The Lords of Arden (13 page)

 Richard was taken aback. ‘I'm very
sensible of the honour you do me, My Lord, but I'm afraid I couldn't possibly
accept. I'm indentured to Mater Scarlet for two years yet and hope to become
Journeyman Fletcher in time, even a Master. There are many openings for a
fletcher these days. I might join with the King's army and travel abroad. I
could move from household to household up and down the country. It is a secure
position, Journeyman Fletcher.’

 ‘Ah, yes, I remember, you see a great
future for the bow and security must be everything for a young man of what,
fifteen - sixteen?’ The voice was loaded with sarcasm. ‘Then we have no more to
say to one another, boy. Someone will show you out.’ And Richard had bowed and
was gone. He wondered afterwards why it had taken him such a short time to
refuse the Earl's offer. Harry thought him quite out of his mind.

Katherine Beauchamp sat in the embrasure
of the solar window, high above the Avon, three of her ladies upon cushions at
her feet. Each was stitching diligently at a different corner of an altar
cloth; they made a charming tableau. The countess wore a crimson gown of
figured silk, the thick chestnut hair was braided and coiled about her ears and
imprisoned in a silver net; her plump, ripe beauty contrasted well with tall,
pale, mouse-fair Elizabeth, Lady Lucy in sky blue taffeta and pert, snub-nosed
Lady Shirley in orange-tawny and, of course, there was Lady Aylesbury, dark
hair hidden beneath barbette and wimple, throat creamy white above the indigo
velvet sweep of her surcote, the kirtle beneath showing cloth of silver, the
long beautiful hands fine with sapphires which flashed angrily as she stitched.

 Nicholas Durvassal rose from a bench on
the far side of the room, laid aside his lute, with which he had been
entertaining the ladies, and, with a supple elegance, crossed over to the
window and bowed gracefully. The summer sun on his fair hair turned blond to
silver.

 ‘My lady, I have business to attend to. Will
you excuse my presence? I will be back before dusk.’

 ‘So bored with our company, Nicholas?’
mocked Katherine lightly. ‘Well, do run along and amuse yourself, we shall be
quite happy to see you go, shan't we, ladies? We have a whole world to discuss
whilst you men are out of earshot, and if My Lord should return you are sent on
an errand. Where shall we say, ladies?’

 Lady Shirley looked up, caught
Durvassal's eyes upon her and blushed. Lady Lucy frowned, thinking hard. Lady A
did not take her concentration from her silver needle. ‘I would suggest
Lapworth, Lady Kate.’ And this time it was the young man who found the colour
rising to his cheeks.

 ‘Lapworth, Lady Aylesbury?’

 ‘Lapworth, Nicholas. Isn't that where
your winged steed would take you blindfold on a June afternoon? Especially with
My Lord in London with Sir Hugh Brandstone in attendance.’

 Kate raised her plucked brows. ‘Regale us
further!’ she said, her little, viper's tongue flickering across the ridges of
her teeth.

 ‘Orabella, darling, you are a bitch!’
laughed Lady Shirley, glancing at Durvassal from beneath long curling lashes.

 Katherine moved a plump, white hand. ‘Away
with you, Nicky, before I change my mind; I am whimsically inclined.’ She
watched him bow his way from her solar and, as the arras swung to behind him,
he heard their laughter following him down the stairs and gritted his teeth
angrily.

 Once in the saddle and riding
north-westwards towards Lapworth, with the breeze on his face and the sun upon
his neck, he began to relax, to forget about Lady Kate's poisonous harpies
whose main preoccupations, summer and winter alike, were the spreading of venom
with their gossip and tattle.

 Codbarrow, home of the Brandstones, lay
sleeping in the afternoon light, the old stones smooth and mellow; a pleasant,
unpretentious place. Hens scuttled across the yard as Durvassal reined in his
mount. There was a pink rose rambling about the door, rooted in the dust and
chaff, and a row of marigolds, heavy-headed in the heat. Somewhere, the sheep
were bleating monotonously, adding to the atmosphere of drowsiness and country
peace which contrasted so strongly with the Warwick he had left behind such a
little time ago.

 From the doorway, two little girls ran to
meet him. Lady Agnes dropped a wobbly curtsey; Lady Beatrice smiled shyly and
allowed Durvassal to chuck her under the chin. Then, with a cry of delight a
red-headed bundle of petticoats hurled itself from the house and launched
itself into his arms, swinging about his neck. ‘Don't you have a kiss for me,
Nicholas?’

 Durvassal set Christine's middle daughter
back upon her feet. This flame-haired moppet with the urchin's face and the
turned-up nose, had inherited none of Christine's ethereal beauty like baby
Beatrice, none of Hugh's sturdy yeoman features and quiet dignity like
thirteen-year-old Agnes. The child her father had laughingly nicknamed
The
Red Rose of Lapworth
years ago now, would never grow into a great beauty
but she had a vitality her sisters lacked and had fallen under Durvassal's
spell when Warwick's young squire had first ridden through Sir Hugh's gates,
looking like Sir Percival, Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot merged into one.

 ‘Will you teach us a new dance?’ She
clung to his arm.

 ‘It's too hot today, Rose Red. Where is
your mother?’

 ‘In her bower. Beatrice saw you from the
window and ran to tell her but she was angry. Perhaps she had hopes that it was
father back from London, I don't know. Still, Agnes knows how to entertain
young men.’

 ‘Does she indeed!’ Nicholas looked
enquiringly at the elder girl, demure under his gaze.

 ‘Agnes is to be betrothed. The Lord of
Edstone has asked for her for his spotty Philip, so she's learning to be a
lady.’

 ‘Spotty Philip is a fortunate man,’ said
Nicholas kindly. ‘Perhaps Lady Agnes would ask her mother if I may wait upon
her and I think I have a bag of comfits for Beatrice somewhere.’ He turned to
his saddle bag and Beatrice scuttled away with her sticky gift.

 ‘What have you brought for me?’ asked the
Red Rose of Lapworth. ‘I still have Roly; no-one else has a monkey hereabouts.’

 Nicholas smiled. ‘Nothing so exotic this
time, Rose-Red; a string of blue beads to match your eyes and here's one for
Agnes if her betrothed will let her accept the gift of another man.’

 ‘Pooh!’ said Rose. ‘Spotty Philip will
have a hard time preventing Agnes doing anything she has her mind on!’

 ‘Like her sister?’ grinned Nicholas,
fastening the blue beads beneath the mantle of red hair which spread about her
shoulders like floss silk. ‘Now run away into the garden, poppet, I have
important topics to discuss with your lady mother.’

 Rose pulled a face, stood on tiptoe and jerked
his head down to hers by his blond hair, kissing him full on the lips and then
bounding away, calling for Agnes.

 Nicholas ducked beneath the lintel and
moved through the darkness of the manor house and up to the solar. He opened
the door and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. Christine was
standing with her back to the window sill and the sunlight; he could not see
her face.

 ‘You are mad, mad to come here! You must
leave at once, Nicholas!’ Her voice was unsteady. He moved towards her.

 ‘Christine, who has seen me arrive?’ he
began.

 ‘My daughters know you are here and will
chatter of it.’

 ‘No, I will see to that, I'll promise
them some trinket, make it all seem like a game.’

 ‘Oh, Nicky, you think you can buy anyone
but I won't have my children involved. You'll extract no promises, I'll not
countenance it!’ She was flushed with anger now and pacing the room, twisting
at the folds of her soft blue gown.

 Durvassal shrugged his shoulders. ‘I may
as well stay now I'm here, it can't make things any worse. If Warwick is back
from London Lady Kate will say she has sent me off on an errand. She'll think
of something.’

 ‘Since when has Katherine Beauchamp
offered friendship without looking for return?’ asked Christine sharply.

 Nicholas laughed. ‘Jealous, My Lady? Are
you going to risk sending me back to Warwick or will you open the door to your
chamber where it will be cool and dark and where I can always leap out of the
window if it becomes necessary?’

 ‘You'd break your neck!’ laughed
Christine. ‘The fig tree would never hold you. Where are the girls?’

 ‘Safely in the garden.’ He ushered her
before him into the master bedroom. The fields of Lapworth stretched gently
undulating as far as the Umberslade woods and the green scents of summer
assaulted the senses; there were bright butterflies fluttering in and out over
the sill. Durvassal turned from the green glare back into the darkness and took
Christine into his arms. There was an added spice in the thought of taking a
woman in her husband's bed which made up for the fact that she was
unresponsive, tense with guilt. He lay on his back, looking up at the
light-dappled ceiling.

 ‘Which side of the bed does Hugh prefer?’

 ‘You are a bastard, Nicky!’ Lady
Brandstone sat up and pulled her mantle about her shoulders, suddenly
disconcerted by his hungry green gaze and laughing mouth. She ran a finger over
the dark golden hairs upon his chest and slapped his mouth lightly. ‘I almost
wish Hugh would catch us, it would give me an odd satisfaction to see him
trounce you.’

 Durvassal laughed. ‘It would be a miracle
if he could. As for you, My Lady, it is a little late to have found a
conscience. What in God's name is that! Someone at the door?’

 Christine sighed. ‘It's only Rose Red's
monkey, climbed in through the window and scratching about in the corner. It
came in minutes ago but you were too much occupied to notice. I'd prefer you to
keep to a more conventional line in gifts if gifts you must bring.’ She was
back again to mundane topics. ‘You must leave, this wasn't a good idea and you
are never, never to come here again whilst Hugh is away. Are you listening? I
shall not receive you.’

 Minutes later she escorted him downstairs
and with Agnes and Beatrice on either side watched him mount his sorrel mare.

 ‘Where is Rose Red? Isn't she coming to
say goodbye?’

 Agnes said, ‘She rode off on her pony.’

 Beatrice added, ‘She was mad with Roly. He
got into the great chamber and you know how angry mother gets about his fleas. Rose
had to climb the fig tree after him and I think she tore her dress. Roly came
down on his own anyway; he always does.’

 A look passed between Durvassal and
Christine.

 ‘She shouldn't go galloping off alone
like that,’ he said carefully. ‘I think I should go after her, Lady
Brandstone.’

 ‘No, there's no need. I'm sure you are
anxious to be away to Warwick. Give my regards to your mother and father if you
should ride over to Spernall and…’

 ‘I'll bring her back,’ said Durvassal and
spurred his mount in the direction pointed out by Agnes.

 Christine went back to her room and sat
upon the bed, shivering in spite of the heat.

 Durvassal tracked down Rose upon her
poor, winded, little pony, jumped from his own mount and swung her from the
saddle.

 ‘Let me go, sir, you forget who I am!’

 ‘What is it, Rose Red?’

 ‘Lady Rose, if you please, and take your
beads back with you!’ She struggled with the clasp, red in the face with
pent-up anger. Durvassal put up a hand to help her but she slapped it away. ‘Don't
touch me, filthy adulterer. How could you, under father's roof, in father's
bed!’ She burst into tears. He took her thin shoulders between long fingers.

 ‘Oh Rose Red, if you were older you'd
understand.’

 ‘Oh, I understand. Do you think me a
cretin? All those presents and games and compliments. You used us! Oh, Agnes
and I were fools not to see but Beata, Beata is seven years old and you used
her so that you could fornicate with her mother!’ She was hitting him with her
small fists in time to the words.

 Durvassal laughed. ‘My, what a big
vocabulary these days. I'm sorry, Rose Red, you were never intended to find out,
but for God's sake keep your mouth shut, like a good little girl.’

 Rose tossed her head. ‘If I'm silent it
won't be for you or for her, it will be for father because he loves her, he's
always loved her.’

 Nicholas grinned. ‘Yes, admit defeat,
sweetheart. If you spun him a yarn about a man in your mother's bed and you
playing Peeping Tom up the fig-tree, you'd probably be sent to bed with a sore
bottom and quite right too. Now, onto your pony and ride home or that's what
you'll get from me.’ He tapped his riding crop suggestively against his knee.

 The Red Rose of Lapworth was speechless
but her reflexes were not impaired. She snatched the crop from his hand, laid
open his cheek and leapt for her pony, forcing the beast back towards the manor
house.

~o0o~

There was no escaping supper in the great
hall at Warwick and no disguising his slashed cheek. Nicholas Durvassal sat
below the high table with Warwick's remaining knights and squires and Katherine's
ladies and tried to ignore the ill-concealed amusement and speculation. They
rose from table when the countess left the dais and swept the length of the
hall, towards the steps to the solar; she snapped her fingers for attendance
and Lady A, passing so close by Durvassal that he caught the scent of the
perfume she used, put up a white beringed finger and let it slide briefly over
his scarred face. Then she laughed softly and was gone.

~o0o~

Warwick
at last came home to his midland fastness in the velvety July dusk when
summer stars were pricked out upon the soft back-drop of the sky and the forest
land was closing in, thick and dark, on either side of his weary cavalcade. The
last ragged rooks, calling once, disappeared into the elms as Thomas Beauchamp
led the way over the fourteen arches of the bridge with the castle rising black
before him. The Avon ran red with the last of the sunset and already the lamps
were lit down in the town, glowing dull orange in the higgledy-piggledy houses.
Up in the solar, where the cressets flared from iron sconces and the smoke rose
to darken the carved and gilded ceiling bosses, Lady Kate, gowned in garnet
satin powdered over with silver roses, patted her chestnut hair in its
bejewelled crespine and sank onto a low stool before the fire, all limpid
acquiescence at the coming of her lord; her ladies melted away.