The Lords of Arden (35 page)

 ‘I know what I owe him. Do you really
wish to hear the Decalogue of my sins? I was sixteen and a bloody little
idiot.’

 ‘Confession is good for the soul and I
have nothing better to do at this time in the morning. My chamber is full of
the Countess’s women, proffering remedies for acute indigestion; it’s not the
most attractive stage of pregnancy. I believe your wife is travelling again –
wise girl! So, when did you join Henry of Derby?’

 John hunched up one shoulder against the
Earl’s voice and said: ‘I was eleven, I was a spoilt brat. I liked to get my
own way but somehow I avoided most of the big mistakes. We got on well together.
I liked to feel I was favoured above my peers and perhaps I was. I was
certainly jealous of my position. It was during the months leading up to Sluys.
We'd been everywhere: marches to the North, to the coast, to Flanders - exiting
when you're that age and the man you serve is one of Europe's most charismatic
figures. We were the chosen ones, the immortals. And then things got out of
hand. We'd been warned once or twice about drinking bouts in the town - things
got smashed up - we were getting a bad name and there were dire warnings about
any infringement of his orders. Of course, I had to break my word and every
rule in his book. I was untouchable, you see. Regulations were for others, not
for me. Then, one night I was delivered back from the town in a parlous state
after blabbing out who knew what campaign secrets to the wrong quarters... I
was packed off to bed but next day Henry sent for me and told me I was no
longer to serve as his body squire, that I should stay within the wards and
take to any menial tasks that fell to hand until he felt I had served my
sentence and earned reprieve.’ He shifted on his stool and cast a sideways
glance at the Earl. ‘You can't imagine how it felt. There were too many to crow
over my misfortune, many to take advantage. Some had served diligently for a
long time, were hard workers and if he found their company a little dull it
wasn't their fault. I worked hard; I debased myself to do it. It was about the
worst time of my life and he didn't seem to notice. One week, two weeks, three
went past and others rode out to hunt with him and others waited on him in his
chamber. I was desperate to be noticed, desperate for him to realise how he was
missing me. I wanted him to crook a finger and take me aside and tell me I was
forgiven. But he didn't and the disappointment turned to anger. I wanted to be
taken back under his wing but I wanted to hurt him too and I think in the end
that desire overrode everything else, blotted it all out.

 We travelled to the coast where a city of
tents went up at night. And you know how on campaign things are differently
ordered? There are always men who would prefer a boy to warm their mattress at
night rather than take a whore; you learn early to look out for yourself. I was
a pretty boy, God help me. It used to amuse me, saying no, but it gave a sense
of power. There was a child, a page, always hanging about hoping for an errand.
I sent him to the Earl with a message he learnt off pat. He was not to deliver
it with anyone else by. He was to say that, as My Lord obviously had no present
use for me, I had agreed to serve a certain knight – oh, let’s call him Sir
Gawain – and was sure that he would be pleased to sanction the loan of my
person for the evening.’

 ‘Sir Gawain?’ Warwick’s eyebrows went up.

 ‘Oh, you would have known him full well;
his fancy was always for boys – but that night he was innocent. That night he
was in town, not in the camp at all. I knew that; Derby did not. Why should
he?’

 Montfort was staring into the glowing
heart of the brazier, seeing again the city of tents, the pavilions of war, so
very different from the Windsor village surrounding them. He remembered the
walk along canvas-flanked aisles and ducking into the darkness of his chosen
fox-hole, stripping and slipping into that alien bed…

 In the end it had been a long wait and
spiced by the chance that the bed’s owner might return before Derby put in an
appearance. By the time the awaited footfall had paused, out in the darkness,
and the tent flap was pulled aside, the whole area bathed in torchlight, he was
cold with fright and his heart was hammering so hard that it threatened to
choke him. His breathing was ragged and audible.

 Henry of Derby set his torch in a
convenient bracket, strode to the bedside and tore back the coverlet, raking
his erring squire from head to foot until he saw the first mantling of shame
flood into face and neck, before grabbing him by the nearest wrist and jerking
him to his knees. His expression was one of cold, contained fury.

 John, who had achieved exactly what he
had set out to do, was foolish enough then to smile at him archly from beneath
the flop of his auburn hair.

 ‘Out!’ said Derby. ‘Boy, you have seconds
to dress unless you want my belt buckle across your bare arse!’

 It was not the language of chivalry for
which he was acclaimed. John’s eyes flickered momentarily to the ornate piece
of craftsmanship slung low about the Earl’s narrow hips and plunged for his
clothes.

 ‘Where is he?’ Derby’s voice was
ice-brook cold; Montfort had never heard it so before, in all the years he had
served this man.

 ‘Who, My Lord?’

 ‘You know bloody well who I mean!’

 ‘I don’t know where, really I don’t. In
town, I suppose. My Lord, don’t look at me so, it was a joke; that was all – I
swear!’

 Derby sighed. ‘John, come here.’

 ‘My Lord?’

 Derby stood him squarely before him and
forced the violet eyes to focus unwillingly upon his own steadier grey ones. ‘Tell
me the truth. Did he invite you here? The truth, boy!’

 ‘Not exactly…’

 ‘Stop dissembling or I
will
beat
you!’

 ‘Well, there were looks, I know he wanted
me. He never said anything. But you had no use for my services. You had
forgotten I existed.’

 ‘So that is all this is about. You set up
this, no doubt foolish, young man because you thought I was ignoring you. For
that – and for nothing more?’

 ‘Yes, My Lord, I suppose so.’

 ‘And if he had come back and if you had
been discovered together don’t you realise it would have resulted in a charge
of sodomy? Oh, you might have escaped as the dubiously corrupted innocent but
he – dear God – they would have burned him!’

 John shrugged and looked away. Derby cuffed him lightly to regain his attention.

 ‘It still doesn’t touch you, does it,
what you have tried to do?’

 ‘It worked,’ said John, ‘you’re here, My
Lord.’ His smile was seraphic and earned him a half-hearted slapping wherever Derby could reach.

 The Earl said, ‘You’ll spend the night
under restraint. Tomorrow morning you’re on your way home and I shall have to
spend the next hour writing something suitable for your unfortunate father.’

 ‘My Lord, you can’t, he’ll be so –
disappointed in me – and you can’t send me away. All I wanted was to be back in
your favour. Was that so very wrong?’ He wriggled his clothes straight again
and ran a hand through the chaotic hair.

 ‘Boy, you’ve served me well. We have had
good times together, exciting times. You were always the one to make me laugh
when cares of state threatened to overwhelm me. Damn you, John, I shall miss
you but you can’t stay. We’re off to war and I haven’t the time to wonder whose
bed you’ll be crawling into or whose reputation you are planning to ruin next. You’re
a lethal mix of the amoral and the unprincipled and crying isn’t going to
help.’ But he was angry with himself that he was affected by the boy’s
distress. He waited for a moment for him to pull himself together.

 ‘Oh, here with you!’ Derby drew the red
head to his shoulder and let him sob into the breast of his cote before shaking
him gently.

 ‘The first time we met I seem to remember
you soaked me with grimy tears. You should have grown out of it by now. Blow
your nose and let’s get out of here!’ He steered him out into the night, one
arm firmly about his shoulders.

 ‘My Lord, how can I go back to being
nobody again?’

 Derby laughed. ‘I can see that obscurity
is hardly an option for you, John, but it won’t hurt you to keep your head down
for a while and reflect upon your sins…’

~o0o~

John surfaced from his reverie and
wondered how much he had said to Warwick. There was a long silence before he
turned towards Thomas Beauchamp and said savagely, ‘So you see, a man who would
have whored to get his own way would not baulk at murdering his brother or
betraying his own father. Men would say he was just running true to form!’

 Warwick only said, ‘You were sixteen. I
did a lot of things I was ashamed of when I was sixteen – and since. I can and
will silence Mary. God only knows how she picked up the story in the first
instance. Tomorrow, I hunt with the King and you will be at my side in my
livery; not a venture for the faint-hearted in the present circumstances but
no-one has ever accused you of that. Brazen it out. It can only add to your
novelty value with the ladies, after all.’

 ‘It hasn’t worked with my wife,’ smiled
John ruefully.

 ‘At least you have remembered that you
have a wife,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Beautiful girl, Johanna; decent hips where it’ll
matter to your sons. I should try to curtail all this travelling – not natural
in a bride, not natural at all!’

Lady Day brought the first true promise of
spring that year, with its cobalt sky and its drifting cloud castles. The
snowdrops were faded now which had clung tenaciously to the banks of the fosse
during a harsh February, but in the muddied ruts of the outer bailey the tough
roundels of coltsfoot flowers turned their faces to the light.

 Being Sunday and Mass over and done, the
menfolk of Henley had trudged their way up to Beaudesert from the porch of St.
Nicholas's Church and were dutifully at target practice within the bailey. There
was always a spirit of friendly rivalry - the village versus the castle - and
Peter and Richard strolled down to oversee the proceedings in a spirit of
noblesse oblige. Besides, it was good to be out and about in the sunshine. They
stood aside watching the team from the village and then turned towards Peter's
own garrison with Geoffrey Mikelton in charge. A young man in Montfort blue let
fly his shaft, missed the target completely and swore under his breath. Richard
was at his side, the March wind tugging at his shaggy curls, his dark eyes
alight and aware:

 ‘You aim too high, friend. Let me take
her, and aim so…’

 The arrow, fledged with grey goose,
whistled into the eye and the young man, whose bow was now in Richard's capable
hands grinned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I'll never match that. She's yours
for as long as you want, I've had enough for one morning. Take my quiver; I'd
as soon sit in the sun.’

 ‘Richard shook his head. ‘That won't do;
you'll never end a good shot if you take that attitude. If they call up the
levies you can't hand your bow to another man in the heat of battle. They will
call them; it’s only a matter of time. Don't you want to see France?’

 ‘Shall I get a choice?’ said the other
boy sullenly. ‘Look, do you want it, Sir?’ He put the emphasis on the last
word, reminding Richard that for all his honest attempts at fraternisation he
could never rank with the men, his blood cut too deep a channel between them.

 Montfort said, ‘I'm not impressed. You
should all be able to manage two hundred yards. Who has the training of you? You'll
make a wraggle-taggle army!’ His clear young voice carried to where Mikelton
and his cronies stood together, their own bows at rest. Richard took up the
weapon again and turned to where a brace of crows flew cawing into the eye of
the sun. He took aim and pulled his arm back. One black scavenger plummeted to
earth and two or three men clapped politely. Mikelton had heard Richard's
words, light and careless; the truth of them struck home and he felt his years.
Those about him coughed or ground out the grass with their heels, embarrassed
to meet his eyes. For a moment he stood there, pathetic, mouth slack, eyes
downcast, hands limp at his sides; an old man forced to acknowledge that he
wasn't always up to things these days.

 Peter was beside his son, an arm about
his shoulders. ‘Well done! Now perhaps we can see your prowess with a sword.’

 Richard smiled blithely, ‘Not my weapon,
I'm afraid, sir.’

 ‘Come now, you're too modest. Geoffrey,
you'll oblige my son?’

 The old man came warily forward, buckling
on his sword belt. Richard shouldered his way out of the encircling arm. ‘My
word upon it, I'd make poor showing.’

 Peter drew his own blade, it hissed and
shuddered in the sunlight; a fine piece of workmanship and forged to ice-brook
temper. He reversed the pommel and handed it to his son. The archers drifted
away from the butts and drew a cordon about the three, a wide circle of
flattened grass before the north curtain. Richard set his jaw, knowing there
was no appeal.

 Mikelton had no way of ascertaining how practised
a swordsman he was; his father had a very good idea. Apprentice boys had as
fine a chance as any of taking to the bow, though their accustomed weapons were
the cudgel and the knife, and agility and a quick wit were of paramount
necessity, but the weight of a sword was something other, the training long and
arduous. John had had a wooden sword at his belt from the time he could walk. Richard
had never handled anything as fine as Peter's blade and an archer's strength is
no replacement for the supple wrist of a master swordsman.

 Mikelton had this boy's measure in the
time it takes to knock arrow to bow and let fly - the very way he angled the
blade, the lamentable footwork. Some of the tension about them had eased and
the men were beginning to enjoy the spectacle. Whatever he was, and Mikelton
could be a bastard at times, no-one would dispute it, he was their own and they
did not need any young sprig of the nobility, who thought he was cock of the
walk, telling them how to rule their lives, humiliating the old man. They cast
a glance towards their lord, perched on a wooden mounting block, eyes narrowed,
a broad and satisfied grin upon his face. It would obviously be permitted to
laugh and laugh they did as Richard slashed his way furiously, able to make no
headway and forced continuously backwards. Once Geoffrey drove in under his
guard with such force that the blade was wrenched from his wrist to spin down
at his father's feet. There was a glance, hardly perceptible, between Lord and
Constable and Peter nodded.

 Mikelton said, ‘A mere fluke, a chance. Pick
it up and we'll try again.’

 It was the last thing Richard wanted,
this conniving at his further humiliation, but there was no help for it and the
spectacle was prolonged. Backing the young man up against the north curtain
Mikelton tried the same trick, neatly depriving him of his blade and pinning
him against the stonework with his own sword at the open neck of his shirt.

 ‘You didn't learn, did you?’ grunted
Mikelton. ‘Do you yield?’

 ‘I do.’ Richard was out of breath,
perspiring, and the old man sheathed his blade and turned back to his young
opponent, hand extended, but Richard had brushed past without seeing and was
striding away towards the gatehouse, face set and furious. The Constable
retrieved Montfort's sword and handed it to him.

 ‘I'm sorry,’ said Peter, ‘that my son
should lack manners. I'll have him called back.’

 ‘No, I would not want that. It was a hard
lesson and I've no wish to make an enemy there. Let it stand.’

 Montfort clapped him on the shoulder and
they wandered back to the bowmen. The clouds were bunching up beyond the
ridgeway; it would soon be raining.

 In fact, it rained all afternoon, sheeting
in through every unshuttered window, turning bailey and courtyard into the
usual quagmire. Richard made his way to the guardroom above the upper gate and
paused in the doorway. Mikelton was seated on an arrow box before a brazier,
the rest of the watch sprawled about him, cleaning harness. One of the men
nudged him and nodded towards their lord's son. The old man got to his feet.

 ‘What can I do for you?’

 The boy had taken off his new Sunday
finery and wore a plain tawny-hued jupon, open to the waist, sleeves rolled up;
he must have come from the stables. Skulking there until he got over the
morning's humiliation, Mikelton supposed. Well, what of it, it can't have been
too easy, learning to play the prodigal son.

 ‘Can I come in?’

 ‘Is there anywhere that isn't open to
your father's son in this house? Yes, by all means.’

 Richard ducked beneath the stone lintel
and entered the fug. He disregarded the curious glances of the garrison, his
eyes fixed upon the Constable. ‘I need to apologise for my behaviour this
morning; it was downright rudeness. I'm sorry. Will you take my hand on it,
belated though it is?’

 It must have taken a lot of courage to
admit to his own shortcomings in front of his father's men. Mikelton did not
hesitate; he took the offered hand and wrung it vigorously. ‘Gladly, gladly.’ But
his encouraging grin was brief and he pierced the onlookers with a gimlet gaze
and they stumbled clumsily to their feet, muttering excuses, making for the
leads again and the steady downpour.

 ‘Will you sit for a while? Would you like
a bite to eat? It's only cold sausage but the bread's fresh.’

 ‘Thanks; I missed the midday meal,
licking imagined wounds.’ Richard gave a rueful smile. ‘But I have to say
something further if you'll listen.’

 ‘I'm listening but I can't look up that
far, couldn't you sit down and say it, lad?’

 So Richard seated himself on the arrow
box and Mikelton plumped down beside him and busied himself hacking up a dark
sausage with his dagger. ‘Well?’

 ‘At the butts I spoke too hastily, I
never thought - they were your men, your ultimate responsibility. I shamed you
before them.’

 Mikelton sniffed, ‘I admit we fall short,
no doubt you can teach us a few things but I'll own I could have wrung your
handsome young neck. Would you like a hard-boiled egg or are we still at
confession?’

 Richard said, staring between his toes,
‘I'm treading on cat ice here, you must know that. I'm hard put to set a foot
right. I don't want to make enemies so if I can make amends…’

 ‘Lord love us, boy, don't take yourself
so seriously. If you want a penance you've come to the wrong man. I see no
enemies, you're his son and that's enough for now. Later, perhaps, you'll be
more.’ He put out a hand and patted the nearest knee.

 Richard said, ‘If you'd give me some
tutoring with a sword, I'd be obliged. I've had no training; I need a master's
hand.’

 Mikelton growled, mouth full of sausage,
‘John could always sweet-talk me; you won't do it, I'm far too old and canny
these days.’

 ‘But I'm serious!’

 The old man got to his feet. ‘I’ll work
you damned hard.’ He shot the gimlet gaze at him.

 ‘That's fine, when do we start?’

 ‘Now is as good a time as any.’

 ‘Don't I get my sausage first?’

 ‘Fasting is good for the soul, Richard. I'll
get you some tackle from the armoury.’

~o0o~

Johanna de Montfort set sail for Spain. Gone was the forthright chatelaine of Coleshill, sleeves rolled up to her elbows,
arms freckled and brown; gone the boy-girl of the Windsor tournament whose legs
were the sensation of the week and whose morals had been called into question. Here
was a modest young matron gowned in silver-grey, hair completely covered by
veil and filet, attentive to her mistress. Eleanor Beaumont was a tall,
sweet-faced young woman with eyes the blue-violet of periwinkles. She clutched
at her saffron mantle to prevent it being whisked away across the foredeck, and
laughed like a schoolgirl when one honey-coloured plait of hair sprang free
from its coil and tumbled down to her hips. Eleanor was Harry Derby's favourite
sister - and he had a decent clutch of them. Her husband, the Lord John
Beaumont, had been killed jousting at Northampton but Eleanor, tired of her
widowhood and ripe for a second marriage, had set her cap at Richard Fitzalan, Earl
of Arundel, one of the country's most powerful magnates and a firm friend of
her brother. Arundel had fallen neatly under Eleanor's spell and their affair
was probably the worst kept secret of the decade. The King wished Derby to
revive the flagging spirits of his faint-hearted subjects in Gascony so the
indefatigable trio of Derby, Arundel and Eleanor were set to help in a
roundabout way; first, by travelling to Spain to ensure the neutrality of the
three Iberian Kings: Alfonso of Castile and the rulers of Portugal and Navarre,
and thence to Pope Clement at Avignon to plead for a divorce for Arundel who
was married to the uninspiring Isabella Despencer. Eleanor had found in the
ranks of the Countess of Salisbury's demoiselles a kindred spirit in Johanna de
Montfort, which was how that young woman found herself standing on the deck of
the Barnaby, a painted ship with a scarlet sail on a blue-green sea; bound for
Spain, for the Moorish arches and the orange trees and the light-dappled
fountains of Castile.

~o0o~

The rose garden had been Alice de
Montfort's solace. After the Battle of Evesham where her husband had been slain
upon the field, supporting his namesake, Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester,
and after the sack of Beaudesert which had followed, whilst her son, a second
Peter who had married the child, Maud de la Warre, began to rebuild the
fortress, the Lady Alice Audley - for whom the Audley Tower had been named -
had begun upon the garden. It had been a formal enclosure in the middle wards,
sheltered between high, crenellated walls but set to catch the path of the
afternoon sun. There was a sunken lawn surrounded by grass benches, a pleached
avenue of fruit trees and trellised screens to support the vines of her
favourite white roses. When Alice died, her garden sanctuary was kept up in a
desultory fashion by the Montfort women who had followed her, for most were
happy to sally forth with their sewing baskets on a warm summer's afternoon,
veiled to avoid the sun of course.

 None had loved and cared for Alice's Eden like Margaret Furnival who would work with her own hands to plant fragrant
herbs: thyme, lavender, balsam and rue; who had transported seedlings and
begged slips of roses wherever she visited until the tiny corner became a
perfumed paradise haunted by bee and butterfly. Since Margaret's death there
had been none to care for the garden. (Even Johanna had baulked at such a task
and was creating her own purely practical herb garden in the Outer Bailey.) The
lawn had grown long and rank, scattered with the seeds of Timothy Grass and
dandelions. There were weeds shooting up among the herbs and the pleached walk
was a dark tunnel of tightly knotted branches, too low for any but a child to
run along beneath its shadowed vault. And everywhere, the roses ran riot,
hiding the trellis which supported them, clustering thick upon Margaret's
little arbour, interwoven with honeysuckle and the necklaces of bryony.