The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘Don't I get a bedtime story?’ Thomas paused to help himself to Lady Butler's comfits from a silver dish on the table. Peter tossed a feather cushion at his august person and the boy fled laughing for the stairs. But when the dust had settled again and only the crackle of the fire penetrated the silence, Peter sat back thoughtfully, chin on his hand, and knew how Judas felt in the hours before Gethsemane.

  ~o0o~

  When they set out to ride to Warwick next morning, the wind had died away. A pallid, liverish sun reduced the world to shades of sepia. The snow had disappeared but there was cat-ice in the rutted lanes, sheeting the puddles. The clouds evaporated as the morning wore on and the sky was clear, pale as water-forget-me-nots, as Peter and his impressive retinue crossed the Avon and rode up towards Thomas Beauchamp's crumbling gatehouse. Warwick was less than a ghost of the glories of a century ago, before Simon de Montfort's sons had sacked it, before Thomas Beauchamp's hated uncle, Hugh Despencer, had begun to systematically raze Black Guy's fortress to the ground, so that all its worth had been a few shillings for the herbage that grew in the grass-covered ditches. The old keep still sat precariously atop its mound; the battered gatehouse straddled the road from the river-bridge; a line of shabby penthouses abutted a length of curtain wall, tenaciously clinging to the river cliff. Peter, used to the sight, suddenly felt a pang of compassion for the slender boy, riding proudly beside him, whose battered patrimony this was. As if he could read his thoughts, Thomas turned and smiled ruefully at his mentor. ‘Damnosa hereditas,’ he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

  All about them were Roger Mortimer's retainers, liveried in canary yellow; above the gatehouse flew his Wolf's Head standard. They passed into the bailey and Mortimer's men closed in about them. Beauchamp urged his mount a little closer to Montfort's mare and then Roger Mortimer, Earl of Wigmore, strode out into the winter sunlight; bare-headed, splendid in sea-green velvet jupon and close fitting hose, hands beringed, a golden circlet about his brow. In spite of the richness of his attire, there was nothing of the effete about him. The muscles rippled beneath the firm flesh like that of a healthy leopard. Montfort dismounted and bowed, but not too low, the name of Montfort carried with it its own provenance.

  Mortimer said, ‘You are welcome, Peter de Montfort. I see you have the Black Hound's whelp. From whence did you flush him?’

  ‘He arrived last night. I guessed at the uproar his disappearance must have caused but he was saddle-sore and weary. I hadn't the heart to make him ride out again; thought him better tucked up in bed. He came to Beaudesert on a whim, nothing more; boys never think.’

  Beauchamp had jumped from his saddle; he turned furiously to his guardian. ‘That was not so, I knew what I was doing!’

  ‘Thomas….’ warned Montfort.

  Roger Mortimer seemed to tower over the boy as he said, ‘Inside; and you can go straight to your room!’

  Thomas Beauchamp drew himself up to his insignificant height and lifted his chin a shade too high. ‘I will be pleased to enter my own fortress, sir, when you are pleased to strike your standard from my walls!’ and he stood his ground.

  Montfort, who, after years of enmity, had finally been brought to friendship with this child's father, felt his heart turn within him at the flash of those blue eyes. Thomas had more than a half share of Black Guy's blood in his veins and what Montfort, who loved him, had seen, so had Mortimer who had had good reason to hate the boy's father. But the White Wolf put back his head and laughed out loud and the tension seemed to sigh away through the assembled retinues: the yellow and green of Mortimer, the blue and gold of the Montforts and Beauchamp's own scarlet livery, with the double badges of Bear and Ragged Staff. Then, with a deliberate violence, Mortimer brought up his right hand and cracked it across the boy's face. Loaded with the weight of his signet, the blow set the boy's nose bleeding and tore his mouth.

  Peter winced. Several of Beauchamp's household knights took a step forward, fingering their sword hilts. Thomas put up a hand and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his cote. Sir John Durvassal, whose family held the hereditary butlership of the Earls of Warwick, put a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder, ‘Come, My Lord, let's have that seen to.’ He turned him away but Beauchamp swung back to face the Lord of Beaudesert, secure with his own retinue at his back. Montfort said nothing, as he had known he would say nothing. Mortimer had possession of the boy, of his lands, of his person; he was also the most powerful man in the kingdom, with a deposed King behind him, prisoner at Kenilworth, and a boy king awaiting his coronation in London. He could have taken Beaudesert and raised her to the ground like a monkey swatting a flea. Peter had a son of his own, lives he could not put at risk for this boy's ruffled honour.

  ‘Traitor!’ the voice was a child's, hardly through breaking. Thomas spat, flecks of blood from his torn mouth spattering Peter's boots. Then he let Durvassal lead him towards the hall.

  Mortimer gave Montfort his hand. ‘You are welcome to dine with us, and my hearty thanks for returning the truant.’

  Peter felt the pressure of the heavy signet against his palm. ‘He’s only a child.’

  Mortimer shrugged. ‘Then he'll bend to my ways or I'll break him. I'm in no hurry, he'll end by eating out of my hand, as douce as a cage-bird.’ He turned on his heels and left Montfort to mount up again and ride home to Beaudesert, out of temper. Peter quarrelled with his sister, and Lady Butler packed her innumerable bags and rode home to Sudeley before the afternoon was out.

  Thomas sat on the edge of a trestle in the kitchen whilst his old nurse made him a wych-hazel pad to press against his swollen mouth, and even the meanest scullion felt he could come forward with a cure for a nose-bleed. The boy was arguing hotly with John Durvassal, cooks and pot-boys milling about them.

  ‘He never said a word in my defence, never even remonstrated when that devil struck me. What would that have cost? He was my father's friend. I thought he was my friend. I gave him my trust. I was a fool. Why, John?’

  John dodged round a laundress who was flourishing a large key. ‘Let me slip, this down your back, My Lord, it always works.’ She was young and pretty with a brimming bosom. She had her dreams of a better life. In a year or two the boy would be casting about for feminine company and she would be on hand. Durvassal waved her away.

  ‘There was nothing he could have done, the wardship is signed and sealed and witnessed and perhaps this will teach you to hold your tongue, My Lord. Now you'd best go to your room as you were bidden or there'll be another outburst.’

  Thomas shrugged, but jumped down from his perch and sauntered off, head high. Once in his room above the old hall, he jammed the pin in the door latch and sat down upon the tattered splendour of Black Guy's old campaigning bed, his head crowded with thoughts of Peter de Montfort's treachery and his own isolation. ‘One day there'll be a reckoning. You will suffer for these bruises, My Lord, I swear it. On oath I swear it!’

  ~o0o~

  It must have been after midnight as the bell for Matins had tolled out from the Church of the Friars Preachers. It was a dark night, for the clouds had bunched up again and, above the river, mist wraiths swathed the castle in bands of fine gauze and the gatehouse towers seemed to swim through space, disembodied, anchorless.

  Thomas Beauchamp was barefoot, clad only in shirt and hose. Silent as the stable cat he managed to unwind the rope from its cleat and watched the Mortimer standard slide from its masthead into a sagging heap at his feet. He stood for a moment, staring down at it, then, from his belt, he unsheathed a long misericord; its wicked blade flashed as the boy bent to set it at the bright silk. The watcher in the shadows dislodged himself and moved forward:

  ‘I thought if I waited long enough you would not disappoint me.’ Roger Mortimer had his bed-robe over his hose; blue and silver brocade, trimmed with sables. His soft leather riding boots had made no sound on the stones. He looked up at the flag-staff and down at the crouching figure. ‘I think you've made your point, now I sh
ould advise retreat. Put that knife away and no more will be said. But if you deface the standard of my house, if you persist in playing the spoilt, petulant child then you will suffer for it. You're not too old to go straight across my knee, so give it thought.’

  Beauchamp's blue eyes held a challenge, both defiant and uncertain. You wouldn't dare! Would you? His gaze was as eloquent as words, but he was in too deep for his pride to let him draw back and he nicked the silk with the point of his dagger, set strong white teeth to the hem and tore the cloth apart, straight and sure through its centre. Then Mortimer had the knife out of his hand and slithering away across the leads out of harm's way. He hauled the boy to his feet; one hand in an iron grip about his left wrist, a hold there was no breaking. For all his size and superior strength, Mortimer lacked the boy's faunlike agility as he hopped from one bare foot to the other, using them both to kick at his captor's unprotected shins. Beauchamp’s right hand was still free and he found the tiny knife he always carried next to his skin, hidden below the folds of his shirt. As Mortimer flung him over by the imprisoned wrist he made good use of the blade, searing the man's thigh, slitting the fine hose as if it had been tissue; furrowing through the skin beneath. Mortimer roared out a colourful oath but did not release his punishing grip on the slim wrist, fighting for possession of the lethal little knife until there was blood on both their hands and, grappling the boy from behind, he smashed Beauchamp's knuckles hard against the stone coping of the parapet so that, involuntarily, the fingers relaxed their jealous grip and the knife clattered to the ground where Mortimer kicked it swiftly into a gutter. The boy was still fighting hard to free himself, his feet slithering on the damp stonework, his breath sobbing, but he could never have supposed himself a match for this man and he was patently tiring.

  Mortimer was aware of the dark stain, wet against his thigh; it was not a deep gash but its soreness irked him.

  ‘Enough of this charade, let's make an end.’ With one swift movement he had the captured wrist twisted up behind the boy's back so that he gasped out loud and then he was running him for the stairs which wound down from the leads to the guardroom where four members of the garrison sat about a glowing brazier, sharing a plate of pork scratchings.

  ‘Out!’ bellowed Mortimer and they scattered for the lower stairs. Beauchamp, freed at last, rubbed at his bruised wrist and glanced about him, defiance spent, afraid for the first time. The Earl carried a stout riding switch, tucked into the leg of his right boot. Thomas took his eyes away from it as if his gaze might bring remembrance to its owner. Beside the brazier lay a tangled heap of tackle; straps with buckle ends and a wickedly studded belt. He swallowed hard. Since his mother had ended her widowed state and left with his small brothers for a third marriage to William de la Zouche, no-one remained who would have dared lift a finger to Black Guy's offspring. He had run wild as a gypsy, though many heads had shaken over his exploits and many an eyebrow was raised. The qualms of old retainers and household knights did not apparently trouble the White Wolf. Here was a man who had taken a Queen in adultery, who had executed a King's favourite and proffered the pen with which the same King had signed his own abdication, handing England over to the man who held his young son, a boy little older than Thomas Beauchamp. He did not use the switch or cast a glance at the piled harness by the brazier, he used the flat of one powerful hand with considerable enthusiasm before hauling his ward upright and standing him squarely in front of him.

  The boy's face, flushed scarlet with the indignity, flamed hotter than his smarting rear. He had been served like a six-year-old with tantrums and he knew it.

  ‘Don't,’ said Mortimer, ‘dare to cry now. You didn't cry this morning and that must've hurt.’ He put a finger to the bruised mouth. You can thank your stars that we leave here in a few hours and I need you fit to ride.’

  ‘Ride? Ride where?’ Beauchamp had flinched back from his touch.

  ‘London; Westminster where a King awaits us. I've no intention of letting you out of my sight. You might find it a compliment but I don't trust you one inch.’

  ‘I will not go!’ said Beauchamp, jerking his head up.

  Mortimer smiled. ‘Right on cue. How predictable you are, my child. But I have a solution which should leave both of us with honour intact. You ride beside me, feet lashed to the stirrups and a leading rein attached to my saddle bow. That way you can make your protest known quite openly through each village and town we navigate. Alternatively, of course, you might like to ride at my side in your best jupon and mantle, with that arrogant Beauchamp nose stuck in the air and that haughty, if bruised, Beauchamp chin jutting out.’

  ‘You mock me, My Lord. Have you forgotten that I'm hand-fasted to your daughter, to Katherine?’

  ‘Why should I forget it? It alters nothing.’

  Beauchamp was drawing invisible patterns on the stone flags with a bare toe. ‘Men say she is a spoilt moppet, but they also say that of seven daughters she is the apple of her father's eye.’

  ‘A man should not have favourites,’ said Mortimer.

  ‘No, My Lord? Then consider. When Katherine comes to me, however many years lie between, I shall remember and I shall know how to use her. And for every humiliation and hurt I have of you I swear I shall visit my vengeance upon her a hundred fold!’ They were the words of a passionate child, nearing the end of his tether but Mortimer said:

  ‘By Christ, you mean it, don't you, you vicious little brat, you'd store up your hates. Do you think I cannot protect my own? Listen to me, Thomas, and look me in the eyes, you wretch; you don't usually find it a problem. Your father and I nursed a fine enmity for each other for reasons which will have to await another night's telling. When he died, perhaps I even grieved for a worthy enemy's loss, though I can't expect you to understand that at your age, but I do not visit vengeance upon any man's children. If you suffer it will be for your own sins, your own crass stupidity. Does that seem in any way fair and reasonable?’

  Thomas said, spitting fire, ‘I don't want you to be fair and reasonable, it makes it so much harder...’ his voice trailed off.

  ‘My poor child, I'm proving a sad disappointment. No lightless dungeons, no bread and water diet, no merciless floggings - though those I will provide if you flaunt my authority again. I'm tired of you, boy, get to bed and nurse your hurts. At once, Thomas!’

  Roger Mortimer, when all was said and done, had four sons of his own, not to mention the seven little girls. He finished putting into action his plans for the ride south and slipped out of the draughty hall and up to the bedchambers above, pushing open the massive, studded door of Black Guy's chamber. It took him a while to accustom himself to the blackness; the starlight hardly penetrated the broken shutters. The late Earl's bed was in complete darkness, its bulk taking up half the room. In one corner, menacing the shadows, stood Guy de Beauchamp's war armour, draped about a wooden stand; chain mail shirt, gauntlets and greaves, scarlet tabard rounded with his sword-belt, his shield, the sightless visor of his great war helm. Sentinel, he stood as ghostly warden over the son who could hardly have remembered him. A gust of wind rattled the shutters; the dust eddies pattered across the floor, a mouse scuttled under the bed. Even in sunlight, this room was depressing beyond belief, its tapestries faded and threadbare, its bed-hangings havens for the moth and the spider; a shrine to a man long dead, no place for his wild young offspring.

  Mortimer approached the bed; he could feel the cold striking up through the floor. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and, a hand on the covers, could recognise the thin worn blanket which covered the heir to one of England's richest earldoms. He let a hand flutter over the dark head, smoothing the tangled hair away from the boy's damp face:

  ‘I'm sorry, Thomas, we've a long, hard road together, you and I. Save all that useless passion to fuel your hatred, do you hear me?’ But Beauchamp had turned his face into the shelter of his bare arms. Mortimer ruffled the dark hair in a gesture of comfort and let his hand slide down to rest
for a moment on the nape of the boy’s neck. Before leaving he took off his own fur-lined robe and spread it over the slight, hunched figure. When the latch dropped behind him, the Black Dog's son flung the peace-offering onto the floor and, shivering, naked under his own thin blanket, cried all the harder.

  Chapter Two

  June - 1329

  To those not bent on enquiring too closely, they were a couple of lads out for an evening's pleasures, bent on fun, on mischief perhaps, wandering the narrow streets of Amiens, exclaiming at everything. Amiens was a town en fete, set to welcome the visitors from England, the fine lords accompanying the boy king who came to do his homage to Philip of France as was only right and proper.

  The shops and booths were shutting down as dusk approached but there was still the flotsam and jetsam which clung to every gathering, were it market or fair, tournament or coronation: the jugglers, the funambulist, the bear-leader, the man with the singing dogs, the talking parrot and the chattering ape on a golden chain. There was the seller of hot meat pies and the woman with a basketful of ginger cakes, the singer of songs and the gypsy dancing troupe and, as always, the girls with the unbound hair, the necklines which revealed too much and the lifted skirts that promised so much more.

  Every corner brought forth something new to watch, some sight to provoke laughter or to cause them to clutch each other by the arm. It was a clear June evening and the sun went down leaving opalescent skies and a single star at the zenith. The two boys wore light cloaks of dun coloured frieze, which covered plain tunics and dark hose, the older and taller was hooded. Once, ducking inside a striped pavilion where a fortune-teller from the Indies promised him long life, good health and great happiness, the hood fell back revealing his English fairness amongst these darker French; shining gilt hair somewhere between copper and blond, Plantagenet red-gold. He pulled the hood about him again and his bright eyes, blue as lapis, caught those of his companion. The other boy was perhaps a year younger, shorter, slighter yet, with a head of dark hair and dark brows which shadowed eyes equally blue, clear as flax flowers.