The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘I owe her nothing.’ John’s face was set.

  Orabella laughed. ‘When you have sons perhaps you will realise how great a debt you do owe to Lora Astley. Life is sprinkled with the stepping stones of small gratitudes; debts never paid perhaps but set like jewels into the heart.’

  ‘And disaffection and grievances and regrets? Where would you set them?’

  ‘Oh, they come and go, creeping into our existences like the succubus that steals into a man’s bed and lies with him and leeches his soul away.’ She took his hands and turned them, examining his wrists. ‘You are ice-cold, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, and mightn’t you remove the hideous headdress? I can’t talk to a pie frill!’

  ‘It cost my husband a small fortune.’ She reached up and slowly removed the goffered cap. In doing so she tweaked out the pins and let fall the blue-black coils of her hair.

  He took both hands and slid them over her shoulders, filling them with weeds of raven darkness.

  Orabella said, ‘Whatever happened to Johanna?’

  ‘I married her. She is travelling. She enjoys travel.’

  ‘They do say it broadens the mind. I imagine she will need to be broadminded, married to you.’

  ‘We have an open arrangement,’ said John airily, leading her to the bed and inviting her to sit beside him.

  ‘Indeed, and is Johanna aware of it? My spies tell me she has been seen at Court. She will be well-placed to take some red-blooded young buck into her bed.’

  John only raised one eyebrow, refusing to be baited. ‘But are there any left, Madam, who have not first served their apprenticeship in yours?’

  Orabella turned on him then and boxed his ears until he caught at the slender wrists and pulled her down on top of him, laughing. For a while they fought each other until she said imperiously, ‘You’d better unlace my gown!’

  ‘Will it be worth my while or do you intend to spend the evening pricking at my conscience with your poisonous barbs – first my mother, then my wife. I now seem to have acquired a brother.’ He was lounging on one elbow, hair shockingly tousled; robe thrust back from his shoulders and shirt half off his back. He looked fetchingly decadent and frighteningly young.

  She said, ‘I am come as proxy for Kate; I will not renege. I am here to offer myself in sacrifice for My Lady.’

  ‘Then you are absolved, free to go. I would not have you arched before me like a saint on a griddle.’

  Orabella kissed him, rather thoroughly. ‘Would you deny me my Crown of Glory? Martyrdom carries with it its own essential ecstasy.’ She paused. ‘Last time I kissed you, you tasted of blackberries.’

  ‘Did you kiss me very often?’ John was working deftly at the lacing which imprisoned her into the sheath of her gown.

  ‘No, I think once was probably enough. It pleased Roger that I should make myself amenable to your father and that apparently included embracing the fruit of his loins. At eight you were a calculating little monster. Might you have changed?’ But he had rid her of the last clinging folds of the blood-red velvet; the fine linen of her shift slid away from her shoulders and he was pressing easy kisses into her smooth white flesh and down along the notches of her spine as he laid her bare inch by inch. She turned towards him and caught him to her, murmuring on an in breath, ‘I suspect you’ve done this before.’

  ‘I might have. You talk a deal too much, lady!’ There was nothing now between the moon-whiteness of her breasts and the thudding of his heart. His hands were on her hips, stripping away the last clinging folds of gown and shift until they slithered into a scarlet pool upon the floor beside the bed.

  John had his mouth at her neck. ‘Can you get me out of…’ the firelight was pricking out the tiny beads of perspiration clustered about his hairline and she took pity on him then, helping him to shed the last encumbrances of his own garments until they were both naked, couched by the heaped cushions which had earlier graced the White Knight’s pavilion at Coleshill.

  Orabella lay as white and pale as a lily in its calyx, blemish free and seemingly untouchable. John de Montfort was much more a creature of his own world, with the scattered scars of melee and joust marring the translucency of his fair skin, spattered by the freckles of his great grandmother’s legacy.

  He jabbed a knee purposefully between the yielding columns of her thighs. Orabella smiled at the predictability. ‘I never asked. How is the back?’ She took his head upon her breasts and let one hand trace the fretted scars with the gentlest of caresses that, perversely, sent frissons of desire arrowing through his body and he drew in a shuddering breath to be stilled against the soft whiteness.

  ‘I’m sorry, I hurt you,’ she let the importunate hand drift through the auburn hair.

  ‘No, you didn’t. Don’t stop. Orabella, I never thanked you – for Warwick.’

  ‘Then you can thank me now. I’m quite ready to be thanked. In fact, I don’t think you should wait a minute more….’

  They were not to surface until the fire-castles had collapsed into grey ash and the room was growing cold.

  John de Montfort lay on his back, a louche look in the half-closed violet eyes. Orabella knew that she could give him more than ten years; it made her feel unusually maternal. She pushed a lock of the sweat-soaked auburn hair from his forehead and kissed him gently.

  ‘Are you going to fall asleep on me?’

  ‘I might. No, I’m listening.’

  She sat up, tracing one of her long, almond-tipped fingers over his chest and across the taut lines of his belly.

  ‘My dear, I did not expect you to be so considerate – so perceptive?’

  He opened his eyes wide, faintly embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to say.’ He shrugged. ‘I am as I am.’

  Her dark hair whispered over him like drifts of sarcenet. ‘How did you learn to pluck at the nerve endings? A latter day Orpheus drawing sweet notes from a discordant lyre?’

  ‘I work at it,’ laughed John with a distinct lack of humility, ‘like anything else. And you make it so easy, My Lady. That came quite close to perfection.’

  Orabella might have slapped his face but he was too attractive a creature to mar. Instead, her insistent fingers snaked into his groin again and dug viciously before her mouth came down on his yell of anguish.

  ‘You’re an arrogant bastard, Johnny,’ she said surfacing.

  ‘That bloody well hurt. You didn’t have to cripple me!’

  Orabella said, ‘Kate will be waiting,’ but she let her lips travel down his body until the unbound hair whispered tantalisingly, cruelly about his loins and she dropped a kiss in earnest of an apology.

  ‘Don’t do that, if you won’t stay.’ He was mildly irritated. ‘That’s a whore’s trick; leave them asking for more!’

  ‘And you would know?’ She sat up, reaching for her shift.

  ‘I don’t have to pay for it. I’m reasonably popular without.’ His smile was refulgent. Arms folded behind his head he was relaxed in the perfect nakedness of youth.

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Orabella dryly, much amused.

  ‘I suppose I shall be dissected before the delectable countess. Do women talk of their conquests?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, you have nothing to fear. And I, shall I be reduced to a pot-house boast by tomorrow night?’

  ‘I keep my counsel, lady. You insult me if you believe otherwise!’ He turned his back on her, searching for his shirt.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Johnny, don’t sulk. I need lacing back into this frippery.’

  ‘You can’t go, not now.’ He pulled her into his arms again and held her close against him. She laughed softly, delighted by his very obvious need for her and pushed him away.

  ‘I’m sorry; you’ll have to shift for yourself when I’m gone.’

  For all his seeming sophistication he flushed scarlet at that and said, ‘Go to hell, Orabella!’

  She kissed the set, mutinous mouth. ‘Thank you for a remarkably delicio
us evening,’ bundled her hair into the unbecoming headdress, swathed herself into her cloak and swept up the box with the Mortimer Eagle safe inside. Then she was gone.

  ~o0o~

  Kate was abed in their lodgings at the Abbey Guest House. She sat up and pushed back the covers when Orabella entered bringing the cold air from monkish corridors with her. Kate was swaddled in her travelling cloak and shivering. ‘Thank God you’re back. I suffered an endless evening discussing almshouses with the Abbess.’

  Orabella tossed her the rosewood box and the Countess peered inside. ‘You don’t think it could be a fake?’

  ‘No,’ said Orabella, ‘the original is bad enough. Who would want to counterfeit such a monstrosity?’

  Kate snapped the lid to and set the box aside. ‘You were a long time. Something must have happened. You did, didn’t you, you and the Montfort boy?’

  Orabella, stripped naked, was climbing into the bed beside her. The Countess sniffed. ‘You look positively glowing,’ she tried.

  ‘It’s below freezing. I thought you might have noticed.’

  ‘But you’ve got that look – like a cat in a creamery.’

  Orabella struggled to pull the coverlet up to her chin. The Abbess’s mattress was lumpy and scratchy, obviously designed for mortification of the flesh.

  Kate, with a sudden nostalgia for a certain sunny day at Coleshill said, ‘Was he good?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ smiled Orabella, ‘he was good, exceptionally good. Worth every pot-hole in the road!’ She turned her back on the shivering Countess, wondered briefly about monastic fleas, and was soon asleep.

  ~o0o~

  In the morning Simon Trussel came in to set all in order again. He wrinkled up his patrician nose. ‘It smells like….’

  ‘Just don’t say it,’ said John. ‘Just don’t think about saying it!’

  ‘Her perfume,’ said Trussel, wounded, ‘jasmine with just a trace of….’

  ‘Whorehouse?’ finished John. ‘You pay a lot for that in London.’

  ‘Vetiver was what I had in mind.’ Simon plumped up a cushion energetically, made up the fire, shook out the discarded blue robe and tossed the crumpled shirt into a laundry basket. He was not a silent worker.

  John said, ‘Come here and sit down. I assume these little instances of your displeasure, like your thumping hell out of my prize possessions, denote your disapproval?’

  Trussel, perched on the end of the bed with his back to him, nodded. ‘How much did you pay her – sir?’

  John laughed. ‘Mercenary little devil, not a silver penny!’

  ‘Then where’s the pearl brooch, the one you had of the slave girl at Coleshill. It was here last night.’

  ‘You notice far too much. Call it a gift.’

  ‘It just makes her a high-class whore then!’

  John threw a cushion at him, green and gold with a silver trim. ‘Since when did you become my conscience? Since when were you hired to become my censor? Are you listening, Simon? I told you when you first came to serve me that it wasn’t going to be Camelot; I would never become the perfect knight. You have tried, no one could have tried harder, but I’m all too human and hasn’t anyone ever muttered in your ear bad blood will out?’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t dare; I’d flatten them!’

  ‘Thank you for that. Simon, are you going to be like this all week? If so I’ll send you on an errand to Cousin Butler’s and perhaps you’ll end up snowbound. Aunt Butler’s sons are all paragons of chivalry, a delight to observe.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘Then fetch me a cup of mulled wine. You can start reforming me again later in the week.’

  Trussel slid round to face him, arms about his knees. ‘Was she very beautiful under the velvet and furs?’

  ‘You don’t ask things like that but yes, she was. Now off with you!’

  Trussel scrambled to his feet and fled. The door slammed back, the shutters banged, dark smoke billowed out from the hearth and Ajax bounded in and made straight for the bone of the Blessed St. Edward. Montfort, splendidly naked, rescued it with a flying tackle. It was the beginning of another typical day!

  ~o0o~

  There was a tangible excitement emanating from the knot of people at the Lower Guard, to the assembled garrison above the gatehouse, to the gathering in the great court. Peter de Montfort was riding to Warwick to be received of Thomas de Beauchamp. He had not crossed the fourteen arches of the bridge and ridden up the ramp since that day, thirteen years ago, when the seventeen year old earl had turned him away from the gate into the driving rain.

  Pikeman, Laundress and Pastry Cook, all stood aside to watch his progress and to wonder at his presence after so many years. At his back rode Bastard John, his handsome familiar. A figure ran forward to snatch at Peter's bridle, but not until orders were given. It was as well to note which way the cat would jump. Then Warwick moved out from the hall to greet his neighbour; fastidiously polite. Peter dismounted and gave him his hand to clasp but it was as if they were strangers meeting for the first time, with constraint between them and more than a little wariness. Montfort was above average height and had lately put on weight; his eyes were a warm dark brown beneath heavy brows and a thatch of dark hair, greying at the temples. He wore a military surcote of Montfort blue and gold and the trappings of his mount bore the blue and gold stripes of his coat of arms, making a deep contrast with Warwick's loose civil robes of cramoisy velvet.

  ‘Peter, this is a delightful, if not quite unexpected surprise,’ Beauchamp drawled, ‘and John too. You are welcome to Warwick both. Katherine, you have so often heard me speak of My Lord de Montfort. He served my father well in his last years. John, sadly, we have missed growing up; I hear you were in Derby's service?’

  John inclined his head; his bland expression did not betray that he had ever set eyes upon the Countess. Kate was relieved. One white hand strayed from the folds of her cloak to play nervously with the brooch at her right shoulder; an outsize pearl, shaped like an eagle and surrounded by diamonds. Montfort lingered long over her other hand. ‘I am glad to see it restored to its rightful place.’ He straightened and his eyes met hers as they had met on a summer's afternoon by the River Cole. He shrugged his shoulders in a genuine gesture of regret. Warwick was ushering them towards the hall and snapping his fingers for refreshments.

  ‘Peter, to what do we owe this visit?’ They were neither of them fooled by this show of hospitality.

  Peter said, ‘A strange tale, My Lord. Do you recall the youth my sister returned to you after his trespass at Beaudesert? He who claimed to be my son?’

  ‘I remember well. A likely tale! I was distressed that any man of mine should evoke trouble between our houses; he has been punished, I assure you, but he's young and …’

  ‘Quite, but I do have such a son. The story is long but may it suffice that his existence was kept from me all these years. I do have good reason to think that this boy spoke the truth.’

  ‘My dear man! I'll have him brought here. Nicholas, ask Master Latimer to attend on us.’ He turned to Peter and proffered him wine. ‘You've proof of this young man's identity? I shall be losing a worthy fletcher.’ He laughed and for a moment Montfort caught a glimpse of the boy who had once chased up and down the towers of Beaudesert and sped through the wards on his fat little pony, yelling the war cries of his illustrious forebears. Durvassal returned, Richard at his back. He stood aside to let the boy pass into the hall, watching Peter de Montfort's face, as they all watched - Thomas and John and Mikelton, Kate and Orabella. Peter saw a tall, fair young man in a plain woollen cote; mulberry with a blue border. The young unlined face with those vivid dark eyes was a handsome one. He had none of John's profligate charm; his gaze was direct and uncompromising, steady and honest. He too was carrying out his fair share of appraisal. He had sought this man out, forced himself upon the de Montforts, shattered their peace and rattled skeletons in their closets, but he was not prepared to give himself into their hands w
ithout a good deal of thought on the matter.

  He moved slowly forward, graceful enough in his carriage and bearing and bowed the knee to the Lord of Beaudesert; an acknowledgement but without a hint of subservience.

  ‘On your feet, lad, and answer My Lord's questions,’ said Warwick brusquely and left them to wander to a window as he listened to the story he knew so well by now and which ended with Richard's joining his household.

  Peter was saying, ‘There's little doubt left in my mind that you are my son but the world always needs proof. Have you the ring I understand your mother left with you in babyhood?’

  Richard glanced at Warwick's back. ‘I had it, My Lord, until recently when it was stolen from me.’

  Peter shrugged. ‘No matter.’

  John had been seized by the desire to get out of the hall, to go up onto the leads, anywhere rather than meet his brother face to face. He moved to slip away but Thomas Beauchamp flung an arm across his shoulders, proffering a cup of hippocras and a plate of saffron cakes, stuffed with raisins.

  ‘Coward!’ hissed Warwick, waving a cup. ‘How's the back?’

  ‘I heal quickly. Do I have to watch this nauseating charade? Is it to be your fatted calf or ours?’

  Then Peter broke in - ‘I am certain for my part that this is my son. Thomas, I thank your for your hospitality and will trouble you no further. There are possessions you would wish to collect, Richard?’

  Latimer did not move. He waited for Warwick to speak and forbid his going.

  ‘You are hasty, friend. I will not lose a good fletcher on such a thin chance. Master Latimer has well over a year to serve with me; he swore an oath binding him to my service when I took him in last November. I should, of course, absolve him were the proof unchallengeable but as things stand he is still my man. Bring me incontrovertible proof and I will let him go to you.’

  ‘My lord,’ Richard blurted out, ‘he's blackmailing you. He's had an eye on me these last three years, ready to use me against you when the time came. Promise him nothing!’