The Lords of Arden (9 page)

 Mikelton, tossing his reins to Robert,
jumped out of the saddle. He took John’s shoulders between his gauntleted hands
and shook him lightly. ‘I can’t help you now, Johnny.’ He turned him about and,
pointing him in the direction of Harry of Derby’s fast retreating figure, gave
him a little shove. Then he mounted up, barked quite unnecessarily at his men
and followed the meandering highway back to Beaudesert, his face a cloth-yard
long.

 What passed between Derby and Peter de
Montfort’s sullen offspring was never disclosed. It could be said with
certainty that Henry never raised his voice, and the valet approaching with a
fresh cote - blue-grey and lavishly edged with grise - had to spread the
garment over a table and wait whilst his master prised small, grubby fingers
from the ermine at his throat and raised the tear-stained face from the hollow
of his neck. Harry slipped out of his tunic and held his arms wide to receive
the fur-edged robe.

 ‘Take him away. See he’s fed and have him
put to bed. We’ve both had a long day.’

 Montfort transferred from Lancaster’s household to that of his son as soon as the opportunity presented itself and Derby had five year’s of his allegiance, in as much as John de Montfort was able to give
it. It would hardly have been possible, at Beaudesert, to find anyone to
dispute that his first loyalty had always been to himself but he was a
decorative child to have about hall and solar and he learned fast, becoming one
of Derby’s Body Squires by the age of fourteen.

 Harry of Derby was thirty-seven years old
when Edward Plantagenet gave him command of that last expedition. Tall and
unquestionably handsome, he was an energetic captain of men and a competent
administrator. His was a frenetic life-style but, though constantly on the
move, he still found time for more leisurely pursuits and Montfort, finding
himself drawn more closely into the intimate circle about the Earl during the
campaign in Europe, became the recipient of many confidences over the ride out
from London to the sea. After his first love - fox-hunting - Henry enjoyed a
robust pursuit of the fair sex.

 ‘There is nothing finer than the scent of
the gentlewoman,’ he expounded as they cantered through the Surrey woods. ‘Lavender,
perfuming silks and linens and new-washed tresses… but the gentlewoman, sadly,
is for marriage; one should consider nothing else. Perhaps the widow or the
matron for the last grand passion late in life but when it comes to dalliance
one should espouse the lower orders - figuratively, that is. Is this sinking
into your addle-pate, Johnny?’

 Montfort grinned at him. ‘I thought you
were soliloquizing, sir, not offering a homily.’

 ‘Did you, boy? I was trying to suggest,
with some subtlety, that you took your eyes from a certain curvy little blonde
heiress. Maidens are not for dalliance, they have formidable mothers in tow,
fathers on call and brothers with ready swords. Maids are for the pleasure of
instructing via the marriage bed, not for begetting instruction. You’d fare
better with a laundress; something clean and capable and kind.’

 Montfort shot him a demure look from
beneath dark lashes. ‘You mean I could do worse than one of your hand-me-downs,
My Lord?’

 Derby looked at him sharply from out of
the corner of one grey eye. ‘When we finally dismount, benighted in some no
doubt stinking hostelry, if I’m not too stiff and bone-weary remind me to
thrash you - hard!’

 John ignored him. ‘I’ve never been to
sea, never seen the sea.’

 ‘Don’t side-track me. Where was I?’

 ‘Sorting out my love-life, if it pleases
you, My Lord.’

 ‘It doesn’t please me at all but I can
see you landing yourself in some unholy mess like….’ he paused, seeking the
right words.

 ‘My father? A few more bastards ripe for
taunting, well, why not?’

 ‘You seem quite capable of looking after
yourself these days. You’re supposed to be amusing otherwise you’d be riding
further back with the baggage. What’s the matter?’

 Montfort was not looking at him; his
sights were set firmly between his horse’s ears. ‘My father has another son, a
boy, he’s to be Peter, a family name this time; Guy was named for the old Earl
of Warwick’.

 ‘Then I’m delighted, I must send my
felicitations. But that really does put that elegant Montfort nose of yours
further out of joint. How old is Guy now, about three, I suppose? It was bound
to happen. Sentiment not withstanding, a man needs heirs, you know that.’

 ‘It’s not the child. Besides, they don’t
expect it to survive, it’s sickly. My step-mother is dead. Just nineteen - she
wanted that baby so; life’s never fair.’

 Derby said quietly, ‘I met her once. Your
father brought her to Kenilworth. I thought her rather a plain little thing,
but I suppose you were in love with her. The romance of that kind of incestuous
arrangement would appeal to you.’

 Montfort said coldly, ‘I think I would
rather ride with the baggage wagons. Have I your permission to retire - Sir?’

 ‘If you wish. I’m sorry, John, that was
offensive.’

 ‘No, you’re right, of course, about the
way I felt. So you see, Guy is safe, as long as I live. I owe her that.’

 ‘Ah, first love, something true and
honest and unsullied?’ said Harry softly. He leant forward and touched his
young esquire briefly on the knee. ‘Come on; let’s get the good country air in
our nostrils. At the gallop, boy and cry havoc in the ranks!’ He cast a look at
the straggling cavalcade behind them before setting spurs to his grey …

~o0o~

Montfort was jolted from his reverie as
they took the road to the East Gate, approaching Beaudesert from the crown of
the ridgeway. The air was clean, the fields new-washed with early morning rain
and the sounds of life were vibrant; voices drifting up from the wards, the
resonant sound of hammer on anvil. Beaudesert lay before them, grey stones
warmed to cream-gold, flowering from its oval green motte. Tiny figures swarmed
about tower and bailey, a dog yapped dementedly, tearing backward and forward
alongside the fosse.

 Of course, Peter de Montfort was not at
home, he was on the March again, towards Montgomery, he was not expected for
another seven days. Lady Maud, his grandmother, had taken one of her frequent
turns for the worse and her granddaughter, the Lady Elizabeth Freville was in
charge of sick-room arrangements - officially. Unofficially she had usurped her
brother’s authority in toto. Bess Freville found the responsibilities of a
chatelaine no hardship. She was a vigorous woman just approaching her fiftieth
birthday and, as Peter’s younger sister, had grown up at Beaudesert to leave it
on her marriage to one of the Tamworth Frevilles. Newly widowed, she found it
irksome to sit at home whilst her son ruled the roost and expected her to play
the dowager. So Bess began upon her travels; a few weeks with her sister’s
family in Sudeley, a fortnight with her Montague cousins and on to Beaudesert
to be with her tyrannical grandparent. She would usually arrive unheralded to
take over the spring-cleaning or set down stocks for the Christmas feast. Now
that poor Margaret (God rest her soul) was gone, she was convinced that her
presence was indispensable.

 She swept forward, sombre in russet
mourning, ushered Derby’s envoy up into the solar and left her nephew kicking
his heels in the great hall. At her approach there was a sudden flurry of
activity; boards were scrubbed with renewed vigour, rushes raked out diligently
and a huddle of gossips gathered up armfuls of freshly-laundered bed covers and
tripped towards the staircase up to the linen room. John de Montfort stood over
the fire, tracing patterns in the ashes with a booted toe.

 Eventually, his aunt abandoned her
unwanted guests and bore down upon her nephew like a cog in full sail. In her
right hand she clutched a parchment; Derby’s seal gleamed blood-red in the
firelight.

 ‘Upstairs, at once! Walls have ears. We’ll
go to my chamber.’ She whisked away from him, skirts swishing as her hems
brushed the rushes. John followed her reluctantly. When they were both within
the comfortable tower apartment, its well-stacked fire crackling in the hearth,
and the cressets lit, Bess closed the door and seated herself in her carved
armchair; the letter was lying in her lap.

 ‘Now, what is in this missive? You know,
of course.’

 ‘It appears to be addressed to my
father,’ said John dully.

 ‘So, we have a choice. Either I open it,
in loco parentis, as it were, or you tell me what has been going on.’

 ‘No,’ said John, ‘you cannot open it and
I will tell you nothing, aunt, other than that Harry Derby has dismissed me his
service. It is his right and he had good cause.’

 ‘Dear me,’ said Bess, ‘do I hear a mite
of contrition creeping in there? Well, if you won’t tell me what I need to know,
I will have to risk your father’s ire. I can’t keep Milord of Derby’s men
kicking their heels in the solar for much longer. I need to make a reply and
they will want to be home before dark.’ She took up the parchment and slit the
seal.

 ‘Please, don’t,’ said John. Bess was
watching him. She did not know what to make of the look on his face. She
thought she had seen him in all his moods. She did not immediately open the
scroll.

 ‘Come here,’ she took his hands in her
own. They were slender brown hands, horseman’s hands, swordsman’s hands but a
boy’s still. ‘Is it so very terrible, my dear?’

 He nodded, lost for coherent words.

 Bess said, ‘I can’t force you to talk to
me so I shall have to read Derby’s account. Then we shall see what can be
done.’ John snatched his hands away from her and went over to the window,
elbows resting on the icy stonework of the sill, chin on his clenched knuckles.
His aunt gave him a quick glance and frowned then. Slowly, she drew out Harry
of Derby’s letter, penned, she guessed, in the Earl’s own hand. It took her a
long while to read it and re-read it. To her nephew it seemed the passing of a
lifetime.

 ‘I – see.’ Bess Freville let the
parchment roll back upon itself. ‘Now, I want you to come here and read it for
yourself and tell me if it is a true account of what happened.’

 John did not move, he only said, ‘Derby does not lie. I don’t need to read it.’

 ‘I can’t talk to your back. Have the
courage to turn round and face me.’ She watched as he left his sanctuary at the
window and moved towards her like a sleepwalker. There were dark hollows etched
beneath the bruised violet eyes. She handed him the letter.

 ‘I can’t read it!’

 Bess said, ‘I just want you to take it
and burn it. Now. At once. We have a good fire.’

 ‘But father…. It’s addressed to my
father.’ It seemed he had some sense of justice in him.

 Bess smiled at him sadly. ‘And do you
want to hurt him that much? Burn it, John and then between us we will compound
to find another reason for your dismissal. Boys being boys that should not be
difficult.’

 He needed no second asking then. He
strode to the hearth and thrust the letter deep into the licking flames,
watching it char and shrink away to nothing. Leaning against the fireplace he
said, ‘I had everything, everything I wanted and I threw it away. And for
what?’ He pumped a fist against the stonework.

 ‘You’re sixteen, Johnny. It’s not an age
known for its wisdom. Come and sit down here.’ She patted the arm of her chair
and drew him towards her.

 ‘Please don’t be kind, Aunt Bess. I
expected I’d get a sound thrashing at the very least.’

 Bess said grimly, ‘I thought about it. I
am greatly tempted, but you’re hopeless at pain. I can’t promise your father
won’t flay the skin off you in strips if he learns what you were up to. Then I,
of course, will be packed off home to Tamworth for aiding and abetting; quite
right too. Heavens, child, are you crying? Are they Astley tears or Montfort
tears?’ It was a family joke from his baby days when he had turned on tears at
will as his pretty mother used to do. ‘Ah, Montfort tears. Well, that is
serious.’ She patted his knee. ‘Now, I must go to see to your escort. Then,
perhaps we’ll talk.’

 ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

 ‘No, I need you with your sins fresh upon
you. Up now, and look at me.’

 He shrugged his shoulders and slid off
the arm of her chair, standing obediently, staring down at her. He was growing
tall; he would over-top his father in a year or so. His dark auburn hair came
from the same stable as her own; a legacy from Lady Maud. He was slim as a reed
still with that translucency of skin which accompanies red hair. Below the
smudged violet eyes a column of freckles marched across the bridge of his nose.
The mouth was all his own, a boy’s mouth, no borrowing from Lora Astley there,
but shaped for arrogance, insolence, petulance or, when he smiled, simply for
turning the heart over. Bess thought grimly that such a smile might weaken the
knees of middle-aged aunts but notched up a little it could be a more dangerous
asset. He was too young and vulnerable still to use such power wisely.

 She said sternly, ‘What has or will pass
between us today must stay with us. I’ll have you swear to it, child, on all you
hold sacred!’