by Helen Burton
~o0o~
The harvest was in. A troupe of weary figures, well-satisfied with themselves, trudged up the causeway and through the outer bailey, some singly, others in twos and threes, arms linked, silent with exhaustion or garrulous with the intoxication of a good day's work completed. Some were still singing the harvest songs that would go on and on, chasing about inside the head long after the last sickle was laid down and the men were flexing muscles turned to sleek bronze by the August sun. Their Lord's new-found son was amongst them, stripped to the waist, fair skin toasted golden brown, hair bleached to white-gold, dark eyes bright with merriment. He had an arm about the shoulder of the Reeve's son, boots scuffed, palms blistered but still drunk with the blue sky and the yellow grain and treasured companionship. He was too happy to remember who he was, the dignity required of his station.
‘Richard,’ he met Jack de Lobbenham, Peter’s Chaplain, hurrying down from the Upper Guard, ‘they have taken your brother! They will be here directly – a man was sent on ahead to warn us.’
Richard stood still, the sun beating up from the baked mud of the bailey. His companions fell away on each side, and then melted from him noiselessly. The Chaplain said, ‘They caught him not far from Pinley. Your father sprung a trap; it was neatly done.’
‘It was a convenient encounter,’ said Richard dryly. ‘He just happened along?’
‘No, your father had word. Does it matter?’
Of course, Nicholas Durvassal - Nicholas, who could not have his place at Thomas Beauchamp's side usurped by Peter de Montfort's importunate bastard son. He was at Beaudesert only last week.
Jack said, ‘Your father wants a show trial; he’s still threatening the noose.’
The procession of blue and gold horsemen turned off the highroad and began the climb towards the Lower Gate; Peter led with Mikelton following close. They kept up a punishing pace for a man on foot. By the time they reached the inner ward and reined in, John was swaying on his feet. The welt across his temple had all but closed one eye and his mouth was swollen. The rope at his wrists was dark and slippery with blood.
The family were standing there as if part of a religious triptych; his aunt, his two brothers. There was a complete, stunned silence until Guy cried out in anguish and would have run to John’s side had not Richard grabbed him by the shoulders. John held Richard’s shocked gaze and soundlessly let his eyes flicker towards Guy and back to the golden foundling, standing there with the summer upon his skin, the last of the sunlight in his hair.
Richard understood. He bent down and said, ‘Indoors, Guy, please.’
‘But they’ve hurt him!’ Guy sobbed. ‘Let me go to him.’
Richard held him fast. ‘He wouldn’t want you to see him like this. You understand? He will have his pride.’
Guy nodded, turned, glanced once more in John’s direction and fled towards the nearest door, cannoning into Simon Trussel.
‘My God,’ said the boy, ‘I thought the English way was trial before sentence!’ He had not troubled to lower his voice.
Peter said grimly, ‘You’ll suffer for that boy when I’ve the time for it!’
John shook his head at Simon who was mouthing, ‘What can I do?’
Bess put a hand on Peter’s arm. ‘Simon is right, my dear; justice is paramount here. You have always prided yourself that every villein is entitled to it.’
‘Oh, get him out of my sight! The store room below the old Water Tower should be secure enough. By the look of him there’s no fight left in him but I’ll take no chances. I want a twenty four hour guard outside. If he’s any trouble you can shackle him.’
‘My Lord, you can’t!’ said Simon, appalled.
John found his tongue then. ‘Simon, bloody well shut up!’ Then Mikelton had him by the elbow, hustling him away. They passed within inches of Richard. John had time to look his brother up and down. From the corner of his broken mouth he gave him a twisted smile.
‘The King is dead; long live the King!’
‘Leave it!’ hissed Mikelton, dragging him away. He wondered how alike they might have been, Lora’s sons, if they had been reared together; Richard, honest and independent and John, the flawed charmer, cloaked in his insecurities.
The store room in the Water Tower was cold, even on that hot august afternoon; dark and damp, uncomfortable but bearable. There was a small window high up in the circular wall and facing the bailey. There was only one door.
‘Don’t even think about escape,’ said Mikelton reading him correctly. ‘The way your father is feeling at the moment he’d have no compunction in having you shot in the back.’
‘This place is filthy; are there rats?’
‘Well, it’s not the Audley Tower but you’ll survive,’ said Geoffrey with a grin. He went out and made an elaborate ceremony of locking the door and posting sentries.
Peter had forbidden any of the family to even approach the Water Tower but, after dark, whilst he was occupied with the Chaplain, Bess sent a basket of food and clothing down with the long-suffering Constable. Geoffrey let himself into the tower and set up a couple of torches in the rusting sconces still attached to the damp walls.
‘Your aunt has sent food and drink and a fresh set of clothing for tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes, your father is bent on a public trial.’
‘I’d like to talk to him. Will he come here?’
‘What good would that do? You’d only provoke him into another apoplexy. Fool boy, aren’t you sore enough?’
‘Geoffrey, I’m sorry, about the attack. I wasn’t thinking beyond – well, preventing Richard getting to Beaudesert.’
‘You know,’ said Geoffrey unpacking his basket carefully like a market wife, ‘there’s nothing wrong with Richard.’
‘He exists. That is enough. And now he will be everything I never was. Everything I never can be.’
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Lady Bess has sent ham and eggs, salad, fruit pie, a bed cover - oh, and something for your back; smells awful.’
‘Marigolds,’ said John, sniffing at the pot. ‘Thank her for me anyway.’
‘I’ll see you in the morning, no doubt. Goodnight, boy.’ Geoffrey left him rather abruptly taking the torches with him. John heard the key turn in the lock, an awful finality in the doleful sound.
~o0o~
Peter had no intention of having it said that his son’s misdeeds had been brushed away as inconsequences compared to those of base-born men. The hall had been set out with benches for the twelve man jury, a stool for the prisoner and standing room for as many of the local populace who wished to attend as spectators. The family would take its usual place on the dais.
The Jurors had previously got together in pairs or small groups to discuss the wisdom of their proposed verdict. All were well aware of the charge against their lord’s natural son. He had attacked his father’s own men and robbed them on the King’s Highway. No-one disputed this. Everyone knew someone who had been in that little cavalcade that snowy day; the tales had been plain. The young man was obviously as guilty as hell. Could they, in all conscience, acquit him to please their Lord? Did he wish them to? There had been no covert approach suggesting it might be wise to return a Not Guilty verdict. The consensus appeared to be that they should return a true verdict of guilty as justice would demand. Sentence was their Lord’s prerogative. He might give Bastard John a hard time of it but what man could be expected to lay a death penalty against his first born?
When the jury trooped into the hall they were all of one mind. There were a surprising number of people jostling for a place at the back of the hall. This was a special day; Montfort against Montfort; not to be missed.
Peter, fine in Montfort blue, mounted the dais with Richard and Bess. They took their places at the high table and the jury sat down as one upon their bench. Peter indicated that the prisoner be brought forth and John came into the hall flanked by two of Peter’s archers. He walked as tall as he alwa
ys did with the same easy grace. His green jupon, though not as flamboyant as they were all used to, was spotless and fitted him like a second skin. Beneath the combed auburn hair his face bore a number of bruises, causing a ripple of sympathy to sigh through the female spectators. He looked straight in front of him without locking eyes with any until he became aware of the small family group on the dais. He saw Bess and smiled.
His aunt drew in a breath and tried to smile back.
‘The prisoner may sit,’ said Peter rather pompously.
John shook his head. ‘No, I’ll stand. Thank you.’
‘As you wish.’
The charge was read out and elaborated upon and various witnesses were called, including Geoffrey Mikelton. He had pointed out that there had been no serious injuries to Henley men, that he had perceived this to be deliberate and he felt some blame for not being better on his guard. He paused quite close to the prisoner and shrugged his old shoulders wearily.
John mouthed a silent ‘thank you’, the first words to come from him since the proceedings began. He was asked if he would like to say anything in his defence. He shook his head. ‘As you will all know, I have no defence.’ He was facing the jury now.
The spectators began to whisper amongst themselves until silence was called for. The jury were sent out to consider their verdict.
Jack de Lobbenham, gimlet eyes on Peter said, ‘I think the Prisoner should take the opportunity to sit.’
The jury was not out for long. They slipped back, chins a little high as if determined to brazen out what might still prove an unpopular verdict with the man who held all their livelihoods in fee.
It was Peter who said, ‘And have you reached a verdict?’
‘We have, My Lord.’
‘A unanimous verdict?’
‘Indeed, My Lord. Guilty, My Lord.’
It did not surprise John. There were a few spectators who wondered if they would have the courage to vote against their Lord’s son but most saw the verdict as a blow for English justice.
‘Very well. We thank you for your pains today. Please be seated. Will the prisoner rise to receive sentence.’
John stood as bid, his bound hands were clenched, the only signs as to what he might be experiencing. Even Geoffrey was gnawing at his knuckle. Richard had his eyes fixed on his new-found father. Bess was watching her nephew.
Peter was looking at his son for the first time as he spoke. ‘John de Montfort, you have heard the verdict of this court. You have been found guilty of the most serious felony; I therefore sentence you to death by hanging. Someone remove him from this Court.’
Bess saw the colour drain from her nephew’s already pale face, could see the disbelief register in the violet eyes, to be followed by profound shock. She watched him led quickly away. The Court, in the meantime, was in uproar. The jury appeared stunned; one or two women were quietly sobbing. Peter strode swiftly out, face set.
Richard turned to his aunt. ‘He won’t do it. Surely he won’t. He can’t!’
Bess said, ‘I wish I shared your optimism, my dear. I’m dreading explaining to Guy and to the Trussel boy. But I must go after Peter, see what we can salvage from this unholy mess!’
‘I’ll talk to Guy,’ said Richard quietly.
‘Bless you. Play it down. Say there will be a reprieve.’
Richard nodded.
~o0o~
Peter was in the solar. Outside, the sun blazed down but here, inside, it was humid and airless so there was no fire; the room looked dull and cheerless. Bess sat down in her accustomed chair, waiting for her brother to speak but he was staring into nothingness. She doubted if he had even heard her come into the room.
‘Peter, you have to talk to me!’
‘What else is to be said? He had a fair trial.’
‘Peter, I am your sister. That unfortunate young man is my nephew; I need to know if you are considering a reprieve. Should I be punished by your silence? What am I guilty of? Are you planning a last minute change of heart? Do you intend to drag him to the scaffold and then offer him back his life? For God’s sake, tell me!’
He looked at her then for the first time. ‘There will be no reprieve. I have pronounced sentence, a just sentence in line with the offence. I have done so before my household, before my tenants. I am known for a man of my word.’
Bess said gently, ‘You are also a father, as many of your tenants are fathers. They will expect a reprieve. You have the power that they would wish for in like circumstances. Not one soul here would lay blame upon you, not one.’
‘And my honour?’
‘The devil take your honour, brother! Then when will you do it?’
Peter said wearily, ‘It is the Sabbath tomorrow. He must wait until Monday. He has a day more of life than perhaps he deserves.’
‘One day!’ sighed Bess. ‘Merciful heaven, he is twenty one years old and you will grant him a day’s grace! Peter, if you are so nice about his receiving justice commute the sentence; banish him from your sight; deprive him of every manor, every holding he has of you; tie him to a cart tail and have him whipped along Henley High Street if you are determined to see him suffer but leave him his life!’
‘Elizabeth, you shall not weaken my resolve!’
Bess was on her feet. She stood over him but took his hands in hers. ‘Look at me, Peter, and think of this. It will take such a little time to choke the life out of your best loved child, but there will be an eternity for regrets and long nights of tossing and turning on your bed; watching over and over again as they put the noose about his neck!’ She took her hands away. It was of no use; he was intractable. ‘At least,’ she said, ‘let me see him.’
Peter shrugged. ‘I can grant you that but it must be tonight, after dark, and no-one else, not Guy or Richard or Trussel’s lad. Jack he shall see before they take him out to die; no man should go to his maker unshriven.’
So he had thought this far ahead already. Bess was appalled. She moved slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her back but he made no sound. She passed through the arras and went in search of Simon Trussel. She had an errand for him and none could be trusted to perform it better. He was off like the wind, tearing through the bailey and along the causeway as though Satan and all his demons were after him.
He returned half way through the afternoon with three other riders. Bess heard the approach of hooves, left the hall and went out to greet them. They had travelled from the Abbey at Pinley; two Sisters and an elderly serving man. Bess took the hand of the younger woman. Their words were few but the woman allowed Bess to lead her into the hall; the servant remained outside with their mounts but the older nun followed her companion at a discreet distance.
Peter was conducting Manor business as was his custom, for all as if this was a normal day. Bess crossed the rushes, waving all aside. He looked at her, annoyed.
‘Peter, you have a visitor, one you once knew well.’ And she was standing before him, the only woman he had ever loved; coifed and robed in white, her face as yet markedly unlined. A lock of her hair, yellow-gold still, had escaped from the prison of her wimple.
‘Lora!’ he choked back her name.
‘My Lord, you know why I am here.’ She was looking at him now with the eyes of the boy he was sending to the gallows.
He said, ‘There is nothing I can do. I will not be foresworn. Ask anything else of me - you have the right - anything else on this earth. His life I cannot grant you.’
It seemed that the entire hall had caught its breath and was hushed and waiting. Slowly, gracefully, the woman sank to her knees. She said: ‘We gave him breath, you and I. Only God should take it from him. You cannot play God, Peter. Give me the life of my son!’
He raised her then, gently, his face stricken and haunted. ‘God will judge me when it is my time to go but I cannot do what you ask.’ And he turned on his heels and left the hall.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lora, turning to Bess, ‘there is nothing more I can do. I will
pray for them both.’ And she was gone. Soon after, Bess heard her ride away with her two escorts. She went to the gatehouse and watched them move away through the bailey.
‘Prettily done, Madam,’ she said grimly to herself, ‘but you never even asked to see the boy. How much would that have cost and it might have helped him.’
~o0o~
True to her word, Elizabeth Freville waited until darkness cloaked the bailey and the fires were out. A barn owl called from Turkill’s Copse, a chilling sound cutting across the night. She had spent the evening trying to console young Guy and had left him in bed, still sobbing his heart out. Now she sought Geoffrey Mikelton and asked to be taken down to the Water Tower. He escorted her there himself. Bess thought he looked older than she had ever seen him; old and haggard.
‘Geoffrey, how is he?’
‘I don’t think he quite believes it, My Lady. He was expecting the guilty verdict, as we all were, but a death sentence… I tried to warn him. I could see how it was with My Lord. Will he do it?’
‘God knows, Geoffrey, but I think he believes he is in too deep to back away now.’
They had reached the old tower and Mikelton was opening the door, letting the light from his torch penetrate the dimness before preceding Bess into the room. John was on his feet and Bess knew by the look on his face that he thought they had come for him.
She said quietly, ‘Oh no, my dear, it is not to be tonight. I am sorry; I thought they would have told you.’
‘When then?’ he asked.
‘Monday, not before, not on the Sabbath. Geoffrey, you may leave us for a while. I’ll call when I’m ready to go.’
He nodded, slotted his torch into the old sconce and went out. They heard the door being bolted behind him.
Bess said, ‘For all you did to Geoffrey this is not what he would have wanted.’
‘I know that, Aunt. Won’t you sit down?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m much too restless but you sit, so that I don’t have to strain my neck looking up at you.’ But even the innocent use of the words seemed to assume a grim connotation now. ‘Do you have all you need?’ she asked quickly.