The Lords of Arden (22 page)

October mists filled every treeless
hollow, girdled every field and softened the bronze sunrise. The highroads out
of Warwick were patterned with falling leaves, brittle and sere. On an errand
of John Dawn's approval, Richard Latimer walked unchallenged through the lower
guard, hesitated momentarily and struck away from the town. His intended
destination was to the west, to Beaudesert.

 Richard had made little attempt at
disguise, save the removal of Warwick's distinctive badge from the breast of
his cote; it was now securely tucked away inside his purse. As the day wore on,
whistling cheerfully, he took to the forest tracks, keeping away from farms and
inns. He had half a loaf of bread and a small round cheese tucked under his
cloak and there were streams aplenty at which to quench his thirst. Once, he
had to flatten himself into a ditch as a party of horsemen rode by, but they
wore Lancaster's livery and would have no interest in his wanderings.

 He heaved himself upright and then
crouched down as the sound of hooves assaulted his ears again. This time it was
a single rider, trotting towards him. He began to crawl out of his nettle-lined
hole and, at sight of him, the grey pony, only yards away now and
side-stepping, reared in fright and threw his rider into the grass on the
opposite side of the road. At her high-pitched scream Richard was across the
dusty track and kneeling beside her.

 She lay quite still, looking up at him
with enormous eyes, blue as speedwells. Her long, dark red hair spread like
coloured sea-weed over the briars and the brambles and there was a scratch upon
her face. She must have been thirteen or fourteen years old, certainly no more.

 ‘Are you hurt, lady?’ Richard asked
anxiously.

 ‘No, but you can help me up. Where's my
pony?’

 ‘He's quiet now, over there grazing on
the bank.’ He began to extract the red hair from the thorns painstakingly. ‘You're
surely not alone, demoiselle?’

 The girl snorted. ‘I was with my father;
I've run away from him.’

 Latimer lifted her in his arms. ‘We'd
better seek him anyway.’

 The blue eyes flashed angrily. ‘He's
taking me to Warwick. I have no desire to go to Warwick!’

 Richard smiled, ‘I don't blame you, ma
mie. If you can keep a secret, that is where I'm heading away from myself.’

 ‘Really?’ The blue eyes were enormous
again, immediately curious. ‘Put me down, boy and let me introduce myself. I'm
the Lady Rose de Brandstone; my father is Lord of Lapworth. I'm on my way to Warwick to wed with one of the Earl's entourage. Do you know Master Nicholas Durvassal?’

 ‘By sight but we exist on different planes.
Very handsome though; the ladies of Warwick will envy you, Lady Rose. It will
need all your charms to keep Nicholas your slave.’

 Rose jutted her pointed chin. ‘But you
don't know me; I always get what I want. But I did not want Nicholas. And what
is your name?’

 ‘Richard - and here's your father, I
imagine. I must be on my way.’

 Sir Hugh Brandstone, red-faced, panted
into view. A word of command to his men-at-arms, and Latimer found both arms
pinned swiftly behind his back and received a shove which helped him towards
the dismounting knight.

 ‘Leave him alone, father!’ A swirl of
blue silk and the Lady Rose was between them. ‘My pony threw me and this young
man came to my rescue.’

 At a sign from Sir Hugh his henchmen
loosed their captive and stood away.

 Richard bowed. ‘At your service, sir. I'm
happy to have been of some little assistance. Now I must be on my way.’

 ‘It seems we owe you some measure of
thanks, lad. Come along, Rose Red.’

 ‘Yes, father, we shouldn't keep Nicholas
waiting, should we?’ She smiled at Richard and demurely dropped her dark lashes
over the blue eyes. Sir Hugh's face showed astonishment at her change of heart
and he threw the boy a querying glance, but that young man bowed again and set
off jauntily down the high road. Out of sight of the little group he struck off
again into the trees for fear that the Lord of Lapworth, meeting with a patrol,
might direct them after him. Later, he managed to hitch a lift on a cart full
of timber, bound for Henley village and, mid-afternoon of Market Day, he walked
unhindered along the causeway and through the gatehouse of great Beaudesert,
into the outer ward, bright with the stalls and awnings of a score of traders.

 He wandered amongst them for an hour or
so, asking questions and receiving negative answers. Finally, he approached the
sentry at the upper gatehouse who was leaning, bored, upon his pike.

 ‘Friend, perhaps I'm fighting a losing
battle but I'm trying to trace my family; they came from hereabouts.’

 The sentry at least assumed some
interest. ‘What's your name, lad?’

 ‘That's part of the trouble, I just don't
know, but my mother's name was Lora.’

 ‘Not such an uncommon name,’ said the
sentry, ‘and it’s not much to go on, is it? Wait a minute, I'll call the
Constable; he's been here since the Flood!’ He disappeared into the barbican
and returned with a tall, elderly fellow with iron-grey hair and a twinkle in
his deep-set brown eyes.

 ‘This is the lad?’

 The sentry nodded and Geoffrey Mikelton
turned Richard to face the last of the sunlight.

 ‘All he knows is her Christian name.’

 Latimer said, ‘She had me fostered when I
was a few weeks old, for reasons I know none of and I'd not like to hazard
without knowing more about her. I've an idea she came from Beaudesert in Madam
Maud's day …’

 ‘You must know the old lady is dead.’

 Richard nodded. ‘My foster parents used
to receive an allowance brought by a servant of the lady's every six months,
when he came to London to visit the lorimer. Do you know of such a man? Out
here a visit to the city must have been talked about in the taverns, on market
day…’ He spread his hands.

 ‘We knew him,’ said Mikelton gravely.

 ‘But he's no longer at Beaudesert?’

 ‘No, he died of a flux; barely survived
Lady Maud by two weeks. But this doesn't help you. You’re not milady's by-blow
if that's what's entered your head, she was nearing ninety when she died.’

 ‘Perhaps, one of her damsels?’

 The sentry shook his head. ‘That'd be
before my time.’

 Mikelton said, ‘There's one who could
have been your mother, but I'd not use her name until I was sure... Listen,
boy, Peter de Montfort and his sons are away, but come back when My Lord is
home and he'll hear you out. He's a fair minded man.’

 ‘I can't come back,’ Richard said slowly.

 ‘Then I can't help you.’ Mikelton never
took his eyes from Latimer's face, troubled by the likeness realised there.

 ‘Is my mother dead?’

 ‘She took the veil a good many years ago,
but she lives.’

 ‘Where?’

 ‘Wroxall maybe. No, Pinley. There's one
who will remember the story well, My Lord's sister, the Lady Elizabeth
Freville; she's staying here.’

 ‘Then I can see her?’

 ‘As well be hanged for a sheep,’ sighed
the Constable. ‘Come with me then.’

 He led Richard through barbican and gateway
into the inner ward: four blocks of buildings, cornered by drum towers,
surrounded it. The sun was setting and the golden stone had warmed to a deep
rose. Two pages in Montfort blue and gold were sparring together; a stableman
was rinsing off over a trough of water; a flight of pigeons took off from the
chapel roof. Richard followed the Constable through a maze of dark passages,
standing in silence whilst he pushed aside a brightly woven tapestry.

 A woman's voice asked, ‘What’s wrong,
Geoffrey?’

 ‘My Lady, I've a young man outside, a
stranger in quest of his roots. God forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think you
should see him.’ Then he was holding the curtain aside and beckoning the boy
into the solar. Richard did not afterwards recall the pleasant room: the
high-arched windows, the painted walls, the rush lights bright in the sconces,
the small fire keeping the autumn chill away. His eyes were only for the woman
in the chair, beckoning him forward with a queen's imperiousness.

 Mikelton took a breath. ‘There is reason
to believe that his mother is the Demoiselle Astley.’

 Bess should have felt a certain relief. There
was little about the boy to recall Lora Astley of the violet eyes and the
buttercup hair, only, perhaps, a certain English fairness. But the years were
rolling back to her own girlhood, to the bronzy haired tomboy who could draw a
bow as well as her brothers, who could ride as fast. She was remembering a
particular summer's day and Peter home from the university at Oxford; Peter at
this boy's age, slender and brown but with the same intensity in the berry dark
eyes, the same way of glancing up from under those strongly marked brows. They
might all cast about for his mother's identity but he had laid his own claims
on his father.

 Geoffrey Mikelton was staring at Elizabeth. The healthy colour had vanished from her cheeks. ‘He's fair as she was,’ he
prodded. ‘How old are you, boy?’

 ‘Eighteen,’ he was looking at Elizabeth, conscious of her discomfiture. She recovered her composure and gave lip service
to anger, surprise and incredulity.

 ‘Born at Pinley then. No, this is some
ridiculous plot to blackmail Peter. If this boy is hers she carried him with
her the day she fled. With such insurance for her future she would have known
herself safe here. This doesn't ring true. Who sent you here?’ Her voice was
harsh now and unsteady.

 ‘I came of my own free will. No-one else
knows I am here.’

 Bess rose stiffly and crossed to the
window; she stood for a long time looking out across field and woodland. There
was a sliver of moon just visible, low in the sky.

 ‘Perhaps I judge too swiftly, you have a
right to an interview with my brother.’

 ‘My Lady!’ Richard crossed the floor
swiftly and snatched at the plump hand, swollen about her wedding ring. ‘I
apologise for any distress this may be causing you but…’

 She cut him short. ‘Don't thank me yet. Geoffrey,
I want him searched thoroughly before he partakes of our hospitality.’

 Latimer shrugged his shoulders and handed
over his cloak.

 ‘And your purse!’

 Mikelton ran a hand swiftly about the
lining of the cloak and held out a hand for the leather pouch. ‘My lady, look
at this!’ He handed a piece of cloth across to his mistress and gripped the
young man by the elbow.

 Elizabeth Freville relaxed visibly and
began to laugh. ‘You little fool!’ She held out Warwick's badge, torn earlier
from the breast of his cote. ‘You could not even successfully hide your
allegiance. Is Warwick so desperate that he sends an untrained boy to spy upon
us?’

 Richard said, ‘Warwick employs me, My
Lady, it's true enough, but as a fletcher. He does not know I am here. All that
I have told you is the truth, I would swear to it. Only let me talk to your
brother and…’

 ‘You would perjure yourself? Rest
assured, Peter shall know of this but I'll not house you in the days till his
return. Geoffrey, I want two of your men summoned at once. See he's bound and
returned to Warwick; Thomas Beauchamp shall know of my displeasure and that he
wears the fool's cap for this little denouement. Get him out of my sight!’

 Richard struggled futilely as the
Constable's men bound his wrists but Mikelton, a gauntleted hand under his
armpit, propelling him through the gatehouse said, ‘Lady Elizabeth will inform My
Lord. If you're Peter de Montfort's son he'll not desert you. Take some comfort
from that.’ And then he was helping him into the saddle and the escort was
forming up around him.

~o0o~

Thomas Beauchamp, Durvassal at his side,
came to meet the party from Beaudesert as they came through the arch of the
great gate and into the ring of torchlight within the courtyard. It was the
first time in sixteen years that the blue and gold of Montfort had been
received beyond the gate. All who could be spared gathered to wonder at the
phenomenon but they kept themselves at a safe distance. Beauchamp, lavishly
appointed in black and gold, wore a thunderous expression, boding ill for
someone. The young man on Peter de Montfort's bay rouncy, who was known to be
one of Ralph Dawn's men and merely a hired fletcher, held himself proud and
aloof and disdainful; his hands were bound. Mikelton dismounted, gave Warwick a curt bow and handed him a parchment to which Lady Freville had affixed her
distinctive seal. He waited respectfully as the Earl perused the document,
rolled it and thrust it into Durvassal's hands before turning back to Geoffrey.

 ‘Thank Lady Freville for her timely
delivery of my man. I will be pleased to discuss the matter of his identity
when My Lord de Montfort returns home. Can I have you served ale before you
ride away? Offer some refreshment perhaps?’ He was unfailing in his courtesy
and solicitude. Mikelton refused all with a minimum of grace. ‘Of course, of
course, you'll be anxious to be away and you'll wish to take your hack. Nicholas,
unhorse Master Latimer and bring him here.’