cap rolled into the sawdust.