The Lords of Arden (44 page)

 John shook his head. ‘No, this I must do
myself.’ He followed the old man’s directions, threading his way through the
city of pavilions until he came to his father’s blue campaigning tent. Peter
was sitting outside on a stool, his sword across his knees, sunk in thoughts of
the morrow. John had time to study the thick dark thatch of his hair, grey now
at the temples, the fierce concentration of the brows over the lowered dark
eyes, the firm set of the mouth. He said nothing, only waited for his father to
sense his presence and look up. When their eyes met it seemed as if both their
hearts must have turned over simultaneously.

 Peter thought, ‘How tall he is; I had
forgotten.’ He said, ‘John de Montfort, have we anything to say to one
another?’

 John’s face was perfectly grave now. He
looked at him with Lora’s eyes then he dropped to one knee so that they were on
a level.

 ‘I did not think there was anything I
could say, any way I could atone…’ His voice trailed off.

 Peter put a hand on each shoulder so that
there was no escape from his fierce dark gaze. ‘Boy, there are no apologies, no
clever words, no pretty speeches you could possibly trot out to assuage the
hurt of your betrayal. Forgive you I may, not now, not soon, but over time
perhaps. Lad, as Christ is my witness, I am unfortunate enough to need you at
my side and foolish enough to love you still for whatever you are and, taken
all in all, you are an unprincipled, undutiful, treacherous, double-tongued,
false-hearted, graceless young rogue!’

 ‘Ah, so you’re letting me off lightly,’
said John with a sardonic curl of his lips, belied by the affection in the
violet eyes. Then he smiled the heart-stopping smile which had bound all at
Beaudesert to him long ago and Peter was defenceless once again.

 ‘Oh, give your father a hug and be done
with it. I’ve missed you every day. I’m not proud of such weakness but there it
is!’ They clasped each other and, for a moment, Peter drew the auburn head down
onto his shoulder. John lifted his face and the violet eyes were bright with
unshed tears. He dashed them away.

 ‘I never meant to ask, but would you have
hung me?’

 ‘Oh, aye, but God help me, I could not
have done it unless I had first put your eyes out! Now, before you unman me
further, go and seek your brother. When you ride out tomorrow I shall knight
you both in the Field so make this evening one of sober reflection and earnest
prayers. You, Johnny, are sadly in need of grace so stop laughing at me!’ He
feigned a blow at the nearest ear and watched him stride away with cat-like
grace before he shut out the darkness and ducked inside the tent again.

~o0o~

Peter de Montfort was alone at his
prayers. Once, he had trained for the priesthood but prayer did not come easily
now. His thoughts slipped away to Warwickshire, to the warm golden stones of
Beaudesert, to the girl with the buttercup hair cloistered at Pinley. He did
not start as the night breeze caught him on the back of the neck and he did not
turn as the man who entered brought some of the orange glare of the camp fires
within the blue canvas walls.

 The man stood for a long time, waiting
until Montfort crossed himself and rose stiffly to his feet. Still Peter did
not turn but eventually he said, ‘You are welcome, Thomas; twenty five years
are between us, so doubly welcome.’ He turned then, arm extended and came
forward.

 Thomas was dazzling in the lantern light;
scarlet and gold in contrast to Montfort's clear sky blue; splendid and
terrible. Peter was still the man who had taken Tom Beauchamp up before him on
Brigliadoro and shown him the Warwick woods and hills but Thomas could never
afford to reveal the child who had raced up to the East Gate in a snow storm
and poured out his hatred for Roger Mortimer. This was a man in his prime, his
emotions very much in check, his displeasure to be feared; master of his own
destiny. He said, ‘We cannot go on prowling like hungry tigers along our march;
there must be peace between our houses and I would seal it with our blood.’

 ‘Thomas!’

 ‘Oh, I express myself badly. You have a son
and I have a clutch of daughters. Would you take Meg for Guy? Not yet, she’s
far too young; Katherine would never allow it, but they could be hand fasted
and the marriage is as good as done. Well, what do you think of the idea?’

 ‘I like it,’ Peter said honestly. ‘It
pleases me greatly and Margaret may compensate for what you have taken from
me!’

 Warwick said, ‘Richard? I must confess I
had no fondness for what I did to Richard but I hear he is back with you and,
indeed, he seems to have turned out very well – for which we neither of us can
take credit. But John? Oh, John has squired me faithfully enough but was never
more than loaned to my service. I think he will not stray again.’

 Peter was standing awkwardly, the hand of
friendship still thrust forward, hovering in mid air. Thomas did not take it. Instead,
he knelt before his one-time mentor, head bowed. ‘Old friend, who knows what
the God of Battles has in store for us tomorrow but, live or die, I shall rest
easier with your blessing.’ And as Peter murmured, protesting, and raised him
by the powerful shoulders Thomas said, ‘Forgive me?’ And the flax flower eyes,
shielded by dark lashes, belonged to a boy from long ago after all. They
clasped hands at last.

 The fires were dampened in the English
camp and tomorrow would bring a bloody encounter to the fair fields of France. Afterwards, Englishmen would only remember the glory. But to Peter de Montfort,
standing in the soft summer darkness, an arm easily about the shoulder of
Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and Marshal of England, the battle had
already been won.

For those readers wondering: ‘
Whatever
happened to…?
’

Thomas Beauchamp, together with Peter de
Montfort, John and Richard survived the celebrated Battle of Crecy in which the
supremacy of the English longbow was, at last, acknowledged over the gallant
but ill-disciplined chivalry of France.

Thomas Beauchamp went on to fight in many skirmishes
for his friend and King, Edward III, including the renowned Battle of Poitiers,
before finally dying of plague within a year of his countess. Their effigies lie,
side by side and hand in hand, in the Choir of St. Mary’s Church in Warwick which Thomas had rebuilt to house his body. Thomas and Katherine were believed to
have had sixteen children. It is possible to read both of their Wills; it seems
that no member of their large family was left out of the bequests.

Majestic
Warwick Castle is there for all to visit and
Thomas’s great Caesar Tower looks as it must have done when he had completed
his building programme; it had been financed with the ransom of his
aristocratic French prisoners of war. What we might call ‘a nice little
earner’! Thomas was succeeded by his second son, Thomas. His eldest son had died
within his father’s lifetime.

Peter lived to a good age and was also
buried in Warwick, at the Church of the Friars Preachers. Sadly, he outlived
both his legitimate son, Guy, and his eldest son, John. Guy’s young and
childless widow, Margaret Beauchamp, Thomas’s daughter, retired to the Nunnery
at Shouldham in Norfolk where many of her sisters, cousins and aunts were
already installed.

John de Montfort became Lord of Coleshill
when Johanna’s father died. Johanna outlived him to marry twice more. She had
children by all three husbands.

Richard did, finally, marry Rose
Brandstone Durvassal. Both John and Richard have living descendents but neither
was able to inherit Beaudesert which, after Peter’s death, was split between
his sisters’ progeny.

Beaudesert, the ‘beautiful waste’, no
longer stands but there is a footpath which crosses the castle mound. It is
possible to pause and look out at the panoramic view of the countryside as Peter,
pacing his battlements back in the fourteenth century, must have done. Only a
short distance away lie the manors of Lapworth, Spernall, Edstone and
Umberslade and, although a farmhouse now stands where Lora Astley was housed in
her nunnery at Pinley, some of the nuns’ gravestones do exist, stored in a
barn. Lora was still living when Peter died. He left her a hundred shillings
along with ten pounds for the nuns of Pinley to pray for his soul; perhaps
hedging his bets – supporting his ‘old paramour’ whilst simultaneously atoning
for the sins of his youth.

Helen Burton