The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘Yes, they’ve even left me a candle tonight. Aunt Bess, does he mean to do it?’

  ‘Don’t give up hope. We’re all working to get the sentence changed. We had a visitor today. She pleaded very eloquently for your life….’

  ‘She? Johanna?’

  ‘No, my dear; Johanna is in Spain. It was your mother; Simon Trussel fetched her from Pinley. She went down on her knees in the hall and begged him publicly for your life.’

  ‘And he refused her?’ asked John. ‘Then am I doomed indeed. Shall I see him before, before…?’ He did not finish the sentence.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And Guy… Can you send him away, please?’

  ‘Yes, I promise.’

  ‘And Simon? He will take it hard.’

  ‘No. I’ve tried; he has to stay.’ She was standing very close to him as he sat on the bench cum table, which was the only furniture the room possessed beside the straw pallet which was his bed. He took one of her hands in his. She saw the marks of the rope on his wrists and wondered how he had got through the ignominy of that journey home.

  He said, ‘I am so afraid I will make a coward’s end.’

  ‘Johnny, don’t think about it. Remember all those jousts, the parties, the masked balls, so wonderfully organized, so slick? You always had just the right, light touch. Never fret, you’ll manage dying just as beautifully.’ She hardly believed she was talking this way, saying such things and not believing a word of it. She lifted a hand and stroked back the damp, dark hair from his forehead.

  He was saying, ‘And afterwards, will he leave me there, on the gibbet, a spectacle for all to see? I shouldn’t want that.’

  ‘No!’ cried Bess. ‘I swear that won’t happen not if I have to cut you down myself. None of us would let that happen, not Simon, not even Richard!’ She could not bear to read what she could see in his eyes. She gently pulled his face towards her breast and took him in her arms. ‘Come here. It doesn’t matter, there’s none to see. We’ve none of us given up hope; you mustn’t.’ She felt the rush of his tears, hot through the light silk of her gown, before he pulled himself together.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to go knowing he hated me so much.’

  ‘He doesn’t understand,’ said Bess. ‘He cannot see beyond the treachery, the cupidity, what you would have taken from Richard. But it wasn’t that, was it?’

  ‘No, it was never money, not even land. But you understand, you’ve always understood.’

  Bess nodded. He had lifted his head and was watching her. She said, ‘You would have shared anything with Richard - grudgingly, I’ll grant you - anything but your father’s love and that you wanted all for yourself. Oh yes, I understood that, it is the way you have been since Margaret appeared on the scene, and then young Guy. In the end they did not count for they never meant the same to him, they were never a part of Lora as you are; flesh of her flesh.’

  ‘Will you tell him - after?’

  She nodded. ‘Now, no more self recrimination.’

  John said, ‘Just Johanna. I think I could have loved Johanna after all.’

  ‘You’re a wretch, Johnny. Now, I’m going to call Geoffrey to let me out and I suggest you get to bed. Things will look better in the morning.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ laughed John with a sudden flash of the old smile.

  ‘I know,’ said his aunt, ‘pigs might fly!’

  ~o0o~

  Bess Freville was not the only member of the Montfort family to be up and about after curfew. Richard and Guy, together with Simon Trussel, had gathered conspiratorially in Guy’s room in the Mellent tower.

  Simon had never had any time for John’s younger brother. He saw him as a usurper, a young man of the Commons, rough at the edges, entirely lacking in John’s style, without John’s finesse. Richard had attempted to extend the hand of friendship to this boy only a year or two younger than himself but Trussel, taciturn since his dismissal at Windsor, had fiercely rejected it and, as the weeks went by, pride on both sides had forced them further apart into a cordial loathing. It was a measure of Trussel’s desperation that he had begged for Richard’s help now and that, together with John’s greatest champion, his small brother, Guy, they were in secret conclave, heads together like a bunch of schoolboys plotting in their dormitory.

  Guy was sprawled out upon his bed, face pale, eyes swollen. He had hardly stopped crying since the verdict was announced. Trussel, seated astride the bed-chest, had earlier tried to sneak down to the Water Tower but had been marched away ignominiously by the sentry on duty and duly clouted round the ear by the Lord of Beaudesert.

  Richard, tucked into the narrow window embrasure, addressed Simon: ‘You really do believe he’ll do it, don’t you?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Has something changed? You were uncertain before. Come on, Simon. I’ve only known him for a few weeks, I can’t second guess him.’

  Simon said, ‘He had a visitor this afternoon, whilst you were with Guy; a woman.’

  ‘Who was it? Simon, cut the mystery!’

  Trussel scowled. ‘One of the White Ladies, from Pinley, across the fields to the east. They say My Lord knew her well, once upon a time. They say she is John’s mother – yours too, I suppose. She came to beg for his life. She went down on her knees before all.’

  ‘And – what did my father have to say?’

  ‘That it was too late, he couldn’t change his mind. I tell you, if she could not move him then no-one on this earth will sway him. John will hang! Oh, I’m sorry, Guy! Just stop howling, we can’t hear ourselves think. My Lord has opened his mouth too often to reiterate his intentions; he’d have been better keeping it shut.’

  Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘Others would do as well to shut theirs. So we must assume that John will die on Monday. Pleading further will only bolster father’s obstinacy and put suspicion upon our movements. If John is to go free we must set to and organise his escape ourselves; the fewer drawn into the plan the better. Simon, is there a way out of the bailey without using the lower gate?’

  ‘There's the old sally port in the middle ward, the postern in the north curtain; it’s hardly ever used but it leads directly onto the hillside above the Church. It's only held in place by a single baulk of timber.’

  ‘Good! Could Guy manage to put it back into place so that no-one would notice it had been moved?’

  Trussel looked at the small boy doubtfully but Guy, upon his mattress, had bounced into life. ‘I could, of course I could!’

  ‘Good lad. Simon, we'll need a swift mount, and we'll need it tethered in the copse beyond St. Nicholas's before midnight.’

  ‘Two mounts,’ said Trussel firmly, ‘if he goes, I'll be with him.’

  ‘No, two will be harder to conceal.’

  ‘I'm going with him. Do you think I'd care to stay? Your father would have the hide off me in strips and then pack me off home to Billesley! I have to go, Richard. He'd never manage without me. I shouldn't have seen him ride into an ambush yesterday. I won't be sent home this time.’

  ‘Very well, so you're to be away early and out of sight. Now we'll need the key to the storeroom in the Water Tower. Will they leave a guard on duty overnight? Is it likely?’

  Trussel shook his head. ‘Not now. If he got out he couldn’t get past the gates. But it means filching the key from the guardroom and I'd arouse suspicion immediately.’

  ‘Guy wouldn't,’ said Richard and they both looked at the child with interest and enquiry.

  ‘I often go up there and talk to the men but we have to be in the Middle Ward after dark, if we try to cross the bridge we'll be noticed at once.’

  Richard got to his feet, flexing his shoulders. ‘As soon as it's dark I’ll find a blind spot and scramble through the fosse.’

  Guy rose to his full four feet and said indignantly, ‘We don't have blind spots. We didn't employ the King's own Master Mason to give us blind spots!’

  Richard feigned a blow at th
e neat dark head. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. They won't have every tower manned on an August midnight. As long as I’m out of sight of the upper guard and the bridge I'll be safe enough. Guy, once I have the keys you'll make straight for the sally port and keep well hidden until John comes along. As soon as he's through and away to the copse where Simon will be waiting with the mounts, bar it carefully and slip back to your bed. Then I'll need you to cover for me as long as possible in the morning.’

  ‘Why, where will you be?’ asked Trussel in surprise.

  Richard grinned. ‘From one baron's hostage to another. I shall be taking his place, keeping up the pretence for as long as I'm able before his loss is discovered. Father won't like it, of course, but in time perhaps he'll learn to be grateful.’

  ‘I shouldn't,’ said Trussel, ‘like to be in your shoes.’

  ‘No, well, it can't be helped. At least I'm not likely to end as gallows meat!’

  ~o0o~

  Trussel had shaken hands with Richard de Montfort and there was more than a grudging acceptance in the brown eyes as he set off for the village to beg good horseflesh from Eleanor at the White Lion. There had been a time when the publican's wife had seen a good deal of Bastard John and the memories were still sweet enough for her to risk her husband's wrath to provide the boy with the keys to their stables down by the river. Simon kissed her and sped away to lie low until just before midnight when he led the animals away into the hazel copse behind St. Nicholas's Church. The priest was hard of hearing, it was doubtful if he would take note of such nocturnal happenings and he would have been in his bed several hours by the time they got John away.

  Guy, shaking with excitement, crept from the security of the Mellent Tower and, hugging the walls to the north of the Inner Ward and slipping silently past the old Gaunt Tower, where half of the garrison slept, he let himself into the Upper Gatehouse. He was only just tall enough to reach down the large, rusted key from its accustomed hook. He was terrified that he might drop it and set the flags ringing. Then he slipped back to his room the way he had come and waited for Richard. This was the weakest part of the plan, the gap between the acquiring of the key and Richard’s hazardous excursion down to the Water Tower. Richard woke his small brother just before midnight and they made their ways, Richard across the fosse - which was designed to keep marauders out of the inner wards - with no further mishap than nettle stings and bramble scratches, and Guy to his hiding place near the sally port, to crouch behind bales of hay where any extraneous sounds would be put down to the rats which inhabited the untidy corner.

  Richard crawled out of the fosse after lying low for a while until he was sure that the bailey was empty. He knew there would be a sentry atop the St. Nicholas Tower which looked away towards the High Road but he would not be expecting attack from within. Neither would the man pacing the leads above the Lower Guard. Richard moved, wraithlike, to the door and prayed that the key would work silently, that the old lock would not be so stiff that the key grated home. He had secreted a stub of candle in his cote and rubbed it over the dull metal. In the end, there was no problem. He had the door open and had slipped inside closing it silently behind him. There was little light to be had from the tiny window but there was still a candle burning on the old bench.

  John had not been asleep. ‘Geoffrey?’ Richard could sense the apprehension in his voice. Was he wondering if they would change their plans and have him away to his death before the Sabbath instead of waiting until Monday?

  ‘It’s Richard. There isn’t much time.’

  ‘Come to gloat, little brother? Not that I’d blame you. No time? Then it is to be tonight?’

  Richard said, ‘You’re getting out of here. There are friends anxious for your continued survival but you have to get through the fosse.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. What then, the Sally Port?’

  Richard nodded. ‘Guy is there to bar the door after and Simon Trussel is waiting behind the Church with a couple of fast mounts. We’ll give you as good a start as we’re able.’

  ‘And why should you do this for me?’

  Richard shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps I can’t forget that I have a brother. I do what I have to do.’

  ‘I wonder how we would have made out together. I would rather not be beholden to you.’

  ‘You’d rather hang? Your gratitude does not matter. Now take the key and lock me in. Guy will get it back to the gatehouse if he can. We want to play for as much time as possible to give you a chance on the road. I’ll take to the bed; a cursory glance in the dark with my lighter hair covered may give us precious hours. Now go – and God speed!’

  For once John found nothing to say but he let a hand rest briefly on Richard’s shoulder, spun on his heel and let himself out of the tower. Richard, burrowing into the straw filled mattress and pulling the coverlet over his head, heard the key turn.

  John found his small brother in the shadows by the postern. He lifted the baulk of heavy timber out of its slots and turned to the boy. ‘You’re sure you can drop this back? If not, don’t worry, they may not spot it until cock crow.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Guy stood before him as tall and proud as his four feet would let him. His eyes were black buttons in two enormous hollows.

  John said, ‘Dear God, what have I done to you. Here,’ he held out his arms and Guy hurtled into them. ‘There now, no more tears. I’ll never forget this. No man ever had a truer friend or finer brother but I must go or it will all have been for naught. Look after father for me.’ He pressed a kiss into the top of Guy’s dark head and fled away down the hill. Guy watched him reach the shadows about the Church, turned and shut the gate. It took all his strength to lift the heavy timber baulk again but he managed it and ran back to the Mellent Tower to scramble up to the leads to see what he could and wait for the sound of hooves at the foot of the hill.

  John found Simon Trussel with the two mounts; he clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get on our way. Are you sure you want to share my exile? You can turn and ride home if you want.’

  ‘Who else should I serve? Anyone else would be an anticlimax. He would have hung you - your father. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I saw a hanging once…’

  ‘Simon, shut up, we’re not out of the woods yet. Now, it’s Warwick and no let up. I won’t be taken again!’

  Guy in his tower top eyrie heard the muffled clatter of hooves move away and disappear into the night. He drew in a sobbing breath and found his way down to his room again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  August – 1344

  Mikelton moved from the opalescence of the early morning sunshine, shimmering abut the buildings of the bailey, into the shadowed darkness of the Water Tower. The boy was still sleeping; a disordered mound beneath his coverlet. The Constable set a plate down on the wooden bench and wondered whether he should wake him. One brown hand, stretched above the young man’s head, clutched at the rolled cloak he had used as a pillow. The little finger was beringed; an amethyst in a gold setting. Geoffrey leant forward and stripped away the cover.

  ‘Richard!’

  ‘What took you so long?’ asked the boy, stretched and turned and smiled up at him.

  ‘And John?’

  ‘You don’t have him? No, I can see you don’t. He will be at Warwick by now; Simon is with him. There’s no point in setting out after them; they could have walked it.’

  ‘Thank God! Then you engineered the whole thing?’

  ‘For my sins. But I could not see him hang. I set some store in having a brother.’

  Geoffrey said, ‘He set little store by you!’

  ‘Shall we go to my father? I must confess all.’

  Geoffrey said, ‘We shall both get a tongue lashing; me for losing him and you – dear lad, let me talk to him. Lie low for a while until he comes to see that all is for the best – and he will see it. He could never have lived with what he would have done.’

  Richard shook his head. ‘No
t I, I’m not ashamed of what I have accomplished. Death is too easily come by. Every man out of its clutches is some kind of a victory. One day we’ll make our peace, he and I.’

  ~o0o~

  Later, Peter went to the chapel and none dare disturb him there. Even de Lobbenham kept his distance. Everyone was treading warily, yet at the same time all were lighter of foot. A hanging was something of a celebration and often preceded by a holiday atmosphere but few had wanted John to swing.

  At last, Bess brushed aside the chaplain’s protests and went up to the chapel. She opened the door as silently as she could and it was doubtful if her brother heard her. He was kneeling at the altar rail, his head down on his bent arms, racked with anguished sobs. It was painful to hear, worse to witness. Bess had never seen him weep, not even in childhood. She stood stock still, appalled, and then she went to him, putting an arm about his shoulders. He turned then and buried his face in the stuff of her gown. She held him for a long time, aware that only a few hours before she had held his eldest son in her arms in just such a way.

  Eventually, he raised his head and said, ‘I would have done it. God help me, I would have done it! It was Richard who got him away. Bless the lad; he will never know what I owe him!’

  Bess said, ‘And this is the boy you have just had tied up and whipped nearly senseless!’

  ‘Well, what did he expect, making a fool of his father? What man could countenance that? I had to make an example. He’ll understand; he’s a reasonable boy.’

  ~o0o~

  The stable loft was lit solely by a tear in the thatch. A solid shaft of August sunlight burnt down into the straw below. Mikelton was dazzled by the light as he climbed up out of the dimness. He cast about him blindly for a moment, then made his way cautiously to the far side of the boards, the straw thick and comfortable beneath his feet but warning loudly of his presence.