The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘Christ, boy,’ exploded Peter, menacing in his own shadow, ‘you will withdraw those words!’

  John put up a hand to staunch the blood. ‘You don’t talk about her, you won’t be drawn. I have no memories, only what is mirrored in the smirking faces of old retainers and the indisputable fact that she abandoned me at two years old. What I had of mothering came from the sharp edge of Maud's tongue and the flat side of Aunt Bess's slipper - and from Margaret.’

  Peter said, ‘Margaret was a pale night-moth beside Lora's butterfly brightness.’

  ‘Margaret,’ retorted John, ‘was kind when she had every cause in the world to resent me, as well you know! She served her purpose and she died, poor girl. At least the women I take smile over their nights with me. What did Margaret ride down from Hallamshire to find? A prosaic mating with a man old enough to be her grandfather!’

  ‘Only just old enough,’ sighed Peter, ‘the young can be very cruel. Look at you!’ He took the trailing point of one of John's sleeves, dagged at the edges and lined with white sarcenet, shuddered at the extravagance and mopped at the rivulet of blood on his son's face. ‘And there are circles under your eyes like benighted hollows. You’re a bloody disgrace. Old enough to be Margaret's grandfather, eh? A paradox in that I've the strength yet to trounce you, don't forget it, my lad!’

  ‘Ah, violence, the last refuge when reason fails,’ grinned John. ‘Shall I summon Ralph Archer to attend you or valet you myself?’

  ‘That would be a benevolent gesture towards an old, tired man.’ Peter sat down on the green silk of his coverlet and thrust out a foot so that John could pull off his boots. At John's age he had peacocked it in soft velvets, these days he was happier in russets and homely wool. He looked down at his kneeling firstborn. ‘I am serious about your marriage; it may be just what you need.’

  ‘No, My Lord, I'll not have it. I’m having a good time. I’m not ready for it.’

  Peter smiled. ‘I'm paying your debts. I’m pacifying angry husbands and fathers and a constant stream of creditors. My dear lad, you don't have a choice, do you?’

  ‘If I metamorphosed to a pillar of sobriety, a chaste ascetic, you'd lose half your prestige. You adore having the neighbours' sympathy, to hear them commiserate over the enfant terrible, the black sheep. They've been taking bets for years as to how much you'll stomach before you throw me out neck and crop.’

  ‘Why don't I?’ sighed Peter, wandering about in his shirt, looking for a knife to pare his nails.

  ‘Because I make you laugh and Beaudesert would be dull without me,’ yawned John. ‘Besides, the time isn't far off when you're going to need me beside you.’ He lay back on Peter's great bed; the hangings had been Maud's and were lavishly embroidered with the rampant lion, the cognizance of the de la Warre's, her maiden arms. Peter had found his knife; he sent it thudding into the top of a stool and with surprising strength took John's right wrist in a punishing grip.

  ‘Oh, I'll need someone I can trust, I grant it; a strong sword arm, not the languorous wrist of the gaming tables, not the lily white hands of a philanderer palsied by the pox!’ he snapped.

  John twisted neatly from his grasp and laughed up at him with blithe violet eyes.

  ‘Set down the wine and dice and perish who thinks of tomorrow.

  - Here's death twitching my ear.

  ‘Live,’ says he, ‘for I'm coming’.’

  ‘You're disgustingly drunk,’ grumbled Peter. ‘Get out and don't break your neck on the stairs; take a torch.’

  John, on his feet, bowed slowly, head bent low, and slipped backwards through the doorway.

  ‘John de Clinton's daughter!’ thought Peter. ‘I'll ride to Coleshill tomorrow. Between us we'll mesh that boy as fast as a blow-fly in a cobweb.’ He chuckled to himself and fell fast asleep without bothering to turn back the bed covers.

  ~o0o~

  In the best tradition of the romaunts, John de Clinton, Lord of the Manor of Coleshill in the middle shires, had an only daughter, an unmarried daughter and a rich one at that. Unlike the romaunts Johanna de Clinton was not a renowned and much sought after beauty although it could not be said that she was ugly or ill-favoured or even undeniably plain. She had preferred horses to men until well after her fifteenth birthday. She still preferred gardening to tapestry work even at the approach of her nineteenth name day. She wore her honey blonde hair in two thick braids which swung before each cheek like fat bell ropes; a style which had been completely out of fashion since the coming of Eleanor of Aquitaine nearly two centuries before. Her unremarkable gowns, of sensible cloth like kersey or fustian or honest russet, successfully masked both her figure's good and bad points. Of course, she read a lot, curled up by the fire in the winter months, ruining her complexion and encouraging chilblains, but she was perfectly capable of running her father's household, one arm tied behind her back, and doing it with a maximum of skill and thought. It was so regrettable that whenever visiting nobility arrived, with eligible sons in tow, she was usually to be found in the herb garden, the sleeves of her oldest gown unbuttoned and rolled up, arms mud-covered to the elbows and a smut on her nose.

  Sir John was fond of his daughter and flattered that she had no apparent desire to leave him for a home of her own, but he had awoken to the fact that she was well past eighteen and should by rights be both wife and mother. The evil day could not be postponed any longer; a husband must be found for Johanna.

  Making a great pother about her birthday in June, Sir John had announced that he was to hold a joust, no expense spared, Johanna as Queen of Beauty, the cousins and hangers-on to challenge all comers. The girl could then pick her husband from the lists; what could be more romantic, more like the chansonettes?

  Sir John, pacing up and down the great chamber above the hall, hands behind his back said, ‘We really do live in a backwater, it's no wonder you can't find a husband to your liking. Who do we ever see? I'd like to show the district what a treasure I possess; let the midlands honour my Joan. We haven't had tourney or joust since before your mother died. I'm sending heralds out well in advance; splashing out on expensive prizes, side-shows, all manner of entertainments and you shall be the centre-piece, the Queen of Beauty in her flower-decked tower. You shall have a new gown cut on London lines. What do you think of all that, sweetheart?’

  Johanna put down her book. ‘It won't alter my face, but Coleshill is a big enough inducement for the most ambitious lordling. Dangle enough bait and the fish always rises.’

  Sir John looked a trifle hurt but continued gamefully. ‘When I was in the Capital King Edward held a marvellous tournament, all his own men decked as Saracens and leading the court ladies captive in golden chains. The Challengers, of course, fought to free the ladies of their choice from the infidel. Marvellous costumes, marvellous fun. I thought we'd try something similar. We could round up the prettiest girls on the manor; promise them a new kirtle…’

  Johanna said, ‘As long as you don't envisage me in chains. Are you really set on this idea, father? Why not just line up the prospective grooms and let me walk up and down examining their teeth?’

  ‘Very well, I'll cancel it; I’ll recall the heralds; I’ll write six names down and pick one out with a hairpin!’ said her exasperated parent.

  ‘I'm sorry, father. It should be fun. Some of the cousins haven't lifted a jousting spear for ten years; I hope you'll have a priest and a surgeon standing by.’ She flicked a finger at her book. ‘Now, in the romaunts, every tourney seems to produce an unknown knight or squire, dressed cap a pie in black or scarlet or bright puce, that's the kind of unlooked for, but hoped for, excitement real life never provides.’ She picked up her volume and, finding her place, left Sir John to his plans.

  ~o0o~

  A week later, the Lord of Coleshill appeared at the imposing upper guard of Beaudesert with its twin towers and its impressive breastworks and barbican. It was a stormy day and chilly for June and the rain was running off the brim of his hat and making rivulet
s down the frieze of his cloak. Peter de Montfort was away at Sudeley with his nephew, Lord Butler. His Chaplain, Jack de Lobbenham, took the dripping Sir John into the solar and ordered mulled wine and a light dinner; the offer was gratefully accepted. The solar was elegant, pale blue walls powdered with silver roses, tastefully done, the perfect foil for the great tapestry on the end wall; Salome offering the Baptist's head on a king-sized salver. Sir John gazed down at his own plate and the modest half-capon and looked away again.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked the priest. ‘Perhaps the business is private? In that case it will have to be deferred until My Lord returns in three days' time.’

  ‘Is Peter's son in residence?’ asked Sir John tentatively.

  ‘Young Guy? He's with his father at Sudeley. John is causing havoc on the Welsh border. Another tournament, twelve-a-side, out at Maud's Castle - or was it Richard's Castle? It makes no odds; he needs to come back loaded with booty or not at all. And every bruise he exhibits will be the precursor of some outrageous tale. Still, dullness was never one of his vices.’

  ‘Father Jack,’ said Clinton, ‘you know the plans Peter and I are formulating for my girl and that lad. You're not the best ambassador for the Montforts if I may say so.’

  Jack de Lobbenham grinned; he still had the same narrow, urchin face of his teens, wrinkled now, the red hair grey and spiky on his forehead. ‘If you were over-worried about your lass, you'd have withdrawn weeks ago. Who is without sin? But I'll not add to mine by whitewashing Prince John. He is at best a Montfort, at worst an unprincipled rake-hell, but the women hereabouts queue for him like a fresh shipment of oranges.

  ‘I remember the night that boy was born; his mother really had no time for him and Peter proved soft in the head when it came to disciplining the lad. When Guy's mother, the Lady Margaret, was installed here, a little dark wisp of a girl, hardly more than fourteen years old, she was so anxious to please all and sundry. And then John came home from Kenilworth – some holiday or other. That slip of a lad befriended her, taught her to please her lord and Madam Maud and Lady Bess, or so she thought. Those weeks were a disaster. She couldn't put a foot right but she kept her lips tight shut about who had tutored her in the ways of Beaudesert. I found her weeping her heart out one morning when My Lord was away and she'd fallen foul of Madam Maud's tongue. But John said she liked her carp served so, and John said this and John said that, and out it all came. So I patted her hand and dried her tears and went in search of Master John. He thought he'd have his new step-mother out of the way, banished home to Sheffield before she could produce a son to oust him from his father's favour. All stripling innocence he was, wide violet eyes in a dirt-streaked face, and holding to his story that Margaret must have misunderstood him. Still, I leathered him as hard as I dared and hoped the welts would fade before Peter's return, then hauled him off to apologise to Lady Margaret, hoping I hadn't made a bad situation worse. He stood there belligerently, looking at her from beneath those dark lashes, wiping his nose on his knuckled fist and when Margaret held out her arms to him he catapulted into them like a stone from a ballista. She was dead such a few years later but any saving graces he has come from her. If Lady Johanna can forge a like bond between them you may have a contented daughter.’

  ‘You can give young John a message,’ said Clinton, ‘if he arrives back in one piece. Tell him not to wear Montfort colours or flaunt his father's arms when he jousts at Coleshill. Tell him to come in some guise or other.’

  The Chaplain raised his eyebrows. ‘Your daughter would baulk at a bastard Montfort then?’

  ‘Good Lord no, nothing like that. It is a question of romantic appeal. Johanna likes her knights and squires errant and unidentifiable!’

  ~o0o~

  Tell it not in Gath; publish it not in the streets of Askelon, lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice. It was a text which Sir John de Clinton might have heeded well before he sent his heralds as far as Warwick.

  Katherine de Beauchamp heard the joust proclaimed in honour of the Lady Johanna and sat silent at her tapestry whilst her ladies watched her anxiously, wondering at such a phenomena. It was said that they were well matched, the Black Dog's son and the White Wolf's daughter, a young man of high temper and the devil's own tongue and his capricious, malicious little bride. The marriage was five years old now and Katherine had produced sons with blessed regularity and the adolescent plumpness had ripened and blossomed into an exquisite flowering.

  In the dusk she walked the rose garden, pale taffeta swishing across the flags, a nebula of diamonds winking in the mesh of her hair as the light streamed out from the solar windows. Her companion and mentor, as always, was the Lady of Edstone, Orabella, wife of Roger D'Aylesbury, widely, if not always affectionately, known as Lady A. Hers was not a name to fall trippingly off the tongue in blunt Warwickshire even after two hundred and fifty years of Norman intrusion. So Lady A she became. It was whispered that she had been Thomas Beauchamp's mistress. Katherine had invited her to Warwick with the theory that Orabella was safer under her eye than tucked away in Sir Roger's grey stone manor in the Warwick woods. It would be too easy a diversion for a hunting party or a lone rider benighted by the closing in of the weather....

  ‘I'm bored,’ yawned the Countess, ‘Thomas has been absent a devilish long time. I see the hot summer stretching away without entertainment or incident.’ She snapped at a folded rose and tucked it into her hair.

  'And there came lords, and there came knights

  From many a fair country

  To break a spear for their ladies' love

  Before that fair lady.

  ‘Even Johanna de Clinton, that plain, dowdy little cousin of Tom's, will have her hour and I must be cooped up with a pack of children, old men and maidens. Orabella, I shall ride to Coleshill. I shall travel incognito, of course, a couple of men at arms, plainly dressed, and you at my side.’

  ‘No!’ said Lady A, ‘Kate, it's madness. If Thomas was to hear of it - and how can he fail - he'd hang half the garrison and you and I would be on short commons for a week!’

  Katherine smiled mischievously. ‘Thomas is magnificent in one of his rages and he can hardly pin the blame on my escort. What choice have they in such a matter?’

  ‘He would blame me!’ said Lady A grimly. ‘I will not go, Katherine.’

  The countess sighed. ‘I'll take Elizabeth Lucy, she'll appreciate the outing.’

  Orabella threw her a look of scorn. ‘What! And have her prattle to the county. There'd not be a house or castle in the midlands that wouldn't be whispering about your escapade.’

  ‘Then you will have to change your mind,’ said Katherine. ‘You really are the only woman I can trust and there's no harm in it, no harm at all. Shall we go kilted like milkmaids or prinked out as the wives of city burgesses or gaudy as gypsies?’ She executed a Spanish dance, hips swaying, the rose transferred to sharp white teeth.

  ‘Nuns would arouse less comment,’ said Lady A sourly. ‘Milkmaids usually smell, hadn't you noticed?’

  ‘Then we are city wives off the leash,’ smiled the countess, ‘with a servant apiece in tow. Orabella, you're scowling. You will enjoy the finer points of the sport as well as I shall appreciate giddy young men falling from murderous destriers. I shall give away fine scarves, nacreous of hue, and I shall bathe fevered brows with good home-spun linen, and sip iced vernage in darkened pavilions, resting on silken cushions and fanned by a single peacock's eye. Orabella, you will, won't you?’

  ‘I just hope it rains and they all troop indoors for Hoodman Blind and hot pies!’ said Lady A tartly.

  Chapter Twelve

  June - 1343

  June 11th, St. Barnabas Day, dawned rosy and idyllic. The sky bloomed from the pale wash of water forget-me-nots through a spectrum of blues, each deeper than the last until it settled quite naturally into the intense cerulean so beloved of the monkish illustrators. The fields were undulating seas of green spears where cornflowers raised blue eyes amongst the
white corn daisies and copper-hued butterflies rose like pollen-dust.

  The walls of Clinton's mellow keep, high above the Cole River, were whitewashed by the sun to swim in heat-haze like the crusader castles of Outremer. Overnight, a meadow of mushrooms had sprung up in every colour of the heraldic field, as the contestants arrived and erected their bright pavilions: brash reds and stygian blacks, Lydian purple and popinjay blue, Judas colour and Lincoln green, their canopies dagged and scalloped, dovetailed and engrailed, dancette and raguly.

  ‘Barnaby light, Barnaby bright,

  Longest day and shortest night,’ chanted Johanna from the window of her bower and the first, faint pulse of excitement crept in, unwanted, to colour her cheeks and blotch her neck and shoulders. She dressed quickly, ignoring the excited chatter of her maid, the snub-nosed, rosy-cheeked Mazera.

  ‘That is a gown to sell a soul for, My Lady; velvet, blue as the necks of peacocks and soft as sin. Shall I brush out your hair? Will you wear it loose today?’

  Johanna shook her head, swinging the bell-rope braids. ‘It’s far too hot to have such a mane sweeping about my neck and shoulders; it will do well enough as it is. I may be sitting prinked out in finery in a tower decked with white samite and silver bows but I'll still be plain cousin Joan to most of the men out there. My father is fond of saying that you cannot paint the lily, he also knows that most of my suitors would take me hag-ridden for the inheritance alone!’

  Mazera sighed. ‘You have fine eyes, My Lady, and if you would let me try the chamomile on your hair and a little of the carmine paste on your lips and high on your cheeks and if you would allow me to lace your gown a little tighter…’

  Johanna silenced her saying, ‘The fortune hunters would merely get a more palatable bargain. Leave me be, Mazera, I've the kitchens to oversee. You may attend me later when I mount the block!’ She gave a wry smile and swept out of the room.