The Lords of Arden (18 page)

 ‘Out of my way, fool!’ Thomas bellowed,
but the boy held his ground.

 ‘Do you remember me, My Lord, Corpus Christi two years past?’ For answer he received a blow which sent him reeling back
against the wall to a dizzying crack on the back of his head. The torches spun
and the world went black for several seconds.

 ‘I never forget a face,’ said Thomas
Beauchamp. ‘I'll see him when we've supped.’

~o0o~

Fortune, observed Thomas Beauchamp, had
smiled upon him that night of the 'prentice riots down by the river, delivering
Peter de Montfort's son into his hands again after so many years without a
trace of his whereabouts. That night he had made sure that he would not lose
the boy again. The men who had delivered Richard Latimer home to Bishopsgate
had made careful note of the location of Scarlet's shop. And now, two years
later, with the wide world his oyster the young man had done all but fling
himself into Warwick's path, thus springing the trap set to ensnare him.

 Supper had long since been cleared away
and Beauchamp sat with his huge, carved chair drawn up to the fireplace in his
chamber, feet stretched out to the very flames. He appraised the boy
critically; tall and slender still with a certain coltish grace, hair inclining
to fair though not his mother's bright yellow-gold, a straight nose, a firm jaw
- but the wide, mobile mouth, that was his father's, ready for laughter or
speedy riposte, too ready for mutiny, no-one's yes-man; and his eyes were
Peter's, fathomless dark eyes beneath the winged brows, steady eyes and they
were steady upon him now.

 ‘So you changed your mind? You took time
to give it much thought,’ said the Black Hound's son.

 ‘My Lord, I seek a different appointment.
Do you have need of a Journeyman Fletcher?’

 Thomas smiled, ‘So you came through with
flying colours, eh Sebastian? Still the perfect little guildsman. If you join
my rogues you can forget about the code of Fletchers' Hall. I am a law unto
myself.’

 ‘I can accept that, sir.’

 ‘How condescending,’ mocked Beauchamp,
withdrawing his feet to the smell of singeing leather. If I hire you - or does
the word 'hire' offend your bourgeois ears? If I employ you, I shall wring from
you an oath of acceptance of the conditions laid down as sacred as the oaths of
knighthood. Well?’

 Richard looked at him levelly. ‘My hand
upon a bargain binds me as fast to an enterprise as any of the trappings of
chivalry. But if that is what you wish…’

 Warwick got to his feet. ‘Think about
it.’ He crooked a finger at one of his squires, standing talking low-voiced in
the window recess. ‘See me to the chapel and see I am not disturbed. And you,
Nicholas, keep an eye on Master Sebastian here in case he has an eye for the
Beauchamp plate!’

 Nicholas Durvassal looked Richard up and
down with ill-disguised suspicion as the door closed upon them, and his hand
was about the knife at his exquisitely wrought belt. Richard saw a tall young
man, a few years older than himself, with a narrow-boned face and lint-blond
hair which curled elegantly over his ears. The cut of his jupon with its tight
buttoning at neck and wrists ensured that it fitted him so close that he
reminded the young fletcher of a jewelled snake, poured into his skin.

 ‘Is it usual, this oath?’ ventured
Latimer. Durvassal took his hand from his knife and instead fingered the badge
on the breast of his jupon.

 ‘Why, yes, for life and limb and earthly
worship almost. It’s your soul he wants, boy. The tools he fashions are too
good to pass on to another hand. We're all personally chosen. I'm his body
squire, Nicholas Durvassal of Spernall in the County of Warwick.’ The smile
twisted. ‘You, I imagine, are for the kitchens?’

 Richard said, ‘No, Master Durvassal, my
foot will begin further up the ladder. You obviously were unfortunate enough to
begin on the lowest rung as your manners show!’

 Durvassal's eyes narrowed. They were
green eyes, serpent's eyes. Richard remembered a vicious little boy of eleven
and the backdrop of Nottingham Castle. ‘Watch your step, oaf, you may find that
same ladder knocked from beneath your feet.’ Durvassal put out a booted foot
and kicked at a log protruding from the fire, as if to add emphasis to his
words.

 Perhaps it was fortunate that Warwick's devotions were short that evening. Richard was certainly relieved when, on his
return, Beauchamp sent Nicholas Durvassal speeding off on an errand.

 ‘Your answer, Sebastian; a trial of two
years with renewal of the contract if your work is satisfactory and if you
should so wish. Otherwise, you're out on the street tonight and its way past
curfew. Like as not you'd spend the hours till dawn in the lock-up. Of course,
you could crawl back from whence you came, tail between your legs, but perhaps
that would be anti-climactic?’

 ‘I never crawl, sir, and I accept your
offer.’

 ‘Kneel then, Sebastian. What do they call
you?’

 ‘Richard Latimer, My Lord.’

 ‘Then place your hand between mine and
swear to abide by my judgement, by my laws, by my rule in all things.’ And
Richard did as he was bidden, forming his words slowly, solemnly. The gaze of
the dark eyes penetrated Warwick's, blue and clear, without wavering. The Earl
signed for him to rise.

 ‘Find my Master Fletcher; you'll want a
suit of my colours too. I do not tolerate slovenly dress even amongst my
menials. Now get out!’

~o0o~

Master Ralph Dawn in a suit of yellow
worsted, Warwick's badge pinned to his breast, cut a trim, sparse figure. His
hair, iron grey, clung to his forehead in a sawn-off fringe and beneath it his
eyes were wintry, blue as steel. It was close on midnight before he had time
for Latimer.

 ‘Let me see an example of your work.’ And
Richard lifted his bag onto the table before him and drew out the hinder part
of an arrow shaft, snapped like a reed - the result of his fall at the
landing-stage; the flights were crushed, wilting. Ralph Dawn smiled crookedly
and, slinging it aside, tossed him a rudely cut shaft, tip and handful of
feathers, sitting back, arms folded, to watch his new journeyman at work. Finally
he rose and clapped the young man on the shoulder. ‘You'll do. Come and meet
your fellows. This mad house here in the capital is no yard-stick by which to
measure our life, wait until we return to Warwick. Castles in the air! You've
never dreamed of Warwick.’

 Warwick was home before the month was
out. Standing, a dark silhouette framed in the lancets of the solar window, he
gazed unseeing over his benighted domain. The evening was silent, so silent
that the rush of the swollen river as it hurled itself over the weir came
clearly up to him. Above the trees of Arden, black in the twilight, the sky was
apple-green, merging out of a golden sunset, climbing to blue and darkening. In
the indigo, velvety zenith a single star pricked the heavens, echoing the
sparkling diamond, glittering and cold, pinned carelessly to the man's right
shoulder.

 A hand noiselessly renewed the guttering
torches, an elegant boot kicked at the logs in the massive fireplace, sending a
shower of yellow sparks up into the shaft of the chimney; blue wood-smoke
eddied out into the room. Warwick scarcely moved a muscle; his glance never
faltered.

 ‘Nicholas, I want to see Will Lucy, I
want to see him immediately and I don't wish to be disturbed, even by the
ladies.’

 ‘I understand, My Lord. I will personally
devise some pastime for milady and the demoiselles; rely on me.’

 ‘I have to, all too frequently. See that
my judgement is not at fault.’

 Nicholas Durvassal stood for a moment in
hesitation, the firelight ruddy, flickering on one side of his smooth, handsome
face, glinting on the silver-blond hair. At last, he bowed, turned and
unobtrusively slipped through the doorway. Minutes later the arras was again
flung aside and the Lord of Charlecote entered, cat-footed.

 ‘Nicholas is getting above himself,’
Beauchamp said.

 ‘That's a pity, he has his uses.’ Lucy,
unbidden, stretched out in a chair, he lifted Katherine's discarded lute and
plucked idly at the strings.

 ‘Once or twice he has forgotten to be
servile in my presence,’ continued the Earl, unfastening the diamond pin and
letting his scarlet cloak slither across the window seat.

 ‘Hardly a bad thing in a young man,
surely?’ Lucy tuned the instrument, head bent low.

 ‘A bad thing in Nicholas; he's aiming too
high - an alliance with noble blood - Beauchamp blood. My daughter, Mary, is a
singularly attractive chit.’

 ‘But hand fasted to Herthill's son,’ said
Lucy as if that put an end to the conversation.

 Thomas shrugged. ‘A worthy knight but
dull perhaps in a young girl's eyes. What lass given the choice wouldn't prefer
to take Durvassal? It would be unfortunate if we had to get rid of Nicholas
over some foolish amour. I must arrange a match for him, keep him in his place.
A minor heiress, I think, with much emphasis on the word 'minor'.’

 ‘But you didn't summon me here to discuss
Durvassal?’ Lucy was taller than his lord, bronze haired, the eyes, light grey,
colourless as brook pebbles. Over the years since Beauchamp had taken seisin of
his lands he had proved utterly reliable. His services ranged from that of
amanuensis to Master of Ceremonial, from confidant to successful arbiter over
points of law to - but that was unwritten, unspoken. Under the third Edward, England was at peace, her nobility brought together as no other monarch had ever
managed to bring them together, into a united family, an open court, all
hail-fellow-well-met, a trusting brotherhood, well, perhaps not quite. Many a
disguise cloaked the agent flitting from castle to castle, inn to inn; the man
on the galloping horse, cloak flying, jaw set; the man who lurked at firesides,
watching and listening, who had as many aliases as there were days in lent...

 Lucy settled further into his chair, the
lute idle across his knees. Warwick had his back to the fire, legs astride,
face in shadow.

 ‘Have you the reports?’

 Lucy reached into his purse and took out
a sheaf of parchment. He waved it airily. ‘The usual essay from Kenilworth; no developments worth noting.’

 ‘And Beaudesert?’

 ‘I may withdraw our man; there is no
whisper of suspicion about the place. Thomas, Beaudesert is your obsession. Peter
de Montfort will settle gently into a bumbling old age, the rebel lordling of
his teens and twenties fled on the day Lora Astley left him for her nunnery.’

 Thomas Beauchamp smiled. ‘The Sugar Mouse
- that was my father's name for her. When I was eleven years old I was dazzled
by her golden beauty, her violet eyes; Peter decked her in amethysts to match. Oh,
I was too haughty by far to acknowledge a mere light o' love but I would go out
of my way to watch her ride by, garlanded for May Day with the buttercup hair
down her back still, taunting him that he never married her, mocking her own
long lost maidenhood. Oh, I digress as usual. What were you saying?’

 Will Lucy cast him an amused glance. ‘Peter
de Montfort rides his boundaries with his priest-crony; the child Guy grows
more bookish and withdrawn by the month…’

 Warwick turned, so that for the first
time Lucy could see the firelight etching the strong profile, the Beauchamp
nose in silhouette, sharp as a new cut effigy straight from the mason's yard,
unblunted by time. ‘And Bastard John?’ said the still cut-out. Only the hands
moved a fraction because his rings caught the light and a ripple of fire
flickered across his knuckles.

 ‘Still liberally sewing his wild oats; he
should beware, he may harvest hydra's teeth. They say he has a new wife. We
have little to fear from John.’

 ‘Then your man is wrong. Remove the
fellow if you wish but see he is replaced. I will not dispute your assessment
of Peter or the child but you are wrong about John.’

 ‘You have met him? I thought not.’ Lucy
set the lute aside gently and sat forward, hands clasped loosely between his
knees.

 ‘Curiously, not since he was toddling, a
spoilt little brat stamping his feet for attention. But I don't base my
judgement on personal acquaintance.’

 ‘Forgive me, Thomas, I know the boy. What
you have is nothing more than a gut feeling; he is not the young man his father
was. There is a family likeness, there is some presence, perhaps arrogance as
only bastardy can produce it in a young man, and there is mischief and malice
in plenty.’

 ‘I will grant you all that,’ said Warwick at last, taking to his own chair and facing him.

 Lucy was set on continuing, quietly
confident. ‘But there is vanity, a trivial life, playing to the populace. Give
him a velvet cote, a sapphire pin or rose-coloured feathers to peacock up and
down in front of the neighbours and you have all the essence of Bastard John; the
outward facade of a sugar subtlety with no substance within.

 Warwick said, ‘But the tavern and the
gaming tables do not tutor a man for the lists, or order garrisons, or support
a man in the saddle all the relentless daylight hours…’

 ‘He is a born play-actor, that's all. You
see what he wishes to be seen!’

 ‘There is more to him than the effete
princeling you would have me see in him. Peter de Montfort has what I want and
he would have handed it over to the King, tied up with satin bows, long ago,
like a child presents a posy on Mothering Sunday, all wreathed in happy smiles.
Only Bastard John would have seen the worth of keeping it hidden away, bolted
in some dark vault. Only Bastard John would have had the wit to let slip out
enough to tantalise. He is a dangerous young man to leave loose on my march!’

 ‘He can be dealt with; he has little regard
for his own safety.’

 ‘No, that is not what I want. I need him
here and freely and I have the bait. I will have the devil's machine and I will
have John. Why do you despise him to such an extent?’

 ‘Perhaps I don't. I met him once as a boy
at Kenilworth. Why do I hate John? Rather, ask yourself why you have hated his
father all these years.’

 Warwick shrugged himself further into his
chair. ‘Is hatred too strong a word? Maybe not. When my father died my mother
turned towards Beaudesert for help and guidance; she was a young woman with
three small sons, my brothers still in the cradle. Peter was often here through
he never inflicted the Sugar Mouse upon us; my mother would have been unable to
receive her. It was Peter who taught me to ride, who installed me before him on
that great ginger courser he had. I learnt to hunt at Montfort's side, to hawk,
to joust and, most of all, through him I came to love my heritage, this gentle,
undulating, tree-crowned landscape, England's wild green heart. But Peter was
the second Edward's man, he had given his loyalty when he was fourteen years
old and the King had ridden up the causeway to Beaudesert with his little queen
and his despised favourite, Piers Gaveston. Montfort would not have been what
he is had he swerved from that loyalty. But when he took Roger Mortimer's part
and let him bear me away, protesting, to court, I saw it as a betrayal. If my
hackles were raised over Montfort's cavalier treatment of my youthful
sensibilities how much more I suffered under the White Wolf. Mortimer ruled me
with a rod of iron and I dared not step out of line. If ever I needed Peter's
guidance I needed it then but the gap was already too wide and, at sixteen, I
did not know how to choke back my cursed pride, though he held out the hand of
friendship on more than one occasion. I left it too late and the gap has widened
between our houses. Because I was Warwick and one of England's premier earls I
expected him to come penitent to me. But I suppose he still recalls the boy who
sat before him on Brigliadoro and who one day he imagines will see his way to
riding west to Beaudesert, cap in hand. We are stubborn men both, my friend. I
see no hope of reconciliation.

 ‘I have kept the Countess from her solar
for long enough, we'll talk again very soon.’

 Lucy had had his dismissal; he rose
easily, bowed and was gone. Warwick sat staring into the firelight.

~o0o~

That first evening at Warwick passed, for
Richard Latimer, studded with images of another existence; a scene from a
silken tapestry; the painted pages turning in a book of hours, bright with
primary colours: scarlet and cerulean and parrot green. To sit at the lower
tables and watch the company about him was an education: the variety of the
food, the liveried pages who conveyed the dishes from kitchen to hall and up on
to the dais, placing them ritualistically before the Earl and his Countess; the
rows of knights and their ladies; the tumblers who somersaulted between the
tables and the ubiquitous jester, gaudily pied, belled cap askew. Richard found
himself staring unashamedly about him.

 Thomas de Beauchamp as usual cut a
glittering figure in vermilion silk, his cote hardie embroidered with golden
apples, a coronet pushed firmly down upon his dark head. Katherine wore white
satin patterned with gold lilies in yellow cendal. He thought she was probably
the most enchanting woman he had ever set eyes upon, with her thick chestnut
hair coiled about her ears and netted in a golden mesh which winked with yellow
stones. The satin gown was cut so much lower than those of the burgesses' wives
who had arrived to sup with Master Scarlet in the capital.

 Richard glanced about him. At his own
table sat Master Dawn, fastidiously wiping his fingers after a slice of game
pie, and Ned Witchevet, a fellow fletcher with whom he had struck up
acquaintance on his first day. Ned was a ginger haired beanpole with a crop of
freckles which marched across his face like a map of the sky. But he was
friendly and a local man and Richard hoped to enlist his aid in the quest for
Lora. Across the table he could pick out the Lord of Charlecote, Sir William
Lucy, pre-occupied with a chicken wing, and Sir Roger d'Aylesbury of Edstone,
frowning into his wine cup and Nicholas Durvassal, Beauchamp's body squire, who
had taunted him that evening in London. Orabella, Lady A, was carrying on an
animated conversation, white hands fluttering about her. Even from his place at
the lower tables Latimer could see how creamy and clear her skin was; the
lovely, oval face held above the pillar of her long, slender neck was
surrounded by the whiteness of the barbette which framed it. Her dark hair hung
heavily, caught back in a silver snood. The velvet gown, cramoisy red, was cut
as low as Katherine's, so low that when she leant forward to dip her bread and
reach for her wine cup it was possible to see the shady division between her
breasts. He had to ask Ned who she might be.

 Witchevet laughed. ‘Oh, that is Lady A,
wife of Sir Roger, the dour knight in the blue and silver; to give her her full
title, the Lady Orabella d'Aylesbury, Lady of Edstone. She is not for the likes
of us, not even for our dreams. Many men have grown close to Lady A but few
close enough. She has kindled many a fire but kept those long white fingers
cool. Lady Kate enjoys her company; the Earl, they say, once enjoyed much more.
I must admit that she sings well and dances exquisitely and weaves her web to
ensnare youthful journeymen fletchers.’ Ned snapped his fingers and grinned
again; he had one tooth missing at the front. ‘Come out of your dream, man. They're
clearing the boards, there will be entertainments and if we can find a hole and
be unobtrusive you will be able to watch the rich and fortunate disport
themselves under your very nose!’

 They found a corner near the fire and
subsided into the rushes. The Earl's players with lute and flute, rebec and
citole, pipe and tambour and gittern, began a merry tune and the tumblers
launched themselves into a frenzy of cartwheeling activity until, at a sign
from the Earl, they melted away and the little orchestra changed the mood,
beginning upon a slow, stately air. Thomas led Katherine onto the floor and,
followed by half a dozen other couples, they began to dance. To Richard
Latimer, used to the wild extravagances of May Day and Twelfth Night as
practised in the City, this formal, mannerly picking out of steps, punctuated
every now and then by a low bow from knight and squire and a sweeping reverence
from his lady was tedious in the extreme. But the tempo changed, the notes
became wilder, the steps faster. Mary de Beauchamp, petite and raven-haired,
face flushed, eyes bright, allowed Nicholas Durvassal to lead her out into the
dance. He took her from step to step, handling her as if she were already the
beauty she promised to become. The adoration was all too plain in the little
girl's eyes, the self-satisfaction too poorly hidden in his.