The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  John, wiping butter from his freshly pressed livery, glanced at the Constable. ‘You would know that my father is about to take a wife?’

  Mikelton nodded. ‘Aye, I had heard. The sight of a pretty young woman about the Wards will probably do us all good.’

  ‘It seems I’m no longer wanted,’ said John, sneaking a sidelong look at the old man and playing for sympathy.

  ‘Gracious, lad, why do you think your father went haring off to the Welsh Marches the minute you left us? He couldn’t stomach the silence. He was a lonely man without you.’

  John took time to assimilate this, hugging his arms about him as though he took some comfort from the words.

  Mikelton was talking, almost to himself. ‘The food goes much further, of course, and we don’t have to mind out for all your dreadful practical jokes. And old Jobus is likely to run to fat now there’s no more trekking down to Turkill’s Copse for a bundle of stout hazel twigs. I daresay when you’re home for a holiday your behaviour will be so impeccable there’ll be no need for them.’

  John laughed at that, violet eyes merry. ‘Pigs might fly, Geoffrey. I don’t intend to change my ways for any man, least of all his high and mightiness the Earl of Lancaster!’

  But after they mounted up again he was docile enough until the red towers of Kenilworth hove into view. Then he made a last and desperate attempt to outride his gaolers. Geoffrey reined in his own mount and sent the two younger, more agile members of the escort off after him.

  ‘That was particularly stupid,’ said the Constable severely as they rode him back between them, flushed and glowering.

  ‘I had to try.’

  ‘Dismount. Come on!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t argue. Just do as you’re told!’

  John stared him out for a while before jumping lightly from the saddle and backing up against his mount, one hand feeling for the velvet muzzle of his patient grey pony.

  Mikelton said, ‘Jack, Robert, I’ll have him up in front of me. That way I’ll know exactly where he is. Would you?’

  ‘You can’t!’ mouthed John. ‘I won’t be treated like a baby. You know I can’t ride in like that. It’s just too humiliating!’ He waved vaguely towards the red towers. But Mikelton ignored him, clicked his fingers and watched as the two men took the boy by the arms, urging him forward. He spat and scratched but he was too slight to do them any real harm and neither of them was of a mind to manhandle him more than was necessary.

  Geoffrey had one hand for his reins and the other clamped tightly across the boy’s chest. He said into the nearest ear, ‘Did it ever occur to you that you are your own worst enemy? You could be riding bravely up the ramp upon Hector, as befits your father’s son.’

  ‘His bastard son,’ said John through his teeth. ‘I just don’t care any more.’

  ‘Oh, you do care.’ They were riding towards the main gate now. The Ward beyond was full of horsemen and baggage wagons, squires, pages and ostlers, all milling about.

  Dismounted, John spat anger and defiance and something a good deal more tangible at the brocaded robes of the fair-haired nobleman springing out of the saddle at the nearest block. Henry of Derby looked down with annoyance at his soiled velvet and into the face of the small figure in blue and white, his own father’s colours, auburn hair plastered to his neck, violet eyes defiant. He saw the mutinous set of the lips and the red mark on the small stubborn chin where someone had just caught him a buffet to silence his tantrums. Harry called for fresh robes to be brought to his closet and the boy too.

  Mikelton, tossing his reins to Robert, jumped out of the saddle. He took John’s shoulders between his gauntleted hands and shook him lightly. ‘I can’t help you now, Johnny.’ He turned him about and, pointing him in the direction of Harry of Derby’s fast retreating figure, gave him a little shove. Then he mounted up, barked quite unnecessarily at his men and followed the meandering highway back to Beaudesert, his face a cloth-yard long.

  What passed between Derby and Peter de Montfort’s sullen offspring was never disclosed. It could be said with certainty that Henry never raised his voice, and the valet approaching with a fresh cote - blue-grey and lavishly edged with grise - had to spread the garment over a table and wait whilst his master prised small, grubby fingers from the ermine at his throat and raised the tear-stained face from the hollow of his neck. Harry slipped out of his tunic and held his arms wide to receive the fur-edged robe.

  ‘Take him away. See he’s fed and have him put to bed. We’ve both had a long day.’

  Montfort transferred from Lancaster’s household to that of his son as soon as the opportunity presented itself and Derby had five year’s of his allegiance, in as much as John de Montfort was able to give it. It would hardly have been possible, at Beaudesert, to find anyone to dispute that his first loyalty had always been to himself but he was a decorative child to have about hall and solar and he learned fast, becoming one of Derby’s Body Squires by the age of fourteen.

  Harry of Derby was thirty-seven years old when Edward Plantagenet gave him command of that last expedition. Tall and unquestionably handsome, he was an energetic captain of men and a competent administrator. His was a frenetic life-style but, though constantly on the move, he still found time for more leisurely pursuits and Montfort, finding himself drawn more closely into the intimate circle about the Earl during the campaign in Europe, became the recipient of many confidences over the ride out from London to the sea. After his first love - fox-hunting - Henry enjoyed a robust pursuit of the fair sex.

  ‘There is nothing finer than the scent of the gentlewoman,’ he expounded as they cantered through the Surrey woods. ‘Lavender, perfuming silks and linens and new-washed tresses… but the gentlewoman, sadly, is for marriage; one should consider nothing else. Perhaps the widow or the matron for the last grand passion late in life but when it comes to dalliance one should espouse the lower orders - figuratively, that is. Is this sinking into your addle-pate, Johnny?’

  Montfort grinned at him. ‘I thought you were soliloquizing, sir, not offering a homily.’

  ‘Did you, boy? I was trying to suggest, with some subtlety, that you took your eyes from a certain curvy little blonde heiress. Maidens are not for dalliance, they have formidable mothers in tow, fathers on call and brothers with ready swords. Maids are for the pleasure of instructing via the marriage bed, not for begetting instruction. You’d fare better with a laundress; something clean and capable and kind.’

  Montfort shot him a demure look from beneath dark lashes. ‘You mean I could do worse than one of your hand-me-downs, My Lord?’

  Derby looked at him sharply from out of the corner of one grey eye. ‘When we finally dismount, benighted in some no doubt stinking hostelry, if I’m not too stiff and bone-weary remind me to thrash you - hard!’

  John ignored him. ‘I’ve never been to sea, never seen the sea.’

  ‘Don’t side-track me. Where was I?’

  ‘Sorting out my love-life, if it pleases you, My Lord.’

  ‘It doesn’t please me at all but I can see you landing yourself in some unholy mess like….’ he paused, seeking the right words.

  ‘My father? A few more bastards ripe for taunting, well, why not?’

  ‘You seem quite capable of looking after yourself these days. You’re supposed to be amusing otherwise you’d be riding further back with the baggage. What’s the matter?’

  Montfort was not looking at him; his sights were set firmly between his horse’s ears. ‘My father has another son, a boy, he’s to be Peter, a family name this time; Guy was named for the old Earl of Warwick’.

  ‘Then I’m delighted, I must send my felicitations. But that really does put that elegant Montfort nose of yours further out of joint. How old is Guy now, about three, I suppose? It was bound to happen. Sentiment not withstanding, a man needs heirs, you know that.’

  ‘It’s not the child. Besides, they don’t expect it to survive, it’s sickly. My step-mother is
dead. Just nineteen - she wanted that baby so; life’s never fair.’

  Derby said quietly, ‘I met her once. Your father brought her to Kenilworth. I thought her rather a plain little thing, but I suppose you were in love with her. The romance of that kind of incestuous arrangement would appeal to you.’

  Montfort said coldly, ‘I think I would rather ride with the baggage wagons. Have I your permission to retire - Sir?’

  ‘If you wish. I’m sorry, John, that was offensive.’

  ‘No, you’re right, of course, about the way I felt. So you see, Guy is safe, as long as I live. I owe her that.’

  ‘Ah, first love, something true and honest and unsullied?’ said Harry softly. He leant forward and touched his young esquire briefly on the knee. ‘Come on; let’s get the good country air in our nostrils. At the gallop, boy and cry havoc in the ranks!’ He cast a look at the straggling cavalcade behind them before setting spurs to his grey …

  ~o0o~

  Montfort was jolted from his reverie as they took the road to the East Gate, approaching Beaudesert from the crown of the ridgeway. The air was clean, the fields new-washed with early morning rain and the sounds of life were vibrant; voices drifting up from the wards, the resonant sound of hammer on anvil. Beaudesert lay before them, grey stones warmed to cream-gold, flowering from its oval green motte. Tiny figures swarmed about tower and bailey, a dog yapped dementedly, tearing backward and forward alongside the fosse.

  Of course, Peter de Montfort was not at home, he was on the March again, towards Montgomery, he was not expected for another seven days. Lady Maud, his grandmother, had taken one of her frequent turns for the worse and her granddaughter, the Lady Elizabeth Freville was in charge of sick-room arrangements - officially. Unofficially she had usurped her brother’s authority in toto. Bess Freville found the responsibilities of a chatelaine no hardship. She was a vigorous woman just approaching her fiftieth birthday and, as Peter’s younger sister, had grown up at Beaudesert to leave it on her marriage to one of the Tamworth Frevilles. Newly widowed, she found it irksome to sit at home whilst her son ruled the roost and expected her to play the dowager. So Bess began upon her travels; a few weeks with her sister’s family in Sudeley, a fortnight with her Montague cousins and on to Beaudesert to be with her tyrannical grandparent. She would usually arrive unheralded to take over the spring-cleaning or set down stocks for the Christmas feast. Now that poor Margaret (God rest her soul) was gone, she was convinced that her presence was indispensable.

  She swept forward, sombre in russet mourning, ushered Derby’s envoy up into the solar and left her nephew kicking his heels in the great hall. At her approach there was a sudden flurry of activity; boards were scrubbed with renewed vigour, rushes raked out diligently and a huddle of gossips gathered up armfuls of freshly-laundered bed covers and tripped towards the staircase up to the linen room. John de Montfort stood over the fire, tracing patterns in the ashes with a booted toe.

  Eventually, his aunt abandoned her unwanted guests and bore down upon her nephew like a cog in full sail. In her right hand she clutched a parchment; Derby’s seal gleamed blood-red in the firelight.

  ‘Upstairs, at once! Walls have ears. We’ll go to my chamber.’ She whisked away from him, skirts swishing as her hems brushed the rushes. John followed her reluctantly. When they were both within the comfortable tower apartment, its well-stacked fire crackling in the hearth, and the cressets lit, Bess closed the door and seated herself in her carved armchair; the letter was lying in her lap.

  ‘Now, what is in this missive? You know, of course.’

  ‘It appears to be addressed to my father,’ said John dully.

  ‘So, we have a choice. Either I open it, in loco parentis, as it were, or you tell me what has been going on.’

  ‘No,’ said John, ‘you cannot open it and I will tell you nothing, aunt, other than that Harry Derby has dismissed me his service. It is his right and he had good cause.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Bess, ‘do I hear a mite of contrition creeping in there? Well, if you won’t tell me what I need to know, I will have to risk your father’s ire. I can’t keep Milord of Derby’s men kicking their heels in the solar for much longer. I need to make a reply and they will want to be home before dark.’ She took up the parchment and slit the seal.

  ‘Please, don’t,’ said John. Bess was watching him. She did not know what to make of the look on his face. She thought she had seen him in all his moods. She did not immediately open the scroll.

  ‘Come here,’ she took his hands in her own. They were slender brown hands, horseman’s hands, swordsman’s hands but a boy’s still. ‘Is it so very terrible, my dear?’

  He nodded, lost for coherent words.

  Bess said, ‘I can’t force you to talk to me so I shall have to read Derby’s account. Then we shall see what can be done.’ John snatched his hands away from her and went over to the window, elbows resting on the icy stonework of the sill, chin on his clenched knuckles. His aunt gave him a quick glance and frowned then. Slowly, she drew out Harry of Derby’s letter, penned, she guessed, in the Earl’s own hand. It took her a long while to read it and re-read it. To her nephew it seemed the passing of a lifetime.

  ‘I – see.’ Bess Freville let the parchment roll back upon itself. ‘Now, I want you to come here and read it for yourself and tell me if it is a true account of what happened.’

  John did not move, he only said, ‘Derby does not lie. I don’t need to read it.’

  ‘I can’t talk to your back. Have the courage to turn round and face me.’ She watched as he left his sanctuary at the window and moved towards her like a sleepwalker. There were dark hollows etched beneath the bruised violet eyes. She handed him the letter.

  ‘I can’t read it!’

  Bess said, ‘I just want you to take it and burn it. Now. At once. We have a good fire.’

  ‘But father…. It’s addressed to my father.’ It seemed he had some sense of justice in him.

  Bess smiled at him sadly. ‘And do you want to hurt him that much? Burn it, John and then between us we will compound to find another reason for your dismissal. Boys being boys that should not be difficult.’

  He needed no second asking then. He strode to the hearth and thrust the letter deep into the licking flames, watching it char and shrink away to nothing. Leaning against the fireplace he said, ‘I had everything, everything I wanted and I threw it away. And for what?’ He pumped a fist against the stonework.

  ‘You’re sixteen, Johnny. It’s not an age known for its wisdom. Come and sit down here.’ She patted the arm of her chair and drew him towards her.

  ‘Please don’t be kind, Aunt Bess. I expected I’d get a sound thrashing at the very least.’

  Bess said grimly, ‘I thought about it. I am greatly tempted, but you’re hopeless at pain. I can’t promise your father won’t flay the skin off you in strips if he learns what you were up to. Then I, of course, will be packed off home to Tamworth for aiding and abetting; quite right too. Heavens, child, are you crying? Are they Astley tears or Montfort tears?’ It was a family joke from his baby days when he had turned on tears at will as his pretty mother used to do. ‘Ah, Montfort tears. Well, that is serious.’ She patted his knee. ‘Now, I must go to see to your escort. Then, perhaps we’ll talk.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘No, I need you with your sins fresh upon you. Up now, and look at me.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and slid off the arm of her chair, standing obediently, staring down at her. He was growing tall; he would over-top his father in a year or so. His dark auburn hair came from the same stable as her own; a legacy from Lady Maud. He was slim as a reed still with that translucency of skin which accompanies red hair. Below the smudged violet eyes a column of freckles marched across the bridge of his nose. The mouth was all his own, a boy’s mouth, no borrowing from Lora Astley there, but shaped for arrogance, insolence, petulance or, when he smiled, simply for turning the heart over. Bes
s thought grimly that such a smile might weaken the knees of middle-aged aunts but notched up a little it could be a more dangerous asset. He was too young and vulnerable still to use such power wisely.

  She said sternly, ‘What has or will pass between us today must stay with us. I’ll have you swear to it, child, on all you hold sacred!’

  Relieved, John said, ‘I do swear it, but that’s a light enough oath on present showing.’ He was laughing at her now and the shadows were starting to lift. Bess began to realize that the time for truth had gone with his tears. She would get nothing out of him now; nothing worth believing.

  ‘Oh, go up to bed, Johnny. I’ll have a tray sent up. You look half starved.’

  ‘And you’ll come and tuck me in – like you used?’ He was playing with her now, flirting shamelessly.

  She rose from her chair. ‘Out!’ she said. ‘If I do come up you’ll get a good slippering – like you used!’ She watched him saunter out and wondered what in heaven Peter would do with him now. Then she went down to the solar and thought of something suitable to say to Derby’s men.

  Their Captain bowed low over her hand. ‘I was sorry,’ he said, ‘to bring him home in disgrace. He’s generally well-liked. My Lord isn’t a man to hold a grudge. No doubt the lad will be re-instated soon enough.’

  Bess smiled and didn’t say she thought it most unlikely. She saw them out into the Wards and watched them ride away.

  Chapter Seven

  March - 1341

  Peter de Montfort's tiny namesake had only survived his girl-mother by a few weeks. Peter's grandmother, Madam Maud, clung tenaciously onto life for three years more and finally left the world on Lady Day when, in spite of the rain, there was a sniff of spring in the air and a blur of daffodils in many a sheltered hollow among the Alne Hills.