The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  Richard lay face downward, head resting on his forearms, face towards the wall. ‘Who is it? Geoffrey?’

  ‘Aye. Don't turn, lad.’

  ‘I'm all right.’ The fair head shifted.

  Mikelton could remember him striding through the wards after the harvest, dark eyes blithe with laughter, hair bleached to white-blond by the sun. Now it showed tousled and damp with perspiration. His eyes shifted down the boy's length. He had been smooth and golden with a midsummer legacy that would have lasted well into the dark days of winter; the gold was still there across his lower back until you travelled up to the blue weals that laced his shoulders.

  Geoffrey stooped beside him, his aching joints protesting as he lowered his frame towards ground level. He put out a hand and touched him lightly on the arm.

  ‘It's not that bad, really,’ said Richard, cushioning his face again on his forearm. The dark eyes gave him a rueful smile, ‘I would have thought better of him if he'd laid on himself!’

  Geoffrey said, ‘I’ve brought a pot of Martha's balm; picked at moon-set, ground in a mortar and blended with incantations. It should take out the heat if you'll trust me to it.’

  ‘Would you? I can't manage for myself. Have you heard; did he get away?’

  ‘Oh, he'll be away, Simon too. That boy at least has a sound head on his shoulders.’ He worked over the bruised and lacerated skin, feeling the muscles jerk beneath his fingers. ‘My Lord will be looking for you soon. He'll say very little but there'll be remorse. You needn't be afraid of him, he won't touch you again. He had to make an example, that’s all.’

  Richard turned towards him. ‘Geoffrey, will you do something else for me?’

  ‘If I can. What is it?’

  ‘Saddle Sikander for me and find me a clean shirt and jupon and a cloak.’

  ‘Sikander! What are you driving at, boy?’

  ‘I'm leaving, and it has to be today and before he comes looking for me.’

  Mikelton swore, slapped on a dollop of ointment with too much enthusiasm and regretted it as he heard the boy catch his breath sharply and turn his face into his arms. The old man laid his pot aside and put a hand on the smooth flawless skin of his nape, massaging the taut muscles, ruffling the fair hair.

  ‘What's all this about? Come on now.’

  ‘My being here,’ said Richard, ‘has been pretty much of a disaster, start to finish. No-one really believes I'll ever fit in. John's gone and I owe father something - to be what he wants. If I can get into service, receive a proper training, in a year or two maybe I can come back with something to offer.’

  ‘And why does it have to be tonight? Talk it over with him; I think he'll see things your way. He'll get you an introduction to one of the best houses.’

  ‘No, that's not what I want. I'll do it for myself or not at all. I won't be spoon fed. Just my horse, that's all I'm asking!’

  ‘And how do you think you'll get shirt and jupon over these stripes to ride anywhere tonight? I'll not listen to anymore. Your father will make you see sense; he can't be far away…’

  ‘Geoffrey, no…,’ he put out a hand blindly to grab at the old man's sleeve, his face still turned away. ‘He'll break my resolve and I have to go.’ The voice was sharp with distress.

  Mikelton sighed. ‘If it's so important, God help me, I'll do what you want. There's never been a Montfort yet couldn't twist me round his little finger! Rest there and be easy.’

  ~o0o~

  Harry of Derby was at Kenilworth. He had arrived from the Capital in apparent haste and with a large following; they were weary, saddle-sore and dust clad. The remnants of the party, with the baggage-wagons, were even now clattering over the causeway, milling about the courtyards, orders being issued from all sides. A formless babble of voices assaulted the ears. It was cooler now, a soft summer dusk with the remnants of sunset touching the eddies on the great mere and a scattering of pale stars above the keep.

  Derby could have turned his back on the bustle about him, marched inside and settled down in the White Hall with a glass of muscadel, Isabel fluttering about him, bearer of tales domestic. But he lingered on the walls, watching a tiny skiff tacking across the mere, the rose light on its single sail, until he caught the strident tones of his own Constable, just below him in the court, haranguing a man for some offence, a clear young voice answering. It did not do to answer Drogo back; most members of his household would have known that. Henry turned away from the sunset and stood gazing down at the foreshortened figures below him: Drogo, massive, thick-set, bull-necked and the young man on the cream-golden horse, fair-headed, a light-weight green mantle thrown carelessly over jupon, shirt and hose; certainly not one of his own esquires; Henry kept a tight ship!

  ‘I do not intend to leave until I have spoken with My Lord of Derby,’ said the young voice. ‘I am in no hurry, I can wait.’

  And Drogo, growling on about unauthorised entry and the severe penalty to be incurred by the man who had passed a stranger through their gates, suddenly snapped his fingers for attention and called upon three or four of his archers to have this man out without more ado. But Harry had moved lightly down from the walls and was striding over.

  ‘Wait! Who calls on Harry of Derby?’

  ‘I do,’ said the fair young man, too imperious on the golden horse.

  ‘And who dares to address me from horseback whilst I remain on foot? A mannerless man!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, My Lord.’ The youth dismounted and made a swift reverence. ‘To tell truth I felt safer up aloft.’ He cast a glance at Drogo and grinned ruefully. ‘I am Richard Latimer, My Lord, and very much at your service.’

  ‘And what service could I possibly require?’ asked Harry, his amusement well under check.

  ‘I would join your household as esquire, to aspire towards knighthood,’ said Richard fervently.

  Drogo laughed, a short bark like a dog fox. ‘Out with him, My Lord, and a flea in his ear for his impertinence!’

  Lancaster silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘And what leads you to believe that the House of Lancaster would take in an unknown, a waif and stray? The greatest names in Europe jostle for places in this household; many have to be disappointed.’

  ‘But you, My Lord, would not. I could promise you loyalty, I should work hard…’

  ‘And who are the Latimers? It is not a name I know and I see you wear no device.’

  ‘I need none, My Lord. Latimer is an assumed name. I would not have it said that I wormed my way in here through my father's good offices. I can shift for myself.’

  ‘And this unknown father of yours, does he know you are here?’

  ‘No, My Lord, I am my own man, but I think it wouldn't displease him.’

  Derby laughed then, head back. ‘Indeed, I would hope not. So he isn't privy to your adventures. Why not?’

  ‘Because I mean to make my own way.’

  ‘Because you quarrelled and stamped out of his manor in a fit of adolescent pique?’

  ‘No, My Lord, I have no quarrel with him!’

  ‘Take off your cloak.’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘See, he cannot carry out a simple request. How does he expect to take to the discipline required under arms?’ retorted Drogo, moving towards the boy. And Richard, flushing, unfastened the pin that held the green mantle upon his right shoulder. He let it drop to the ground. Henry said nothing but a curt nod of the head told Drogo what he wanted and he had moved in behind the young man and with a steely grip on one arm had dragged back jupon and the loose shirt with its trailing points to bare his shoulders. Then he spun him round so that Derby could see the angry lacerations which crossed his back.

  ‘As I thought,’ said Harry grimly, ‘a schoolboy whipping - unjust, of course, they always are - and in a fit of temper the recipient walks out of his home, turns his back on his family, changes his name and rides off to make his fortune.’

  ‘No, My Lord! At least, it's not as you think!’

  �
�He didn't ride far,’ said Drogo, ‘the horse is fresh enough. A county family, My Lord?’

  ‘So I think. Well, he can ride back!’

  ‘If you reject me, My Lord, there will be others less scrupulous,’ said Richard, chin high.

  Derby said, ‘Whatever villainy he's managed to achieve no doubt some neighbour will be happy to have him home. I'll furnish him with an escort and we'll be rid of him.’

  ‘An escort, to where?’ Richard's voice was mocking him. ‘You'll have no names out of me!’

  ‘Boy, you show little regard for your skin,’ warned Drogo. ‘Let me work on him, I'll have his parentage out of him before we sit down to supper.’

  ‘No, leave him be and there's plenty here to attend to before we dine. See to it.’

  ‘My Lord.’ The big man gave him a curt bow, raked the boy from head to foot and strode away.

  ‘Well, Richard de Montfort,’ said Harry, ‘let us go inside to my closet and you can tell me your story and I, in return, will tell you why you cannot join my household. Fair exchange?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because you have enough of Peter in your bearing, in your voice. He has been a near neighbour to us at Kenilworth and a true liegeman of the crown. I believe you to be the returned prodigal, son of the matchless Lora. How did you fall foul so soon?’

  And so he had the whole story, settled easily in his chair in his office with the boy on a stool at his feet. ‘Your brother served me,’ said Harry. ‘He was dismissed my service and no, you may not ask me why. One day he may tell you but I think not. I would not wish to let another of Beaudesert’s sons cause havoc in my household.’

  ‘My Lord, I am not my brother.’ How often had he said those words in the past few months? ‘And if the family honour is stained it is incumbent upon you to let me redeem it. Truly, My Lord, there is no other way.’ He was earnest and eager; He would look well in the blue and white of Lancaster. Harry wondered afterwards why he had given in so easily.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  June 1345

  The departure from Southampton was a time Richard de Montfort knew he would never forget. The army had marched south singing, they had bivouacked beyond the port for three days and now, on the fourth, they had woken to a crystal clear June morning, a pearly sunrise and a light sheeting of dew over all. A first glimpse of the water, flat and green-blue had sent ripples of excitement through the ranks and then, when the fleet became visible the murmur swelled into an involuntary cheer.

  They lay alongside the harbour wall, stem to stern, a forest of masts and spars with brightly coloured hulls and painted sails, garish with pagan designs and Christian symbolism, all decked fore and aft with intricately carved rails and fanciful prows, lanterns wrought of iron. There were sailors in the shrouds and manning the fighting tops; desperate-looking men with bearded lips and gold earrings.

  And the names were fanciful and romantic or just plainly functional: the Gabriel, the Falcon, the Plentie and the Isabelle, the Michiel and the Fleurdeluce and Derby's flagship in pride of place, the Christopher, with her sails already set, a sea-green hull and an azure sail with Harry's favourite badge, the red rose of Lancaster. Emblazoned shields lined the bulwarks, or and sable, argent and purple. There was enough breeze to set the pennants flapping, to set the great lug sails slatting at their masts, to turn the newest ship-boy green in his crow's nest perch.

  Only the noise vied with the brilliance of colour, from the army at their back to the rumble of cart wheels on cobbles as they loaded up stores; the rattle and dip of oars; the voices of the sailors as they cupped hands and called across to each other, vessel to vessel, and the exited screaming of the gulls, dipping and wheeling over all.

  ‘Never, never,’ mused Richard, ‘shall I forget this. When I'm an old man, nodding at the hearth, I'll take this picture out and polish it up and be glad I was here.’

  And Derby only laughed, reached out and clapped him on the back. ‘Wait until you're crouching groaning in the bilges, stricken with the mal-de-mer, with your insides out like a gutted fish and death seeming an easy option, then we'll see the price of glittering memories!’ He laughed again, pricked his horse forward and rode down to his flagship.

  ~o0o~

  The campaign to secure English Gascony from the importunate French continued throughout the summer, into the autumn and on towards winter; from the landing at Bayonne on a clear June morning until they made siege camp outside the walls of La Reole in late October. These were lands and towns owing allegiance to the English crown and their citizens were loyally behind the tall, blond Englishman now at the height of his physical powers, who had been named King's Lieutenant by a trusting monarch and given carte blanche in all military affairs. But for all these were English crown lands with their musical Gascon names: Bergerac, Castillion, Lalinde, Auberoche, Villereal they were coveted by the French and the French Commander, the Compte de L'Isle, made his dispositions and attempted to thwart Henry - whom they called the Compte D'Erbi - at every turn.

  After the initial march in midsummer heat, with five hundred men at arms and two thousand archers at his back, Henry reached Bordeaux and, hearing that de L’Isle was at Bergerac with a sizable army, took to the river and with a fleet of boats sailed along the Dordogne, through Castillion to Bergerac. The French army was put to rout, de L’Isle escaped to make for La Reole and the town surrendered to Henry's forces. He spent the late summer in the area mopping up small pockets of resistance and returned to Bordeaux in the autumn. The enterprising Compte, having strengthened La Reole, marched to Auberoche, recently garrisoned by the English, and laid siege to it.

  Auberoche sat upon a rocky promontory overlooking the tiny river Auvezene and a little meadow-lined valley sloping up to heavily wooded country. The English set out from Bordeaux, keeping to the forestland, awaiting reinforcements for they were twelve hundred against ten thousand Frenchmen. In the open space between the woods and the river lay the French pavilions, coils of smoke wending up from the cooking fires as they prepared for supper, completely unaware of the English presence. With battle cries of 'Derby! Guienne!' the English fell upon them, their surprise complete. The enemy did not even have time to arm. De L’Isle was captured and with him, killed, wounded or taken hostage, was the flower of southern France.

  Derby entertained his captured generals to supper and two days later turned south towards the Garonne and La Reole to which he laid siege in late October. The fortress was perched precariously on its outcrop of rock, high above the river; with its solid foundations and thick walls it was thought impregnable. Henry entrenched himself and set to work building siege engines and belfries - towers for the archers to discharge their arrows into the garrison up on the walls - before the sappers moved in to mine at their feet. The town surrendered with some relief, it had only been in French hands for two decades and the citizens felt themselves English in sympathy, but the castle held out; the Commander was not a Gascon, he hailed from Provence. La Reole fell in the first few days of the New Year...

  ~o0o~

  Isabel of Lancaster, Countess of Derby, arrived at La Reole at the head of a cavalcade which more resembled a wedding party than a company setting out to ride through hostile countryside accompanying a prospective prize of war. The Countess was a plump, pretty woman, her soft pink and white face hidden behind several layers of veiling, the bright, dark eyes, darting here and there like the glance of a scurrying field mouse. She sat a tall high-stepping white mare, caparisoned in the blue and white of Lancaster and decked with brass bells. Beside her rode her single lady-in-waiting, tall and graceful, a perpetual look of worldly-wise amusement on her handsome face. The retinue, all sporting Derby's colours and his red rose badge, cluttered the courtyard about them.

  Henry was at his countess's stirrup, lifting her down, planting a hearty kiss full upon her lips. The garrison stood about, grinning broadly. In months of campaigning and weeks of siege there had been little time for dalliance for any of
them and the sight of a high-born lady decked out in her velvets and furs was a welcome sight. Lady Derby blushed peony red, the little white hands fluttered about her. ‘Fie, My Lord, will none perform the same office for my dear Jeannette?’ She motioned towards the lady-in-waiting, the slender equestrienne on the chestnut mare.

  Richard Latimer, in Derby's blue and white livery, fair hair combed for the occasion, stepped out and held up his arms for the descent of the glorious Amazon and, cocking a knee over the pommel, she slid lightly out of the saddle and into his arms. She smelt of the east, of sandalwood and jasmine. The cool touch of her furs was sensuous, the hazel eyes were challenging.

  ‘Prettily done, sir,’ said the Amazon, ‘and is the kiss included or do I get short measure?’

  Richard needed no second bidding to such gallantry; he slipped a hand beneath the heavy coils of her hair and his mouth closed over hers.

  ‘Bravo!’ said Lady Derby, subsiding into peals of silver laughter. ‘Well played, sir! Now we can all get inside out of the weather. Is there one stone left on top of another? I must say, My Lord, that if nothing else you have been thorough!’

  They kept their Twelfth Night as merrily as any household safe in England, with roaring fires and good victuals, for the surrounding countryside was plentiful. There was fine hunting in the forestland and Richard, in constant attendance on Harry Derby, found himself frequently in the company of the Lady Jeannette. The Countess, a confirmed mischief-maker, encouraged their friendship at every turn. And indeed, it was a friendship born of opportunity rather than love at first sight. Jeannette was an accomplished young woman, well-travelled but still able to exhibit her delight in new scenes and new companions.

  Richard had been starved of feminine company in the months he had spent in Derby's train. He would never take the love he had for Rose Durvassal and fling it in the lap of a whore but life went on and Jeannette was a gallant girl who could laugh at hardship. A second kiss, stolen in a deep window embrasure, when the moon was high and full over the castle rock, seemed as natural as breathing.