The Lords of Arden (12 page)

 ‘So this is my return to lawless London!’ he thundered. ‘For these wretched specimens of English youth we sweat out our guts
in foreign fields!’

 The apprentices had expected the watch to
put in a belated appearance but the sight of these mailed figures, scarlet
surcotes emblazoned with gold crosslets, swords at their belts, sent them
fleeing for the alleys and passages of Billingsgate. Of the fletchers, only two
remained, Raymond who had bitten an ungloved hand and was now pinioned firmly
in the arms of one of Warwick's sergeants and Richard Latimer, still engaged in
combat with Arthur Chigwell. Somehow they had each rid the other of a knife
before serious damage was inflicted; now they wrestled on the cobbles. Richard
had Arthur by the neck of his cote and was steadily knocking his head of
stringy black hair upon the roadway. Arthur, in his turn, had a hand at his
opponent's throat, clawing for a hold. Warwick's minions ringed them round.

 ‘What an audience!’ murmured Raymond, who
had a fair sense of the dramatic.

 Beauchamp raised his voice. ‘Part them,
fools! Gawping there as if you were at the cock-pit!’ He brought a booted foot
down upon the back of Richard's free hand and someone dragged a dizzy Arthur to
his feet.

 ‘Who are you?’ demanded the Earl. ‘Oh,
your names are of no consequence, they're of little account. Which Guild has
the charge of you?’

 ‘Unfortunately, the name is of little
account to me, it quite escapes my memory,’ Richard drawled insolently, ending
on a groan as the elegant brown boot, best Cordovan leather, ground down
further upon his knuckles and a gilt spur swung dangerously close to his face. ‘I
think I might be a fishmonger,’ he added in haste.

 Arthur, not to be outdone, seized the
moment to volunteer, ‘And I'm a Fletcher.’

 ‘You - up!’ Warwick removed his boot,
only to drive it persuasively into Latimer's ribs. He wasted few words. ‘So,
you're a Fishmonger. When are your herrings in season?’ When the boy hazarded
wide of the mark Arthur Chigwell chuckled to himself.

 ‘And how long is your standard arrow?’ It
was his turn now.

 ‘A cloth-yard, My Lord,’ Arthur said
meekly, eyes downcast.

 Richard shook his head. ‘That was too
easy, My Lord, ask him...’

 ‘Silence! Am I here to play games? You
stand accused of a breach of the peace of this city, the gathering of an
unlawful assembly and failure to observe the curfew regulations. What was the
cause of this fracas?’

 ‘A private feud, dread lord,’ said
Arthur, managing to sound servile.

 ‘Honour among thieves, eh?’ said Thomas
Beauchamp grimly.

 ‘Not thieves, My Lord, honest craftsmen,’
flared Richard looking down at his mangled hand, the fingers already beginning
to swell. On his little finger, dark and glinting, he wore an amethyst, a ring
curiously wrought, the bezel fashioned like two golden hands which clasped the
stone between their fingers. Thomas did not need to ask what legend, if any,
was born within the band, he already knew. His dark face searched the young,
belligerent one before him and he remembered a scrap of a boy, seven years old,
with a mop of fair curls and mutinous dark eyes, black as ivy berries. He would
be fifteen or sixteen now, much the same age as this insolent adolescent, fair
still and dark eyed, who answered him back without fear or reverence.

 ‘A Master Fletcher is any knight's equal
these days.’ The mouth was set; the winged dark brows were challenging him.

 Warwick laughed. ‘I'm not sure that I can
agree. Without the work of our soldiery these last few months there'd be no
Flanders with which to trade - no market for English wool - and exports
generally would be down.’

 ‘Not ours, sir. We rely on home markets
and if I might make a point, your armies wouldn't go far without the English
arrow and the English bow.’ He saw the flax flower eyes narrow momentarily.

 ‘So you'd teach Warwick how to fight his
wars?’

 Richard only said: ‘And now you will
report us to our guilds?’

 ‘That should be the least of your
worries. You think your precious guild has the power to order heaven and earth.
I could walk into Fletchers' Hall tomorrow and take upon myself jurisdiction in
this case. Your guild would turn a blind eye. I am Warwick! Oh, some of you see
these two delivered home and let my displeasure be known in the appropriate
quarters!’ He had dismissed them; he turned on his heels and left the ring of
torchlight. The darkness swallowed his retreating figure.

 As they reached Bishopsgate and Master
Scarlet's shop, Richard could have wished that his escort had not rapped upon
the door and hollered out fit to wake the entire soke. He cut a disreputable
figure with torn cote, stained hose, his shirt tails hanging and a bruise upon
his face. Scarlet drew back the bolts and peered out into the night. Warwick's
henchmen told a sorry tale of street brawls and city unrest and, because they
could have wished to be in their beds an hour ago, they embellished it with
more embroidery than the Bayeaux Tapestry, finally prodding their captive over
the doorstep where Scarlet pulled him into the hallway, cuffing him soundly on
one ear as earnest of his later intent. He made apology and sent his thanks to
My Lord of Warwick, bade the men a courteous goodnight and closed the door on
the dark street, shooting home the bolt with a rasp and a rattle that seemed to
sound the trump of doom.

 ‘So, the prodigal is returned to the
fold!’ He stood, incongruous in shirt and slippers, a loose robe thrown over
all and his night-cap perched awry upon his greying head. ‘As you see, I
arrived home safely,’ he said, voice controlled.

 ‘Arrived? Safely?’ Richard ventured,
puzzled.

 ‘From Burgess Chigwell's, where I'm in the
habit of imbibing too much, you'll remember. The whole town appears to have
seized upon this myth. Am I ever to hold my head up high again in London's streets? I have lost all integrity!’

 ‘Oh, Holy Mary, I'm sorry, sir!’ Richard
ducked his head to hide a rueful grin.

 ‘And will be sorrier yet, don't doubt
it.’ Scarlet had flung open the workshop door and thrust him inside with a
clout for the other ear. He had kept a lamp burning but it did not touch the
dark corners. He reached for the belt he kept hanging on a nail behind the
door. Scarlet was not a harsh man, Emma had chided him on many occasions for
his softness, but he had a duty to perform. Richard's dark eyes were impassive;
no help there. A flicker of fear might have urged Scarlet to leniency, a flash
of insolent bravado might have added strength to his resolve. The wrist he
still held lest the culprit thought to make a break for it proved salvation for
them both for it jerked into view the mangled hand with its skinned knuckles
and swollen fingers. He said, ‘If you're to be fit for work tomorrow morning
that must be attended to and at once. Sit down.’ He motioned towards the work
benches and set to rummage in the shadows for a pot of Emma Scarlet's pungent
marigold ointment and a long strip of unbleached linen. He bathed, anointed and
bound the swollen hand with a mother's tenderness but to save face gave the
miscreant a tongue-lashing which set his toes curling, before subsiding into a
constant mutter. ‘Chigwell's malvoisie, never touch the stuff, bloody awful
cellar; wouldn’t know a good year if he had his nose rubbed in it. Hold that
hand still, can't you! Are you laughing, boy? By all the Saints, you are!’ He
jerked the fair head up angrily by the chin, the dark eyes were veiled by
lowered lashes and Latimer was biting back an explosion of laughter, lower lip
caught in his teeth. ‘Dammit, boy, you need a good strapping, you really do.’ But
he was beginning to see the funny side at last, feigned another cuff at his
apprentice and began to guffaw until eventually they had to lean weakly against
one another, fair head to grey, unable to stop the streams of mirth. ‘Go on, up
to bed with you,’ said the Master Fletcher at last, fighting for composure, and
Latimer fled whilst the going was good. Struggling out of his clothes in the
darkness of the attic and feeling his way to his straw pallet, he felt Harry
Holt's hand upon his wrist, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort.

 ‘You're alright, Dick?’

 ‘Uhuh.’

 ‘What does that mean?’

 ‘Right as a trivet. I wriggled my way out
of it. ‘

 ‘How?’

 ‘Charm, boy, pure and simple,’ said
Richard with a laugh.

Corpus Christi
dawned idyllically and London was en fete. From the
early hours Master Scarlet's yard had been rendered a seething hive of
industry. Journeymen, apprentices and, indeed, master craftsmen from all over
the Fletchers' Quarter came to offer assistance in conveying props and costumes
onto the cart which would not only carry the acting minority of the Company of
Bowyers and Fletchers to their audience, but which would, in addition, serve as
their stage.

 Wat, Harry and Richard, with young
Stephen Bosco, set off in holiday mood for Clerkenwell and put up their stage. They
were soon joined by Raymond and Master Gessel who was to play the lead part of
the Emperor Diocletian. Gessel was an elderly fletcher who had taken part in
the Mysteries every year since he was an apprentice. Raymond found time, whilst
shifting scenery, to spare a thought for Arthur Chigwell and the Worshipful
Company of Fishmongers.

 ‘Where're they putting on
Jonah
?’
he queried.

 ‘Beloved Billingsgate, down by the
wharves,’ said Harry, hanging the curtains which would cover the sides of their
cart so that they could use the space underneath as a props store and
exceedingly cramped dressing-room. Richard paused with hammer and nail. ‘We've
one advantage over Arthur. If it’s going to be as warm a day as it promises
who'd choose to sit on Thames Side when they could be breathing the air of
Clerkenwell?’

 ‘Where shall I put this?’ Stephen Bosco
was struggling gamely with a large board on which was spelt out in an erratic
hand the words
The Tragick History of St. Sebastian
.

 ‘Oh, where you're standing will do.’

 Harry strolled over to Wat Stringer,
Scarlet's younger journeyman who had appeared in his guise as Captain of the
Emperor's Bodyguard. He helped him bind up his wrist with a leather thong. Richard,
whose costume was simpler than most, was running from old Master Gessel,
struggling into his improvised toga and laurel wreath, to Raymond who, gowned
in his girl friend's smock, hair pushed under a veil, made a very pretty
heroine, or the nearest that the old tale came to providing. Soon, the cast
vacated the square for the enclosed space beneath the cart as the spectators
were arriving with cushions and stools, jostling for the best places to sit.

 ‘Anyone nervous?’ asked Wat hopefully and
only Stephen, whose part as the Emperor's slave required him to do no more than
wave a peacock fan, answered in the affirmative. Wat punched Richard on the
shoulder. ‘Then you've a deal of faith in my aim.’

 ‘Coming to the fair afterwards?’ Raymond
asked. ‘I'm taking Pernel and I'll be only too happy to return her smock!’

 ‘I'm sure she's an eyeful without it,’
grinned Richard. ‘I shall bring Ysabeau.’ Several pairs of eyes turned his way.

 ‘That is what I call a conquest,’ Harry
murmured from amidst his lines. Stephen Bosco had his head through the
curtains.

 ‘I think we could start. Master Scarlet's
just arrived. Go on, Harry, start the Prologue.’

 The Prologue, however, was lengthy and
wordy but Harry stumbled manfully through it and retired to make way for the
Emperor Diocletian and his court and the 'Saint' himself - Richard's part. After
some more verbose repartee, spoken more enthusiastically than either of the
rather dreary parts merited, there was a short interval whilst the audience
munched loudly and the players changed the scenery.

 Into a woody glade beyond the walls of Rome marched the Emperor's bodyguard, dragging the would-be-martyr to his doom. Richard was
bound to a reasonably life-like tree trunk where, eyes gazing heavenwards from
beneath a halo of blond hair, he managed to convey violated innocence.

 Master Scarlet chuckled. ‘How do they
pepper him full of arrows?’ he demanded.

 ‘Wait and see,’ murmured his wife.
‘Richard looks as if butter wouldn't melt.’

 ‘Huh, he's not a bad actor.’ Master
Scarlet noted that the square was now tightly packed. Someone had just arrived
on horseback and was grudgingly made way for. The death sentence was read and
Diocletian's archer appeared, walking through the crowd. This was a novelty and
caused a ripple of speculation. Instead of mounting the steps up onto the
stage, Wat installed himself on a small platform, yards away from the cart. He
was very pale as he selected his first arrow, sweat breaking out on his brow. Then,
one by one, he knocked arrow to bow and sent the shafts thudding into the tree
about the saint.

 Mistress Scarlet refused to look after
the first missile had homed into the wood beside Richard's head.

 ‘That's a fool trick!’ growled her
husband.

 They had experimented using a padded
gambeson and a toy bow at close range but the operation was still fraught with
danger and St. Sebastian, besides, was always portrayed as a half-naked youth,
so eventually the cast had decided that Wat's idea was the better one, if
hardly less hazardous. They had practised the stunt many times out on the Moor
beyond Cripplegate. Richard had learned to stand without flinching,
spread-eagled against giant oaks or towering elms.

 Wat lost his nervousness after four
shots, the fifth arrow sped away and he knocked the sixth to the bow. Two
late-comers had arrived, seeking a place near the front - a sandy haired youth
with his arm tight about a pretty girl - the same Ysabeau who was to have
accompanied Richard to the fair. The arrow was already singing away from the
bow when Latimer caught sight of the couple, moved an arm in an involuntary
gesture of anger and surprise and found himself pinned to the tree. The crowd
pressed forward, all exclaiming at once. Somewhere in the boy's brain the old
adage 'the show must go on' kept pushing itself round and round.

 Raymond, with great presence of mind,
rushed on a little early in his guise as Dame Irene to unbind the prisoner and
succour his wounds.

 ‘Shall we close the curtains?’ he hissed
pulling away the ropes.

 ‘No, we've got to finish. Just leave that
arrow in me, that's all. This isn't the Sword in the Stone!’

 Wat hurried to the stage, ignoring the
shouting crowd.

 ‘It wasn't your fault, Wat,’ quavered old
Master Gessel kindly.

 ‘It can't be fatal, they're carrying on,’
Harry whispered cheerfully. ‘Why, man, you're white as a ghost - sit down.’

 ‘Damn him!’ Wat swore. ‘I could have
killed him!’

 ‘You should have thought of that before
you took this part on!’ retorted Master Scarlet. ‘You've come very near to
losing your employment, Stringer!’

 ‘Come now, Master Fletcher, your man's
archery was faultless. He's hardly to blame if the lad has a penchant for
suicide.’

 The Mystery Players turned with one
accord to gaze at the glittering personage on the black horse. Thomas
Beauchamp, in branched velvet the colour of ripe mulberries, was even more
resplendent than he had appeared on the night of the 'prentice riots.

 ‘My Lord!’ Simon Scarlet's mouth was
agape.

 ‘I am offering assistance, Master
Fletcher, if your apprentice cares to accept it. My physician is at his
disposal, he's had more experience with such flesh wounds than most of the London quacks.’

 ‘Latimer would be honoured to accept your
offer,’ Scarlet said. ‘Ah, the curtains are closing.’

 ‘There's a pool of blood on the stage,’
announced Stephen Bosco. Raymond was helping his friend down. They were
obviously still arguing heatedly about the wisdom of pulling out the protruding
arrow.

 ‘By All the Saints, Raymond, it’s my arm.
If you tug on the blasted thing I shall either be violently sick or pass out at
your feet. In fact, I think I'm going to be sick anyway!’

~o0o~

It was a strange little procession which
arrived at Warwick's lofty town house at noon that day; the Earl on Black
Saladin, all mulberry and silver fur, his liveried men-at-arms in scarlet and
the Master Fletcher panting to keep pace, eager to be on hand if the Earl
exercised any other whim, more lucrative perhaps than the loan of his
physician. Wat strode behind him with Richard, the arrow still protruding from
the boy's upper arm, blood spattering the cobbles. As it was impossible to put
shirt or cote over his stage costume he had found himself bundled into
Diocletian's imperial purple mantle, bordered with a Greek Key design. He was
feeling rather light-headed by now and Wat, having him firmly by the elbow, was
delivering a long lecture as they walked.

 Raymond, Harry and the remainder of the
cast of the Tragick History found themselves surrounded by an excited crowd.

 ‘Lord Warwick must've been impressed by
your play,’ said an envious chandler's apprentice.

 ‘What goodness the great earl displays,’
commented Mistress Gessel.

 Everyone was not as charitable. ‘I wonder
what he wants with young Latimer.’

 ‘I can't imagine, I'm sure,’ said
another. ‘Could have taken a fancy to the lad but who'd have believed mighty Warwick was that sort!’

 Raymond and Harry exchanged glances. ‘So,
Dick, you can't guard your own honour today, we'll just have to defend it for
you!’ Raymond's voice rose to a surprising pitch. ‘Bowyers, Fletchers - Clubs!’
The square was soon a seething mass of threshing bodies and yelling, screaming
holidaymakers.

~o0o~

The unwitting excuse for another display
of force by the Bishopsgate fletchers was at this moment being received by the
Earl's physician, Aristides, an elderly Greek with a forked beard and darting
black eyes, who had been in the service of Beauchamp's father, transferring his
allegiance to the son at Black Guy's death. He waved Latimer to a chair and
tutted at the arm. Wat had been dismissed and Richard, who had the typical
apprentices' mistrust of the medical profession, was left to face the Greek and
his assistant, a huge, powerfully-built young man with arms like tree trunks. On
the walls there were rows of saws and knives of varying sizes. The arm began to
throb unmercifully.

 ‘Soon have that arrow removed,’ said the
Greek briskly. He turned to his assistant and snapped his fingers. The giant
lumbered across the room and swung a clenched fist under their surprised
patient's chin, neatly laying him out...

~o0o~

 Latimer came to, to find himself in a
tiny room, lying on a straw pallet and draped in his emperor's cloak. His first
thought was for his arm and he hardly dared to fling back the purple and gold
cloth for fear that the Greek and his sadistic assistant had lopped it off. He
heaved an audible sigh of relief to see the swathed bandages and flexed his
left hand experimentally. Having no desire to move, he lay staring at the
plastered ceiling, considering the day's events and wondering at the Earl's
reasons for rushing to offer aid - especially after the 'prentice riot at
Billingsgate where, he could be sure that, if he and Arthur had left lasting
impressions, they were not good ones.

 Richard's prejudices did not stop at
physicians; he had the mistrust of the middle-classes for the nobility. Men of
Beauchamp's rank did not bestow kindnesses on the lower estates without some
hope of a return. But he could not remain inactive for much longer; he had to
find Wat and Master Scarlet. Had they been sent home or were they pacing up and
down in the servants' quarters, which assuredly was where they would have been
installed?

 He sat up and swung his legs to the
floor, draped himself in his cloak and tried the door. There was a curtain
across it and, pushing this aside with his good arm, he found himself in what
was obviously the solar of the Earl's mansion. It was too late to turn back
now. Thomas de Beauchamp was standing alone in the window embrasure, dictating
a letter to his amanuensis, just perceivable on the far side of the room, quill
scratching away in the shadows. The Earl turned as the door opened.

 ‘Ah, Sebastian, come in. We wondered when
you would awaken.’

 Richard knelt upon one knee, head bowed,
not knowing whether he should kiss one of the jewelled hands protruding from
the fur-lined sleeves of the Earl's cote. ‘I beg your pardon for intruding, My
Lord. I only wished to offer my humble thanks for...’

 Beauchamp cut him short and jerked the
boy's head up by a swatch of the blond hair. ‘I've not observed you humble yet
and I should imagine I'd wait a long while for a miracle. Stay your thanks
until we have seen if Aristides has saved your arm. It was madness to have
carried on to the end as you did, sheer self-indulgence!’

 ‘Yes, My Lord.’

 ‘And get up off the floor. You may be
sure that I do not involve myself with every spitted commoner who crosses my
path - only when it promises good returns.’

 ‘What returns?’ snapped Richard
ungraciously.

 Warwick saw the dark eyes narrow, the
head flung backwards; he roared with laughter. ‘I'm looking for players to
expand my own company. It performs for the family and my guests, the standard
is rather high.’