The Lords of Arden (36 page)

 Rose Durvassal clasped the iron ring in
the stout wooden door, set in the wall at the foot of the tower stair. It
turned easily and silently, the door opening inward. So someone still
frequented Margaret's garden and kept the hinges oiled. Perhaps her small son,
seeking a bolt-hole from his tutors, perhaps her widowed husband? But no, if
rumour did not lie, his thoughts were still with yellow-haired Lora and the
White Ladies of Pinley. Rose stepped out into the August sunshine and felt the
wash of heat beating down from the walls, suffused in the honey-hued stone; she
was dazzled by the colour - roses crimson, scarlet and white cascading from
every side; incandescent waterfalls; curtains of blooms throbbing with bronze
butterflies and the vibrations of tiny bees; heady with an unimagined perfume. Rose
caught her breath, emitting a startled, enraptured 'Oh!' and moved out into the
light, unaware of the picture she herself painted; a small figure gowned in
moss green, golden slippers peeping from the hem of her kirtle as she stepped
between the clasping briars. Her neat, small head of flame-red hair was bound
up beneath a simple fillet, a row of green beads at her slender white throat. She
moved about the overgrown pathways with a sense of wonderment, exclaiming at
each new discovery: the little bronze statue of Persephone on her crumbling
plinth, wreathed in Travellers' Joy, the silent fountain, its basin dry and
cracked but seamed with the fluorescence of emerald moss and overshadowed by
the listless hands of an old willow. Reaching down to disentangle her skirts
from the sticky baubles of goose-grass she straightened to the clutch of a
crimson rose upon her bound hair, and twisting to free herself brought the
glowing river down about her shoulders. Freed of its restraints it fled about
her into the waiting tentacles of Margaret's Rosa Alba and the more she twisted
the further she became entangled as if the dead girl, long tired of being
alone, sought to end her solitude by confining this bright captive here in the
Paradise for ever.

 Rose fought about her wildly, tearing her
overdress, flapping at the small wild bees alighting with curiosity upon her
skirts, half sobbing in panic until a hand upon her shoulder caused her to
squeal in real terror and a clear young voice with more than a hint of
amusement said: ‘Gently, lady, keep still and I'll have you freed in a trice. Don't
you remember, the first time we met I had to twist the brambles out of your
hair? It's becoming a habit.’

 ‘Richard!’ said Rose on a sigh of relief,
‘where did you spring from?’

 ‘I live here. Had you forgotten? I was
watching you from the arbour; I didn't want to disturb your reverie.’

 ‘Spying?’ snapped Rose. ‘Would you have
kept silent?’

 ‘Probably. Hold still or we shall be here
all night.’

 ‘Would you mind?’

 ‘No, but Nicholas would. Why is he here?’

 Rose shrugged her shoulders, ‘Private
talk with your father, that's all I know; too much secrecy. All the way here he
was glancing over his shoulder. He sent a man over from Spernall a few days ago
asking to speak with My Lord your father. Take care, Richard!’

 The young man said, ‘He cannot harm me
now and why should he wish to? He dare not; Warwick set me free.’

 ‘Still, I do not like it. Are you
finished yet?’

 ‘Almost. Won't you be missed?’

 ‘I doubt it. I was not to be included in
this matter; I had my dismissal. Your father suggested I might go up onto the
leads and I had a bird's-eye view of this place so I set out to look for a
door.’

 ‘I come here often, to escape.’

 ‘Poor Richard, still a prisoner?’ She
turned and slipped from the hands which had toyed with her hair for too long. ‘We
are all prisoners. At Spernall I am watched: his father, his mother, his
brother. Nicholas's wife must never put a foot wrong or speak a word out of
turn. She is to be groomed, she is to be pampered, but she can never be free!’

 ‘I should free you, were you my captive.’
They had reached the shelter of the arbour with its canopy of single,
snow-white roses, each set with a tasselled, golden heart.

 ‘Then free me now,’ said Rose, taking his
shoulders and reaching up to kiss him on the mouth, ‘and I shall never belong
to him again.’

 Richard shook his head. ‘You know it
isn't possible. You're Nicholas's wife.’

 ‘His property, oh yes. What do I care a
fig for that! Does that make me a wanton?’

 Richard kissed her forehead. ‘I'm rather
afraid it does.’

 ‘Oh, you …!’ She stood on tiptoe and
boxed him soundly on the ears, turned and fled along the walks until she
reached the door, stopping only to bundle up her hair and smooth her skirts
before slipping out of his life.

 Richard grinned ruefully after her,
finally seeking the long grass of the sunken lawn, to fling himself down on his
face amongst the couch grass and the clover, tearing at the stems of sorrel
spires until his hands were stained with their juice. ‘You fool, oh you fool! You
could have taken her, made love to her; one afternoon among the roses, one
afternoon to last a lifetime.’ But that would never have been enough for either
of them. Better that he should lie here and ache for her now and then forget -
and he must forget. Time, after all, heals all....

Thomas Beauchamp was in London when the
messenger came from Pinley Abbey. The man was a lay brother on a worn hack. He
asked to speak with John de Montfort and was conducted to a small guest chamber
in the gatehouse. John approached him with caution, curious as to what news the
man might be bringing from the mother he could not remember. He wondered if
Lora was dead, unsure of his feelings were it so; to his knowledge she had
never asked to see him or made enquiries as to his well-being.

 ‘The Mother Abbess thinks you should
come,’ was all the man would say. He was devouring a pie with somewhat unholy
greed. He hardly glanced up at the tall young man standing before him in Warwick’s livery.

 ‘Then I will ride back with you,’ John
said. ‘You can tell me more as we travel.’ He went up to his room and discarded
the Beauchamp colours for a plain jupon in dark purple silk which did not
identify him with either Warwick or Beaudesert.

 He mounted Ferraunt, pleased to find an
excuse to ride out into the late summer sunshine. It was a perfect afternoon
and, as they rode through Arden and out amongst the golden fields, there were
larks trilling invisibly, high above them in the hot blue air. In many places
the harvest was all but home and there were signs of industry all about them.

 John’s guide said little; knew little. He
ran errands for the Abbey, that was all. The young lord would have to speak
with the Mother Abbess. John gave up.

 It was becoming unbearably hot and a
little humid and, when they turned to take a short cut through Greycoat
Spinney, the cool green air came as a welcome respite. Somewhere, a gentle
breeze set the hazels shivering, gave them a life of their own. But there had
been no wind at all that afternoon….

 Before John could draw sword from
scabbard he found himself surrounded on all sides. They were mounted men; no
forest foot-pads or hunted outlaws these but men-at-arms, blue surcotes
diagonally striped with gold; Montfort men!

 ‘My Lord, we have him!’ It was Geoffrey
Mikelton’s voice and he was nudging his horse forward. It would have been
madness for John to have tried to make a break for it; the wood was thick with
armed horseman. The lay brother seemed to have melted away without anyone
apprehending him. All too clearly John realised he had ridden neatly into a
trap and not even a very clever one at that.

 The men were edging away now, allowing
Mikelton to approach without hindrance; Mikelton whom John had last seen lying
senseless across the neck of his bolting horse.

 ‘I’ll have your sword, if you please,’
said the Constable without expression, ‘and your dagger and whatever else you
may carry.’

 ‘If it please him!’ roared Peter. ‘He’ll
have no say in the matter. He’ll dismount and you’ll search him thoroughly.’

 John said nothing, he handed his arms
over to Mikelton but his face, impassive, was upon his father. He swung a leg
over his pommel and jumped lightly to the ground, letting Mikelton frisk him
without a word of protest.

 ‘There’s nothing…’ The Constable glanced
up at Peter then turned to John. ‘Very well, lad, you can remount.’

 ‘What!’ rasped Peter, suddenly out of the
saddle himself. ‘Let him ride home in style – a common felon? One of you lead
that animal. He can walk. Geoffrey, bind him; I’ll not lose him again.’

 John watched Ferraunt being led away. Someone
had produced a length of rope from a saddle bag.

 ‘Your wrists,’ said Mikelton gruffly,
moving betwixt father and son. ‘And keep a civil tongue in your head, boy. You’re
deep in trouble,’ he muttered as he bound his prisoner’s wrists together
competently.

 Peter, beside his massive bay, indicated
that the end of the rope be attached to Mikelton’s stirrup leather.

 ‘No need to take the shortest route on
such a glorious afternoon. Let them see in every village we pass that the
traitor is taken.’

 ‘Christ, he’s going to enjoy this,’
muttered John. ‘He’ll milk it for every ounce of melodrama.’

 Peter, glowering, said, ‘You will get
your chance to defend yourself in law, like the meanest of my villeins. Until
then you will keep your mouth closed or have it shut for you!’ He jabbed the
young man beneath the chin with a vicious stab from the handle of his crop,
forcing his head up. ‘Can’t look me in the eye, can you, bloody little Judas! Let’s
be about it, Geoffrey.’ He mounted and set off to head the snaking cavalcade as
they broke from the woodland and moved out into the merciless august sunshine.

 Once, they had to halt because a flock of
sheep was blocking the highway. The Constable silently handed down a flask of
water and John drank gratefully until Peter, riding back along the column,
knocked it from his bound hands with a flick of his crop across the knuckles.

 Mikelton said equably, ‘If we’re to be
home by cock shut he’ll need to ride.’

 ‘He’ll need to set a faster pace!’ said
Peter grimly. At that he lashed out at Mikelton’s horse so that the unfortunate
beast, unaccustomed to such usage, side-stepped and then lunged ahead, dragging
its unwilling burden with it so that he stumbled and was jerked forward,
fighting to keep to his feet until Mikelton could sooth his mount.

 ‘By God,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll have you on
your knees before I’ve finished with you, you treacherous young bastard!’ The
pent up anger of the last few months was brimming up inside him now and there
had to be a release. He hit out indiscriminately with his crop John tried
vainly to protect his face with his bound wrists, taking the brunt of the storm
upon his upper arms and shoulders. The exquisite silk of his jupon sliced into
ribbons like thin tissue and hung in rags, exposing the fine lawn of his shirt.

 Geoffrey, who had reined in his sorrel
mare, felt sympathy for both of them. Peter had been sorely tried and
devastated by this young man’s perfidy. He was not a man to have found the
words to express his feelings. This uncharacteristic show of violence conveyed
better than anything else would have done the sheer weight of despair and anger
which had been crushing him for so long.

 And John, the unfortunate, if deserving,
object of his wrath, would have expected, as their Lord’s son, to have suffered
whatever chastisement he was due in private, away from the eyes of the men he
was used to ordering.

 Finally, strength and spleen spent, Peter
wheeled his bay about and galloped off to the head of the column again.

 Geoffrey glanced down at his prisoner. John,
trying to staunch a cut across his right eyebrow which was now bleeding freely,
grinned at him ruefully from his torn mouth, though he looked satisfyingly
white and shocked.

 ‘God, I thought he meant to kill me!’

 Geoffrey, easing his mount forward, said
dryly, ‘It was only a riding crop, not a stock whip; you’ll live. Am I supposed
to be sympathetic after what you did to him, to all of us?’

 They were approaching Henley now. There
was neither man, nor woman, nor child here who would not recognise Bastard
John, who had not watched him grow from babyhood, related his childhood pranks,
exclaimed over the sins of adolescence. Every tavern keeper, every pot boy,
knew John de Montfort and few girls had not sighed, daydreaming, over his
handsome face, those perfect Astley eyes. This was to be his greatest
humiliation. For a brief second John glanced up at Geoffrey, a flash of fear in
the violet eyes:

 ‘Geoffrey, I can’t do it!’

 ‘Yes, you can. Just concentrate on
keeping on your feet and pretend you’re someone else. Here, wipe your face. I
daren’t slow down. If your father turns round and sees we’re lagging behind
you’ll get another thrashing. Is that what you want?’ John flashed him a
lop-sided grin and handed back the soiled kerchief.

 But, though many came out to stare, none
were moved to jeer. He was still his father’s son and who knew which way the
wind would blow. There were many who remembered this young man galloping along
the High Street on Ferraunt, bedecked like a maypole, returning from some
tournament or other, hair a bright aureole about the slender face. How are the
mighty fallen indeed!

 Peter de Montfort was known for a fair
overlord. Oh, he would bluster and threaten at times but a man would always get
a hearing. It was widely known that John had set upon his father’s own men and
stolen from them items of some value. A grave crime; but what father hadn’t had
a serious falling-out with his offspring and meted out just punishment and
forgiven all at the end? Peter should not be blamed but there were none to crow
over his son’s misfortunes.

 Geoffrey Mikelton was remembering a sunny
day, half a lifetime ago now, when the Lords of Arden had dragged another young
man on foot to his trial at Warwick Castle and, ultimately, sent him to a
terrible death on Blacklow Hill; a tall handsome young man not yet out of his
twenties, the late King’s hated favourite, the Gascon adventurer, Piers
Gaveston. In the end, they had to let him ride as he was slowing them down too
much. Peter’s elder brother had later been pardoned for his part in Gaveston’s
murder. Mikelton wondered if Peter was remembering that day, if it haunted him
still, as it had haunted all the participants down the years. But, remembering,
how could he then use his own son with equal savagery?

~o0o~

The harvest was in. A troupe of weary
figures, well-satisfied with themselves, trudged up the causeway and through
the outer bailey, some singly, others in twos and threes, arms linked, silent
with exhaustion or garrulous with the intoxication of a good day's work
completed. Some were still singing the harvest songs that would go on and on, chasing
about inside the head long after the last sickle was laid down and the men were
flexing muscles turned to sleek bronze by the August sun. Their Lord's
new-found son was amongst them, stripped to the waist, fair skin toasted golden
brown, hair bleached to white-gold, dark eyes bright with merriment. He had an
arm about the shoulder of the Reeve's son, boots scuffed, palms blistered but
still drunk with the blue sky and the yellow grain and treasured companionship.
He was too happy to remember who he was, the dignity required of his station.

 ‘Richard,’ he met Jack de Lobbenham,
Peter’s Chaplain, hurrying down from the Upper Guard, ‘they have taken your
brother! They will be here directly – a man was sent on ahead to warn us.’

 Richard stood still, the sun beating up
from the baked mud of the bailey. His companions fell away on each side, and
then melted from him noiselessly. The Chaplain said, ‘They caught him not far
from Pinley. Your father sprung a trap; it was neatly done.’

 ‘It was a convenient encounter,’ said
Richard dryly. ‘He just happened along?’

 ‘No, your father had word. Does it
matter?’

 Of course, Nicholas Durvassal - Nicholas,
who could not have his place at Thomas Beauchamp's side usurped by Peter de
Montfort's importunate bastard son. He was at Beaudesert only last week.

 Jack said, ‘Your father wants a show
trial; he’s still threatening the noose.’

 The procession of blue and gold horsemen
turned off the highroad and began the climb towards the Lower Gate; Peter led
with Mikelton following close. They kept up a punishing pace for a man on foot.
By the time they reached the inner ward and reined in, John was swaying on his
feet. The welt across his temple had all but closed one eye and his mouth was
swollen. The rope at his wrists was dark and slippery with blood.

 The family were standing there as if part
of a religious triptych; his aunt, his two brothers. There was a complete,
stunned silence until Guy cried out in anguish and would have run to John’s
side had not Richard grabbed him by the shoulders. John held Richard’s shocked
gaze and soundlessly let his eyes flicker towards Guy and back to the golden
foundling, standing there with the summer upon his skin, the last of the
sunlight in his hair.

 Richard understood. He bent down and
said, ‘Indoors, Guy, please.’

 ‘But they’ve hurt him!’ Guy sobbed. ‘Let
me go to him.’

 Richard held him fast. ‘He wouldn’t want
you to see him like this. You understand? He will have his pride.’

 Guy nodded, turned, glanced once more in
John’s direction and fled towards the nearest door, cannoning into Simon
Trussel.

 ‘My God,’ said the boy, ‘I thought the
English way was trial before sentence!’ He had not troubled to lower his voice.

 Peter said grimly, ‘You’ll suffer for
that boy when I’ve the time for it!’

 John shook his head at Simon who was
mouthing, ‘What can I do?’

 Bess put a hand on Peter’s arm. ‘Simon is
right, my dear; justice is paramount here. You have always prided yourself that
every villein is entitled to it.’

 ‘Oh, get him out of my sight! The store
room below the old Water Tower should be secure enough. By the look of him
there’s no fight left in him but I’ll take no chances. I want a twenty four
hour guard outside. If he’s any trouble you can shackle him.’