The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘Well, what's with you?’ The man sheathed his weapon and folded his arms. ‘Off with you!’

  Richard squared his shoulders. ‘I'm seeking employment,’ he began.

  ‘Seek it elsewhere then, lad. We're overcrowded as it is.’

  ‘Hear me out. I'm a journeyman fletcher. I'm sure if the Earl were to grant me an audience…’

  ‘Audience! There'll be an audience for you in the stocks! Do you think you can just march in here?’

  ‘Let me speak to his Constable then. He must need fletchers. Look, I've some arrow flights here…’ Richard sorted about in the bag and proffered a fine example, fletched with grey goose.’

  ‘Look, laddie, I don't know a good arrow from a quarter-staff, I'm a pikeman. The Earl and his Constable are over at Westminster with the King and the Prince of Wales and won't be back before dusk. Now move on before I lose my temper.’

  Richard spent the morning wandering about the city and made his way back to St. Laurence's Ward as dusk was beginning to fall; it was still raining. The torches were lit now in the great houses and within doors there would be fires crackling, no doubt. Back at Bishopsgate the Scarlets, Harry, Wat and little Stephen would have sat down to sup without him. Somewhere along the road north-westwards, Raymond would be quaffing ale at a wayside inn, nose set for Coventry. Richard glanced down at Lora's ring and, with a look of determination on his face, he found his way, through the shadows, down to the water stairs, for there, surely, the Earl would leave his barge. No-one took any notice of the young man in the damp cloak. Then a torch-bearer ran out of the house and Latimer saw the lighted barge turning to come in to the steps, oars raised now, and willing hands reaching to help it alongside the landing stage. The Earl leapt forward, sumptuously attired in black velvet. The torchlight left his sables sleek and oiled and set sparks from his gold accoutrements. Then he was striding up the steps. Richard stepped out into his path...

  ‘Out of my way, fool!’ Thomas bellowed, but the boy held his ground.

  ‘Do you remember me, My Lord, Corpus Christi two years past?’ For answer he received a blow which sent him reeling back against the wall to a dizzying crack on the back of his head. The torches spun and the world went black for several seconds.

  ‘I never forget a face,’ said Thomas Beauchamp. ‘I'll see him when we've supped.’

  ~o0o~

  Fortune, observed Thomas Beauchamp, had smiled upon him that night of the 'prentice riots down by the river, delivering Peter de Montfort's son into his hands again after so many years without a trace of his whereabouts. That night he had made sure that he would not lose the boy again. The men who had delivered Richard Latimer home to Bishopsgate had made careful note of the location of Scarlet's shop. And now, two years later, with the wide world his oyster the young man had done all but fling himself into Warwick's path, thus springing the trap set to ensnare him.

  Supper had long since been cleared away and Beauchamp sat with his huge, carved chair drawn up to the fireplace in his chamber, feet stretched out to the very flames. He appraised the boy critically; tall and slender still with a certain coltish grace, hair inclining to fair though not his mother's bright yellow-gold, a straight nose, a firm jaw - but the wide, mobile mouth, that was his father's, ready for laughter or speedy riposte, too ready for mutiny, no-one's yes-man; and his eyes were Peter's, fathomless dark eyes beneath the winged brows, steady eyes and they were steady upon him now.

  ‘So you changed your mind? You took time to give it much thought,’ said the Black Hound's son.

  ‘My Lord, I seek a different appointment. Do you have need of a Journeyman Fletcher?’

  Thomas smiled, ‘So you came through with flying colours, eh Sebastian? Still the perfect little guildsman. If you join my rogues you can forget about the code of Fletchers' Hall. I am a law unto myself.’

  ‘I can accept that, sir.’

  ‘How condescending,’ mocked Beauchamp, withdrawing his feet to the smell of singeing leather. If I hire you - or does the word 'hire' offend your bourgeois ears? If I employ you, I shall wring from you an oath of acceptance of the conditions laid down as sacred as the oaths of knighthood. Well?’

  Richard looked at him levelly. ‘My hand upon a bargain binds me as fast to an enterprise as any of the trappings of chivalry. But if that is what you wish…’

  Warwick got to his feet. ‘Think about it.’ He crooked a finger at one of his squires, standing talking low-voiced in the window recess. ‘See me to the chapel and see I am not disturbed. And you, Nicholas, keep an eye on Master Sebastian here in case he has an eye for the Beauchamp plate!’

  Nicholas Durvassal looked Richard up and down with ill-disguised suspicion as the door closed upon them, and his hand was about the knife at his exquisitely wrought belt. Richard saw a tall young man, a few years older than himself, with a narrow-boned face and lint-blond hair which curled elegantly over his ears. The cut of his jupon with its tight buttoning at neck and wrists ensured that it fitted him so close that he reminded the young fletcher of a jewelled snake, poured into his skin.

  ‘Is it usual, this oath?’ ventured Latimer. Durvassal took his hand from his knife and instead fingered the badge on the breast of his jupon.

  ‘Why, yes, for life and limb and earthly worship almost. It’s your soul he wants, boy. The tools he fashions are too good to pass on to another hand. We're all personally chosen. I'm his body squire, Nicholas Durvassal of Spernall in the County of Warwick.’ The smile twisted. ‘You, I imagine, are for the kitchens?’

  Richard said, ‘No, Master Durvassal, my foot will begin further up the ladder. You obviously were unfortunate enough to begin on the lowest rung as your manners show!’

  Durvassal's eyes narrowed. They were green eyes, serpent's eyes. Richard remembered a vicious little boy of eleven and the backdrop of Nottingham Castle. ‘Watch your step, oaf, you may find that same ladder knocked from beneath your feet.’ Durvassal put out a booted foot and kicked at a log protruding from the fire, as if to add emphasis to his words.

  Perhaps it was fortunate that Warwick's devotions were short that evening. Richard was certainly relieved when, on his return, Beauchamp sent Nicholas Durvassal speeding off on an errand.

  ‘Your answer, Sebastian; a trial of two years with renewal of the contract if your work is satisfactory and if you should so wish. Otherwise, you're out on the street tonight and its way past curfew. Like as not you'd spend the hours till dawn in the lock-up. Of course, you could crawl back from whence you came, tail between your legs, but perhaps that would be anti-climactic?’

  ‘I never crawl, sir, and I accept your offer.’

  ‘Kneel then, Sebastian. What do they call you?’

  ‘Richard Latimer, My Lord.’

  ‘Then place your hand between mine and swear to abide by my judgement, by my laws, by my rule in all things.’ And Richard did as he was bidden, forming his words slowly, solemnly. The gaze of the dark eyes penetrated Warwick's, blue and clear, without wavering. The Earl signed for him to rise.

  ‘Find my Master Fletcher; you'll want a suit of my colours too. I do not tolerate slovenly dress even amongst my menials. Now get out!’

  ~o0o~

  Master Ralph Dawn in a suit of yellow worsted, Warwick's badge pinned to his breast, cut a trim, sparse figure. His hair, iron grey, clung to his forehead in a sawn-off fringe and beneath it his eyes were wintry, blue as steel. It was close on midnight before he had time for Latimer.

  ‘Let me see an example of your work.’ And Richard lifted his bag onto the table before him and drew out the hinder part of an arrow shaft, snapped like a reed - the result of his fall at the landing-stage; the flights were crushed, wilting. Ralph Dawn smiled crookedly and, slinging it aside, tossed him a rudely cut shaft, tip and handful of feathers, sitting back, arms folded, to watch his new journeyman at work. Finally he rose and clapped the young man on the shoulder. ‘You'll do. Come and meet your fellows. This mad house here in the capital is no yard-stick by which
to measure our life, wait until we return to Warwick. Castles in the air! You've never dreamed of Warwick.’

  PART THREE

  THE SONS OF BEAUDESERT

  Chapter Fifteen

  August - 1343

  Warwick was home before the month was out. Standing, a dark silhouette framed in the lancets of the solar window, he gazed unseeing over his benighted domain. The evening was silent, so silent that the rush of the swollen river as it hurled itself over the weir came clearly up to him. Above the trees of Arden, black in the twilight, the sky was apple-green, merging out of a golden sunset, climbing to blue and darkening. In the indigo, velvety zenith a single star pricked the heavens, echoing the sparkling diamond, glittering and cold, pinned carelessly to the man's right shoulder.

  A hand noiselessly renewed the guttering torches, an elegant boot kicked at the logs in the massive fireplace, sending a shower of yellow sparks up into the shaft of the chimney; blue wood-smoke eddied out into the room. Warwick scarcely moved a muscle; his glance never faltered.

  ‘Nicholas, I want to see Will Lucy, I want to see him immediately and I don't wish to be disturbed, even by the ladies.’

  ‘I understand, My Lord. I will personally devise some pastime for milady and the demoiselles; rely on me.’

  ‘I have to, all too frequently. See that my judgement is not at fault.’

  Nicholas Durvassal stood for a moment in hesitation, the firelight ruddy, flickering on one side of his smooth, handsome face, glinting on the silver-blond hair. At last, he bowed, turned and unobtrusively slipped through the doorway. Minutes later the arras was again flung aside and the Lord of Charlecote entered, cat-footed.

  ‘Nicholas is getting above himself,’ Beauchamp said.

  ‘That's a pity, he has his uses.’ Lucy, unbidden, stretched out in a chair, he lifted Katherine's discarded lute and plucked idly at the strings.

  ‘Once or twice he has forgotten to be servile in my presence,’ continued the Earl, unfastening the diamond pin and letting his scarlet cloak slither across the window seat.

  ‘Hardly a bad thing in a young man, surely?’ Lucy tuned the instrument, head bent low.

  ‘A bad thing in Nicholas; he's aiming too high - an alliance with noble blood - Beauchamp blood. My daughter, Mary, is a singularly attractive chit.’

  ‘But hand fasted to Herthill's son,’ said Lucy as if that put an end to the conversation.

  Thomas shrugged. ‘A worthy knight but dull perhaps in a young girl's eyes. What lass given the choice wouldn't prefer to take Durvassal? It would be unfortunate if we had to get rid of Nicholas over some foolish amour. I must arrange a match for him, keep him in his place. A minor heiress, I think, with much emphasis on the word 'minor'.’

  ‘But you didn't summon me here to discuss Durvassal?’ Lucy was taller than his lord, bronze haired, the eyes, light grey, colourless as brook pebbles. Over the years since Beauchamp had taken seisin of his lands he had proved utterly reliable. His services ranged from that of amanuensis to Master of Ceremonial, from confidant to successful arbiter over points of law to - but that was unwritten, unspoken. Under the third Edward, England was at peace, her nobility brought together as no other monarch had ever managed to bring them together, into a united family, an open court, all hail-fellow-well-met, a trusting brotherhood, well, perhaps not quite. Many a disguise cloaked the agent flitting from castle to castle, inn to inn; the man on the galloping horse, cloak flying, jaw set; the man who lurked at firesides, watching and listening, who had as many aliases as there were days in lent...

  Lucy settled further into his chair, the lute idle across his knees. Warwick had his back to the fire, legs astride, face in shadow.

  ‘Have you the reports?’

  Lucy reached into his purse and took out a sheaf of parchment. He waved it airily. ‘The usual essay from Kenilworth; no developments worth noting.’

  ‘And Beaudesert?’

  ‘I may withdraw our man; there is no whisper of suspicion about the place. Thomas, Beaudesert is your obsession. Peter de Montfort will settle gently into a bumbling old age, the rebel lordling of his teens and twenties fled on the day Lora Astley left him for her nunnery.’

  Thomas Beauchamp smiled. ‘The Sugar Mouse - that was my father's name for her. When I was eleven years old I was dazzled by her golden beauty, her violet eyes; Peter decked her in amethysts to match. Oh, I was too haughty by far to acknowledge a mere light o' love but I would go out of my way to watch her ride by, garlanded for May Day with the buttercup hair down her back still, taunting him that he never married her, mocking her own long lost maidenhood. Oh, I digress as usual. What were you saying?’

  Will Lucy cast him an amused glance. ‘Peter de Montfort rides his boundaries with his priest-crony; the child Guy grows more bookish and withdrawn by the month…’

  Warwick turned, so that for the first time Lucy could see the firelight etching the strong profile, the Beauchamp nose in silhouette, sharp as a new cut effigy straight from the mason's yard, unblunted by time. ‘And Bastard John?’ said the still cut-out. Only the hands moved a fraction because his rings caught the light and a ripple of fire flickered across his knuckles.

  ‘Still liberally sewing his wild oats; he should beware, he may harvest hydra's teeth. They say he has a new wife. We have little to fear from John.’

  ‘Then your man is wrong. Remove the fellow if you wish but see he is replaced. I will not dispute your assessment of Peter or the child but you are wrong about John.’

  ‘You have met him? I thought not.’ Lucy set the lute aside gently and sat forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

  ‘Curiously, not since he was toddling, a spoilt little brat stamping his feet for attention. But I don't base my judgement on personal acquaintance.’

  ‘Forgive me, Thomas, I know the boy. What you have is nothing more than a gut feeling; he is not the young man his father was. There is a family likeness, there is some presence, perhaps arrogance as only bastardy can produce it in a young man, and there is mischief and malice in plenty.’

  ‘I will grant you all that,’ said Warwick at last, taking to his own chair and facing him.

  Lucy was set on continuing, quietly confident. ‘But there is vanity, a trivial life, playing to the populace. Give him a velvet cote, a sapphire pin or rose-coloured feathers to peacock up and down in front of the neighbours and you have all the essence of Bastard John; the outward facade of a sugar subtlety with no substance within.

  Warwick said, ‘But the tavern and the gaming tables do not tutor a man for the lists, or order garrisons, or support a man in the saddle all the relentless daylight hours…’

  ‘He is a born play-actor, that's all. You see what he wishes to be seen!’

  ‘There is more to him than the effete princeling you would have me see in him. Peter de Montfort has what I want and he would have handed it over to the King, tied up with satin bows, long ago, like a child presents a posy on Mothering Sunday, all wreathed in happy smiles. Only Bastard John would have seen the worth of keeping it hidden away, bolted in some dark vault. Only Bastard John would have had the wit to let slip out enough to tantalise. He is a dangerous young man to leave loose on my march!’

  ‘He can be dealt with; he has little regard for his own safety.’

  ‘No, that is not what I want. I need him here and freely and I have the bait. I will have the devil's machine and I will have John. Why do you despise him to such an extent?’

  ‘Perhaps I don't. I met him once as a boy at Kenilworth. Why do I hate John? Rather, ask yourself why you have hated his father all these years.’

  Warwick shrugged himself further into his chair. ‘Is hatred too strong a word? Maybe not. When my father died my mother turned towards Beaudesert for help and guidance; she was a young woman with three small sons, my brothers still in the cradle. Peter was often here through he never inflicted the Sugar Mouse upon us; my mother would have been unable to receive her. It was Peter who taught me to ride, who
installed me before him on that great ginger courser he had. I learnt to hunt at Montfort's side, to hawk, to joust and, most of all, through him I came to love my heritage, this gentle, undulating, tree-crowned landscape, England's wild green heart. But Peter was the second Edward's man, he had given his loyalty when he was fourteen years old and the King had ridden up the causeway to Beaudesert with his little queen and his despised favourite, Piers Gaveston. Montfort would not have been what he is had he swerved from that loyalty. But when he took Roger Mortimer's part and let him bear me away, protesting, to court, I saw it as a betrayal. If my hackles were raised over Montfort's cavalier treatment of my youthful sensibilities how much more I suffered under the White Wolf. Mortimer ruled me with a rod of iron and I dared not step out of line. If ever I needed Peter's guidance I needed it then but the gap was already too wide and, at sixteen, I did not know how to choke back my cursed pride, though he held out the hand of friendship on more than one occasion. I left it too late and the gap has widened between our houses. Because I was Warwick and one of England's premier earls I expected him to come penitent to me. But I suppose he still recalls the boy who sat before him on Brigliadoro and who one day he imagines will see his way to riding west to Beaudesert, cap in hand. We are stubborn men both, my friend. I see no hope of reconciliation.

  ‘I have kept the Countess from her solar for long enough, we'll talk again very soon.’

  Lucy had had his dismissal; he rose easily, bowed and was gone. Warwick sat staring into the firelight.

  ~o0o~

  That first evening at Warwick passed, for Richard Latimer, studded with images of another existence; a scene from a silken tapestry; the painted pages turning in a book of hours, bright with primary colours: scarlet and cerulean and parrot green. To sit at the lower tables and watch the company about him was an education: the variety of the food, the liveried pages who conveyed the dishes from kitchen to hall and up on to the dais, placing them ritualistically before the Earl and his Countess; the rows of knights and their ladies; the tumblers who somersaulted between the tables and the ubiquitous jester, gaudily pied, belled cap askew. Richard found himself staring unashamedly about him.