by Helen Burton
‘We'll have a game of chess before I retire. Come, set up the pieces.’
~o0o~
The closed carriage was waiting in the great courtyard. Richard Latimer, a sackful of goose-feathers over one shoulder, paused at the well and touched Master Dawn on the arm. ‘What goes on there? Countess Kate never travels by charette.’ But Dawn only signed towards the great door of the hall where two women were emerging into the pale sunlight; one petite and dark and very young, garbed in black fustian, the other stout and approaching sixty, waddling behind her charge, warmly cloaked in russet and carrying an armful of cushions.
‘Lady Mary?’ questioned Richard, setting down his sack.
‘And her nurse. Travelling to Shouldham, I hear.’
‘Shouldham?’ Latimer sat on the edge of the well-housing.’
‘Norfolk, south of Lynn. She's to go to the Gilbertine Sisters. Oh, they're all there, the Beauchamp women: the plain ones, the dowerless, the widows in retirement, the family embarrassments. If a girl takes an oath that sets her against marriage where else is there for her to go? She'll be glad of any man's bed after a few weeks in a nun's dorter,’ he added cheerfully.
Lady Mary carried herself proudly, chin up, tip-tilted nose in the air. Richard cast her an admiring glance. The nurse was bundling the cushions into the vehicle and spreading them about, her large rear protruding from the curtained doorway. The girl caught the boy's eyes upon her and surprised him with a sudden, unladylike wink, before she settled herself inside and the carriage rolled unsteadily away.
Richard glanced upwards. A lone figure on the battlements watched the vehicle lumbering clumsily towards the high road. Then Thomas Beauchamp turned and ducked out of sight into the head of the nearest stair-well and Latimer retrieved his sack of feathers, the girl forgotten.
Chapter Eighteen
October - 1343
October mists filled every treeless hollow, girdled every field and softened the bronze sunrise. The highroads out of Warwick were patterned with falling leaves, brittle and sere. On an errand of John Dawn's approval, Richard Latimer walked unchallenged through the lower guard, hesitated momentarily and struck away from the town. His intended destination was to the west, to Beaudesert.
Richard had made little attempt at disguise, save the removal of Warwick's distinctive badge from the breast of his cote; it was now securely tucked away inside his purse. As the day wore on, whistling cheerfully, he took to the forest tracks, keeping away from farms and inns. He had half a loaf of bread and a small round cheese tucked under his cloak and there were streams aplenty at which to quench his thirst. Once, he had to flatten himself into a ditch as a party of horsemen rode by, but they wore Lancaster's livery and would have no interest in his wanderings.
He heaved himself upright and then crouched down as the sound of hooves assaulted his ears again. This time it was a single rider, trotting towards him. He began to crawl out of his nettle-lined hole and, at sight of him, the grey pony, only yards away now and side-stepping, reared in fright and threw his rider into the grass on the opposite side of the road. At her high-pitched scream Richard was across the dusty track and kneeling beside her.
She lay quite still, looking up at him with enormous eyes, blue as speedwells. Her long, dark red hair spread like coloured sea-weed over the briars and the brambles and there was a scratch upon her face. She must have been thirteen or fourteen years old, certainly no more.
‘Are you hurt, lady?’ Richard asked anxiously.
‘No, but you can help me up. Where's my pony?’
‘He's quiet now, over there grazing on the bank.’ He began to extract the red hair from the thorns painstakingly. ‘You're surely not alone, demoiselle?’
The girl snorted. ‘I was with my father; I've run away from him.’
Latimer lifted her in his arms. ‘We'd better seek him anyway.’
The blue eyes flashed angrily. ‘He's taking me to Warwick. I have no desire to go to Warwick!’
Richard smiled, ‘I don't blame you, ma mie. If you can keep a secret, that is where I'm heading away from myself.’
‘Really?’ The blue eyes were enormous again, immediately curious. ‘Put me down, boy and let me introduce myself. I'm the Lady Rose de Brandstone; my father is Lord of Lapworth. I'm on my way to Warwick to wed with one of the Earl's entourage. Do you know Master Nicholas Durvassal?’
‘By sight but we exist on different planes. Very handsome though; the ladies of Warwick will envy you, Lady Rose. It will need all your charms to keep Nicholas your slave.’
Rose jutted her pointed chin. ‘But you don't know me; I always get what I want. But I did not want Nicholas. And what is your name?’
‘Richard - and here's your father, I imagine. I must be on my way.’
Sir Hugh Brandstone, red-faced, panted into view. A word of command to his men-at-arms, and Latimer found both arms pinned swiftly behind his back and received a shove which helped him towards the dismounting knight.
‘Leave him alone, father!’ A swirl of blue silk and the Lady Rose was between them. ‘My pony threw me and this young man came to my rescue.’
At a sign from Sir Hugh his henchmen loosed their captive and stood away.
Richard bowed. ‘At your service, sir. I'm happy to have been of some little assistance. Now I must be on my way.’
‘It seems we owe you some measure of thanks, lad. Come along, Rose Red.’
‘Yes, father, we shouldn't keep Nicholas waiting, should we?’ She smiled at Richard and demurely dropped her dark lashes over the blue eyes. Sir Hugh's face showed astonishment at her change of heart and he threw the boy a querying glance, but that young man bowed again and set off jauntily down the high road. Out of sight of the little group he struck off again into the trees for fear that the Lord of Lapworth, meeting with a patrol, might direct them after him. Later, he managed to hitch a lift on a cart full of timber, bound for Henley village and, mid-afternoon of Market Day, he walked unhindered along the causeway and through the gatehouse of great Beaudesert, into the outer ward, bright with the stalls and awnings of a score of traders.
He wandered amongst them for an hour or so, asking questions and receiving negative answers. Finally, he approached the sentry at the upper gatehouse who was leaning, bored, upon his pike.
‘Friend, perhaps I'm fighting a losing battle but I'm trying to trace my family; they came from hereabouts.’
The sentry at least assumed some interest. ‘What's your name, lad?’
‘That's part of the trouble, I just don't know, but my mother's name was Lora.’
‘Not such an uncommon name,’ said the sentry, ‘and it’s not much to go on, is it? Wait a minute, I'll call the Constable; he's been here since the Flood!’ He disappeared into the barbican and returned with a tall, elderly fellow with iron-grey hair and a twinkle in his deep-set brown eyes.
‘This is the lad?’
The sentry nodded and Geoffrey Mikelton turned Richard to face the last of the sunlight.
‘All he knows is her Christian name.’
Latimer said, ‘She had me fostered when I was a few weeks old, for reasons I know none of and I'd not like to hazard without knowing more about her. I've an idea she came from Beaudesert in Madam Maud's day …’
‘You must know the old lady is dead.’
Richard nodded. ‘My foster parents used to receive an allowance brought by a servant of the lady's every six months, when he came to London to visit the lorimer. Do you know of such a man? Out here a visit to the city must have been talked about in the taverns, on market day…’ He spread his hands.
‘We knew him,’ said Mikelton gravely.
‘But he's no longer at Beaudesert?’
‘No, he died of a flux; barely survived Lady Maud by two weeks. But this doesn't help you. You’re not milady's by-blow if that's what's entered your head, she was nearing ninety when she died.’
‘Perhaps, one of her damsels?’
The sentry shook his head. �
��That'd be before my time.’
Mikelton said, ‘There's one who could have been your mother, but I'd not use her name until I was sure... Listen, boy, Peter de Montfort and his sons are away, but come back when My Lord is home and he'll hear you out. He's a fair minded man.’
‘I can't come back,’ Richard said slowly.
‘Then I can't help you.’ Mikelton never took his eyes from Latimer's face, troubled by the likeness realised there.
‘Is my mother dead?’
‘She took the veil a good many years ago, but she lives.’
‘Where?’
‘Wroxall maybe. No, Pinley. There's one who will remember the story well, My Lord's sister, the Lady Elizabeth Freville; she's staying here.’
‘Then I can see her?’
‘As well be hanged for a sheep,’ sighed the Constable. ‘Come with me then.’
He led Richard through barbican and gateway into the inner ward: four blocks of buildings, cornered by drum towers, surrounded it. The sun was setting and the golden stone had warmed to a deep rose. Two pages in Montfort blue and gold were sparring together; a stableman was rinsing off over a trough of water; a flight of pigeons took off from the chapel roof. Richard followed the Constable through a maze of dark passages, standing in silence whilst he pushed aside a brightly woven tapestry.
A woman's voice asked, ‘What’s wrong, Geoffrey?’
‘My Lady, I've a young man outside, a stranger in quest of his roots. God forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think you should see him.’ Then he was holding the curtain aside and beckoning the boy into the solar. Richard did not afterwards recall the pleasant room: the high-arched windows, the painted walls, the rush lights bright in the sconces, the small fire keeping the autumn chill away. His eyes were only for the woman in the chair, beckoning him forward with a queen's imperiousness.
Mikelton took a breath. ‘There is reason to believe that his mother is the Demoiselle Astley.’
Bess should have felt a certain relief. There was little about the boy to recall Lora Astley of the violet eyes and the buttercup hair, only, perhaps, a certain English fairness. But the years were rolling back to her own girlhood, to the bronzy haired tomboy who could draw a bow as well as her brothers, who could ride as fast. She was remembering a particular summer's day and Peter home from the university at Oxford; Peter at this boy's age, slender and brown but with the same intensity in the berry dark eyes, the same way of glancing up from under those strongly marked brows. They might all cast about for his mother's identity but he had laid his own claims on his father.
Geoffrey Mikelton was staring at Elizabeth. The healthy colour had vanished from her cheeks. ‘He's fair as she was,’ he prodded. ‘How old are you, boy?’
‘Eighteen,’ he was looking at Elizabeth, conscious of her discomfiture. She recovered her composure and gave lip service to anger, surprise and incredulity.
‘Born at Pinley then. No, this is some ridiculous plot to blackmail Peter. If this boy is hers she carried him with her the day she fled. With such insurance for her future she would have known herself safe here. This doesn't ring true. Who sent you here?’ Her voice was harsh now and unsteady.
‘I came of my own free will. No-one else knows I am here.’
Bess rose stiffly and crossed to the window; she stood for a long time looking out across field and woodland. There was a sliver of moon just visible, low in the sky.
‘Perhaps I judge too swiftly, you have a right to an interview with my brother.’
‘My Lady!’ Richard crossed the floor swiftly and snatched at the plump hand, swollen about her wedding ring. ‘I apologise for any distress this may be causing you but…’
She cut him short. ‘Don't thank me yet. Geoffrey, I want him searched thoroughly before he partakes of our hospitality.’
Latimer shrugged his shoulders and handed over his cloak.
‘And your purse!’
Mikelton ran a hand swiftly about the lining of the cloak and held out a hand for the leather pouch. ‘My lady, look at this!’ He handed a piece of cloth across to his mistress and gripped the young man by the elbow.
Elizabeth Freville relaxed visibly and began to laugh. ‘You little fool!’ She held out Warwick's badge, torn earlier from the breast of his cote. ‘You could not even successfully hide your allegiance. Is Warwick so desperate that he sends an untrained boy to spy upon us?’
Richard said, ‘Warwick employs me, My Lady, it's true enough, but as a fletcher. He does not know I am here. All that I have told you is the truth, I would swear to it. Only let me talk to your brother and…’
‘You would perjure yourself? Rest assured, Peter shall know of this but I'll not house you in the days till his return. Geoffrey, I want two of your men summoned at once. See he's bound and returned to Warwick; Thomas Beauchamp shall know of my displeasure and that he wears the fool's cap for this little denouement. Get him out of my sight!’
Richard struggled futilely as the Constable's men bound his wrists but Mikelton, a gauntleted hand under his armpit, propelling him through the gatehouse said, ‘Lady Elizabeth will inform My Lord. If you're Peter de Montfort's son he'll not desert you. Take some comfort from that.’ And then he was helping him into the saddle and the escort was forming up around him.
~o0o~
Thomas Beauchamp, Durvassal at his side, came to meet the party from Beaudesert as they came through the arch of the great gate and into the ring of torchlight within the courtyard. It was the first time in sixteen years that the blue and gold of Montfort had been received beyond the gate. All who could be spared gathered to wonder at the phenomenon but they kept themselves at a safe distance. Beauchamp, lavishly appointed in black and gold, wore a thunderous expression, boding ill for someone. The young man on Peter de Montfort's bay rouncy, who was known to be one of Ralph Dawn's men and merely a hired fletcher, held himself proud and aloof and disdainful; his hands were bound. Mikelton dismounted, gave Warwick a curt bow and handed him a parchment to which Lady Freville had affixed her distinctive seal. He waited respectfully as the Earl perused the document, rolled it and thrust it into Durvassal's hands before turning back to Geoffrey.
‘Thank Lady Freville for her timely delivery of my man. I will be pleased to discuss the matter of his identity when My Lord de Montfort returns home. Can I have you served ale before you ride away? Offer some refreshment perhaps?’ He was unfailing in his courtesy and solicitude. Mikelton refused all with a minimum of grace. ‘Of course, of course, you'll be anxious to be away and you'll wish to take your hack. Nicholas, unhorse Master Latimer and bring him here.’
Mikelton could only watch as Richard was dragged roughly from the saddle, hampered by his bound wrists, and flung forward to pull himself up short only a foot or two away from Thomas Beauchamp. His voice was young and clear and carrying, charged with anger.
‘You have known from the beginning, My Lord. I was your dupe and never more than a hostage!’
Thomas Beauchamp smiled, as once, years ago in this very court, another man had smiled, and brought up his right hand to strike Richard across the face, not once but three times; the boy, staggering from the blows, struggled to keep his feet. Mikelton would have remembered that other occasion; he had accompanied his lord when they brought the boy Earl back to Warwick and his gaoler. Mikelton would ride home to Beaudesert and give good account of this afternoon's tableau. He had no doubts as to whose son he had delivered into certain captivity.
Beauchamp met the old man's gaze across the court and inclined his head in a curt gesture of dismissal. Peter's constable gathered the reins of the riderless bay, wheeled about, and left the courtyard.
Warwick turned back to Richard de Montfort. ‘Did you expect to harangue me before the greater part of my household and get away with it without an example being made? I think not. Was that out and out masochism or merely a statement as to which side of the fence you intend to stake your claim? Ah, now I see you are too cowed to open your mouth for fear I close it fo
r you again.’
‘No, My Lord, that isn't so.’ Richard's fair skin was flaming; his teeth ached.
Beauchamp said, ‘I feel you are a little premature in supposing that I relinquish my claims as your lord and master. You had my express orders to keep away from Montfort land; I could not have spoken plainer. You disobey my laws, break your word, harass my neighbours…’
‘No, My Lord, I never gave my word, I saw no reason, no need. The quest was my own - or so I thought - and for all your oaths you do not own me.’ This time he kept his voice pitched lower out of the hearing of Warwick's retainers and the curious gathering of cooks and buttery girls. He was learning, but Warwick could feel the leashed fury which contained him. He put an arm across his shoulders and turned him towards the hall.
‘We shall go indoors and find a little more privacy. You see, I am all solicitude, anxious to save you from yourself. Next time it will be a lash between the shoulder blades.’ The long fingers moved to the nape of his neck and slid below the band of his shirt until he felt the smooth flesh shudder and withdrew the hand with a laugh.
‘How long have you known of my parentage when even the Montforts seemed genuinely unaware?’
‘My poor boy, you are rambling. What proofs have you of descent from Montfort?’ They were in the hall now, standing above the fire, there was no-one nearer than the shadowy recesses of the window embrasures, the dark at the foot of the stair-well.
‘I had the ring,’ said Richard. ‘Return the gold band I left with you for safe-keeping and I will give you proof.’
‘Did you so? I cannot recollect…’ Warwick was speaking slowly, as if his mind was elsewhere. Then he sprang back to the present. ‘I hired you as a fletcher, a city apprentice, and how do you repay me? With delusions of grandeur; weaving tales of fantasy about a noble birth, like a starry-eyed goose girl. But I am inclined to leniency and intend to leave you whole until My Lord de Montfort has seen you at least.’