The Lords of Arden (37 page)

 ‘My Lord, you can’t!’ said Simon,
appalled.

 John found his tongue then. ‘Simon,
bloody well shut up!’ Then Mikelton had him by the elbow, hustling him away. They
passed within inches of Richard. John had time to look his brother up and down.
From the corner of his broken mouth he gave him a twisted smile.

 ‘The King is dead; long live the King!’

 ‘Leave it!’ hissed Mikelton, dragging him
away. He wondered how alike they might have been, Lora’s sons, if they had been
reared together; Richard, honest and independent and John, the flawed charmer,
cloaked in his insecurities.

 The store room in the Water Tower was
cold, even on that hot august afternoon; dark and damp, uncomfortable but
bearable. There was a small window high up in the circular wall and facing the
bailey. There was only one door.

 ‘Don’t even think about escape,’ said
Mikelton reading him correctly. ‘The way your father is feeling at the moment
he’d have no compunction in having you shot in the back.’

 ‘This place is filthy; are there rats?’

 ‘Well, it’s not the Audley Tower but you’ll survive,’ said Geoffrey with a grin. He went out and made an elaborate
ceremony of locking the door and posting sentries.

 Peter had forbidden any of the family to
even approach the Water Tower but, after dark, whilst he was occupied with the
Chaplain, Bess sent a basket of food and clothing down with the long-suffering
Constable. Geoffrey let himself into the tower and set up a couple of torches
in the rusting sconces still attached to the damp walls.

 ‘Your aunt has sent food and drink and a
fresh set of clothing for tomorrow.’

 ‘Tomorrow?’

 ‘Yes, your father is bent on a public
trial.’

 ‘I’d like to talk to him. Will he come
here?’

 ‘What good would that do? You’d only
provoke him into another apoplexy. Fool boy, aren’t you sore enough?’

 ‘Geoffrey, I’m sorry, about the attack. I
wasn’t thinking beyond – well, preventing Richard getting to Beaudesert.’

 ‘You know,’ said Geoffrey unpacking his
basket carefully like a market wife, ‘there’s nothing wrong with Richard.’

 ‘He exists. That is enough. And now he
will be everything I never was. Everything I never can be.’

 ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Lady
Bess has sent ham and eggs, salad, fruit pie, a bed cover - oh, and something
for your back; smells awful.’

 ‘Marigolds,’ said John, sniffing at the
pot. ‘Thank her for me anyway.’

 ‘I’ll see you in the morning, no doubt. Goodnight,
boy.’ Geoffrey left him rather abruptly taking the torches with him. John heard
the key turn in the lock, an awful finality in the doleful sound.

~o0o~

Peter had no intention of having it said
that his son’s misdeeds had been brushed away as inconsequences compared to
those of base-born men. The hall had been set out with benches for the twelve
man jury, a stool for the prisoner and standing room for as many of the local
populace who wished to attend as spectators. The family would take its usual
place on the dais.

 The Jurors had previously got together in
pairs or small groups to discuss the wisdom of their proposed verdict. All were
well aware of the charge against their lord’s natural son. He had attacked his
father’s own men and robbed them on the King’s Highway. No-one disputed this. Everyone
knew someone who had been in that little cavalcade that snowy day; the tales
had been plain. The young man was obviously as guilty as hell. Could they, in
all conscience, acquit him to please their Lord? Did he wish them to? There had
been no covert approach suggesting it might be wise to return a Not Guilty
verdict. The consensus appeared to be that they should return a true verdict of
guilty as justice would demand. Sentence was their Lord’s prerogative. He might
give Bastard John a hard time of it but what man could be expected to lay a
death penalty against his first born?

 When the jury trooped into the hall they
were all of one mind. There were a surprising number of people jostling for a
place at the back of the hall. This was a special day; Montfort against
Montfort; not to be missed.

 Peter, fine in Montfort blue, mounted the
dais with Richard and Bess. They took their places at the high table and the jury
sat down as one upon their bench. Peter indicated that the prisoner be brought
forth and John came into the hall flanked by two of Peter’s archers. He walked
as tall as he always did with the same easy grace. His green jupon, though not
as flamboyant as they were all used to, was spotless and fitted him like a
second skin. Beneath the combed auburn hair his face bore a number of bruises,
causing a ripple of sympathy to sigh through the female spectators. He looked
straight in front of him without locking eyes with any until he became aware of
the small family group on the dais. He saw Bess and smiled.

 His aunt drew in a breath and tried to
smile back.

 ‘The prisoner may sit,’ said Peter rather
pompously.

 John shook his head. ‘No, I’ll stand. Thank
you.’

 ‘As you wish.’

 The charge was read out and elaborated
upon and various witnesses were called, including Geoffrey Mikelton. He had
pointed out that there had been no serious injuries to Henley men, that he had
perceived this to be deliberate and he felt some blame for not being better on
his guard. He paused quite close to the prisoner and shrugged his old shoulders
wearily.

 John mouthed a silent ‘thank you’, the
first words to come from him since the proceedings began. He was asked if he
would like to say anything in his defence. He shook his head. ‘As you will all
know, I have no defence.’ He was facing the jury now.

 The spectators began to whisper amongst
themselves until silence was called for. The jury were sent out to consider
their verdict.

 Jack de Lobbenham, gimlet eyes on Peter
said, ‘I think the Prisoner should take the opportunity to sit.’

 The jury was not out for long. They
slipped back, chins a little high as if determined to brazen out what might
still prove an unpopular verdict with the man who held all their livelihoods in
fee.

 It was Peter who said, ‘And have you
reached a verdict?’

 ‘We have, My Lord.’

 ‘A unanimous verdict?’

 ‘Indeed, My Lord. Guilty, My Lord.’

 It did not surprise John. There were a
few spectators who wondered if they would have the courage to vote against
their Lord’s son but most saw the verdict as a blow for English justice.

 ‘Very well. We thank you for your pains
today. Please be seated. Will the prisoner rise to receive sentence.’

 John stood as bid, his bound hands were
clenched, the only signs as to what he might be experiencing. Even Geoffrey was
gnawing at his knuckle. Richard had his eyes fixed on his new-found father. Bess
was watching her nephew.

 Peter was looking at his son for the
first time as he spoke. ‘John de Montfort, you have heard the verdict of this
court. You have been found guilty of the most serious felony; I therefore
sentence you to death by hanging. Someone remove him from this Court.’

 Bess saw the colour drain from her
nephew’s already pale face, could see the disbelief register in the violet
eyes, to be followed by profound shock. She watched him led quickly away. The
Court, in the meantime, was in uproar. The jury appeared stunned; one or two
women were quietly sobbing. Peter strode swiftly out, face set.

 Richard turned to his aunt. ‘He won’t do
it. Surely he won’t. He can’t!’

 Bess said, ‘I wish I shared your
optimism, my dear. I’m dreading explaining to Guy and to the Trussel boy. But I
must go after Peter, see what we can salvage from this unholy mess!’

 ‘I’ll talk to Guy,’ said Richard quietly.

 ‘Bless you. Play it down. Say there will
be a reprieve.’

 Richard nodded.

~o0o~

Peter was in the solar. Outside, the sun
blazed down but here, inside, it was humid and airless so there was no fire;
the room looked dull and cheerless. Bess sat down in her accustomed chair,
waiting for her brother to speak but he was staring into nothingness. She
doubted if he had even heard her come into the room.

 ‘Peter, you have to talk to me!’

 ‘What else is to be said? He had a fair
trial.’

 ‘Peter, I am your sister. That
unfortunate young man is my nephew; I need to know if you are considering a
reprieve. Should I be punished by your silence? What am I guilty of? Are you
planning a last minute change of heart? Do you intend to drag him to the scaffold
and then offer him back his life? For God’s sake, tell me!’

 He looked at her then for the first time.
‘There will be no reprieve. I have pronounced sentence, a just sentence in line
with the offence. I have done so before my household, before my tenants. I am
known for a man of my word.’

 Bess said gently, ‘You are also a father,
as many of your tenants are fathers. They will expect a reprieve. You have the
power that they would wish for in like circumstances. Not one soul here would
lay blame upon you, not one.’

 ‘And my honour?’

 ‘The devil take your honour, brother!
Then when will you do it?’

 Peter said wearily, ‘It is the Sabbath
tomorrow. He must wait until Monday. He has a day more of life than perhaps he
deserves.’

 ‘One day!’ sighed Bess. ‘Merciful heaven,
he is twenty one years old and you will grant him a day’s grace! Peter, if you
are so nice about his receiving justice commute the sentence; banish him from
your sight; deprive him of every manor, every holding he has of you; tie him to
a cart tail and have him whipped along Henley High Street if you are determined
to see him suffer but leave him his life!’

 ‘Elizabeth, you shall not weaken my
resolve!’

 Bess was on her feet. She stood over him
but took his hands in hers. ‘Look at me, Peter, and think of this. It will take
such a little time to choke the life out of your best loved child, but there
will be an eternity for regrets and long nights of tossing and turning on your
bed; watching over and over again as they put the noose about his neck!’ She
took her hands away. It was of no use; he was intractable. ‘At least,’ she
said, ‘let me see him.’

 Peter shrugged. ‘I can grant you that but
it must be tonight, after dark, and no-one else, not Guy or Richard or
Trussel’s lad. Jack he shall see before they take him out to die; no man should
go to his maker unshriven.’

 So he had thought this far ahead already.
Bess was appalled. She moved slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her
back but he made no sound. She passed through the arras and went in search of
Simon Trussel. She had an errand for him and none could be trusted to perform
it better. He was off like the wind, tearing through the bailey and along the
causeway as though Satan and all his demons were after him.

 He returned half way through the
afternoon with three other riders. Bess heard the approach of hooves, left the
hall and went out to greet them. They had travelled from the Abbey at Pinley;
two Sisters and an elderly serving man. Bess took the hand of the younger
woman. Their words were few but the woman allowed Bess to lead her into the hall;
the servant remained outside with their mounts but the older nun followed her
companion at a discreet distance.

 Peter was conducting Manor business as
was his custom, for all as if this was a normal day. Bess crossed the rushes,
waving all aside. He looked at her, annoyed.

 ‘Peter, you have a visitor, one you once
knew well.’ And she was standing before him, the only woman he had ever loved;
coifed and robed in white, her face as yet markedly unlined. A lock of her
hair, yellow-gold still, had escaped from the prison of her wimple.

 ‘Lora!’ he choked back her name.

 ‘My Lord, you know why I am here.’ She
was looking at him now with the eyes of the boy he was sending to the gallows.

 He said, ‘There is nothing I can do. I
will not be foresworn. Ask anything else of me - you have the right - anything
else on this earth. His life I cannot grant you.’

 It seemed that the entire hall had caught
its breath and was hushed and waiting. Slowly, gracefully, the woman sank to
her knees. She said: ‘We gave him breath, you and I. Only God should take it
from him. You cannot play God, Peter. Give me the life of my son!’

 He raised her then, gently, his face
stricken and haunted. ‘God will judge me when it is my time to go but I cannot
do what you ask.’ And he turned on his heels and left the hall.

 ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lora, turning to Bess,
‘there is nothing more I can do. I will pray for them both.’ And she was gone. Soon
after, Bess heard her ride away with her two escorts. She went to the gatehouse
and watched them move away through the bailey.

 ‘Prettily done, Madam,’ she said grimly
to herself, ‘but you never even asked to see the boy. How much would that have
cost and it might have helped him.’