The Lords of Arden (7 page)

 The chamber was bright and clean and welcoming
with a fire in the hearth, for even in July Bamburgh felt the north-east winds
too keenly; the bed was piled high with rugs and furs.

 ‘This is your room?’

 She nodded, drawing him forward, then
standing him off so that she should see what changes war had made to the
indolent young man she had last seen in the Queen Dowager's chamber at Nottingham. He had stripped off his gauntlets and taken her hands; there were blue circles
beneath his eyes and the reek of death still about him.

 ‘Come to me, you said, when you're hot
and bloodied from the foe. I am here, Orabella.’ And because he would not have
her believe that he was being seduced by a woman's wiles, like a green boy, he
pulled her into his arms and crushed her light, golden velvet against his
stained surcote, his mail shirt cruelly hard against her softness, his mouth
finding hers. Her hair, tumbling from its veils, held the scent of summer
flowers but the smell of death finally came between them and she pushed him
from her, crossing to pour him a cup of wine. Then she performed the office of
esquire and disarmed him herself, until he stood in shirt and hose. With all
the panoply of war removed to a heap in the corner of the room he became a
young man again, not yet twenty and not yet as sure of himself as he would like
to have been. ‘I've thought of you, many times these last few months, I would
have come sooner if Edward had let me leave Berwick - I was afraid for you, for
Philippa ...’

 Orabella smiled. ‘Edward was right, there
was no danger and it would take more than Archie Douglas to frighten Philippa. We
sat round the solar fire and sang marching songs. Do you want to rest?’ But he
shook his head. He wasn't interested in an anti-climax. He was tired, God, how
tired he was! But he still wanted her.

 She let him slip the velvet gown from her
shoulders, standing statue-still until her kirtle followed to pool at her feet
where she stepped neatly out of it, kicking it aside. Her smock was of the
finest linen, clinging to every line of her slender straight body. She let him
carry her to the bed where for all his bravado and attempted gallantry he only
wanted to lose himself in her white body, to wipe out the phantoms of the dark
hill; strange, bloody shapes rising from the dark morass, still yelling their
curdling war-cries, and his own hand still clutching at his battle-axe. He
wanted to forget the dust and noise of the bombardment and the face of the
Seton boy as they put the halter about his neck and he began to struggle and
when Edward, the bright king and generous friend, had proved himself as
ruthless and as cruel as any of his Angevin brood of ancestors.

 Afterwards, spent, sweat beading his pale
face, furrowing his breast; he lay on his back with sightless eyes, and a sick
realization of what his own fate might have been; openly stricken for the last
time in his life, a luxury he could never again afford. Then Orabella, watching
him, rose and knelt above him, covering them both with the blue-black mantle of
her hair, bringing him back to life again with practised caresses and her own
brand of sorcery.

Orabella held sway over Thomas Beauchamp's
affections for five years but, with the coming of the White Wolf's daughter,
she had always known she would lose him; had known it long before he did. It
was May, the time for brides, with bluebells misting the boles of Warwickshire
oaks; an endless, surging, inland sea, heavy with perfume, only to be outshone
by the May blossom; white clouds of incense scattering the last of springtime
upon the threshold of summer, with its darker leaf and its bluer sky.

 There was a cuckoo now, mocking them from
the branches of an ancient ash over on the banks of the ait. They had climbed
the mount to look out across the river and the island and the tartan weave of
forest green over in the Park. A kingfisher darted from reeds, arrow-straight,
at the river edge, iridescent in the sunshine.

 Orabella sat down upon a grassy tussock,
hands linked about her knees like a little girl. She squinted up at him, her
green eyes narrowed against the light. ‘You don't have to stay and pace and
fret, you could ride out and see her for yourself.’

 ‘No,’ said Thomas and dropped down beside
her. ‘A bridegroom too eager? For that I am not. A man too fearful at what he
might find? Yes, that, but it’s not to be admitted.’

 Orabella laughed. ‘Oh, you'd set out on
Black Saladin in your wedding finery, tossing pennies in every hamlet, so that
they would all remember you - others have done it differently.’

 ‘How? Pilgrim and penitent, an approach
full of reverence and awe? I think not.’

 ‘You are always 'Warwick',’ said his
mistress. ‘Have you never wanted to be any other man, even for a day's length?’

 He shook his head. ‘Never. I don't see
what you're aiming at.’

 She sighed, plaiting daisies. ‘A woman
would not have to have it spelled out for her. Katherine Mortimer isn't
marrying a romantic, is she? Warwick cannot ride out in all eagerness a day or
so before his wedding, bridle bells jangling, roses round his hat, but a man of
consideration might well send his valet, his body-squire, to see how she does,
to enquire after her comfort on the journey, to deliver a well-phrased message
from the groom-to-be. A suit of your own livery, Tom, a reasonable hack - you
could ride out with a welcome and be reassured she's not a harridan.’

 ‘It's all the same to me if she is,’
Beauchamp shrugged.

 ‘Liar!’

 ‘I can always bed her in the dark. Would
it work? I must say I like the idea. I shall do it, Orabella! Imagine her face
when we meet at the church door and she finds she's set to wed her husband's
squire!’

 ‘I shall not be there. Philip is
developing measles.’

 ‘I'm sorry, you never mentioned it.’

 ‘No,’ said Orabella, ‘it may well come to
nothing but I should be at home with him. I shall send my apologies and my
blessings on you both.’

 ‘Girl, I don't think I can lose you.’ He
had taken the daisy chain from her hands and was weaving it amongst her dark
hair, drawing her down beside him, kissing her abstractedly. ‘Our friendship
will remain, sure and true as ever, promise me that.’

 She promised him, but the rift was made. Katherine
Mortimer would fall in love with him. Most women found Thomas Beauchamp
irresistible though he had remained faithful to Orabella since that night at
Bamburgh. But she could not give him legitimate heirs, she must bow out now,
merge into the background. She let him make love to her for the last time with
as much enthusiasm as he usually put into the exercise; before nightfall she
was riding home to Edstone. Philip met her at the door, bounding with energy,
begging for a bedtime story. She began to wonder if the last five years had
ever really existed.

~o0o~

The Lady Katherine Mortimer was resting at
Bordesley, the great Cistercian Abbey which made such a convenient staging post
on the way from Ludlow. She had a suite of rooms put at her disposal in the
Abbot's lodgings. She had said goodbye to her formidable mother, to her loved
brothers, to her small sisters at Ludlow, the great Geneville inheritance on
the Welsh border, passed now to the Mortimers of Wigmore. She had her old nurse
and her long-suffering ladies and her priceless trousseau, and, at eighteen,
she was beginning on the greatest adventure of her life.

 She sat before a crackling fire, for
spring nights can be chilly within the thick stone walls of a monastery, and
Juliana held her mirror and Emma combed out her long chestnut hair and watched
it ripple down her mistress's back. It was really too early to retire but she
had supped with the Abbot, received his blessing and there was nothing for it
but to sleep and make the morning arrive the quicker. She peered into her
mirror; not a blemish in sight. She pinched colour into her cheeks and smiled
archly at her reflection. The distant drum of hooves cornered and rode in
through the gate and slowed and stopped and the young man who travelled alone,
and whose shoulder bore the Warwick badges of Bear and Ragged Staff, sprang
from the saddle and handed his reins over to one of the lay brothers. There was
much whispered consultation at the door to My Lady's apartments and it was a
flushed Juliana who reported back, dithering, to her young mistress.

 ‘It's the Earl, milady, your new husband,
he's sent his own man to enquire after you and nothing will do but he sees you
so that he can report back that you're in good health and spirits.’

 Katherine laughed. ‘Nonsense, he's
getting nervous. Do I look like a hag? Do I sound like a shrew? He cannot see
me, it's bad luck!’

 ‘Only for the groom, milady,’ Emma
ventured timidly. She was a stolid, plain young woman with mouse-fair hair and
sad grey eyes which fixed themselves upon her mistress like an old dog who
daily fears his uselessness will result in his being kicked out of the hall. Emma
was no danger; she was a perfect foil for Katherine's brown beauty.

 ‘I will not see the man. If he'd wanted,
Thomas Beauchamp could have come himself.’

 ‘I do think you ought, it would only be
civil,’ said Juliana.

 ‘Then what tales will he take back to
King Thomas who does not budge from his palace gate? Am I beautiful, Juliana?’

 ‘You know you are, My Lady, you don't
have to ask.’

 ‘But it would be all the same if I were
cross-eyed, Mournful Mary or Plain Jane.’ Her eyes, golden hazel, slid towards
Emma. ‘Then he shall see the bride, just for a moment - and veiled. Come Emma,
kneel at my prie-dieu, take my veil and when I show him in, rise and make your
reverence and ask how My Lord does, and cast your eyes down. I shall be the
maid, the country girl from the borders. I shall take him away and ply him with
questions a lady could never ask of her lord's esquire. Quickly!’

 Katherine Mortimer opened the door to a
young man in Warwick's livery; tall, narrow-hipped, with well-muscled
shoulders, as a swordsman should have, and shapely legs encased in scarlet
hose, and boots of Spanish leather. He bore himself well, as should the esquire
of the most puissant Earl of Warwick. His eyes were the clear blue of flax
flowers.

 Thomas saw a young maidservant, her
overdress kilted up above her kirtle and tucked into her girdle like a
milkmaid. She was tiny but well-rounded with a bosom that strained against the
stuff of her bodice and wild chestnut curls rippling about a pretty,
heart-shaped face. The clearest of hazel eyes warmed to amber.

 ‘My mistress is sensible of the honour
his lordship does her but she's tired and should be in her bed. She will
receive you just for a moment, sir, if you'll kindly step this way.’ Katherine
mimicked the accent of the border and even added a Welsh lilt.

 Thomas followed her into the firelit room
and accustomed himself to the dimness after the light of the spring evening
outside, melting now to greens and golds. There was a woman at the prie-dieu,
she got clumsily to her feet and came towards him, eyes downcast. She was
veiled as he supposed was proper and he bowed low and took the pudgy hand she
thrust out suddenly towards him, returning his greeting with a shaky curtsey. He
muttered commonplaces and she returned them in a tuneless monotone, until a
heavy silence dropped between them and the bright little maid said, ‘You
mustn't tire yourself, Milady. I will take My Lord's envoy into the
ante-chamber and pour him a stirrup cup before he rides for home.’ She left her
mistress's side and moved to the door, all plump curves and swaying hips and
tossing curls.

 ‘Katherine always overdoes it!’ sighed
Juliana.

 Thomas was happy to follow the girl and
to leave the veiled ghost to her prayers. He felt no disappointment. Wives were
rarely beauties outside the romaunts - only other men's wives, like Orabella. ‘What's
your name?’ He asked the girl, perching on a side table and swinging one long
scarlet-clad leg.

 ‘Kate,’ said the girl, her eyes on his
tightly muscled thighs, ‘that is, Katherine, like My Lady.’

 ‘You are not,’ said Thomas, ‘otherwise
like your lady.’

 ‘No. Such a pious woman; such a dear
saint. Do you think that Thomas de Beauchamp will find her to his liking?’

 ‘I really could not say. He was told she
was a rare beauty. Men lie about their daughters.’

 Katherine handed him a cup of wine. ‘Her
mother always said it was as well she was spoken for from babyhood; she’d have
a difficult time of finding a husband otherwise. Up at all hours at her
prayers, fasting, and a hair shirt under her smock too; such a virtuous lady.’

 ‘And you, Kate, what do you wear under
your smock?’ The bells of doom were tolling for tomorrow and here before him
was a girl ripe as an autumn hedgerow, fluttering dark eyelashes at him like a
demented night-moth.

 ‘Only maidenly blushes, sir,’ said
Katherine and darted behind the table, only to lean perilously forward, breasts
swelling, to ask conspiratorially, ‘Thomas Beauchamp, is he handsome?’

 ‘Men do say so,’ admitted Thomas.

 ‘Men!’ scoffed Katherine. ‘What do the
women of Warwick say?’

 ‘Yes, mostly, when asked,’ said Thomas
with a lack of modesty.

 Katherine sighed. ‘I don't suppose My
Lady will say it all that often.’

 He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It doesn't
matter. It wouldn't matter if she looked like the rear end of a cow. In fact,
the broader hipped the better. As long as she can produce his heirs at regular
intervals she can keep her veil. My lord has a score to settle with the lady's
father, of many years’ standing; to be kind to her would seem a weakness. Oh,
she'll be endowed with every trapping his countess could wish for, but in the
bed-chamber she'll play the brood mare or nothing at all!’

 ‘Will she?’ said Katherine, breathing
faster. ‘Will she! Do you think that the Lady Katherine Mortimer, the White
Wolf's daughter, the toast of the borders, the rose of Ludlow, is going to
flatten herself like an old straw mattress and let the Warwick bear-cub force
himself upon her! The boy my - her father used to curb with a horse-whip!’

 ‘Pretty Kate, don't be angry with me. Forget
about your mistress. It’s a warm May evening; the woods are thick with
bluebells - will they let you out?’

 ‘Let any try to stop me!’ said Katherine
through her teeth.

~o0o~

She met him in the woods beyond the abbey
fish ponds, where the grass was lush and sweet. The darkness had fallen softly
and completely and he could not see that she had been crying and she did not
know that, for all his bravado, he was disappointed and inwardly rebellious,
rejecting the veiled saint with the pudgy hands and the lack-lustre voice.

 ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

 ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘like My Lord's.’

 ‘Then Tom, if you want me you shall have
me. If you can catch me first!’ And she set herself zigzagging through the
trees, darting through the new young ferns until the briars of roses wrapped
themselves about her skirts and the sticky burrs of goose-grass clung to her
silk stockings. Eventually, he brought her to earth in a tiny, natural hollow,
inlaid with the green fronds of windflower leaves. She lay breathless, panting,
and he knelt beside her, just as winded. Behind them the dogs were barking; the
abbey was roused. What did it matter?

 ‘Did you mean - what you said?’ gasped
Thomas.

 ‘I think so. I don't know - perhaps not.’

 ‘You're beautiful, Kate.’ He let his own
body down beside her so that its long line pressed against her side.

 ‘Kiss me, Tom, until I'm certain.’

Beauchamp obliged, covering the
heart-shaped face, finding the full red lips, the hollow of her throat, whilst
his hands scrabbled with the fastenings of his own clothes before peeling away
the layers of gown and kirtle and smock until there was nothing to come between
flesh and flesh. Long afterwards she cried her heart out into his shoulder.

 ‘I'm sorry,’ said Thomas, ‘you were meant
to enjoy it. What did I do?’