The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  Durvassal was kneeling, retching over his folded arms. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘Just give me one hour alone with him, My Lord, and I'll mend his manners!’

  ‘Nicky, I seem to recall that your wedding is only hours away. You'd better get off to bed.’

  ‘What, and leave you with him?’ Nicholas's head shot up.

  Warwick smiled, ‘You can put a man on the door, though I think the fight is out of him. Durvassal got to his feet and flung away through the tapestry covered doorway leading to the upper floors. Warwick turned to his prisoner, who was hauling himself upright from the ruins of a bowl of fruit. He had a cut on his temple; he smelt of river mud. Warwick crossed to a wooden coffer and drew out a clean linen towel, tossing it across to the boy. ‘Richard, you're a dirty fighter, no sense of sportsmanship. Perhaps you have forgotten that Nicholas weds the Lady Rose at noon tomorrow? Or perhaps you hadn't forgotten. She's a pretty girl, the Lady Rose.’

  ‘She's a child,’ said Montfort, rubbing up his hair; its wet darkened tendrils made him look more like Peter than ever.

  ‘I shouldn't worry over much about the Lady Rose,’ said Warwick. ‘Nicholas is more interested in bedding her mother.’ He moved to his carved armchair, set before the flames where he always liked it, and stretched out the long black clad legs. ‘You can pour us both a cup of wine, and then you can come here where I can see you.’

  Montfort did as he was bid, quietly and efficiently, although when he proffered the pewter goblet filled with a light golden vernage, Warwick half wondered whether he might suddenly come to life and fling the contents in his face. He had removed the sodden mulberry cote and stood over the fire in shirt and hose, tall and graceful, the wet linen clinging to the contours of the young body.

  Warwick set his cup aside and rose. The fire lit them both from beneath, gilding pale winter complexions. ‘Are you in fear of your life, Richard?’

  The young man shook his head, ‘No, I don't think you will kill me.’

  ‘And how did you arrive at this happy conclusion?’

  Montfort shrugged his shoulders; the cut on his temple was welling blood. ‘I don't think you dislike me, not that much. Killing takes hate or fear or jealousy, there is none of those.’ He was staring into the flames.

  ‘No,’ said Warwick, ‘there is none of those, but you've forgotten expediency and necessity. For Edward I would kill, for England, for Kate and my sons. Do you understand?’

  The boy nodded, ‘I hadn't realised - that the stakes were so high.’

  Thomas said, ‘I don't propose to burden you with rambling explanations but your life could buy a victory for England - battles won beside which liking is of no account and the death of one young man of no significance.’

  Richard took time to assimilate his words and turn them over in his mind. He lifted his head and faced his gaoler. ‘Then would you promise me something, My Lord?’

  ‘If I can. At least speak out.’

  The boy drew breath, his dark eyes steady. ‘If it happens, I don't want a knife in the dark. Let it be in the light, face to face, clean…’

  Warwick took him by the shoulders but not ungently. He said slowly, ‘In the light, face to face and cleanly done. Shriven too, I swear it. Damn you, Richard, you make it hard!’

  Montfort moved out of his hands and turned away, his voice uncertain. ‘It's not all that easy, to think about dying when you're eighteen. Now I should like to return to the tower.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But there is no need if you will give your parole.’

  ‘I can't. It would be a weakness. But there is something: the child, the girl Rose, I must have frightened her. I should like to apologise.’

  ‘And so you should. If she's not in her bed I'll have her summoned.’ Thomas moved to the door and gave orders beyond the arras. It was a long time before Rose appeared, flushed and breathless, to drop a deep curtsey before the Earl, to look about her, to recognise Richard.

  ‘You sent for me, My Lord?’ She still wore the green gown but her bright hair was demurely veiled.

  ‘Richard, say what you have to say and let the demoiselle retire. She should be to bed early; a blushing bride needs her rest.’ He turned and left her, making for the fire again. The bride darted out a tongue at his retreating back and made a comical grimace.

  Richard smiled at her, ‘I must apologise, My Lady, I should not have used you so.’

  Rose surveyed him, hands behind her back. ‘There is no need. I should have done the same in your shoes. I should have broken free when I had the chance. Others have used me, but not you. You did not harm me and you are forgiven.’ She stood on tiptoe then, reached up shyly, her small hands over his shoulders, and pulled his face down to hers to plant a child's kiss on his cheek, then thought better of it and found his mouth this time. She was warm and sweet-smelling, young and alive. She knew Warwick was watching her from the fireside; that she was behaving shamelessly and she did not care. If it was the rebellious child in her that cried out on her last night of freedom, it was Richard's manhood that would have answered her. Her budding softness stirred him, the scent of her skin, the touch of her hands, and he answered her kiss with the same fierce hunger for life to be denied him, until Warwick roared at them.

  ‘Enough! To bed with you, My Lady!’ And she sprang away, turned and fled. ‘Yes,’ said Warwick grimly, ‘you're better locked away. She'll grow up quickly enough.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Richard, ‘she'll be another man's wife. Worse, she'll be Nicholas's wife. It may be treachery to take the wife of a friend, how much more dishonest to take the wife of your enemy?’

  Warwick grinned. ‘You're ripe for martyrdom, Sebastian; I couldn't afford your scruples.’ He shouted for the guard. ‘Have him back to the Bear Tower. If he's troublesome, shackle him! Goodnight, Richard.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  December - 1343

  The snows came barely two weeks before the Nativity, sifting down in the still silence of a December night. Without the accompaniment of strong winds to whip the white blanket into a blizzard, to lay bare bleak patches of hillside or sweep away the furred outlines of trees and expose the black and skeletal boughs beneath, the soft white flakes settled, smooth and flawless, before the first cock crew. And the sentry, mounting the stone staircase to the roof above Beaudesert's upper guard, flung back the heavy oak door and staggered in the brilliance of light which should have been the grey emanance of the false dawn but which glittered and sparkled on all sides from the furred tops of the merlons to the blue, ice-glimmer of the shadowed baileys, to the thatched roofs of the village, the capped bell-tower of St. Nicholas's Church, and the silver sheen of the gentle hills beyond.

  Peter de Montfort would not change his plans. No sane man would have chosen such a day to set out with a caravan of loaded wagons, but he had a young man to redeem, a bastard son to fetch away out of hold. John, with his characteristic lack of grasp of what seemed fundamental issues to his father, had taken himself away into Leicestershire two days before. He had been known to disagree with Peter's decision to exchange military secrets for his sibling, had shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘If you must, you must,’ and had demonstrated his lack of enthusiasm for the enterprise by riding off on the Christmas tournament circuit, Trussel at his side and an extravagant number of retainers at his back. Peter had been disappointed by the lack of support but he had made his dispositions and would not be swayed by the seasonal weather. He sat and glared at his sister over breakfast in the solar; only Guy showed interest with an onslaught of questions about his new brother.

  At least Peter had the good sense, or the shame as Bess put it, to stay at home and let Mikelton ride over to Warwick. Thomas Beauchamp was no longer the wayward boy Montfort remembered, he was an alien, powerful lord and too near neighbour and it would not have done for Peter to close the door behind him and leave his house unprotected at his back. Besides, this was more than straight-forward barter; it was out and out blackmail. Who
knew but once inside Warwick with his wagons and Thomas might have taken a fancy to housing two prisoners for as long as the whim took him. No, better to let Mikelton go, and sit and chafe in his own eyrie, fretting over his inactivity.

  The coveted armaments, already loaded up onto wagons in the stables, came from the east. Peter's immediate forbears had been great travellers and crusaders and his manors were furnished with the gleanings of campaign and pilgrimage: tables and rugs, glass and ceramics, silks, even medical treatises. With them had come the crakeys, crude metal tubes which, if primed correctly, belched iron or stone balls the length of a battlefield, causing death, maiming and great confusion. One day, when the time was right, he would have handed all over to Edward Plantagenet; he would know the hour. But Thomas had not trusted him and Thomas had been wrong. What did it matter now? He would have given a great deal more for Lora's son.

  Peter watched the procession move slowly through the outer ward, the carts flanked by his sturdiest men, summer-bright in Montfort blue and gold. Mikelton was leading, an upright, soldierly figure on his great chestnut rouncy. Beside him, a young man carried Peter's standard, the distinctive rayed banner; diagonal stripes of blue and gold. Peter watched the carts trundle away down the ramp from the Lower Guard, corner and strike away towards the high road and the village. When they were out of sight he stomped back to the solar. Bess had retrieved the game of chess they had started two nights ago. Peter reached out a hand and snatched up a piece.

  ‘Pawn to the Queening Square; home and dry. I think I have you there, Elizabeth.’

  Bess smiled, tight-lipped. ‘Do you read that as a prophetic sign? Don't underestimate Thomas, my dear. Wait until you have the boy in your own hall and can slam home the portcullis on the outside world before you consider Warwick's King in check!’

  ~o0o~

  Geoffrey Mikelton turned eastward at the end of the village and his men fought their way up the steep incline of Blackford Hill, with the team leaders exhorting and threatening from the van, and every spare man with his shoulder to the wheels at the rear. Warwick town lay due east across sparsely inhabited countryside and the high road was little more than a dirt track in summer and a rutted lane in winter. They took their journey steadily, through Whitley and Preston where they rattled their way over the wooden bridge which traversed the swollen River Alne, and on to Claverdon. Thereafter, hamlets and isolated dwellings petered out, the sky lowered and it began to snow heavily, the wind whipping up to bring blizzard conditions.

  ‘Come on, lads, less than five miles and Warwick will surely let us sit out the storm by a rosy fire,’ roared the Constable with more confidence than he felt. To the north, well away from the road, lay Pinley Abbey, refuge of Lora Astley, his master’s old paramour and, over on the left of the track, were the trees and the wastes of the land they called the Wilderness; dangerous land, haunt of outlaws and gypsies and all the riff-raff of the road. But the trees were blurred and softened, the snow at the roadside virgin and untrammelled. Mikelton urged his men onwards, towards Hampton Hill. Half a mile and Warwick would be in their sights. The old man was uneasy, his spine had been prickling ever since they lost sight of Beaudesert, and the slow, eventless journey - if any journey in such weather could be termed eventless - had only served to set his nerves jangling. When the attack came he almost found himself heaving a sigh of relief that at least the enemy had shown himself. Ranged across the slope of the hill, mounted and cloaked and heavily armed, was as fearful a band of ruffians as you might ever meet.

  Mikelton summoned his men with a few terse words, fronted the wagons and drew his blade. The leader of the cut-throat band raised his own sword arm and, as he brought it down as a pre-arranged signal, his men surged forward down the hill, leaving him still at his vantage point with half a dozen of his followers.

  Mikelton gritted his teeth. ‘So, a leader who delegates but does not care to set examples. Steady, lads, we've enough here to do ourselves justice.’ But he was searching the advancing force for identification. They wore no man's livery and no man's badge, they carried no banner and their heads were swathed in cloak or hood and muffled against identification. He grunted, ‘I should know you then my fine fellows, if I could catch a glimpse. Not a chance band of Wolf Heads.’ And then they were upon him, mostly armed with cudgels, as wild men might be – or perhaps those too squeamish to affect a killing. They were well trained, sharp of eye, quick of wit. Peter de Montfort's men were among the best horsemen in the shire, men who had followed their lord to the Scottish wars, some who had fled the defeat of Bannockburn after young Lord John was slain, men who had redeemed themselves many times since that day fighting under Peter, for Edward II, in the many baronial skirmishes which preceded the abdication. There were younger men too who had ridden to the border with the young Edward and who had helped Montfort keep the peace between Beaudesert and the Welsh March. Montfort was a good master; none better when all was said and done, and what more natural than that he should want his son out of Warwick's clutches. They would not fail him. The man on the hill, arms folded over the high pommel of his saddle, watched the fracas below him and his handsome features darkened, tight with anger. Mikelton fought too well, damn him, he would have to go in with reinforcements, finish the job himself; it was not what he wanted. He straightened in the saddle, gave orders to those left about him and led a spectacular mounted charge down the slope and into the midst of the fighting.

  Mikelton was tiring, he felled a man half his age with a horizontal slash of his blade and turned to take on the newcomers. He found himself facing a prancing grey, dingy against the snow, and an adversary fresh and young and eager for the fight. His hood had fallen back and the wind tore at wild dark hair, whipping scarlet into smooth cheeks and a brightness into brown eyes. Mikelton knew every move he would make because Mikelton had taught them to him, had been schooling him since his tenth birthday. Now, little beyond his sixteenth, he thought he knew it all.

  ‘You bloody little Judas, Simon! Where's John?’ Mikelton was short of breath, a pain in his chest, but he only had to look in the direction of the boy's swift glance to mark the figure he was seeking.

  ‘You'd best surrender,’ said Simon Trussel, ‘I can't run you through, sir.’

  ‘You could try!’ said Geoffrey grimly. ‘You could just try it, you cocky little bastard!’ And it was the last thing he remembered for he was struck down from behind and he was slipping slowly sideways. His horse took flight and galloped off, the old man hanging from the stirrups. The snow, everywhere, was churned into mud and blood.

  John de Montfort set his own men to the carts and placed himself at the head of the little cavalcade.

  His squire said, ‘They were Henley men. It leaves a nasty taste. And there are some badly wounded; we can't leave them.’

  John reached over and took his arm, ushering him from the scene of the carnage. ‘Turning soft, Simon? I thought you were begging to be blooded. If you're going to be sick get it over with, I want to put as much distance as I can between us and this place.’ He spurred his mount and signalled that the carts should follow. The castle was already in sight.

  ~o0o~

  Thomas Beauchamp was in the old armoury, deserted and bitterly cold. Snow sifted in between the cracks in the shutters and left little drifts which did not melt. He stamped his feet, trying to keep warm, impatient. He had sent for Richard de Montfort, asked that he be brought from the Bear Tower immediately. God, they were taking their time! He heard the door open and looked towards the steps. The armoury was in the undercroft, rising out of the castle rock. The door had closed and Richard came towards him. After the fight with Durvassal and the soaking he had received in the Avon it had been necessary to provide him with fresh clothing. He wore a dark violet jupon, close buttoned, which hugged his narrow hips, and violet hose which served to make him look even taller than his aspiring six foot; the colour accentuated his fairness. He came forward slowly but without any noticeable hesitation. He said nothi
ng.

  ‘You are going on a journey,’ Warwick's voice was curt.

  ‘A long journey, My Lord?’ The blood had drained from Richard’s cheeks, making his eyes seem dark as agates. The longest journey? the eyes were saying. He did not take them from Warwick's face, he was striving to school his own into insouciance.

  ‘That sense of theatre again, Sebastian? No, you're going home - to Beaudesert.’

  The boy had turned away abruptly, at length, he said, ‘What has happened?’

  ‘A courier from Beaudesert, a man of my own, informs me that Peter de Montfort's Constable set out at first light with your ransom. He will be here within the half hour. Outside the postern there is a fast mount and two of my men, armed cap a pie, as it were, to do duty as escort. You may leave now and take the cross country route to Beaudesert, they will know the way. I keep my promises.’

  ‘But, My Lord, if I wait I can ride back with my father's men, surely that is what he would wish?’

  ‘I do not wish it and so you may leave now!’

  ‘No, My Lord, I shall wait. I should prefer to witness my father's sacrifice, to see what it has cost to preserve my life. Why should I steal away now like a thief in the night?’

  ‘It isn't your place to argue with your betters, boy, you will do as you are bidden for once!’

  ‘And get an arrow in the back as I ride out? I think not!’

  ‘I give you my word, you are to go free.’

  Richard's jaw was set; he was too much like Peter in one of the old intractable moods. Warwick raised his voice, ‘Rendel, Jack!’ There was a scuffling from beyond the door and it opened to admit two of the Earl's archers. They clattered down the steps to stand respectfully at attention. Warwick waved a hand towards Richard. ‘You will take Master de Montfort out to the postern. You will bind him hand and foot and carry him home across his saddle. If he's troublesome you can use your whip but if you lose him you'll hang! Now be away from here as quickly as you can.’