The Lords of Arden (39 page)

 John had not been asleep. ‘Geoffrey?’ Richard
could sense the apprehension in his voice. Was he wondering if they would
change their plans and have him away to his death before the Sabbath instead of
waiting until Monday?

 ‘It’s Richard. There isn’t much time.’

 ‘Come to gloat, little brother? Not that
I’d blame you. No time? Then it is to be tonight?’

 Richard said, ‘You’re getting out of
here. There are friends anxious for your continued survival but you have to get
through the fosse.’

 ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. What
then, the Sally Port?’

 Richard nodded. ‘Guy is there to bar the
door after and Simon Trussel is waiting behind the Church with a couple of fast
mounts. We’ll give you as good a start as we’re able.’

 ‘And why should you do this for me?’

 Richard shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps
I can’t forget that I have a brother. I do what I have to do.’

 ‘I wonder how we would have made out
together. I would rather not be beholden to you.’

 ‘You’d rather hang? Your gratitude does
not matter. Now take the key and lock me in. Guy will get it back to the
gatehouse if he can. We want to play for as much time as possible to give you a
chance on the road. I’ll take to the bed; a cursory glance in the dark with my
lighter hair covered may give us precious hours. Now go – and God speed!’

 For once John found nothing to say but he
let a hand rest briefly on Richard’s shoulder, spun on his heel and let himself
out of the tower. Richard, burrowing into the straw filled mattress and pulling
the coverlet over his head, heard the key turn.

 John found his small brother in the
shadows by the postern. He lifted the baulk of heavy timber out of its slots
and turned to the boy. ‘You’re sure you can drop this back? If not, don’t worry,
they may not spot it until cock crow.’

 ‘I’ll do it.’ Guy stood before him as
tall and proud as his four feet would let him. His eyes were black buttons in
two enormous hollows.

 John said, ‘Dear God, what have I done to
you. Here,’ he held out his arms and Guy hurtled into them. ‘There now, no more
tears. I’ll never forget this. No man ever had a truer friend or finer brother
but I must go or it will all have been for naught. Look after father for me.’ He
pressed a kiss into the top of Guy’s dark head and fled away down the hill. Guy
watched him reach the shadows about the Church, turned and shut the gate. It
took all his strength to lift the heavy timber baulk again but he managed it
and ran back to the Mellent Tower to scramble up to the leads to see what he
could and wait for the sound of hooves at the foot of the hill.

 John found Simon Trussel with the two
mounts; he clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get on our way. Are you sure you
want to share my exile? You can turn and ride home if you want.’

 ‘Who else should I serve? Anyone else
would be an anticlimax. He would have hung you - your father. I wasn’t looking
forward to it. I saw a hanging once…’

 ‘Simon, shut up, we’re not out of the
woods yet. Now, it’s Warwick and no let up. I won’t be taken again!’

 Guy in his tower top eyrie heard the
muffled clatter of hooves move away and disappear into the night. He drew in a
sobbing breath and found his way down to his room again.

Mikelton moved from the opalescence of the
early morning sunshine, shimmering abut the buildings of the bailey, into the
shadowed darkness of the Water Tower. The boy was still sleeping; a disordered
mound beneath his coverlet. The Constable set a plate down on the wooden bench
and wondered whether he should wake him. One brown hand, stretched above the
young man’s head, clutched at the rolled cloak he had used as a pillow. The
little finger was beringed; an amethyst in a gold setting. Geoffrey leant
forward and stripped away the cover.

 ‘Richard!’

 ‘What took you so long?’ asked the boy,
stretched and turned and smiled up at him.

 ‘And John?’

 ‘You don’t have him? No, I can see you
don’t. He will be at Warwick by now; Simon is with him. There’s no point in
setting out after them; they could have walked it.’

 ‘Thank God! Then you engineered the whole
thing?’

 ‘For my sins. But I could not see him
hang. I set some store in having a brother.’

 Geoffrey said, ‘He set little store by
you!’

 ‘Shall we go to my father? I must confess
all.’

 Geoffrey said, ‘We shall both get a
tongue lashing; me for losing him and you – dear lad, let me talk to him. Lie
low for a while until he comes to see that all is for the best – and he will
see it. He could never have lived with what he would have done.’

 Richard shook his head. ‘Not I, I’m not
ashamed of what I have accomplished. Death is too easily come by. Every man out
of its clutches is some kind of a victory. One day we’ll make our peace, he and
I.’

~o0o~

Later, Peter went to the chapel and none
dare disturb him there. Even de Lobbenham kept his distance. Everyone was
treading warily, yet at the same time all were lighter of foot. A hanging was
something of a celebration and often preceded by a holiday atmosphere but few
had wanted John to swing.

 At last, Bess brushed aside the
chaplain’s protests and went up to the chapel. She opened the door as silently
as she could and it was doubtful if her brother heard her. He was kneeling at
the altar rail, his head down on his bent arms, racked with anguished sobs. It
was painful to hear, worse to witness. Bess had never seen him weep, not even
in childhood. She stood stock still, appalled, and then she went to him,
putting an arm about his shoulders. He turned then and buried his face in the
stuff of her gown. She held him for a long time, aware that only a few hours
before she had held his eldest son in her arms in just such a way.

 Eventually, he raised his head and said,
‘I would have done it. God help me, I would have done it! It was Richard who
got him away. Bless the lad; he will never know what I owe him!’

 Bess said, ‘And this is the boy you have
just had tied up and whipped nearly senseless!’

 ‘Well, what did he expect, making a fool
of his father? What man could countenance that? I had to make an example. He’ll
understand; he’s a reasonable boy.’

~o0o~

The stable loft was lit solely by a tear
in the thatch. A solid shaft of August sunlight burnt down into the straw
below. Mikelton was dazzled by the light as he climbed up out of the dimness. He
cast about him blindly for a moment, then made his way cautiously to the far
side of the boards, the straw thick and comfortable beneath his feet but
warning loudly of his presence.

 Richard lay face downward, head resting
on his forearms, face towards the wall. ‘Who is it? Geoffrey?’

 ‘Aye. Don't turn, lad.’

 ‘I'm all right.’ The fair head shifted.

 Mikelton could remember him striding
through the wards after the harvest, dark eyes blithe with laughter, hair
bleached to white-blond by the sun. Now it showed tousled and damp with
perspiration. His eyes shifted down the boy's length. He had been smooth and
golden with a midsummer legacy that would have lasted well into the dark days
of winter; the gold was still there across his lower back until you travelled
up to the blue weals that laced his shoulders.

 Geoffrey stooped beside him, his aching
joints protesting as he lowered his frame towards ground level. He put out a
hand and touched him lightly on the arm.

 ‘It's not that bad, really,’ said
Richard, cushioning his face again on his forearm. The dark eyes gave him a
rueful smile, ‘I would have thought better of him if he'd laid on himself!’

 Geoffrey said, ‘I’ve brought a pot of
Martha's balm; picked at moon-set, ground in a mortar and blended with
incantations. It should take out the heat if you'll trust me to it.’

 ‘Would you? I can't manage for myself. Have
you heard; did he get away?’

 ‘Oh, he'll be away, Simon too. That boy
at least has a sound head on his shoulders.’ He worked over the bruised and
lacerated skin, feeling the muscles jerk beneath his fingers. ‘My Lord will be looking
for you soon. He'll say very little but there'll be remorse. You needn't be
afraid of him, he won't touch you again. He had to make an example, that’s
all.’

 Richard turned towards him. ‘Geoffrey,
will you do something else for me?’

 ‘If I can. What is it?’

 ‘Saddle Sikander for me and find me a
clean shirt and jupon and a cloak.’

 ‘Sikander! What are you driving at, boy?’

 ‘I'm leaving, and it has to be today and
before he comes looking for me.’

 Mikelton swore, slapped on a dollop of
ointment with too much enthusiasm and regretted it as he heard the boy catch
his breath sharply and turn his face into his arms. The old man laid his pot
aside and put a hand on the smooth flawless skin of his nape, massaging the
taut muscles, ruffling the fair hair.

 ‘What's all this about? Come on now.’

 ‘My being here,’ said Richard, ‘has been
pretty much of a disaster, start to finish. No-one really believes I'll ever
fit in. John's gone and I owe father something - to be what he wants. If I can
get into service, receive a proper training, in a year or two maybe I can come
back with something to offer.’

 ‘And why does it have to be tonight? Talk
it over with him; I think he'll see things your way. He'll get you an
introduction to one of the best houses.’

 ‘No, that's not what I want. I'll do it
for myself or not at all. I won't be spoon fed. Just my horse, that's all I'm
asking!’

 ‘And how do you think you'll get shirt
and jupon over these stripes to ride anywhere tonight? I'll not listen to
anymore. Your father will make you see sense; he can't be far away…’

 ‘Geoffrey, no…,’ he put out a hand
blindly to grab at the old man's sleeve, his face still turned away. ‘He'll
break my resolve and I have to go.’ The voice was sharp with distress.

 Mikelton sighed. ‘If it's so important,
God help me, I'll do what you want. There's never been a Montfort yet couldn't
twist me round his little finger! Rest there and be easy.’

~o0o~

Harry of Derby was at Kenilworth. He had
arrived from the Capital in apparent haste and with a large following; they
were weary, saddle-sore and dust clad. The remnants of the party, with the
baggage-wagons, were even now clattering over the causeway, milling about the
courtyards, orders being issued from all sides. A formless babble of voices
assaulted the ears. It was cooler now, a soft summer dusk with the remnants of
sunset touching the eddies on the great mere and a scattering of pale stars
above the keep.

 Derby could have turned his back on the
bustle about him, marched inside and settled down in the White Hall with a
glass of muscadel, Isabel fluttering about him, bearer of tales domestic. But
he lingered on the walls, watching a tiny skiff tacking across the mere, the
rose light on its single sail, until he caught the strident tones of his own
Constable, just below him in the court, haranguing a man for some offence, a
clear young voice answering. It did not do to answer Drogo back; most members
of his household would have known that. Henry turned away from the sunset and
stood gazing down at the foreshortened figures below him: Drogo, massive,
thick-set, bull-necked and the young man on the cream-golden horse,
fair-headed, a light-weight green mantle thrown carelessly over jupon, shirt
and hose; certainly not one of his own esquires; Henry kept a tight ship!

 ‘I do not intend to leave until I have
spoken with My Lord of Derby,’ said the young voice. ‘I am in no hurry, I can
wait.’

 And Drogo, growling on about unauthorised
entry and the severe penalty to be incurred by the man who had passed a
stranger through their gates, suddenly snapped his fingers for attention and
called upon three or four of his archers to have this man out without more ado.
But Harry had moved lightly down from the walls and was striding over.

 ‘Wait! Who calls on Harry of Derby?’

 ‘I do,’ said the fair young man, too
imperious on the golden horse.

 ‘And who dares to address me from
horseback whilst I remain on foot? A mannerless man!’

 ‘I beg your pardon, My Lord.’ The youth
dismounted and made a swift reverence. ‘To tell truth I felt safer up aloft.’ He
cast a glance at Drogo and grinned ruefully. ‘I am Richard Latimer, My Lord,
and very much at your service.’

 ‘And what service could I possibly
require?’ asked Harry, his amusement well under check.

 ‘I would join your household as esquire,
to aspire towards knighthood,’ said Richard fervently.

 Drogo laughed, a short bark like a dog
fox. ‘Out with him, My Lord, and a flea in his ear for his impertinence!’

 Lancaster silenced him with a wave of his
hand. ‘And what leads you to believe that the House of Lancaster would take in
an unknown, a waif and stray? The greatest names in Europe jostle for places in
this household; many have to be disappointed.’

 ‘But you, My Lord, would not. I could
promise you loyalty, I should work hard…’

 ‘And who are the Latimers? It is not a
name I know and I see you wear no device.’

 ‘I need none, My Lord. Latimer is an
assumed name. I would not have it said that I wormed my way in here through my
father's good offices. I can shift for myself.’

 ‘And this unknown father of yours, does
he know you are here?’

 ‘No, My Lord, I am my own man, but I
think it wouldn't displease him.’

 Derby laughed then, head back. ‘Indeed, I
would hope not. So he isn't privy to your adventures. Why not?’

 ‘Because I mean to make my own way.’

 ‘Because you quarrelled and stamped out
of his manor in a fit of adolescent pique?’

 ‘No, My Lord, I have no quarrel with
him!’

 ‘Take off your cloak.’

 ‘My Lord?’

 ‘See, he cannot carry out a simple
request. How does he expect to take to the discipline required under arms?’
retorted Drogo, moving towards the boy. And Richard, flushing, unfastened the
pin that held the green mantle upon his right shoulder. He let it drop to the
ground. Henry said nothing but a curt nod of the head told Drogo what he wanted
and he had moved in behind the young man and with a steely grip on one arm had
dragged back jupon and the loose shirt with its trailing points to bare his
shoulders. Then he spun him round so that Derby could see the angry lacerations
which crossed his back.

 ‘As I thought,’ said Harry grimly, ‘a
schoolboy whipping - unjust, of course, they always are - and in a fit of
temper the recipient walks out of his home, turns his back on his family,
changes his name and rides off to make his fortune.’

 ‘No, My Lord! At least, it's not as you
think!’

 ‘He didn't ride far,’ said Drogo, ‘the
horse is fresh enough. A county family, My Lord?’

 ‘So I think. Well, he can ride back!’

 ‘If you reject me, My Lord, there will be
others less scrupulous,’ said Richard, chin high.

 Derby said, ‘Whatever villainy he's
managed to achieve no doubt some neighbour will be happy to have him home. I'll
furnish him with an escort and we'll be rid of him.’

 ‘An escort, to where?’ Richard's voice
was mocking him. ‘You'll have no names out of me!’

 ‘Boy, you show little regard for your
skin,’ warned Drogo. ‘Let me work on him, I'll have his parentage out of him
before we sit down to supper.’

 ‘No, leave him be and there's plenty here
to attend to before we dine. See to it.’

 ‘My Lord.’ The big man gave him a curt
bow, raked the boy from head to foot and strode away.

 ‘Well, Richard de Montfort,’ said Harry,
‘let us go inside to my closet and you can tell me your story and I, in return,
will tell you why you cannot join my household. Fair exchange?’

 ‘How did you know?’

 ‘Because you have enough of Peter in your
bearing, in your voice. He has been a near neighbour to us at Kenilworth and a true
liegeman of the crown. I believe you to be the returned prodigal, son of the
matchless Lora. How did you fall foul so soon?’