The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘See, My Lords, the very earth of France embraces me as its rightful master!’

  To some it seemed apt and original but others remembered tales of such a scene in reverse when William the Norman had landed at Pevensey and stumbled and passed the accident off as a happy omen.

  There followed a mass knighting of the younger nobility and, in full view of the army and the fleet, Edward knighted his young son, the sixteen year old Prince of Wales, and himself fastened on the gleaming golden spurs and the sword of chivalry. No father ever glowed with greater pride, no prince, it was declared, was ever as handsome as the young Edward. Then they set off to take up lodgings in the nearby village of Quettenhou whilst the fleet embarked.

  Thomas Beauchamp, Nicholas Durvassal at his side, with six mounted archers as his sole escort rode on after them towards Quettenhou. The landing had been easy, the countryside quiet; there was no danger here. The sight of the Bear and Ragged Staff upon the breasts of his men should have warned the riff-raff of the town to keep their distance. But Thomas had made one of the few mistakes of his long military career. A hundred Normans, fugitives from the fighting at St. Vaast, swarmed out from the skirts of dark woodland and surrounded them. They were eight against a hundred and they were hard pressed. Between them they accounted for sixty men, dead or wounded, before the remainder took to their heels.

  Thomas, bloodied, his chest heaving for breath turned, caught Durvassal's eyes upon him and smiled. They rode on to Quettenhou.

  ~o0o~

  The Montfort brothers, on the track of the English army in its forced march east, caught up with the troops as they forded the Somme at Blanchetaque, the Place of the White Stones. It was August 24th. That night the army encamped in the seclusion of deep woodland, hungry, weary but not disheartened. Next day they marched to the edge of the forest looking for a suitable battlefield. They made camp upon the banks of the River Maye. Beyond lay an insignificant little village, the inhabitants called it Crecy. They had covered three hundred and thirty five miles in thirty two days; they deserved a rest. Edward's intelligence service, even here in enemy territory, was second to none. He believed that the French King would attack the following day and he had chosen his position on the ridge to the north east of the village. On its highest point stood a windmill and behind the ridge a small wood, the Bois de Crecy Grange. Edward had an eye for a strong position, wasn't he, after all, Longshanks’ grandson?

  They pitched their bright pavilions and lit their watch fires on the skirt of the forest and Edward feasted his captains and they toasted the enterprise from goblets of gold and silver. Before they left the table the Earl of Northampton, grave faced as always, eyes giving nothing away, bowed low before his monarch and begged him to accept a gift and waved him from the tent towards an unremarkable cart parked in the baggage area and attended by a veritable army of archers. Edward strode forward with Northampton, Warwick at his back. The dour Northampton could not help whisking away the rough hessian cover with a triumphant flourish. His King stared down at the crude metal tubes nestling side by side in a bed of straw.

  ‘Crakeys, Ned,’ said Thomas Beauchamp, ‘I believe they use them in the east, to hurl balls of fire at the enemy - isn't that so, My Lord?’ He flashed a glance at Northampton. ‘Unsporting, wouldn't you say? But useful.’

  Later, as they walked in the summer darkness back to their pavilions Northampton said, ‘You won't ask, of course, but it was at Blanchetaque as we forded the river and the archers attacked and all was confusion. It was easy enough.’

  ‘No,’ said Thomas, ‘I wasn't going to ask. But a man has to wonder who betrayed him in the end.’

  Northampton smiled then. ‘Look closely, Thomas, as close as your right hand.’

  Beauchamp nodded, ‘I feared so. In the attack outside St. Vaast I should not have survived and there have been other incidents. I'll look to it. Goodnight, My Lord.’

  ~o0o~

  Warwick strode towards his tent and he was Black Guy's son again; jaw set, eyes terrible. Perhaps he should have looked back over the years and remembered a small boy's hero-worship, a young man's loyalty, and noted the seed of hatred as it grew with the mockery of the forced marriage to Rose de Brandstone and the loss of Christine. But he had ignored such signs so sure that the man would never break, that his despised squire would be faithful to the end.

  The tent was dimly lit, only a small oil lamp burnt low upon the travelling chest, throwing few shadows. Nicholas was still on duty, preparing for the morrow, the lambent light caught the silver fair hair, limned the high cheekbones. One long slender hand lay across the blade of the Earl's battle sword. It seemed he slept at his work, the polishing cloth still clutched in one hand, his forehead hard against the central pole of the tent. But it was a long sleep; there was a knife between his shoulder blades.

  ‘I did it, My Lord,’ said the man at his back - an unremarkable fellow in his own scarlet livery, his own badge at his breast. ‘He killed Lucy. He killed my little girl and he never even looked back. He had to die. She was all I had. Do with me as you will, My Lord, it is all the same now.’ But Warwick shook his head and waved him away. ‘Go from here. Tomorrow will sort all things, this is no more than he deserved.’ But when the little man had scurried off he stepped forward, put out a hand and touched the silver-fair hair, taking a strand between thumb and finger. When he loosed it it drifted back into place. Nicholas had escaped retribution and somehow found his own salvation and Rose Durvassal was free. When this campaign was over Thomas would let Richard Montfort ride home with the news. Yes, he owed him that.

  ~o0o~

  When the morrow came Peter would have one hundred and fifty bowmen at his back and Geoffrey Mikelton at his side but he was aware of an aching void which should have been filled by the presence of his sons. His King, Edward, was accompanied by his first born, the young Prince of Wales, eager to win his spurs. Peter thought, ‘Geoffrey and I will be two shambling, lonely old men, cross-grained and creaking beneath our mail shirts; war is a young man’s game.’

  He was down at the horse-lines checking on Ronceval. There had never been another such as Brigliadoro but Ronceval, murderous beast though he could be at times, was worming his way into his master’s affections.

  ‘What is it now?’ he had sent his squire off with an endless list of errands.

  ‘My apologies, sir. I came to give you my duty, to hope I find you well and in good spirits and to enquire whether you will receive me.’ The young voice was low-pitched, stiffly respectful, and fearful of the welcome it might receive.

  Peter gave Ronceval a brief slap and turned. He had known it was Richard. That voice would never lose its distinctive London inflection.

  ‘Richard! Is the Earl of Derby with us?’

  ‘No, Sir, it was not possible but he sent me with dispatches for the King and, should you wish it, I am released from his service to be at your disposal.’

  Peter said, ‘Why so formal, dear lad? Scared I’m going to bite your head off? You’re more than welcome!’ He took his son by the shoulders. ‘Why, you’ve grown to manhood in such a short time. I must have all your news.’ Richard relaxed visibly and Peter was ashamed that he had been so unsure of his reception. ‘I’m mortally sorry about the way you left. I could not let them all see you flout me and take no action but I would not have turned you from my door. When I found out that Derby had taken you into his household I knew it was for the best - but you were missed. I never did have the chance to thank you for accomplishing what I was unable to do myself – setting your brother free. My curst pride, my convoluted sense of honour, distorted my thinking to the point of blotting out all family feeling. There has not been a day since when I have not given thanks to God for what you did and for the continued existence of that wretch of a brother of yours. Bless you, lad, for being what you are, for having the courage to do what you knew was right.’

  Richard digested his words but only said, ‘And I may ride with our Henley men?’

>   ‘You will ride at my side in your rightful place. I’ll get Geoffrey to sort out a surcote for you in Montfort blue and gold…’ An arm around the young man’s shoulder he left Ronceval to his grooms. All about them, men were busying themselves in tasks for the morrow and the watch fires were springing up like fireflies about the valley.

  ~o0o~

  Like his Lord, Geoffrey Mikelton was receiving his own visitation. He had taken a moment to stoop down by the nearest watch fire, deep in thought. He did not heed the sound of a light footfall through the grass at his back until two hands came down and covered his eyes and someone laughed softly near to his ear. It was a childish trick, remembered from long ago, but one its perpetrator had never tired of.

  ‘Geoffrey, well met!’ John released him and flung himself down in the grass before the blaze. The flickering light seared the auburn hair and limned the contours of his face. ‘Geoffrey, how are you? I’m glad you’re here with him. You never seem a day older.’ They shook hands and Mikelton looked the young man over critically, seeming to approve of what he saw. They did not mention Peter’s name, managing to hedge about it.

  Mikelton said, ‘He has aged. He needs you back though he’ll never admit it. The fire went out of him when you got away. Richard is with him, thank the Lord. He should not feel entirely abandoned by his faithless kin.’

  John smiled, ‘Ah yes, Richard, whose good deeds hang like a millstone about my neck. I think I would as soon have hung as be obligated to Richard. It terrifies me, for I am beginning to like him; everyone else does.’

  ‘And how fares the Lady Johanna?’ queried Mikelton politely.

  John laughed softly and his arrogant features relaxed; there was a far-away look in his eyes not much short of lickerish. ‘Oh, the Lady Johanna has clawed her way into my heart and taken hold there. She is with Lady Derby still but, if I survive tomorrow, I should dearly love to take her back to Beaudesert.’

  Geoffrey nodded, ‘Go to your father, boy. He wants you back though he’d never admit it to a living soul. You needn’t fear he’ll clap you in irons; he’ll probably grouse and glower and mutter.’

  ‘Ah, so nothing has changed. Where is he?’

  ‘Shall I go to him first; prepare the way?’

  John shook his head. ‘No, this I must do myself.’ He followed the old man’s directions, threading his way through the city of pavilions until he came to his father’s blue campaigning tent. Peter was sitting outside on a stool, his sword across his knees, sunk in thoughts of the morrow. John had time to study the thick dark thatch of his hair, grey now at the temples, the fierce concentration of the brows over the lowered dark eyes, the firm set of the mouth. He said nothing, only waited for his father to sense his presence and look up. When their eyes met it seemed as if both their hearts must have turned over simultaneously.

  Peter thought, ‘How tall he is; I had forgotten.’ He said, ‘John de Montfort, have we anything to say to one another?’

  John’s face was perfectly grave now. He looked at him with Lora’s eyes then he dropped to one knee so that they were on a level.

  ‘I did not think there was anything I could say, any way I could atone…’ His voice trailed off.

  Peter put a hand on each shoulder so that there was no escape from his fierce dark gaze. ‘Boy, there are no apologies, no clever words, no pretty speeches you could possibly trot out to assuage the hurt of your betrayal. Forgive you I may, not now, not soon, but over time perhaps. Lad, as Christ is my witness, I am unfortunate enough to need you at my side and foolish enough to love you still for whatever you are and, taken all in all, you are an unprincipled, undutiful, treacherous, double-tongued, false-hearted, graceless young rogue!’

  ‘Ah, so you’re letting me off lightly,’ said John with a sardonic curl of his lips, belied by the affection in the violet eyes. Then he smiled the heart-stopping smile which had bound all at Beaudesert to him long ago and Peter was defenceless once again.

  ‘Oh, give your father a hug and be done with it. I’ve missed you every day. I’m not proud of such weakness but there it is!’ They clasped each other and, for a moment, Peter drew the auburn head down onto his shoulder. John lifted his face and the violet eyes were bright with unshed tears. He dashed them away.

  ‘I never meant to ask, but would you have hung me?’

  ‘Oh, aye, but God help me, I could not have done it unless I had first put your eyes out! Now, before you unman me further, go and seek your brother. When you ride out tomorrow I shall knight you both in the Field so make this evening one of sober reflection and earnest prayers. You, Johnny, are sadly in need of grace so stop laughing at me!’ He feigned a blow at the nearest ear and watched him stride away with cat-like grace before he shut out the darkness and ducked inside the tent again.

  ~o0o~

  Peter de Montfort was alone at his prayers. Once, he had trained for the priesthood but prayer did not come easily now. His thoughts slipped away to Warwickshire, to the warm golden stones of Beaudesert, to the girl with the buttercup hair cloistered at Pinley. He did not start as the night breeze caught him on the back of the neck and he did not turn as the man who entered brought some of the orange glare of the camp fires within the blue canvas walls.

  The man stood for a long time, waiting until Montfort crossed himself and rose stiffly to his feet. Still Peter did not turn but eventually he said, ‘You are welcome, Thomas; twenty five years are between us, so doubly welcome.’ He turned then, arm extended and came forward.

  Thomas was dazzling in the lantern light; scarlet and gold in contrast to Montfort's clear sky blue; splendid and terrible. Peter was still the man who had taken Tom Beauchamp up before him on Brigliadoro and shown him the Warwick woods and hills but Thomas could never afford to reveal the child who had raced up to the East Gate in a snow storm and poured out his hatred for Roger Mortimer. This was a man in his prime, his emotions very much in check, his displeasure to be feared; master of his own destiny. He said, ‘We cannot go on prowling like hungry tigers along our march; there must be peace between our houses and I would seal it with our blood.’

  ‘Thomas!’

  ‘Oh, I express myself badly. You have a son and I have a clutch of daughters. Would you take Meg for Guy? Not yet, she’s far too young; Katherine would never allow it, but they could be hand fasted and the marriage is as good as done. Well, what do you think of the idea?’

  ‘I like it,’ Peter said honestly. ‘It pleases me greatly and Margaret may compensate for what you have taken from me!’

  Warwick said, ‘Richard? I must confess I had no fondness for what I did to Richard but I hear he is back with you and, indeed, he seems to have turned out very well – for which we neither of us can take credit. But John? Oh, John has squired me faithfully enough but was never more than loaned to my service. I think he will not stray again.’

  Peter was standing awkwardly, the hand of friendship still thrust forward, hovering in mid air. Thomas did not take it. Instead, he knelt before his one-time mentor, head bowed. ‘Old friend, who knows what the God of Battles has in store for us tomorrow but, live or die, I shall rest easier with your blessing.’ And as Peter murmured, protesting, and raised him by the powerful shoulders Thomas said, ‘Forgive me?’ And the flax flower eyes, shielded by dark lashes, belonged to a boy from long ago after all. They clasped hands at last.

  The fires were dampened in the English camp and tomorrow would bring a bloody encounter to the fair fields of France. Afterwards, Englishmen would only remember the glory. But to Peter de Montfort, standing in the soft summer darkness, an arm easily about the shoulder of Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and Marshal of England, the battle had already been won.

  Author’s Note

  For those readers wondering: ‘Whatever happened to…?’

  Thomas Beauchamp, together with Peter de Montfort, John and Richard survived the celebrated Battle of Crecy in which the supremacy of the English longbow was, at last, acknowledged over the gallant but ill-di
sciplined chivalry of France.

  Thomas Beauchamp went on to fight in many skirmishes for his friend and King, Edward III, including the renowned Battle of Poitiers, before finally dying of plague within a year of his countess. Their effigies lie, side by side and hand in hand, in the Choir of St. Mary’s Church in Warwick which Thomas had rebuilt to house his body. Thomas and Katherine were believed to have had sixteen children. It is possible to read both of their Wills; it seems that no member of their large family was left out of the bequests.

  Majestic Warwick Castle is there for all to visit and Thomas’s great Caesar Tower looks as it must have done when he had completed his building programme; it had been financed with the ransom of his aristocratic French prisoners of war. What we might call ‘a nice little earner’! Thomas was succeeded by his second son, Thomas. His eldest son had died within his father’s lifetime.

  Peter lived to a good age and was also buried in Warwick, at the Church of the Friars Preachers. Sadly, he outlived both his legitimate son, Guy, and his eldest son, John. Guy’s young and childless widow, Margaret Beauchamp, Thomas’s daughter, retired to the Nunnery at Shouldham in Norfolk where many of her sisters, cousins and aunts were already installed.