by Helen Burton
‘You're alright, Dick?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Right as a trivet. I wriggled my way out of it. ‘
‘How?’
‘Charm, boy, pure and simple,’ said Richard with a laugh.
Chapter Nine
May - 1341
Corpus Christi dawned idyllically and London was en fete. From the early hours Master Scarlet's yard had been rendered a seething hive of industry. Journeymen, apprentices and, indeed, master craftsmen from all over the Fletchers' Quarter came to offer assistance in conveying props and costumes onto the cart which would not only carry the acting minority of the Company of Bowyers and Fletchers to their audience, but which would, in addition, serve as their stage.
Wat, Harry and Richard, with young Stephen Bosco, set off in holiday mood for Clerkenwell and put up their stage. They were soon joined by Raymond and Master Gessel who was to play the lead part of the Emperor Diocletian. Gessel was an elderly fletcher who had taken part in the Mysteries every year since he was an apprentice. Raymond found time, whilst shifting scenery, to spare a thought for Arthur Chigwell and the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers.
‘Where're they putting on Jonah?’ he queried.
‘Beloved Billingsgate, down by the wharves,’ said Harry, hanging the curtains which would cover the sides of their cart so that they could use the space underneath as a props store and exceedingly cramped dressing-room. Richard paused with hammer and nail. ‘We've one advantage over Arthur. If it’s going to be as warm a day as it promises who'd choose to sit on Thames Side when they could be breathing the air of Clerkenwell?’
‘Where shall I put this?’ Stephen Bosco was struggling gamely with a large board on which was spelt out in an erratic hand the words The Tragick History of St. Sebastian.
‘Oh, where you're standing will do.’
Harry strolled over to Wat Stringer, Scarlet's younger journeyman who had appeared in his guise as Captain of the Emperor's Bodyguard. He helped him bind up his wrist with a leather thong. Richard, whose costume was simpler than most, was running from old Master Gessel, struggling into his improvised toga and laurel wreath, to Raymond who, gowned in his girl friend's smock, hair pushed under a veil, made a very pretty heroine, or the nearest that the old tale came to providing. Soon, the cast vacated the square for the enclosed space beneath the cart as the spectators were arriving with cushions and stools, jostling for the best places to sit.
‘Anyone nervous?’ asked Wat hopefully and only Stephen, whose part as the Emperor's slave required him to do no more than wave a peacock fan, answered in the affirmative. Wat punched Richard on the shoulder. ‘Then you've a deal of faith in my aim.’
‘Coming to the fair afterwards?’ Raymond asked. ‘I'm taking Pernel and I'll be only too happy to return her smock!’
‘I'm sure she's an eyeful without it,’ grinned Richard. ‘I shall bring Ysabeau.’ Several pairs of eyes turned his way.
‘That is what I call a conquest,’ Harry murmured from amidst his lines. Stephen Bosco had his head through the curtains.
‘I think we could start. Master Scarlet's just arrived. Go on, Harry, start the Prologue.’
The Prologue, however, was lengthy and wordy but Harry stumbled manfully through it and retired to make way for the Emperor Diocletian and his court and the 'Saint' himself - Richard's part. After some more verbose repartee, spoken more enthusiastically than either of the rather dreary parts merited, there was a short interval whilst the audience munched loudly and the players changed the scenery.
Into a woody glade beyond the walls of Rome marched the Emperor's bodyguard, dragging the would-be-martyr to his doom. Richard was bound to a reasonably life-like tree trunk where, eyes gazing heavenwards from beneath a halo of blond hair, he managed to convey violated innocence.
Master Scarlet chuckled. ‘How do they pepper him full of arrows?’ he demanded.
‘Wait and see,’ murmured his wife. ‘Richard looks as if butter wouldn't melt.’
‘Huh, he's not a bad actor.’ Master Scarlet noted that the square was now tightly packed. Someone had just arrived on horseback and was grudgingly made way for. The death sentence was read and Diocletian's archer appeared, walking through the crowd. This was a novelty and caused a ripple of speculation. Instead of mounting the steps up onto the stage, Wat installed himself on a small platform, yards away from the cart. He was very pale as he selected his first arrow, sweat breaking out on his brow. Then, one by one, he knocked arrow to bow and sent the shafts thudding into the tree about the saint.
Mistress Scarlet refused to look after the first missile had homed into the wood beside Richard's head.
‘That's a fool trick!’ growled her husband.
They had experimented using a padded gambeson and a toy bow at close range but the operation was still fraught with danger and St. Sebastian, besides, was always portrayed as a half-naked youth, so eventually the cast had decided that Wat's idea was the better one, if hardly less hazardous. They had practised the stunt many times out on the Moor beyond Cripplegate. Richard had learned to stand without flinching, spread-eagled against giant oaks or towering elms.
Wat lost his nervousness after four shots, the fifth arrow sped away and he knocked the sixth to the bow. Two late-comers had arrived, seeking a place near the front - a sandy haired youth with his arm tight about a pretty girl - the same Ysabeau who was to have accompanied Richard to the fair. The arrow was already singing away from the bow when Latimer caught sight of the couple, moved an arm in an involuntary gesture of anger and surprise and found himself pinned to the tree. The crowd pressed forward, all exclaiming at once. Somewhere in the boy's brain the old adage 'the show must go on' kept pushing itself round and round.
Raymond, with great presence of mind, rushed on a little early in his guise as Dame Irene to unbind the prisoner and succour his wounds.
‘Shall we close the curtains?’ he hissed pulling away the ropes.
‘No, we've got to finish. Just leave that arrow in me, that's all. This isn't the Sword in the Stone!’
Wat hurried to the stage, ignoring the shouting crowd.
‘It wasn't your fault, Wat,’ quavered old Master Gessel kindly.
‘It can't be fatal, they're carrying on,’ Harry whispered cheerfully. ‘Why, man, you're white as a ghost - sit down.’
‘Damn him!’ Wat swore. ‘I could have killed him!’
‘You should have thought of that before you took this part on!’ retorted Master Scarlet. ‘You've come very near to losing your employment, Stringer!’
‘Come now, Master Fletcher, your man's archery was faultless. He's hardly to blame if the lad has a penchant for suicide.’
The Mystery Players turned with one accord to gaze at the glittering personage on the black horse. Thomas Beauchamp, in branched velvet the colour of ripe mulberries, was even more resplendent than he had appeared on the night of the 'prentice riots.
‘My Lord!’ Simon Scarlet's mouth was agape.
‘I am offering assistance, Master Fletcher, if your apprentice cares to accept it. My physician is at his disposal, he's had more experience with such flesh wounds than most of the London quacks.’
‘Latimer would be honoured to accept your offer,’ Scarlet said. ‘Ah, the curtains are closing.’
‘There's a pool of blood on the stage,’ announced Stephen Bosco. Raymond was helping his friend down. They were obviously still arguing heatedly about the wisdom of pulling out the protruding arrow.
‘By All the Saints, Raymond, it’s my arm. If you tug on the blasted thing I shall either be violently sick or pass out at your feet. In fact, I think I'm going to be sick anyway!’
~o0o~
It was a strange little procession which arrived at Warwick's lofty town house at noon that day; the Earl on Black Saladin, all mulberry and silver fur, his liveried men-at-arms in scarlet and the Master Fletcher panting to keep pace, eager to be on hand if the Earl exercised
any other whim, more lucrative perhaps than the loan of his physician. Wat strode behind him with Richard, the arrow still protruding from the boy's upper arm, blood spattering the cobbles. As it was impossible to put shirt or cote over his stage costume he had found himself bundled into Diocletian's imperial purple mantle, bordered with a Greek Key design. He was feeling rather light-headed by now and Wat, having him firmly by the elbow, was delivering a long lecture as they walked.
Raymond, Harry and the remainder of the cast of the Tragick History found themselves surrounded by an excited crowd.
‘Lord Warwick must've been impressed by your play,’ said an envious chandler's apprentice.
‘What goodness the great earl displays,’ commented Mistress Gessel.
Everyone was not as charitable. ‘I wonder what he wants with young Latimer.’
‘I can't imagine, I'm sure,’ said another. ‘Could have taken a fancy to the lad but who'd have believed mighty Warwick was that sort!’
Raymond and Harry exchanged glances. ‘So, Dick, you can't guard your own honour today, we'll just have to defend it for you!’ Raymond's voice rose to a surprising pitch. ‘Bowyers, Fletchers - Clubs!’ The square was soon a seething mass of threshing bodies and yelling, screaming holidaymakers.
~o0o~
The unwitting excuse for another display of force by the Bishopsgate fletchers was at this moment being received by the Earl's physician, Aristides, an elderly Greek with a forked beard and darting black eyes, who had been in the service of Beauchamp's father, transferring his allegiance to the son at Black Guy's death. He waved Latimer to a chair and tutted at the arm. Wat had been dismissed and Richard, who had the typical apprentices' mistrust of the medical profession, was left to face the Greek and his assistant, a huge, powerfully-built young man with arms like tree trunks. On the walls there were rows of saws and knives of varying sizes. The arm began to throb unmercifully.
‘Soon have that arrow removed,’ said the Greek briskly. He turned to his assistant and snapped his fingers. The giant lumbered across the room and swung a clenched fist under their surprised patient's chin, neatly laying him out...
~o0o~
Latimer came to, to find himself in a tiny room, lying on a straw pallet and draped in his emperor's cloak. His first thought was for his arm and he hardly dared to fling back the purple and gold cloth for fear that the Greek and his sadistic assistant had lopped it off. He heaved an audible sigh of relief to see the swathed bandages and flexed his left hand experimentally. Having no desire to move, he lay staring at the plastered ceiling, considering the day's events and wondering at the Earl's reasons for rushing to offer aid - especially after the 'prentice riot at Billingsgate where, he could be sure that, if he and Arthur had left lasting impressions, they were not good ones.
Richard's prejudices did not stop at physicians; he had the mistrust of the middle-classes for the nobility. Men of Beauchamp's rank did not bestow kindnesses on the lower estates without some hope of a return. But he could not remain inactive for much longer; he had to find Wat and Master Scarlet. Had they been sent home or were they pacing up and down in the servants' quarters, which assuredly was where they would have been installed?
He sat up and swung his legs to the floor, draped himself in his cloak and tried the door. There was a curtain across it and, pushing this aside with his good arm, he found himself in what was obviously the solar of the Earl's mansion. It was too late to turn back now. Thomas de Beauchamp was standing alone in the window embrasure, dictating a letter to his amanuensis, just perceivable on the far side of the room, quill scratching away in the shadows. The Earl turned as the door opened.
‘Ah, Sebastian, come in. We wondered when you would awaken.’
Richard knelt upon one knee, head bowed, not knowing whether he should kiss one of the jewelled hands protruding from the fur-lined sleeves of the Earl's cote. ‘I beg your pardon for intruding, My Lord. I only wished to offer my humble thanks for...’
Beauchamp cut him short and jerked the boy's head up by a swatch of the blond hair. ‘I've not observed you humble yet and I should imagine I'd wait a long while for a miracle. Stay your thanks until we have seen if Aristides has saved your arm. It was madness to have carried on to the end as you did, sheer self-indulgence!’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘And get up off the floor. You may be sure that I do not involve myself with every spitted commoner who crosses my path - only when it promises good returns.’
‘What returns?’ snapped Richard ungraciously.
Warwick saw the dark eyes narrow, the head flung backwards; he roared with laughter. ‘I'm looking for players to expand my own company. It performs for the family and my guests, the standard is rather high.’
Richard was taken aback. ‘I'm very sensible of the honour you do me, My Lord, but I'm afraid I couldn't possibly accept. I'm indentured to Mater Scarlet for two years yet and hope to become Journeyman Fletcher in time, even a Master. There are many openings for a fletcher these days. I might join with the King's army and travel abroad. I could move from household to household up and down the country. It is a secure position, Journeyman Fletcher.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember, you see a great future for the bow and security must be everything for a young man of what, fifteen - sixteen?’ The voice was loaded with sarcasm. ‘Then we have no more to say to one another, boy. Someone will show you out.’ And Richard had bowed and was gone. He wondered afterwards why it had taken him such a short time to refuse the Earl's offer. Harry thought him quite out of his mind.
Chapter Ten
June - 1341
Katherine Beauchamp sat in the embrasure of the solar window, high above the Avon, three of her ladies upon cushions at her feet. Each was stitching diligently at a different corner of an altar cloth; they made a charming tableau. The countess wore a crimson gown of figured silk, the thick chestnut hair was braided and coiled about her ears and imprisoned in a silver net; her plump, ripe beauty contrasted well with tall, pale, mouse-fair Elizabeth, Lady Lucy in sky blue taffeta and pert, snub-nosed Lady Shirley in orange-tawny and, of course, there was Lady Aylesbury, dark hair hidden beneath barbette and wimple, throat creamy white above the indigo velvet sweep of her surcote, the kirtle beneath showing cloth of silver, the long beautiful hands fine with sapphires which flashed angrily as she stitched.
Nicholas Durvassal rose from a bench on the far side of the room, laid aside his lute, with which he had been entertaining the ladies, and, with a supple elegance, crossed over to the window and bowed gracefully. The summer sun on his fair hair turned blond to silver.
‘My lady, I have business to attend to. Will you excuse my presence? I will be back before dusk.’
‘So bored with our company, Nicholas?’ mocked Katherine lightly. ‘Well, do run along and amuse yourself, we shall be quite happy to see you go, shan't we, ladies? We have a whole world to discuss whilst you men are out of earshot, and if My Lord should return you are sent on an errand. Where shall we say, ladies?’
Lady Shirley looked up, caught Durvassal's eyes upon her and blushed. Lady Lucy frowned, thinking hard. Lady A did not take her concentration from her silver needle. ‘I would suggest Lapworth, Lady Kate.’ And this time it was the young man who found the colour rising to his cheeks.
‘Lapworth, Lady Aylesbury?’
‘Lapworth, Nicholas. Isn't that where your winged steed would take you blindfold on a June afternoon? Especially with My Lord in London with Sir Hugh Brandstone in attendance.’
Kate raised her plucked brows. ‘Regale us further!’ she said, her little, viper's tongue flickering across the ridges of her teeth.
‘Orabella, darling, you are a bitch!’ laughed Lady Shirley, glancing at Durvassal from beneath long curling lashes.
Katherine moved a plump, white hand. ‘Away with you, Nicky, before I change my mind; I am whimsically inclined.’ She watched him bow his way from her solar and, as the arras swung to behind him, he heard their laughter followin
g him down the stairs and gritted his teeth angrily.
Once in the saddle and riding north-westwards towards Lapworth, with the breeze on his face and the sun upon his neck, he began to relax, to forget about Lady Kate's poisonous harpies whose main preoccupations, summer and winter alike, were the spreading of venom with their gossip and tattle.
Codbarrow, home of the Brandstones, lay sleeping in the afternoon light, the old stones smooth and mellow; a pleasant, unpretentious place. Hens scuttled across the yard as Durvassal reined in his mount. There was a pink rose rambling about the door, rooted in the dust and chaff, and a row of marigolds, heavy-headed in the heat. Somewhere, the sheep were bleating monotonously, adding to the atmosphere of drowsiness and country peace which contrasted so strongly with the Warwick he had left behind such a little time ago.
From the doorway, two little girls ran to meet him. Lady Agnes dropped a wobbly curtsey; Lady Beatrice smiled shyly and allowed Durvassal to chuck her under the chin. Then, with a cry of delight a red-headed bundle of petticoats hurled itself from the house and launched itself into his arms, swinging about his neck. ‘Don't you have a kiss for me, Nicholas?’
Durvassal set Christine's middle daughter back upon her feet. This flame-haired moppet with the urchin's face and the turned-up nose, had inherited none of Christine's ethereal beauty like baby Beatrice, none of Hugh's sturdy yeoman features and quiet dignity like thirteen-year-old Agnes. The child her father had laughingly nicknamed The Red Rose of Lapworth years ago now, would never grow into a great beauty but she had a vitality her sisters lacked and had fallen under Durvassal's spell when Warwick's young squire had first ridden through Sir Hugh's gates, looking like Sir Percival, Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot merged into one.