The Lords of Arden (34 page)

 ‘God damn you, John de Montfort!’ she
managed as he drew rein outside his own pavilion - blue and gold with an
undulating valance damascened in gold curlicues.

 ‘You can get down,’ said John, tossing
the reins of the riderless horse to a wide-eyed Simon Trussel and signing him
away to the stables. His wife wriggled herself from her undignified perch. Her
rucked tunic revealed a rounded bottom at the culmination of the long legs.

 Johanna's feet were on the ground; she
straightened the tunic and tossed back her long honey blonde hair, tumbling
unbound without the confines of the cap. Her face flamed. ‘How dare you! Have
you not made attempts enough to humiliate me that you must cart me away like a
miscreant page before the King's grace, before the whole court!’

 ‘If you behave like a whore, you'll be
treated no better and if you propose to harangue me like a fish-wife at least
let us go inside!’

 ‘I would prefer to return to my friends. It
is a little late now to take a proprietorial attitude after weeks of neglect,
don't you think?’

 ‘I can see it rankles. The spoilt little
heiress of Coleshill can't stomach a husband unless he dances attendance
twenty-four hours a day!’

 ‘Twenty-four! I never saw you. You never
came to my bed, you never…’ Johanna found herself ducked backwards through the
tent flap, propelled across the floor and dumped roughly and without ceremony
onto the tumble of his bed.

 ‘Whatever is customary among the Clintons,’ said John, ‘the Montforts don't wash their dirty linen in public. And as for my
neglect, if it sticks in your throat I can make up for my omission.’ He had her
pinned down, a hand on each wrist, her arms above her head, before his weight
came down upon her heaving bosom. She tried to knee him in the groin but he had
her fast. There was little between them but the fine wool of their hose and
their body linen and certainly not enough to hide from her his growing desire.

 She laughed, turning her face away from
him. ‘Oh, yes, you want me now, My Lord. Tricked out in boy's hose you want me.
So they were right who said that your preferences were rank perversions; that
it was boys you took to your bed. And I pitied you because Harry of Derby sent
you packing for some childish peccadillo - or so I fondly imagined. But sodomy!
That is heresy; a man can burn for it!’

 ‘Dear God,’ said John, ‘who told you? No,
I needn't ask. Mariana! She promised me a fine revenge and I dismissed her
words for childish threats, nothing more. What did she tell you?’

 Johanna sat up. He had rolled away from
her and was sitting hugging his knees. ‘That Henry of Derby found you in bed
with one of his household knights. Oh, Mariana had it all pat and full of every
lurid detail. It is all round the Court tonight you may be sure! And all along
I thought, you and Lady Aylesbury….’

 John said dully, ‘So I am condemned
unheard?’

 The girl said, ‘Peter Montfort, your
father's great grandfather, died at Evesham, defending the rights of
Englishmen; Lord John, your father's father, took the Cross and rode away to
fight the Paynims; your own father championed the second Edward - and none more
loyally. And I am to believe that their blood runs in your veins, that such an
ancestry brought forth no more than a cherished catamite! Answer me one
question, the only one that matters: Is it true?’

 John had picked up his lute; he struck a
jarring chord. ‘Yes, it is true. Perhaps you'd like Derby's account; a little
less salacious than Mariana's no doubt, but nevertheless coming close.’

 ‘It is enough that you admit to it. I am
going away from court for a time, away from England. Where I go will not
concern you. Eventually I shall ask for an annulment.’

 He nodded. ‘Whatever you wish. I'm sorry
it had to come out this way. Derby, by all accounts, kept his counsel all these
years. You deserve better, Johanna. Choose your friends more wisely than you
chose your husband.’

 He watched whilst she gathered her cloak
and wrapped it about her. She suddenly hated her boy's attire, the tawdry
trappings of the game that had seemed so exciting earlier in the day. He held
aside the tent flap and watched her go out into the afternoon light. The sky
was leaden. Beyond, in the tiltyard, they were cheering themselves hoarse. It
was beginning to snow.

 John flung himself down upon the bed,
hands behind his head, watching the lantern swaying crazily from the central
post below the canvas roof. A painful truth was beginning to take possession of
his thoughts. All those years ago, cast out by Harry Derby, latterly estranged
from his own father and now, he was to lose Johanna, the girl he had been too
stubborn, too blind even to look upon; Johanna, a girl of spirit and surprising
beauty (though it was rather more basic remembrances that caused the unassuaged
ache in the area of his groin). He could still feel the yielding softness of
her well-rounded breasts, thrusting against his heart; see the long, shapely
legs which promised further delights.

 He rolled over and buried his face in his
arms, shrinking from the light and from his own turbulent emotions. Suddenly,
the Orabellas of this world, with their slim Circean sophistication and
practised sensuality, seemed artificial beside Johanna’s uncompromising
honesty. He closed his eyes but she would not leave him: the golden girl with
the tinsel ringlets, the bold equestrienne with the green-flecked hazel eyes. He
thumped a fist upon the pillow beside his head; wanting Johanna was beginning
to hurt.

~o0o~

It was snowing heavily outside, blanketing
the bright pavilions, reducing colour and metal to a virgin whiteness,
disguising the familiar tinctures of heraldry which distinguished their owners'
canvas castles, silencing footstep and shod hoof alike, setting the torches
hissing and the braziers spitting.

 Simon Trussel was rubbing away at a pair
of spurs, sitting on a cushion, diligent as always. He breathed upon the star
of the rowel and looked up as John surfaced, sat up and swung his legs to the
floor.

 John said, ‘Simon, I want you to pack.’

 ‘Where are we going?’

 ‘Not we, you. You're going home
tomorrow.’

 ‘In this weather! To Billesley?’

 ‘Not unless that is what you want – I
thought, to Beaudesert, to my father.’

 ‘Why?’

 ‘A good squire asks no questions, he
gives his master unquestioning loyalty.’

 ‘Very well, I'll answer for myself. I'm
to be safe out of the way when this story spreads about the Court. I've heard
it all and I don't know the truth of it and I don't care.’

 John sat, hands between his knees,
staring down at the floor. ‘You've served me loyally, Simon and I have noticed.
It has been a good partnership; I owe you better. I don't want you mixed up in
rumour and counter-rumour. I don't want a finger pointed in your direction. I'll
write to my father, he'll have you back at Beaudesert. He won’t hold my
defection against you; he’s always been a fair man. I can’t say you won’t have
a couple of uncomfortable days…’

 ‘Thanks,’ said Simon dryly.

 ‘Perhaps you could serve my brother,’
John hazarded.

 ‘Richard the Fletcher? Have a heart! I
shan't go, sir, you may as well get resigned to that. I'm used to you. Nothing
surprises me, nothing is likely to.’

 ‘Thank you for that back-handed
compliment but it's not your decision. You serve me and I have your name to
protect. I don't want to lose you but I'll not drag you down.’

 ‘Who will look after you?’

 ‘Oh, Old Jobus, he used to serve my
grandfather in his youth. He's a bit slow but we'll manage.’

 ‘Slow! Slow is when he's putting on a
spurt! You're insane; you'll be a laughing stock! You can't make me go.’

 ‘I can, you're getting an escort –
Beaudesert men; one or two are restless to be home again. I can’t say I blame
them.’

 ‘What do you want me to do, go down on my
knees and beg?’

 ‘I want you to start packing. If not
you'll have your belongings stuffed in a saddle bag anyhow and that will offend
your sense of style!’ John swept out, face set and unreadable.

 When he got back the boy was savagely
cramming shirts and tunics into a leather bag. Simon rounded on him. ‘I know
you. Who knows you better? Who can refute the accusations better? Who let all
those women into tent or chamber or stood guard outside town houses. All I've
ever wanted was to serve you!’ He turned his back again.

 ‘And you have, none more loyally.’ Montfort
watched the heaving shoulders, the face hidden by the dark curly hair, and
dared not put out a hand in a gesture of comfort.

 ‘I would have given you anything,’ sobbed
Simon, ‘That if you'd wanted it too; you only had to ask!’

 Montfort did touch him then. He took him
by the shoulders, turned him round and shook him hard so that the dark curls
shook about his blotched face and the tears coursed harder. ‘You damned little
idiot! I might have relented by tomorrow, who knows? But if you're going to say
dangerous things like that!’

 ‘I didn't mean it; I don't know why I
said it. Oh, I'm sorry. You're really angry, aren't you?’

 ‘Bloody angry, and can't you stop
crying?’

 ‘I don't think so. Oh, damn you, damn
you!’ He turned and ran out into the white night and it was after midnight when
he returned and crept to his pallet without a word.

 When John awoke in the pre-dawn darkness,
too cold to sleep longer, the boy was dressed and cloaked, hair combed,
immaculately groomed. There were circles beneath the dark eyes but they were
steady enough. ‘Shall I see you again, sir?’

 ‘I don't know. I'll make no promises,
perhaps you'll have made other arrangements; you should try, you have your own
career to think about.’

 Trussel assimilated this and nodded,
‘Well, goodbye, take care of yourself, sir.’

 John put out a hand and Trussel clasped
it. It was a strong, firm clasp, there was nothing left of last night's
hysterics save that print of violet shadow beneath his eyes.

 ‘The horses are ready, Jobus is
shouting,’ said John, wishing he would go.

 ‘Yes. Oh, and I forgot, there's a hole in
the heel of your yellow hose, you'll have to get it stitched. Jobus will never
be able to see the needle let alone thread it! Oh God, how are you going to
manage!’ He flung both arms about Montfort's neck, loosed him and stalked out
of the tent. It was John who found himself confounded. He had his horse saddled
and rode out. He was not in the chapel for the oath-taking and when Warwick asked for him he could not be found. He returned that evening very drunk, stumbled
back to the wreckage of his tent and passed out.

~o0o~

He came to himself at three in the
morning, lying face down upon his rumpled bed, a sheepskin cover carelessly
flung over his shoulders. Someone had removed jupon and surcote and they were
neatly folded over a stool. The centre lantern was lit and a brazier, safely
damped down for the night, kept out the chill of the frost.

 ‘I can't work in a pig-sty,’ said Thomas
Beauchamp. ‘How is your head?’

 Montfort did indeed look wrecked; face
ashen, eyes deeply shadowed, hair sweat soaked to a darker red.

 ‘My Lord, you here!’ John sprang up,
wincing as he did so. ‘I'm sorry; did I cause a scene last night?’

 Warwick shrugged. ‘Not that I heard but
you can usually hold your drink better than that.’

 John was pressing his fingers to his
temples. ‘Why are you here? Rumour and chaos hover round me. I am about to
become an untouchable, didn’t you know?’

 Thomas yawned and stretched out booted
feet nearer to the brazier. ‘Perhaps I thought you might be in need of a Father
Confessor. Perhaps it was sheer, blind curiosity. And, after all, I believe it
was my delinquent daughter set rumour adrift. I could have told you not to
cross Mary. Young maids have fancies; you should have had a better care for her
child's heart.’

 John, choking at that, reached out
blindly for a cup of water.

 ‘Hair of the dog?’ asked Warwick, handing
him a goblet of malmsey. ‘It never occurred to me that your service with Harry
Derby coincided with Mary's sojourn with the Countess. And you never knew she
was my daughter?’

 ‘I don't think so. There were many little
girls, they came and went; Mariana was different.’

 ‘You mean she was underfoot more than
most? Yes, I can imagine. John, you do dissolute extremely well but you are in
my service now and I don’t tolerate slatterns. Get dressed!’

 ‘I’m sorry, I sent Simon home.’

 ‘A wise decision in the circumstances.’

 John pulled on a blue surcote and belted
it savagely. ‘It’s not an edifying story.’

 Warwick indicated a stool, giving him
permission to sit. ‘I didn’t suppose it could be with you involved. Harry Derby
would never discuss your dismissal. You owe him for five years of silence.’