The Lords of Arden (29 page)

 Durvassal was kneeling, retching over his
folded arms. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘Just give me one hour alone with
him, My Lord, and I'll mend his manners!’

 ‘Nicky, I seem to recall that your
wedding is only hours away. You'd better get off to bed.’

 ‘What, and leave you with him?’ Nicholas's
head shot up.

 Warwick smiled, ‘You can put a man on the
door, though I think the fight is out of him. Durvassal got to his feet and
flung away through the tapestry covered doorway leading to the upper floors. Warwick turned to his prisoner, who was hauling himself upright from the ruins of a bowl
of fruit. He had a cut on his temple; he smelt of river mud. Warwick crossed to
a wooden coffer and drew out a clean linen towel, tossing it across to the boy.
‘Richard, you're a dirty fighter, no sense of sportsmanship. Perhaps you have
forgotten that Nicholas weds the Lady Rose at noon tomorrow? Or perhaps you
hadn't forgotten. She's a pretty girl, the Lady Rose.’

 ‘She's a child,’ said Montfort, rubbing
up his hair; its wet darkened tendrils made him look more like Peter than ever.

 ‘I shouldn't worry over much about the
Lady Rose,’ said Warwick. ‘Nicholas is more interested in bedding her mother.’ He
moved to his carved armchair, set before the flames where he always liked it,
and stretched out the long black clad legs. ‘You can pour us both a cup of wine,
and then you can come here where I can see you.’

 Montfort did as he was bid, quietly and
efficiently, although when he proffered the pewter goblet filled with a light
golden vernage, Warwick half wondered whether he might suddenly come to life
and fling the contents in his face. He had removed the sodden mulberry cote and
stood over the fire in shirt and hose, tall and graceful, the wet linen
clinging to the contours of the young body.

 Warwick set his cup aside and rose. The
fire lit them both from beneath, gilding pale winter complexions. ‘Are you in
fear of your life, Richard?’

 The young man shook his head, ‘No, I
don't think you will kill me.’

 ‘And how did you arrive at this happy
conclusion?’

 Montfort shrugged his shoulders; the cut
on his temple was welling blood. ‘I don't think you dislike me, not that much. Killing
takes hate or fear or jealousy, there is none of those.’ He was staring into
the flames.

 ‘No,’ said Warwick, ‘there is none of
those, but you've forgotten expediency and necessity. For Edward I would kill,
for England, for Kate and my sons. Do you understand?’

 The boy nodded, ‘I hadn't realised - that
the stakes were so high.’

 Thomas said, ‘I don't propose to burden
you with rambling explanations but your life could buy a victory for England -
battles won beside which liking is of no account and the death of one young man
of no significance.’

 Richard took time to assimilate his words
and turn them over in his mind. He lifted his head and faced his gaoler. ‘Then
would you promise me something, My Lord?’

 ‘If I can. At least speak out.’

 The boy drew breath, his dark eyes
steady. ‘If it happens, I don't want a knife in the dark. Let it be in the
light, face to face, clean…’

 Warwick took him by the shoulders but not
ungently. He said slowly, ‘In the light, face to face and cleanly done. Shriven
too, I swear it. Damn you, Richard, you make it hard!’

 Montfort moved out of his hands and
turned away, his voice uncertain. ‘It's not all that easy, to think about dying
when you're eighteen. Now I should like to return to the tower.’

 ‘Yes, of course. But there is no need if
you will give your parole.’

 ‘I can't. It would be a weakness. But
there is something: the child, the girl Rose, I must have frightened her. I
should like to apologise.’

 ‘And so you should. If she's not in her
bed I'll have her summoned.’ Thomas moved to the door and gave orders beyond
the arras. It was a long time before Rose appeared, flushed and breathless, to
drop a deep curtsey before the Earl, to look about her, to recognise Richard.

 ‘You sent for me, My Lord?’ She still
wore the green gown but her bright hair was demurely veiled.

 ‘Richard, say what you have to say and
let the demoiselle retire. She should be to bed early; a blushing bride needs
her rest.’ He turned and left her, making for the fire again. The bride darted
out a tongue at his retreating back and made a comical grimace.

 Richard smiled at her, ‘I must apologise,
My Lady, I should not have used you so.’

 Rose surveyed him, hands behind her back.
‘There is no need. I should have done the same in your shoes. I should have
broken free when I had the chance. Others have used me, but not you. You did
not harm me and you are forgiven.’ She stood on tiptoe then, reached up shyly, her
small hands over his shoulders, and pulled his face down to hers to plant a
child's kiss on his cheek, then thought better of it and found his mouth this
time. She was warm and sweet-smelling, young and alive. She knew Warwick was watching her from the fireside; that she was behaving shamelessly and she did
not care. If it was the rebellious child in her that cried out on her last
night of freedom, it was Richard's manhood that would have answered her. Her
budding softness stirred him, the scent of her skin, the touch of her hands,
and he answered her kiss with the same fierce hunger for life to be denied him,
until Warwick roared at them.

 ‘Enough! To bed with you, My Lady!’ And
she sprang away, turned and fled. ‘Yes,’ said Warwick grimly, ‘you're better
locked away. She'll grow up quickly enough.’

 ‘Tomorrow,’ said Richard, ‘she'll be
another man's wife. Worse, she'll be Nicholas's wife. It may be treachery to
take the wife of a friend, how much more dishonest to take the wife of your
enemy?’

 Warwick grinned. ‘You're ripe for
martyrdom, Sebastian; I couldn't afford your scruples.’ He shouted for the
guard. ‘Have him back to the Bear Tower. If he's troublesome, shackle him! Goodnight,
Richard.’

The snows came barely two weeks before the
Nativity, sifting down in the still silence of a December night. Without the
accompaniment of strong winds to whip the white blanket into a blizzard, to lay
bare bleak patches of hillside or sweep away the furred outlines of trees and
expose the black and skeletal boughs beneath, the soft white flakes settled,
smooth and flawless, before the first cock crew. And the sentry, mounting the
stone staircase to the roof above Beaudesert's upper guard, flung back the
heavy oak door and staggered in the brilliance of light which should have been
the grey emanance of the false dawn but which glittered and sparkled on all
sides from the furred tops of the merlons to the blue, ice-glimmer of the
shadowed baileys, to the thatched roofs of the village, the capped bell-tower
of St. Nicholas's Church, and the silver sheen of the gentle hills beyond.

 Peter de Montfort would not change his
plans. No sane man would have chosen such a day to set out with a caravan of
loaded wagons, but he had a young man to redeem, a bastard son to fetch away
out of hold. John, with his characteristic lack of grasp of what seemed
fundamental issues to his father, had taken himself away into Leicestershire
two days before. He had been known to disagree with Peter's decision to
exchange military secrets for his sibling, had shrugged his shoulders as if to
say, ‘If you must, you must,’ and had demonstrated his lack of enthusiasm for
the enterprise by riding off on the Christmas tournament circuit, Trussel at
his side and an extravagant number of retainers at his back. Peter had been
disappointed by the lack of support but he had made his dispositions and would
not be swayed by the seasonal weather. He sat and glared at his sister over
breakfast in the solar; only Guy showed interest with an onslaught of questions
about his new brother.

 At least Peter had the good sense, or the
shame as Bess put it, to stay at home and let Mikelton ride over to Warwick. Thomas Beauchamp was no longer the wayward boy Montfort remembered, he was an
alien, powerful lord and too near neighbour and it would not have done for
Peter to close the door behind him and leave his house unprotected at his back.
Besides, this was more than straight-forward barter; it was out and out
blackmail. Who knew but once inside Warwick with his wagons and Thomas might
have taken a fancy to housing two prisoners for as long as the whim took him. No,
better to let Mikelton go, and sit and chafe in his own eyrie, fretting over
his inactivity.

 The coveted armaments, already loaded up
onto wagons in the stables, came from the east. Peter's immediate forbears had
been great travellers and crusaders and his manors were furnished with the
gleanings of campaign and pilgrimage: tables and rugs, glass and ceramics,
silks, even medical treatises. With them had come the crakeys, crude metal
tubes which, if primed correctly, belched iron or stone balls the length of a
battlefield, causing death, maiming and great confusion. One day, when the time
was right, he would have handed all over to Edward Plantagenet; he would know
the hour. But Thomas had not trusted him and Thomas had been wrong. What did it
matter now? He would have given a great deal more for Lora's son.

 Peter watched the procession move slowly
through the outer ward, the carts flanked by his sturdiest men, summer-bright
in Montfort blue and gold. Mikelton was leading, an upright, soldierly figure
on his great chestnut rouncy. Beside him, a young man carried Peter's standard,
the distinctive rayed banner; diagonal stripes of blue and gold. Peter watched
the carts trundle away down the ramp from the Lower Guard, corner and strike
away towards the high road and the village. When they were out of sight he
stomped back to the solar. Bess had retrieved the game of chess they had
started two nights ago. Peter reached out a hand and snatched up a piece.

 ‘Pawn to the Queening Square; home and
dry. I think I have you there, Elizabeth.’

 Bess smiled, tight-lipped. ‘Do you read
that as a prophetic sign? Don't underestimate Thomas, my dear. Wait until you
have the boy in your own hall and can slam home the portcullis on the outside
world before you consider Warwick's King in check!’

~o0o~

Geoffrey Mikelton turned eastward at the
end of the village and his men fought their way up the steep incline of
Blackford Hill, with the team leaders exhorting and threatening from the van,
and every spare man with his shoulder to the wheels at the rear. Warwick town lay due east across sparsely inhabited countryside and the high road was
little more than a dirt track in summer and a rutted lane in winter. They took
their journey steadily, through Whitley and Preston where they rattled their
way over the wooden bridge which traversed the swollen River Alne, and on to
Claverdon. Thereafter, hamlets and isolated dwellings petered out, the sky
lowered and it began to snow heavily, the wind whipping up to bring blizzard
conditions.

 ‘Come on, lads, less than five miles and Warwick will surely let us sit out the storm by a rosy fire,’ roared the Constable with
more confidence than he felt. To the north, well away from the road, lay Pinley
Abbey, refuge of Lora Astley, his master’s old paramour and, over on the left
of the track, were the trees and the wastes of the land they called the
Wilderness; dangerous land, haunt of outlaws and gypsies and all the riff-raff
of the road. But the trees were blurred and softened, the snow at the roadside
virgin and untrammelled. Mikelton urged his men onwards, towards Hampton Hill. Half
a mile and Warwick would be in their sights. The old man was uneasy, his spine
had been prickling ever since they lost sight of Beaudesert, and the slow,
eventless journey - if any journey in such weather could be termed eventless -
had only served to set his nerves jangling. When the attack came he almost
found himself heaving a sigh of relief that at least the enemy had shown
himself. Ranged across the slope of the hill, mounted and cloaked and heavily
armed, was as fearful a band of ruffians as you might ever meet.

 Mikelton summoned his men with a few
terse words, fronted the wagons and drew his blade. The leader of the
cut-throat band raised his own sword arm and, as he brought it down as a pre-arranged
signal, his men surged forward down the hill, leaving him still at his vantage
point with half a dozen of his followers.

 Mikelton gritted his teeth. ‘So, a leader
who delegates but does not care to set examples. Steady, lads, we've enough
here to do ourselves justice.’ But he was searching the advancing force for
identification. They wore no man's livery and no man's badge, they carried no
banner and their heads were swathed in cloak or hood and muffled against
identification. He grunted, ‘I should know you then my fine fellows, if I could
catch a glimpse. Not a chance band of Wolf Heads.’ And then they were upon him,
mostly armed with cudgels, as wild men might be – or perhaps those too
squeamish to affect a killing. They were well trained, sharp of eye, quick of
wit. Peter de Montfort's men were among the best horsemen in the shire, men who
had followed their lord to the Scottish wars, some who had fled the defeat of
Bannockburn after young Lord John was slain, men who had redeemed themselves many
times since that day fighting under Peter, for Edward II, in the many baronial
skirmishes which preceded the abdication. There were younger men too who had
ridden to the border with the young Edward and who had helped Montfort keep the
peace between Beaudesert and the Welsh March. Montfort was a good master; none
better when all was said and done, and what more natural than that he should
want his son out of Warwick's clutches. They would not fail him. The man on the
hill, arms folded over the high pommel of his saddle, watched the fracas below
him and his handsome features darkened, tight with anger. Mikelton fought too
well, damn him, he would have to go in with reinforcements, finish the job
himself; it was not what he wanted. He straightened in the saddle, gave orders
to those left about him and led a spectacular mounted charge down the slope and
into the midst of the fighting.

 Mikelton was tiring, he felled a man half
his age with a horizontal slash of his blade and turned to take on the
newcomers. He found himself facing a prancing grey, dingy against the snow, and
an adversary fresh and young and eager for the fight. His hood had fallen back
and the wind tore at wild dark hair, whipping scarlet into smooth cheeks and a
brightness into brown eyes. Mikelton knew every move he would make because
Mikelton had taught them to him, had been schooling him since his tenth
birthday. Now, little beyond his sixteenth, he thought he knew it all.

 ‘You bloody little Judas, Simon! Where's
John?’ Mikelton was short of breath, a pain in his chest, but he only had to
look in the direction of the boy's swift glance to mark the figure he was
seeking.

 ‘You'd best surrender,’ said Simon Trussel,
‘I can't run you through, sir.’

 ‘You could try!’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘You
could just try it, you cocky little bastard!’ And it was the last thing he
remembered for he was struck down from behind and he was slipping slowly
sideways. His horse took flight and galloped off, the old man hanging from the
stirrups. The snow, everywhere, was churned into mud and blood.

 John de Montfort set his own men to the
carts and placed himself at the head of the little cavalcade.

 His squire said, ‘They were Henley men. It leaves a nasty taste. And there are some badly wounded; we can't leave
them.’

 John reached over and took his arm,
ushering him from the scene of the carnage. ‘Turning soft, Simon? I thought you
were begging to be blooded. If you're going to be sick get it over with, I want
to put as much distance as I can between us and this place.’ He spurred his
mount and signalled that the carts should follow. The castle was already in
sight.

~o0o~

Thomas Beauchamp was in the old armoury,
deserted and bitterly cold. Snow sifted in between the cracks in the shutters
and left little drifts which did not melt. He stamped his feet, trying to keep
warm, impatient. He had sent for Richard de Montfort, asked that he be brought
from the Bear Tower immediately. God, they were taking their time! He heard the
door open and looked towards the steps. The armoury was in the undercroft,
rising out of the castle rock. The door had closed and Richard came towards
him. After the fight with Durvassal and the soaking he had received in the Avon it had been necessary to provide him with fresh clothing. He wore a dark violet
jupon, close buttoned, which hugged his narrow hips, and violet hose which
served to make him look even taller than his aspiring six foot; the colour
accentuated his fairness. He came forward slowly but without any noticeable
hesitation. He said nothing.

 ‘You are going on a journey,’ Warwick's voice was curt.

 ‘A long journey, My Lord?’ The blood had
drained from Richard’s cheeks, making his eyes seem dark as agates.
The
longest journey?
the eyes were saying. He did not take them from Warwick's face, he was striving to school his own into insouciance.

 ‘That sense of theatre again, Sebastian? No,
you're going home - to Beaudesert.’

 The boy had turned away abruptly, at
length, he said, ‘What has happened?’

 ‘A courier from Beaudesert, a man of my
own, informs me that Peter de Montfort's Constable set out at first light with
your ransom. He will be here within the half hour. Outside the postern there is
a fast mount and two of my men, armed
cap a pie
, as it were, to do duty
as escort. You may leave now and take the cross country route to Beaudesert,
they will know the way. I keep my promises.’

 ‘But, My Lord, if I wait I can ride back
with my father's men, surely that is what he would wish?’

 ‘I do not wish it and so you may leave
now!’

 ‘No, My Lord, I shall wait. I should
prefer to witness my father's sacrifice, to see what it has cost to preserve my
life. Why should I steal away now like a thief in the night?’

 ‘It isn't your place to argue with your
betters, boy, you will do as you are bidden for once!’

 ‘And get an arrow in the back as I ride
out? I think not!’

 ‘I give you my word, you are to go free.’

 Richard's jaw was set; he was too much
like Peter in one of the old intractable moods. Warwick raised his voice,
‘Rendel, Jack!’ There was a scuffling from beyond the door and it opened to
admit two of the Earl's archers. They clattered down the steps to stand
respectfully at attention. Warwick waved a hand towards Richard. ‘You will take
Master de Montfort out to the postern. You will bind him hand and foot and
carry him home across his saddle. If he's troublesome you can use your whip but
if you lose him you'll hang! Now be away from here as quickly as you can.’

 ‘You can't,’ gasped Richard, ‘you damned
well can't do that to me!’

 ‘It is your choice, my dear; an
ignominious home-coming, I do admit. Rendel, take him, I'm weary of his
argument.’

 ‘No, My Lord, I'll do as you say but you
owe me an explanation and, damn you, I will have it!’

 Warwick sighed, ‘Oh, out again both of
you, but be on hand, I'll call when I need you. Sit down, Richard.’ He motioned
to a table. ‘And listen, for I won't repeat myself. You are to leave now and by
the back ways because I shan't be keeping the bargain I made with your father. I
made another one, with brother John. The ransom is the same but the stakes are
subtly different. Your father stresses that he needs you quick. John prefers
that you should be dead. I choose to deal with John; I have my reasons.’