The Lords of Arden (31 page)

 ‘Then,’ said Thomas, ‘we should get along
very well. Is the bargain struck? Are you my man?’

 John shrugged his shoulders and put out a
slim wrist. ‘My hand upon it but this is as dark a partnership as Arden has ever known!’

 Warwick was crushing the slender bones in
his punishing bear’s grip. Unbelievably, he was smiling. ‘My Steward will find
you lodging. Come, Kate. Orabella, John, goodnight.’

 John made for the fire, kicking the last
of the glowing logs into life. Orabella sank into the Countess’s chair. ‘I’m
not going to say anything.’

 ‘Why not, everyone else has a knife in my
ribs? Is he always like that?’

 ‘Thomas is Thomas. He really has no
enmity towards you. He’s an excellent master but he’s no Henry Derby.’

 ‘Meaning?’

 ‘Less of the campaigning camaraderie. You
will need to keep a respectful distance. Thomas’s tongue lashings are not for
the faint-hearted and usually designed as a spectator sport. But he means it
when he says he bears you no ill-will. He has a fine hatred for your father
though, and how it will irk Peter to see you at his side. That is why you are
here.’

 ‘Orabella, I can’t see a way out.’

 ‘You’ll think of something, you always
do. Why don’t you write to Johanna?’

 ‘Johanna?’

 ‘Your wife, remember her? If anyone is
capable of smoothing your father’s rightfully ruffled feathers, I guess it
would be Johanna.’

 ‘I couldn’t ask. Do I get a room of my
own? Will you come to me?’

 ‘Yes, you might, and no, I won’t.’

 ‘Your husband’s here?’

 ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

 ‘Then why?’

 ‘Because you have some serious thinking
to do and because I am not at your beck and call.’

 ‘But we get on so well.’

 ‘So you thought you might use me to
restore some of your sadly deflated amour propre?’

 ‘Something like that.’

 ‘At least you’re honest. You know,
there’s nothing wrong with Richard.’

 ‘I wish you’d kiss me.’

 ‘Then one thing would lead to another and
you’re very good at the other.’

 ‘I know.’ John flashed her his brilliant,
heart-stopping smile. It usually worked.

 Orabella had risen. She put an arm about
his neck and pulled his face down for a practised kiss and said, ‘Such a pity
that your intelligence is not also located in southern latitudes,’ and, letting
a hand slide inward from his narrow hips and latch into his groin for a
tantalising moment, she was gliding away without a backward glance.

 The man who had crept in to cover the
fire said with grotesque cheerfulness, ‘Not really your lucky day, sir. Well,
better fortune next time!’

 John did not think it worth a reply.

Richard de Montfort's gaolers left him at
the lower gate, took the hand he stretched out to each of them and finally,
ungrudgingly, wished him good luck before turning to ride back towards the high
road. He went on alone across the bridge and through the gatehouse, up the
steep incline of the outer bailey only to be challenged at the barbican and
ultimately passed through. In the shadows of the inner courtyard he dismounted
and found that silent hands had taken charge of his mount and shuttered faces
were ready to direct him to the solar. He passed unannounced through the
tapestried curtain and found the family assembled.

 Peter was pacing the floor, hands behind
his back, head jutted forward, whilst Bess, in her brother's chair, sat rigidly
upright, stony-faced, watching his perambulations. The child, Guy, was crouched
upon a stool, seeking invisibility whilst old Geoffrey Mikelton slumped upon a
bench by the wall, held his bandaged head between his hands and stared
dejectedly between his feet. The other figure, standing by the table, thin and
wiry, sharp-faced, was Peter's chaplain, Jack de Lobbenham, summoned to the
family conference and now casting about for words of comfort and wisdom. Peter
turned at the far wall and began to stride back again towards the fire.

 ‘I'll hang him!’ The words exploded from
him. ‘If he falls into my hands again, I'll hang him. Flesh of my flesh he may
be but I'll cast him out of my heart like the devil he's proved!’

 At this dramatic point they all decided
to notice Richard. De Lobbenham's first thought was, 'He's not like John, not
really, and thank God for it! But he's Peter's son, Warwick could never have
doubted it.'

 Peter, forced down to earth said, ‘Don’t
stand there, boy, come to the fire and get some warmth into your bones. This is
a fine kettle of fish you've landed us in, eh? One son turned Judas to his
father and his House, what will you put upon an old man in his last years, eh?’

 'Christ!' thought the chaplain, ‘he’s
going to play the pathetic ancient, the hapless dupe of his warring sons, and
this tall, fair lad is to be the scapegoat for all his brother's misdeeds. I
don't envy him his first few weeks here. I should feel like turning round and
marching out again. But then, if you've just discovered your father is lord of
a dozen manors in five different counties, your own full brother is disgraced
with a price set on his head and the only legitimate rival is a delicate child
of nine years, it's worth gritting your teeth and hanging on for whatever comes
your way. He wouldn't be Lora Astley's son if he didn't have that much in him.'

 Bess said, ‘He'd better have John's room,
I'll see it aired.’ But Peter and Guy both cried out a vehement 'No!'
simultaneously and she shrugged and went away to chivvy the maids.

 That evening they supped early and
Richard took his place at the high table up on the dais. It was a sombre,
cheerless meal and his presence, which in normal circumstances would have
caused speculation at the lower tables, was ignored as they muttered and
whispered and told over Bastard John's treachery and laid bets as to whether
his father's threat to hang him would hold good. Later, the family repaired to
the solar again and Bess sent Guy to bed. Peter spent the entire evening
staring into the fire, locked in his own thoughts, and Richard was relieved
when he could make excuses and go up to his room.

 The Audley Tower looked eastward over to
the ridgeway and the glittering snow-world he had traversed only that morning. As
he began the ascent from the courtyard the wind, finding its way in through
shutterless arrow loops, made him hug his cloak about his shoulders. It was
snowing again, to good purpose, drifting in to melt about the guttering wick of
his lamp, flickering crazily in the downdraft from the stair-well to send his
shadow dancing manically behind him. Earlier, his aunt had shown him a room at
the very top of the drum tower, clean but austere; it would be pleasant enough
in the summer, opening onto the leads. He wondered where John slept; he could
not imagine his flamboyant brother in such a functional setting.

 When he was still two floors below he
heard the child crying, a hopeless, ceaseless keening for a world which had
disintegrated. Richard hesitated at the door, uncertain, apprehensive perhaps,
and then he put a hand firmly on the latch, lifted it and strode inside. One
glance about him as he raised his lamp told him that this was not Guy's room,
that he had the answer to his earlier thought. The tapestried wall hangings
with their sensual scenes from Arthurian legend, the great bed wallowing in its
yardages of drapery, the garments that lay carelessly strewn over the carved
bed-chest, velvets and lustrous satin and fine silk, the book of hours still
open upon the small table at the bedside, gold curlicues glinting about
jewel-rich colours, all had John's stamp upon them. If they lay here untouched
for a century his presence would not diminish.

 Guy lay half suffocated under the heavy
bed-cover, his small body shaking but he had heard the door. He emerged,
holding his breath, the light of hope kindling in the smudged darkness of his
eyes. The brightness faded, he gave a hiccup and began to cry again. Richard
had found space enough to set his lamp down upon the clothes chest at the end of
the bed, now he sat beside the child and without touching him said, ‘I don't
suppose you want to see me, but I'm here.’

 ‘No,’ said Guy. ‘This is his room, my
brother's room. Go away.’

 ‘He will come back. It may take time but
he'll be forgiven in the end.’

 ‘He's to hang,’ said Guy. ‘He betrayed us
all, it's right he should hang. I want him to hang!’

 ‘No, you don't, you know that isn't
true!’

 ‘He promised he would always be here, he
would ride by my side through all the years to come, to the confusion of our
enemies. It was a solemn promise. I thought he meant it.’

 ‘I expect he did at the time.’

 ‘I hate him!’ One small fist pummelled
the bolster. Guy was undersized for nine, just a pair of enormous eyes beneath
a black fringe. ‘I hate you. You think you'll take his place, that it will be
easy. You've wormed your way into Beaudesert and now you think you can lord it
here, but you can't because they will all hate you. Aunt Bess turned you from
the door, sent you back to Warwick, didn't she? Father isn't really interested
if you live or die. He only wanted you here because Thomas Beauchamp had you in
hold and that he couldn't abide.’

 Richard said, ‘Yes, I fear you're right. We're
all going to be miserable then. What a pity!’

 ‘Why?’ Guy lifted his head and looked him
full in the face for the first time.

 Richard shrugged his shoulders, ‘Because
I was looking forward to having a brother; I never had one before. I'd better
go; I don't want to stay round where I'm not wanted.’ He got to his feet but
one thin little arm shot out of the bedclothes and groped for his wrist.

 ‘You don't have to go. I didn't mean to
be so hateful!’ And as Richard sat down again Guy launched himself into his
brother's arms, sobbing his heart out into the breast of the violet jupon. The
thin little body, clad only in his shirt, was ice cold. Richard took off his
good frieze cloak and wrapped it round him.

 ‘Where is your room?’

 ‘In the Mellent Tower, the other side
from the East Gate,’ sniffed Guy at last. ‘I came across the roof; no-one saw
me.’

 ‘Without your shoes? What would your aunt
say? You can't stay here all night.’

 ‘Why not?’

 ‘Because it's not a sensible idea, you'll
end with an ague. I'm going to my room. Your aunt - our aunt, had them put a
hot stone in the bed, do you want to come up?’

 Guy slid his feet to the floor. ‘Often I
have nightmares. Once I came to John. Aunt Bess was angry and said it wasn't
fitting; I was the heir; I should have more pride.’

 Richard looked about him. His dark eyes
slid over John's tapestry lovers. Bess was probably right. ‘Well, I shall get
the scolding in the morning.’ He put out a hand and Guy put his own small, cold
fingers into it, trotting beside him. At the top of the tower, Richard set down
his lamp, found a tinder box and lit a stub of candle at the bedside, turned
back the sheet and located the stone, still warm in its woollen wrappings. He
bowed his brother into the white expanse of freshly laundered linen, tucked him
up to the chin and went over to the window. He closed the shutters on a
brilliant starscape and a world of moon shadows and glittering rime.

 Guy said sleepily, ‘Do you know any stories?
John knew a lot of stories.’

 ‘I can imagine,’ Richard said dryly,
stretched out on the coverlet beside him and dredged up an Arthurian tale of
sound principles, vague morality and excessive blood-letting. When at last the
child slept he pulled off his clothes, tossed them into a heap and let the
cold, clean, lavender-scented sheets slide over the warmth of his body with as
much friendliness as the rest of this snow-bound fortress had extended. Guy was
all but won over, others would follow; no man is unassailable. Richard blew out
the candle and slept.

~o0o~

It had to be admitted, even by those who
disliked or mistrusted him, and that was the larger part of the Earl’s retinue,
that John de Montfort was more than proficient at everything he turned a hand
to. Few could better him in single combat or on horseback armed with lance or
mace. He was a skilled musician at the lute, with a large repertoire of both
the sacred and profane; he was lethal at the gaming tables, sharp tongued and
quick witted. Thomas Beauchamp fell to wondering why Henry Derby had let him
go.

 Seated on a mounting block in the Great Court, watching the usual practice bouts with blunted tourney swords, Warwick saw Nicholas Durvassal striding away, set faced, towards the armoury. He beckoned
Montfort to his side.

 ‘My Lord?’ John’s graceful, practised bow
gave no indication that he bore any ill will for the complete character
assassination he had suffered at Beauchamp’s hands a few days before. Perhaps
he had recognised that there had been more than a grain of truth in such an
uncomfortable dressing down.

 ‘I should not,’ said Thomas, ‘let
Nicholas lose too often.’

 John raised his eyebrows. ‘Then he will
have to do better. I would not debase my skills to bolster a Durvassal and
particularly that Durvassal!’

 ‘Then you will make an enemy there. It is
a friendly warning, that is all. By the way, your father wants you back.’

 ‘Oh, heralded with trumpet and rose
petals, I suppose?’

 Thomas said dryly, ‘Preferably quartered
and served with gooseberry sauce. Though he might settle for public castration.
I could barter you for something useful but if I keep you longer your price
might go up. Anyway, whilst rumour and counter-rumour circulate around that red
head of yours, I have a commission for you. Be ready to leave at first light. Have
you lands in Norfolk? No? Then you’ll enjoy the change of scene.’

~o0o~

The thaw had come just days before
Christmas and Thomas had a mind to have Mary home again for the feast. Nursemaiding
one young girl and her chaperone was not quite what John would have chosen for
his first mission in the service of Thomas of Warwick but at least he was out
in the country air, away from wagging tongues. They took the charette but the
nurse preferred to ride pillion behind one of their grooms; she was a stout,
gallant woman who did her best not to slow the pace. Shouldham was a Gilbertine
House, ten or so miles south east of Lynn, beyond the Great Ouse and the flat
wetlands and less than a day's ride from Castle Rising, the great fortress
which housed the Queen Dowager, under house arrest.

 The journey took four days, hampered as
they were by the lumbering of the charette and the time it took to dig it out
of a waterlogged ditch. The nurse was happy to sit about a tavern fire in the
evenings with her skirts kilted up and her feet in the ashes, telling
uproarious tales gleaned from a long life in the Earl's household.

 ‘The Lady Mary,’ said John, stretched out
on a settle, booted feet crossed, head on his rolled mantle, ‘is she a pious
child? Shall we be stopping at every wayside shrine and diving in for Mass at
every other country church; there are a lot of churches between Shouldham and
Warwick. I stopped counting.’

 The woman gave an unladylike snort. ‘Lord
love us no, whatever gave you that idea? She'll be anxious to be home and she
rides as well as you do. The Lady Mary was sent to Shouldham more in the way of
mortification of the body than for the good of the soul. She crossed swords
with her father over her marriage plans and, of any man, he is not one to
thwart, but she's the apple of his eye and the Countess likes her well enough,
so she's bidden home. Next time she displeases him perhaps he'll find a
religious house a mite nearer to Warwick. There's Wroxall on our doorstep and
the White Ladies at Pinley…’ Here she cast him a shifty, sidelong glance,
knowing it was his mother's refuge but he refused to rise to the bait.