by Helen Burton
‘My Lady?’ Trussel was removing his master's right boot. He glanced up politely.
‘The best thing there is for the purification of the blood,’ she said and swept from the room.
Trussel looked up again from beneath his dark fringe. ‘It's only a flesh wound,’ he mouthed. ‘Only a flesh wound! You're a bloody fool - sir! This is going to hurt.’
‘I'm an Englishman,’ said Montfort, ‘I'm not supposed to care. Is it infected?’
‘I don't know. Do I have to sniff at it?’
‘I imagine so, how else can you tell? But you're meant to remove the bandages first!’
‘Perhaps your aunt could do better.’ Trussel was unwinding strips of linen. ‘Do I yank at the last bit?’ He was looking doubtful.
Montfort nodded and turned his head towards the back of the armchair, face hidden by the tangle of his auburn hair.
‘You're going to have to yell. It doesn't matter,’ said his squire. But the victor of Ludlow had his even, white teeth clamped upon the cuff of his velvet jupon.
‘It's quite clean,’ announced Trussel cheerfully, ‘you won't go lame. A pity really, a limp is wildly romantic. The ladies go for a man with a limp.’
‘Get out, Simon!’
‘Don't you want it bound up again? You might as well sit it out, I can't work in instalments. A good squire has to contend with anything, your father says…’
‘Christ, didn't you hear me!’
~o0o~
Later, when the boards were spread and the cressets lit, it was a light-hearted company who sat down for supper, finally moving the trestles away and settling to hear the mummers play.
John sat in a chair close to the fire, his injured leg upon a pile of cushions. Bess had a length of embroidery, destined for her younger nephew's bed-chamber, across her lap and a pool of bright silks scattered about her. Guy had pulled a stool close to John's knee and every time there was a dramatic pause in the proceedings he embarked upon quick fire questions concerning jousts and horses, Marcher Barons - and horses, hounds - and horses, and were there any trick-riders amongst the mummers? John said he didn't think so by the look of the sorry nags they had trailed up the causeway and tethered in the bailey.
Some of the mummers had formed a little musical ensemble. Their leader had a pleasing baritone voice and sang all the old favourites.
Bess sent Guy up to bed at last and took over the footstool, her embroidery laid aside. She did not look at John as she said, ‘Earlier this week a boy came here, a lad of eighteen or so, a stranger. He claimed he was your brother, your father's son.’ She thought John was still listening to the song.
‘And what did you do?’
‘Sent him packing back to Warwick whence he hailed.’
‘There's an end then,’ said her nephew.
‘Yes. No! Perhaps he is your sibling. He is like her and more than like your father; the same dark eyes. I remember Peter at that age…’
‘Perhaps Lora Astley took other lovers,’ said Lora's son, unconcerned, though he remembered his father’s testament to her fidelity.
‘Then you wrong her, John. Whatever she was she remained true to your father. You had better not put such a theory before him if you value your skin!’
‘So you do propose to tell him?’
‘Of course, then it’s out of my hands.’
‘He will go to Warwick.’
‘Yes, he will certainly wish to put his mind at rest one way or the other. Are you tired, my dear? Why don't you get off to bed?’
Montfort smiled at her and shook his head. ‘I want to speak to the Player King. They deserve a handful of coins. Would you ask him over here?’ Bess nodded and the leader, a thick-set, black-haired giant, moved swiftly to the fireside, making a low obeisance.
‘We pleased your lordship? Would he recommend us about the shire?’
‘You could please me more - if you have time to listen.’
The giant shrugged. ‘The night is young. Can I sit down?’
Bess, moving about the hall, tidying away her silks, letting fall a word or two here and there to favoured members of her brother's household, cast a glance in her nephew's direction. He had his head bent low, expounding something to the big man, laughing, rings flashing as he spread his hands. Then she saw coins pass between them. Not the tawdry gleam of silver pennies but the bright fire of gold lay in the palm of the Player King, and the smile which followed him across the room and lingered at the corners of her nephew's straight, set mouth, set her nerves on edge and she wished she could have wiped it away and rubbed out whatever devilry he was planning. Thank heaven that Peter would soon be home to see to his own affairs. She wanted to be back at Tamworth before the winter snows set in. She tried to persuade herself that her son needed her, that her daughters were poor, ineffectual creatures and would be glad to see her home. She fell asleep that night quite convinced of it.
~o0o~
A feast fit for a queen; and, indeed, Katherine Beauchamp was queen that night, sitting at the high table, in the place of honour, with her husband on her right. The excitement and happiness were bubbling over from the shivering, shimmering height of her gold-spangled headdress, topped with its fairytale coronet, to the tiny red-slippers which tapped under the table to the beat of tambour and drum. Her dark eyes were sparkling, her cheeks burning scarlet like the face of a painted doll, and her round, high bosom strained beneath the low-cut gown, carnation red velvet edged with ermine. The belt which was clasped precariously about her hips was studded with balays, the pink eyes of each ruby winking back at the flambeaux set about the tables.
The boards were covered with fine white linen and garlanded with evergreens and knots of crimson roses worked in stiffened tissue. From the dais, the lower tables produced a sea of upturned faces, flushed, expectant, and set to enjoy themselves. From the gallery came a fanfare of silver trumpets and the service screens were moved aside to allow a procession of liveried squires and pages to bring in an endless succession of exotic dishes. A peacock in his pride, beak and claws gilded, headed the train and was placed before the countess with sucking pig stuck with cloves and accompanied by a Master Chef's ginger sauce, and then Katherine's favourites, Pommes Dames, little roundels of beef and pork, currants and spices, rolled in parsley, flour and egg yolk, baked and presented like little green apples; and perch, simmered in almond milk, and saffron cakes and candied gillyflowers…
Lady A, beside her mistress, pecked at her food and sipped vernage, clear and gold in the cup, bored by the artificiality of the evening, the endless comedy of manners.
About the diners, Thomas's acrobats balanced silver balls on the soles of their feet and, at the farthest table, the mummers, who were to present their plays at the end of the evening, sat over pots of sack and venison patties and wondered at the cavorting of the rich and famous.
Thomas touched Katherine on one plump, white hand. ‘A last dish, something special…’ he murmured and Katherine smiled and shook her head.
‘Not another morsel, My Lord, I need to loosen my girdle as it is!’ But the earl was on his feet, all understated elegance in sea green damask, clapping his hands. The silver trumpets were braying out again. Four pages in red and gold wheeled in a wooden trolley, rattling their way between the tables, lumbering precariously towards the dais. Upon the trolley stood a pie, lightly baked an appetising golden brown but vast enough to serve the whole company, slice for slice. Its surface was stuck about with every kind of bird and flower in gilded marchpane; it was gaudy, it was the worst kind of vulgarity and Katherine loved it. Hands clasped together, eyes enormous, she watched it trundle towards her to brake just beyond her own seat. There was another concatenation of trumpet calls - this time they were out of synchronisation - and into the silence which followed broke the splintering disintegration of the pastry crust. A hundred tiny gold pieces flew up into the air. Katherine squealed in alarm as out of the wreck emerged a figure, diabolic in black and silver, crumbs of pie-crust adh
ering to his auburn hair. The black cote was of poor enough stuff, the silver buttons tarnished but Katherine only noticed that he was tall, he was young, he was handsome, and the long musician's fingers cradled a lute, its ribbons spilling black and gold across his sleeve. He bowed low, the dark red hair falling forward across his forehead, the violet eyes fastening upon hers as he straightened up. Katherine drew in a breath, quite audibly and caught her lower lip in her teeth before flashing a quick sidelong look at her husband and smiling steadily. The man in the pie was seated on the edge of his trolley, picking out a tune, the instrument none the worse for its incarceration.
It was a pleasing voice, proxy for the Earl, gliding obediently about the words of a love song chosen, no doubt, as one of her favourites. There was no insolence, no passion beyond that knitted into the poet's words and the lazy violet eyes did not linger upon the girl but sought beyond her to where the tapestried walls disappeared into darkness.
Lady A, who, like Kate, had recognised the face of the White Knight of the Coleshill Jousts, thought, ‘If only Katherine keeps her head Thomas will suspect nothing.’
Only at the last did he raise one eyebrow and a sardonic smile touched the corners of his mouth. Katherine had flamed to the crimson of her gown but she seized the moment to turn swiftly and take her husband's face between the white hands and fasten a kiss upon the hard straight mouth. Warwick's own fingers came down upon her shoulders, pushing her back into her chair, one hand sliding down to slip beneath the ermine edging of her gown until he had cupped one breast in his palm and was crushing her mouth beneath his own. At the lower tables they were shouting and stamping and cheering.
Thomas said, ‘Sweetheart, if I were to take you here in the rushes I think they would only cheer twice as loud!’ And he let her go. The pie man had vanished into air, as mysteriously as he had come and Orabella had gone too. Katherine heaved a sigh of relief. He would be watched, she could rely on Lady A, but what madness had possessed him to seek her out here? She pulled herself together, patting coquettishly at her hair. The man was dangerous, doubly so within her husband's walls but she had to speak with him. Orabella would realise that, of course, it would all be in hand. Only wait a while, act normally, be natural, chivvy the guests, laugh and nod at the mummers, smile and smile...
~o0o~
It was Nicholas Durvassal who came upon John de Montfort in the deserted solar, lounging in Warwick's own chair, the firelight ruddy on the shuttered face, glinting in the tawdry buttons amongst the night-black of cote and hose and leather boots.
‘Damn you, man, that is the Earl's place, no-one else sits there!’ Durvassal burst out angrily, but the other did not move except perhaps to stretch out long legs to the blaze. ‘What do you think you are doing in here? Answer me, fool!’ Durvassal's tone had a ring of authority few would have dared ignore but Montfort only put out a hand to take a late, sharp apple from the wooden bowl beside him and bit deeply into it. Durvassal moved then. ‘This is presumption indeed!’
‘I merely wait for milord, for Thomas Beauchamp. I have time to wait, don't trouble for me.’ But Durvassal had turned his head and called out for assistance and it was quickly forthcoming in the shape of two of the garrison's archers coming off duty, jostling their way through the arras to Durvassal's side.
‘No-one enters here without a summons. A man of your sort, what could you possibly want with Thomas Beauchamp?’
‘I think that is my affair. I will wait.’
‘Caught thieving and trying to bluff it out,’ said Durvassal. ‘Get up!’ He watched Montfort swagger to his feet and stand, one hand on his hip, as tall as himself, easily as arrogant; Nicholas feared himself well-matched. He stood by, red and gold and imperious, the Earl's body-squire with referred power at his finger tips, confident in the presence of menials. Who was this but the poorest sort of player, tricked out in black and silver tonight but tomorrow back in dull burnet and frieze with the dun-coloured multitude. ‘Search him and be thorough!’ He clicked his fingers and the man stood and let them pinion his arms behind his back with nothing but a hint of bored impatience on his handsome young face. But he could not sustain his indifference; the searchers were too intimate and he broke free and lashed out at them.
‘There's nothing on him,’ said one of the archers with genuine regret.
‘Then I was in time,’ said Durvassal grimly. ‘God knows what he would have purloined and made away with. Take him out and set him in the pillory; that will divest him of his arrogance!’
‘Are you a gaming man? I should not bet on it,’ said Montfort, pinned between his two guards. ‘Tell My Lord…’
‘I will tell him nothing. Out with him, and Roger…’
‘Sir?’
‘For his presumption, have him whipped!’
Chapter Twenty
October - 1343
It was a crisp, cold night and breath froze in the air in little vapour clouds. The stars were brilliant white daisies in a clear sky. Lady A placed a smooth pale hand on Beauchamp's arm. ‘Thomas, the man at the pillory, are you aware of his identity?’
Beauchamp shrugged his shoulders. ‘A thief in the night, no more. One of the mummers. Nicholas caught him skulking about the solar.’
‘Nicholas is having him whipped,’ said Lady A.
‘Squeamish? Surely not you? I was proposing to wander over and add my authority and approval.’
‘Then you really don't know who he is?’
‘The boy in the pie, so they tell me. It does worry you, Orabella, I wonder why?’ They were out in the courtyard now. The pillory was raised to provide a decent view from as wide a distance as possible.
‘Your pie-man, Thomas, he of the haunting voice, is Peter Montfort's son. He was a pretty boy; he's grown up somewhat.’ The crowd had lit torches, crude affairs of rag dipped in resin. The light left the cross-bar of the double pillory a shadowy crucifix upon the inside of the curtain wall.
The young man was trapped, as was customary, by the neck and both wrists, and the mob would have been happy to pelt him with anything to hand but not before they had witnessed the stipulated degradation of a whipping which was why Nicholas, stage-managing, had ordered cote and shirt slit from the neck and dragged from his back before they closed the top bar of the pillory and held him fast. Durvassal could not soil his own hands; he had summoned a sergeant at arms, willing enough to lift the lash.
Thomas said, ‘I think we might have him taken down. I should hate to see a dangerous precedent set. It is a noble stock, if tainted with the Astley blood. But we must not show too great a haste, Orabella; that would be unseemly. And admit it, it is great theatre; the dark night, the wild, leering faces of the populace, torchlit, drunk with blood-lust - and my wine, the hapless prisoner caught like a fly in amber, not even the privacy of rough oak to cushion his face like a man at the whipping post, but spread-eagled there in the wavering torchlight so that every frisson of fear, every contraction of a nerve ending, every silent appeal to heaven, lays the soul naked in the eyes. Oh, Nicholas has a remarkable talent for a spectacle. I suppose one could reason that he has been well-taught!’
Then the lash fell again.
Orabella felt her own body convulse. The sound echoed about the courtyard and bounced back from the surrounding towers to shatter into a hundred echoes. She turned away remembering a sunny St. Barnaby’s; Johanna Clinton in her flower-decked tower; Lady Kate, her plump wrists bound with golden twine, and the young man in white who had charmed them both so effortlessly.
‘Thomas, over the years, when have I ever asked for anything? There are no debts between us but for God’s sake have him taken down!’
Thomas only raised his eyebrows and smiled at her; but he clapped his hands and raised his voice:
‘Hold there! I come as emissary from the Countess. It has been her evening and a happy one. She has put forward a plea that so sweet a singer should not be constrained to trill out a baser note.’ He was at the foot of the pillory now, Orabella
at his side, and the crowd had drawn away to give them space. His eyes were upon the young man's face, sweat-streaked, colourless; blue eyes fixed upon violet.
Montfort said, ‘I will not sing, My Lord, for you or for her. I would not debase the art.’ And the violet eyes were steady upon his own. He could not see, as Beauchamp could see, that Durvassal, stung by his tone, had signed for the lash to descend again and there was no time between its snaking hiss and its fall to dredge up another sliver of cold courage. Montfort cried out, the breath harsh in his throat.
‘That is a lesson learned,’ said Beauchamp pleasantly enough. ‘Zealous Nicholas! See that he is freed and brought to the solar!’
‘But, My Lord!’
‘The solar, Nicky, at once, and there will be no man-handling on the way; I need him conscious!’ He had turned on his heels, confident that he would be obeyed. Orabella had melted away into the darkness.
In the firelit solar the shutters were closed on the autumn night, the shadows huge on the painted walls, glowing with rich, warm colour. It was perhaps the nearest to a scene of cosy domesticity that the fortress could produce on such an evening. Outside, the wind whined about the corner towers and the bare branches of Arden oaks threshed beyond the river. Warwick was standing with his back to the fire, thumbs hooked in his belt, warming himself; when they brought John de Montfort into the room he left the warm circle of the hearth and motioned for his archers to go, moving to the table and hooking out a stool before signing for the young man to sit.
‘I really think you should. Defiance has little to recommend it without an audience - it certainly doesn't impress me - and dignity is difficult to maintain with your shirt off your back and I see they tipped a bucket of water over you. How careless! Do avail yourself of the offer before you pass out.’
‘I shan’t…’ Montfort began, gritting teeth whose chattering threatened to obscure reasoned conversation.