The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  A smile lifted the corners of Lady A's perfect mouth, her lips parted and she laughed out loud. ‘Dear God! That is indeed Black Guy's blood manifesting itself. It will be entertaining to see how our fine paradise bird reacts. What a delicious snippet of news. Perhaps I should be first to offer my felicitations.’

  ‘Orabella, you are no better than Thomas! Imagine being in such a situation. I begged Thomas to change his mind. Why make an enemy of Durvassal needlessly? Nicholas has worshipped My Lord since he was first brought here by John and Sybil all those years ago.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Kate, you're romancing! If Nicholas worships he turns his face to the water like Narcissus. I tire of this conversation; the man interests me only as a study in vainglory. Let us change the subject or, better still, return to our party.’ They rose to their feet, brushing away leaf mould. The hawkers were riding through the woods again, the air was filled with the silver sound of dozens of tiny brass bells which, attached by bewits to the leg of falcon or lanner, rang out as the procession filtered through the trees. This was to be the last of the warm days; winter waited in the lengthening shadows with the first frosts, to sear the gilt and the glitter of autumn. The two young women left the glade; the flattened grasses and the discarded berries of cuckoo pint were all that remained.

  ~o0o~

  The Warwickshire loam was frost-hardened when the jingling bridles of another little cavalcade followed the clatter of hooves over the river bridge at Wootton. The riders swung right, leaving the highway to trot through the abbey gates and dismount in the yard.

  Father de Sentlis, Prior of the Benedictine Abbey at Wootton, was in his church, awaiting the bell to call the Black Brothers to vespers, when the entire party swept dramatically through the south door and moved in a colourful tide along the nave. They were mostly young people; squires in the scarlet of Warwick's livery, fledgling knights in parti-coloured cotes and girls in popinjay colours. A short distance before the sanctuary they slowed and halted and only one kept on until she reached the altar rail. A very young girl in a black velvet cloak, its enveloping hood edged with soft white fur, framing a perfect heart-shaped face. Her skin was milk white with only the faintest rose-blush upon her cheeks, put there by the ride through the October weather. She had a pert and charming retrousse nose and lips that held their own carmine tint. Beneath winged brows her eyes were the dark grey-purple of ripe sloes, almost black in the dimness of the nave. She acknowledged the Father Prior with a bob of a curtsey.

  ‘Mistress Mary?’ John de Sentlis was a stickler for correct address. He did not call her Lady Mary, the courtesy title used by the sycophants about Warwick's court, for Mary de Beauchamp was born on the wrong side of the blanket, child of Thomas's boyhood, of the days when, freed of his formidable governors and mentors he had set out to prove his manhood in the surest way. Even when Katherine arrived from Ludlow, there was never a question of hiding this child away or banishing her from Warwick.

  ‘My Lord Prior,’ Mary's voice was clear and, though low-pitched, rang about the abbey church and set up its own echoes in the side chapels. No lisping girlish treble this, it had her father's authority in its precision. ‘I come to take an oath before God's altar in this Holy place. And as He will be my witness I charge you, and all gathered here, to listen also and to bear the truth of my utterance back to My Lord father at Warwick.’

  The first faint prickings of apprehension touched John de Sentlis upon the neck. He searched the faces of the girl's attendants for one of age or seeming wisdom and found none to comfort him.

  ‘Mistress Mary – demoiselle…,’ began the Prior, ‘for the love I bear your father -’ but she wasn't even listening, her eyes were fixed upon the jewelled cross upon the altar table and she crossed herself piously.

  ‘Let all here witness that I, Mary de Beauchamp, natural daughter of the most puissant Earl, Thomas of Warwick, do solemnly make covenant with God, my maker, that, until My Lord, my father shall be adjudged victor in battle in the fields of France, I shall neither take a husband or wear again the colours of joy but will clothe myself in black weeds for mourning or in white robes to proclaim my unmarried state and,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘I ask all here to pray for me.’ So saying, she prostrated herself upon the cold grey flags of the chancel, arms outspread.

  ‘Christ in heaven!’ said William Lucy, a breathless and tardy arrival in the south porch. ‘Her father will have an apoplexy!’

  The Prior of Wootton thought he should make some sort of apology. ‘But what can you do, these lovesick adolescents; I heard she had her heart set on Durvassal's son.’

  Lucy was particularly chic in a jupon of Kendal green; he lounged back against the door jamb. ‘Her heart set on Nicholas? Rather, a mind set against Richard Herthill; but that is another matter. And the Demoiselle de Beauchamp would look as well in black sackcloth as any other maid in cloth of gold; she might even set a fashion, who knows.’

  The Prior shook his head. ‘We live in strange times. All the talk of wars, too many giddy young people and too many oaths squandered. All those fine young gallants following the King with patches over one eye, sworn to see Edward suzerain of France before they see the world in focus again. Too many heartsick young girls making butterfly vows of chastity at dimly lit altars without knowing what they do.’ He continued to shake his head sadly.

  Lucy only grinned. ‘Cheer up, Father Prior, there's a difference here. This one knows exactly what she does, have no doubts about that!’

  ~o0o~

  Nicholas Durvassal arrived unheralded at Spernall in the midst of a ferocious storm. He walked into the hall, unpinning his heavy, sodden cloak. His hair clung in damp strands to his head and his cote moulded itself closer to his fine body. John Durvassal, Lord of Spernall and hereditary butler to the Earls of Warwick, sat back in his chair, berating a group of underlings who stood before him, caps in hand, heads bowed. He noted his son's arrival and lifted a hand in greeting before continuing with a tirade of colourful language and finally dismissing the sheepish menials who filtered away down the hall to take up various tasks.

  ‘Nicholas. Does your mother know you're here?’ He was getting to his feet.

  ‘Not yet, sir. I wanted to have words with you before I see her; it is important.’

  Durvassal put an arm companionably about his son's shoulders. ‘Well, what is it then?’

  ‘Can't we go somewhere else?’

  ‘I don't see the need. This is my hall, nucleus of my demesne. Why should I move elsewhere?’

  ‘Then send them out,’ Nicholas gestured to the chastened servants.

  ‘If I deem it necessary. What do you want to discuss?’

  ‘My marriage. I do not wish for it.’ He stood still and straight before his father, his very bearing defiant. John Durvassal poked at his son with a long fore finger.

  ‘You do not wish it! Since when have your wishes been paramount? This is a matter of local politics. Good God, boy, Brandstone's daughter is young, virgin, sound in wind and limb - not a beauty perhaps but if she were a cross-eyed hag you'd have her if I so wished it!’

  Nicholas said, ‘I can do better than Rose Brandstone and a few acres of Lapworth.’

  ‘Oh, indeed?’ sneered Sir John. ‘Do you think I do not know that you were dancing attendance on Warwick's girl all through the winter? Oh, if you had succeeded it would have been a venture worth the hazard, but you failed miserably and I can only be grateful that Beauchamp thinks highly enough of my past services to recommend you wed the Brandstone girl; he could have dismissed you out of hand.’

  ‘He does not have the right to dispose of either of us. Lady Rose must follow her father's direction but not I - I am of age and I will not do it, sir!’

  ‘Christ, boy!’ swore Sir John, so that his cowed servants looked up, heartened to hear another receiving the rough edge of his tongue. ‘If you make fools of Sir Hugh and me, if you attempt to thwart Warwick, I will disinherit you!’

  His son shrugged
his shoulders. ‘That is the threat of every father piqued by his offspring.’

  ‘Piqued!’ thundered Sir John. ‘You have a brother, sirrah, do not forget! William is more amenable to my whims, always has been.’

  ‘William is a toady and I have been Warwick's lackey for long enough!’

  ‘Very well. Cut yourself loose from us all, play the knight errant, take your sword and seek your fortune but do not come whining back here to claim your inheritance!’

  ‘You would rob me? In truth, father?’

  ‘I would do it. Oh, come into the solar, you are right in that this scene is not for prying eyes. Back to your tasks!’ He roared at his household and the curious dropped their gaze. Durvassal pushed open the door to the small family room and let it swing to behind them.

  ‘Well, Nicholas?’

  His son was leaning out from the window embrasure. The rain had stopped and the sun appeared fitfully, dappling the meadows, pale gold with corn stubble; the leafy, damp smells of autumn were in the room. A lark rose vertically from a field of clover, soon to be lost in that brief, shafting sunlight.

  ‘I am waiting for an answer,’ rasped Sir John, his fingers drumming on the table.

  Without turning away Nicholas said, ‘I cannot lose this land and you know it.’

  ‘You're talking sense at last, lad. Now I hope we shall have no more talk of dissention whilst you're here.’ He patted his son lightly on the shoulder.

  Nicholas flung away from him. ‘No, no dissention. I'll wed with Rose. I'll play the dutiful son. I'll ride back to Warwick and bend the knee and grovel before Thomas Beauchamp. I would sell my soul to keep Spernall. Indeed, it seems there is no other way!’

  ‘Heavens, child!’ said his mother, ‘how dramatic. John, what is going on? I go down to the kitchens and find cook reduced to jelly, the rest of the household sullen as schoolboys and now Nicholas is declaiming like a Roman orator. Where are you off to, My Lord?’

  ‘Down to the stables!’ flashed Sir John and stumped off.

  Sybil Durvassal turned to her elder son. She was a tall, angular figure in indigo silk; it was easy to see from where Nicholas took his narrow features. ‘He is your father, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘Whether he is right or wrong is immaterial. You have no reason to argue with him and he is a fool to allow it. Come and help me wind some silks and sit there where I can see you. Now, what have you said to upset him?’

  ‘I refused to marry Rose Brandstone.’

  Sybil raised fine, arched brows. ‘Did you so? Then I'm surprised he kept his hands off you. I'm not so blind, my dear, nor am I deaf to rumour. It is no secret that you have shared Christine Brandstone's bed whilst wooing Mary de Beauchamp with kisses and false gallantry. If I were Warwick I would have given you a sound whipping for your insolence. I shall suggest it next time we meet!’

  ‘Thank you, mother, he may be glad of an excuse.’

  Sybil, leaning now on the back of his chair, cuffed him lightly. ‘You will ride over to Lapworth with us tomorrow and play your part for all our sakes.’ It was not a question; it was a statement of fact. Her son did not feel it was worth dispute.

  ~o0o~

  Sir Hugh Brandstone met Sir John Durvassal, his lady and his heir at the door and ushered them into the hall. He pulled up a chair and stools and fussed about them, coughing as if to clear his throat and then only passing a few comments about the weather and the state of the roads.

  It was Sybil who said, ‘Sir Hugh is there something wrong?’

  Brandstone, a solid countryman with bright blue eyes, set deep, shrugged his shoulders and a rather pathetic look crossed his florid face. ‘My dear Sybil, I have a wife weeping in her chamber, calling me a heartless brute, and a daughter throwing tantrums at mention of your son's name. For all I can see the match between Master Nicholas here and my little Rose is a perfect merging of our two houses. Your son has a healthy girl who will one day share my lands with her sister, Agnes - the youngest girl, Beatrice, is to go to Wroxall to join the sisters there in a year or two - so Agnes and Rose will share the inheritance. My girl, on the other hand, has your heir, one of the noblest, oldest names in this county and, I will be frank, the most personable young man in the local marriage market. What, therefore, is wrong? What has the silly child dreamed up against your son? It is unthinkable after Thomas Beauchamp has given his blessing to the union that there should be a word of protest from either of them. My wife, of course, sides with the girl; you know what women are - saving your presence, madam.’- this to Sybil. ‘But she will come round once the two are wed.’

  The tapestry on the door slid aside and Christine entered. Her face looked flushed and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She dropped a curtsey before Sir John; she did not look at Nicholas.

  Sybil ventured, ‘Christine, I have never met your daughter, perhaps she should be here.’

  Christine shot a glance at Hugh who cleared his throat again.

  ‘Perhaps later, if you'll bear with me, My Lady. The child's in her room; we've had floods of tears all afternoon, tantrums and tempers.’

  Christine was looking at Nicholas. ‘Perhaps I might suggest that Nicholas has a word with her. I'm sure if they could talk things over…’

  Sir Hugh was almost at bursting point. ‘Talk it over! What is it to do with the pair of them? Still, let him try. Go on, boy, follow Lady Brandstone.’

  Christine caught her lover by the sleeve as they climbed the stair between the hall and the family rooms. ‘Nicky, you have to marry her, there is no way out. You must make her see that.’

  ‘This is Warwick's doing.’ Durvassal leant back against the wall. She shook him by the arm.

  ‘It is our doing. Don't blame Thomas Beauchamp for our sins. Poor little Rose; most children would not have kept her knowledge to themselves. I wonder who she is protecting, her father, her mother or…’ She looked up at him. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Christine, even with shadows under your eyes and a shiny nose you can take a man's breath away. I suppose it will raise no comment if I visit my mother-in-law from time to time?’ A crooked smile lit his handsome face, moments before Christine's hand came up and cracked across his mouth.

  ‘Get up those stairs, Nicky, and see if you can mend the damage you have done; for, as God is my witness, if you come down without having coaxed that child into submission, I will tell my husband the truth and take the consequences. Hugh may be a bumbling fool but he's a good man and even fear of Warwick's wrath would not force him to hand over Rose Red to an accomplished avouterer. And let today be an end of the madness between us. We have never had the right to harm as we have harmed!’

  Nicholas put a hand to his cheek. ‘You are saying we never had a right to happiness?’

  ‘Perhaps I am. Now, go quickly!’ She watched him swing angrily away from her and up the last steps to Rose Red's door.

  ~o0o~

  The room was full of wavering candlelight. Nicholas Durvassal disrobed his master in silence, performed the task with deftness, respectful and impersonal. Warwick watched him fold jupon and cloak and smiled at the shuttered face. ‘You have been absent these last two nights.’

  ‘I sent apologies, My Lord, I rode home to Spernall.’

  ‘Yes, to bid your father extricate you from your coming nuptials. So there is a spark of rebellion in the faithful squire. Should I applaud the phenomenon or punish the offence?’

  ‘You will do as you please with the lives of men as you have always done,’ said Durvassal, ‘It amuses you to play God with the world laid out before you like a chessboard. And what if Mary cries herself to sleep and Rose Brandstone grows up a bitter woman and Christine…’ he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘And if Nicholas Durvassal had not played Sir Lancelot with another man's Guinevere and wooed an Elaine he had no right to wed…’

  ‘Will that be all tonight, My Lord?’

  ‘I had thought, just for a moment, that you had something to ask of me.’

  ‘I canno
t recollect so, My Lord.’ Durvassal, standing before him, drawn up to his full height, was taller than his lord. Warwick's mouth twitched at the corners. ‘I understand. You have the pride of the Durvassals; that is commendable.’

  ‘I will not beg from you, My Lord. It pleases you now to play the bountiful overlord but too late!’

  ‘And you would rather be miserable than accept anything from me? Look at me, boy. Pride does not forge dark circles beneath the eyes; nights of tossing and turning do that. I cannot believe that you would weep for my daughter but thwarted ambition may be as devastating as lovesickness.’ He had one hand under his squire's chin, forcing the green-golden eyes with their long lashes to meet his own.

  ‘Christ!’ said Durvassal, ‘You know how to strip a man down and leave him with very little. What more do you want of me?’

  Beauchamp said, ‘I will not be served by a sulky youth loaded with grievances - imaginary or otherwise. Now, do you wish to retain your position as my esquire or will you quit these walls now and ride home to Spernall?’

  ‘My Lord,’ Durvassal began, ‘I have no wish to leave you. For whatever reasons, it has been my honest desire to serve you in any way I could. To serve the Earl of Warwick for the furtherance of my ambitions, because he was the brightest star in the firmament, but to serve Thomas de Beauchamp because, even without the castle and the lands of Arden, without the coat of arms and the Bear and Staff, he seemed a man of stature among so many little men.’

  Warwick said, ‘I know that there isn't that in you which would allow you to bend the knee or put tongue to an apology but, nevertheless, you are forgiven and received once more. Sit upon the clouds again, my fallen angel. I shall require my Lucifer to sleep in his accustomed place across the door - Lady Kate is enceinte again.’

  Durvassal only raised his eyebrows and grinned, his teeth white in the torchlight. Their eyes met and both men laughed out loud. The Earl flung an arm carelessly about his squire's shoulder.