The Lords of Arden (43 page)

 Thomas said, ‘Look about you, Guy, look
up at Warwick, look at the new buildings, at Caesar's Tower. I love every
stone, every square block you see before you. My father and your grandsire
loved this edifice and I think there are no ghosts for all our past sins. I
leave her in your hands when I ride through the gatehouse. Keep her safe for
me. Now, I must let you down to earth again. Have you a kiss for your father?’

 Guy de Beauchamp put his head on one side
and looked up at him. ‘Will you bring me the plume from a French helm taken
from the field of battle?’

 ‘I'll bring you a hundred Frenchmen, plumes
and all,’ laughed Thomas. ‘We'll set them in Caesar's Tower and ransom them for
gold coin and build a castle fit for the Bear and Staff!’

 And Guy reached up, pursed his red mouth
and planted a sticky kiss upon his father's cheek. ‘I should like that. See to
it, My Lord!’ And he swung himself from the saddle and Thomas Beauchamp set his
nose for the south, trotted beneath his own gatehouse arch, cantered down towards
the river, his knights at his back, and paused once upon the bridge to draw his
sword. The rising sun drew blood from the blade. ‘A Warwick! A Warwick! St.
George for England!’

 Then the forest closed in about them all,
the last riders disappeared into the dust of the highway and the smell of
horseflesh was gone. Only the dankness of the river remained and the sound of
the water lapping at the arches of the bridge.

~o0o~

After a minor skirmish with the townsfolk,
put down by the action of his vanguard, Edward of England set foot upon French
soil at noon on Wednesday 12th July, running his ships inshore at the little
fishing port of St. Vaast-la-Hogue. The portents were unhappy for the golden
Plantagenet who had disembarked at last, set upon fulfilling those long ago
Vows of the Heron. As Edward sprang down from the shoulders of those who would
have born him through the surf he misjudged his footing, stumbled forward and
sprawled full length upon his face. A great cry went up amongst all who had
witnessed his fall, followed by mutterings: ‘An omen, an omen!’ The King seized
the moment and turned it to his advantage. He waved away those who had moved to
help him rise, sprang up laughing and spread out his arms so that they could
all see the mud and the weed that clung to his splendid surcote.

 ‘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?’