The Lords of Arden (20 page)

~o0o~

Supper was always a public affair with the
family exposed to all from the High Table on the dais; the household crowded
noisily about the lower tables.

 Peter, tackling a hog’s pudding, looked a
trifle hurt when Johanna mooted her idea.

 ‘So soon,’ he said, ‘and we were just
getting used to your pretty ways. What has John to say about it all, losing his
bride so soon after the honeymoon?’

 Johanna forced herself to look at her
husband. John had a wine goblet in one hand, his fingers tightened almost
imperceptibly about the stem and then relaxed. He glanced sideways at her.

 ‘Family ties are binding; of course she
must go. Madam, I shall be inconsolable. I shall await your return with the
greatest impatience.’ The words were formal enough but he had taken the
sun-browned hand which lay flaccid upon the linen cloth beside her plate,
turned it over and dropped a kiss upon her slim wrist. Then, for good measure,
he flashed her the White Knight’s heart-stopping smile.

 Bess could not look at the despised, the
spurned Johanna whose heart must have turned over at the unexpected gallantry,
the wilful cruelty. She drew in an audible breath and caught her nephew’s eyes
upon her.

 ‘What is it, Aunt?’ he mouthed across the
table.

 ‘I think you’re in trouble,’ said his small
brother, seated on his other side. ‘I always am when I get a look like that. You’ll
see!’

 ‘Finish your supper, Guy,’ snapped Bess.

 ‘There,’ said Peter, ‘Johanna talks of
leaving us and it’s gloomy faces all round. If we’re all finished, let’s repair
to the solar.’ He pushed back his chair and the entire hall stood with him to a
cacophony of scraping forms and stools. The family rose and followed him
through to the solar. Bess seemed to be filling the doorway. She took Guy by
the shoulders and turned him for the nearest stairway.

 ‘Bed now, Guy.’

 ‘But Aunt Bess, it’s too early. I never
go up this early and I want to…’

 ‘Bed!’ said Bess again in a tone that
brooked no argument. Guy fled.

 ‘And I,’ said her brother ‘am I not
allowed to enter my own solar?’

 ‘But you were going down to the mews.’

 ‘Was I?’

 ‘Yes, you said Aldebaran was lame and you
wanted to check him over again tonight.’ Aldebaran was his favourite hawk.

 ‘Did I say that? Well, perhaps you’re
right. I shan’t be long.’ He frowned at Bess. The signals flashing from the
green eyes were plain enough. She wanted him out of the way. He cast a brief
glance at the closed faces of his son and daughter-in-law, shrugged his
shoulders and set off obediently.

 Bess held the arras aside, the solar fire
was lit and welcoming. She inclined her head. ‘You two, in here. Now!’ The
curtain swished back into place behind them and she faced them both, her
tearful young niece and her troublesome nephew. Strange she though, she had
only just realised that they rarely made eye contact. She took the girl by the
shoulders. ‘Johanna, I suggest you go upstairs and start packing. I will have a
courier sent on ahead to inform Cousin Montague that you start tomorrow. I am
certain she will be delighted to see you. You can take Mazera and four of our
men.’

 ‘Yes, aunt,’ stammered Johanna.

 Bess’s green gaze travelled beyond the
girl’s shoulder towards her nephew, leaning against the fireplace with
calculated nonchalance; her words were for Johanna. ‘And if, before you leave
us, you dare to speak to this, this snake in the grass, then you are no
Montfort and certainly never were a Clinton. And you will not be troubled by
his presence in your chamber tonight; he’ll be sleeping elsewhere. Now run
along. I’ll come up later; you must look fine for Cousin Montague; I believe
they keep some state. Now go, go, you have much to do!’ She might have been
shooing farmyard chickens. Johanna, alarmed, dropped her a sketchy curtsey and
fled.

 Bess bore down upon her nephew who had
the grace to look mildly disconcerted. ‘Don’t you ever do that to her again!’

 ‘Aunt, I said what I was expected to say.
Father looked quite taken by it.’

 ‘You’re not married to your father. So
that - that display in the hall, that little romantic gesture, was merely for
his benefit; the dutiful son, the constant husband…’

 ‘No, of course not. I probably will miss
her.’ But his smile was anything but regretful, his relief all too obvious.
‘And who are you to forbid me my wife’s bed? Those whom God has joined together
etcetera…’

 ‘You’re a devious, treacherous, canting
little toad, Johnny. I know you haven’t bedded the girl.’

 ‘Ah,’ said John, ‘so she’s come
tittle-tattling to you already.’

 ‘She has not. I fairly had to drag the truth out of
her. You have put her in an intolerable position!’

 ‘But not, it seems, the one required. God, Aunt,
that hurt!’ She had hit him then though she had to rise onto her toes to do it
and some of the momentum was lost. Still, the imprint of her fingers stained
his cheek for a satisfying time after.

 Bess said, ‘She has not repulsed you? She is no
shrinking violet cowering in her smock. That I cannot believe of her. She is a
bright, courageous girl.’

 John smiled, flexing his smarting jaw. ‘The flower
of English womanhood: stout-hearted as an oak, straight as a beech, lithe as a
willow and about as compelling as a quickthorn hedge!’

 Bess said, ‘You’ve never found copulation much of a
problem in the past. Johanna is a sensible girl. Explain what is needed and I’m
sure she’ll be pleased to help.’ It gave her a deal of satisfaction to see that
he had flushed to the roots of his hair, even eclipsing the mark she had
already left upon him. It was not, after all, what was expected from a
middle-aged aunt. ‘Johnny, it’s just a biological act. You repeat it regularly
until she’s pregnant.’

 ‘And what about romance, what about passion, what
about good old lust? Poor Uncle Baldwin, he must have so looked forward to
Friday nights!’

 ‘Your uncle’s dead!’ shrieked his aunt.

 ‘I’m not surprised!’ yelled John, dodging behind a
table. ‘And don’t go for my face again, please.’

 ‘How old are you now?’

 ‘I’m twenty. You forgot my last birthday. What’s
that got to do with anything?’

 ‘I just felt if you were younger I’d have great
pleasure in marking you where it didn’t show, that’s all.’

 They were glaring at each other when Peter blustered
in, ruddy from the night air.

 ‘I could hear you both shouting from across the
wards.’ He stamped over to the fire. ‘Where’s Johanna?’

 ‘Packing,’ said Bess, ‘it’s been decided that she
should travel tomorrow.’

 ‘Then what’s he doing here? Go up to her, boy. Make
a good night of it whilst you have the chance.’

 John’s colour ebbed, leaving the mark on his cheek flaming
against his fair skin.

 Bess said, ‘I’ve just suggested he goes down to the
White Lion. Johanna will have gowns everywhere by now. Peter, this is the
Montagues she’s visiting. I’m on my way up to help. There could be invitations
to court; I might need to lend her some jewellery and then there are the
headdresses to consider. He will only be in the way.’

 Peter grunted, ‘Such a pother over nothing. Oh, get
off with you boy. But don’t be late back.’

 ‘Yes, sir. Goodnight.’ He made for the door, paused,
turned on his heels and came back to Bess, stopping to kiss her forehead. ‘Bless
you, aunt.’ Then he was gone.

 ‘Why did you hit him?’ asked Peter, pouring them
both a cup of malvoisie.

 ‘It doesn’t matter. Now settle down and tell me how
you found old Aldebaran.’

~o0o~

Johanna left soon after breakfast. She wore a tawny
pelisse with a fur-edged hood which covered her hair and half eclipsed her
face. She said farewell to Peter, Bess and little Guy at the upper barbican. John
was expected to escort her to the Lower Guard. He walked beside her jennet. Neither
of them spoke. When they reached the gatehouse, Mazera and Peter’s henchmen,
who were to accompany her, rode tactfully through leaving husband and wife
alone.

 ‘I wish you a safe journey, madam,’ said John
tonelessly, and then, ‘I wonder if I should kiss you.’ He motioned to the knots
of people either about their lawful business in the outer wards or standing in
small groups, watching them curiously.

 Johanna said, ‘I think we said our goodbyes before
we left the hall. We are only bread and circuses to them. We don’t owe them a
show.’

 He nodded, putting out a hand to sooth her jennet’s
tossing head. ‘Johanna, I’m desperately sorry.’

 She did not look at him. She set her Clinton nose towards
the gatehouse and rode through and over the bridge and, if the little cavalcade
of people wending their way along the causeway noted that she was crying, they
took it as natural for a young bride, being parted from her handsome groom so
soon.

 John went back to the Audley Tower. Soon, all traces
of Johanna had been whisked away and stored in an old broom cupboard. A week
later the tapestries re-appeared. Peter did not notice. Bess did not comment. Simon
Trussel was whistling again.

Warwick
reined in his bay below the weir and waited for
Durvassal to draw alongside. Etched against the cornflower sweep of the sky,
Caesar's Tower, incredibly white in the midday sun, lay, a broken pillar, in the
river below.

 ‘She's beautiful, My Lord.’

 ‘She wasn't built for grace or line, but
I think our masons have contrived to give us more than utility.’ Abruptly,
Thomas Beauchamp changed the subject. He had a firm hand on his squire's rein. ‘It's
time we considered your future, boy.’

 The beautiful profile stiffened, the
controlled features focused upon Warwick's dark eyes and rugged forehead. ‘My
Lord?’

 ‘We should get you a wife, Nicholas.’

 Not a muscle moved beneath the fair skin.
The arrogant nose was lightly powdered with freckles from too long an
acquaintance with the sun the previous day; it gave him a look of vulnerability
which Warwick had never noted before.

 ‘I have your welfare at heart. I would
wish your partner to bring you a sizeable dower.’ Still no visible reaction.

 ‘I'm grateful for your attention, My Lord.’
Durvassal inclined his head.

 ‘No questions as to the identity of your
future bride? Are you so content to let the choice be mine?’

 ‘I am content to have it so, My Lord.’

 ‘Obedience and humility should be well
rewarded. I have made the necessary arrangements with your father and with her
father; he will bring her to Warwick as soon as can be arranged.’

 ‘Bring her to Warwick?’ Durvassal started
violently then, the blood rushing to his face.

 Warwick went on evenly, ‘It is the time
for weddings. My own daughter has a husband eager to claim her; I have kept her
at home too long; a father's indulgence. It can make no difference now but were
you in love with her? With Mary?’

 Durvassal sounded weary, deflated. ‘I
wanted alliance with your house. It seems I must be content to shine beneath my
own device. No, My Lord, I was not in love with Mary, I am known for an
opportunist - I have been well tutored,’ he added viciously.

 ‘Petulance,’ said Warwick, ‘is the refuge
of little girls. I see you no longer have an interest in your future mating.’

 Durvassal jerked his head up and looked
him full in the face. ‘One sow is much as another.’

 Warwick said softly, ‘I am grieved that
you show such little interest. I took much trouble and thought when I chose a
litter, knowing in what high regard you held the dam. But these riddles are
foolish. Sir Hugh de Brandstone is delighted to have you as a son-in-law and I
believe the Lady Rose has long cherished a child's admiration for you, so the
whole venture could not have fallen out better.’

 Durvassal searched the cruel, dark face,
almost beyond bewilderment. ‘My lord, is this a jest?’

 ‘Is that how it appears? I am glad you
can take it in a light vein. No, boy, I do not jest. You have lifted your eyes
to Warwick's daughter and you must pay for your presumption!’ He turned his
mount towards the keep and spurred away, leaving his squire alone upon the
river bank.

~o0o~

Had Nicholas Durvassal known or cared he
was the topic of conversation upon the other side of the river where Katherine
de Beauchamp, leaving a hawking party, ordered two small pages to lay down
saddle-cloths and gracefully sank down upon the woodland floor. She patted the
ground at her side as an invitation for Lady A to join her, shooing the pages
back to the sport they had abandoned. Katherine kicked away her shoes and let
her stockinged feet feel the coolness of the lush grass. She wore a blue velvet
gown and was aware that she looked ravishing. The knowledge had sweetened her
disposition and allowed room for thoughts of others less happy than herself on
such a beautiful autumn morning.

 ‘Orabella, sometimes I fear for Thomas. He
has that streak in him which I can only suppose he has inherited from his
father, a cruelty which transcends common sense.’

 Lady A smiled, ‘And the Mortimers have
always been parfait, gentil knights?’

 Lady Kate pulled a face. ‘Orabella, no
woman past thirty should be able to wear unrelieved white. What was I saying? Thomas
and Nicholas? Hasn't Nicholas been a faithful squire since he was fourteen
years old?’

 ‘I will concede that.’ Lady A was lying
on one elbow, twirling a berried stem of a wild arum, a bright splash of
scarlet.

 ‘Then he makes one mistake, one excusable
faux pas and -’ she shrugged her plump shoulders.

 ‘Mary?’ questioned Lady A.

 ‘Yes, Mary. God knows, Thomas encourages
his entourage to imagine they exist on a higher plain than the rest of the
country. Can he then show his teeth because one of them has aspirations towards
his own daughter? - and a by-blow at that when all's said and done.’

 Orabella smoothed out her skirts. ‘Durvassal
has known Thomas long enough. Only a fool would imagine he could play games
beneath the hound's nose without his picking up the scent.’

 ‘Even so,’ Katherine pursued the topic
doggedly, ‘there are ways of showing displeasure. A few weeks’ banishment from Warwick in dire disgrace perhaps…’

 ‘Kate, what has Thomas done? You are
ahead of me today.’

 The countess sat up, ‘Why, he is marrying
Durvassal to Rose Brandstone, to his mistress's daughter. And it isn't harsh
coincidence, hapless fate. Thomas realises what he is doing and Durvassal knows
it!’

 A smile lifted the corners of Lady A's
perfect mouth, her lips parted and she laughed out loud. ‘Dear God! That is
indeed Black Guy's blood manifesting itself. It will be entertaining to see how
our fine paradise bird reacts. What a delicious snippet of news. Perhaps I
should be first to offer my felicitations.’

 ‘Orabella, you are no better than Thomas!
Imagine being in such a situation. I begged Thomas to change his mind. Why make
an enemy of Durvassal needlessly? Nicholas has worshipped My Lord since he was
first brought here by John and Sybil all those years ago.’

 ‘Oh, come now, Kate, you're romancing! If
Nicholas worships he turns his face to the water like Narcissus. I tire of this
conversation; the man interests me only as a study in vainglory. Let us change
the subject or, better still, return to our party.’ They rose to their feet,
brushing away leaf mould. The hawkers were riding through the woods again, the
air was filled with the silver sound of dozens of tiny brass bells which,
attached by bewits to the leg of falcon or lanner, rang out as the procession
filtered through the trees. This was to be the last of the warm days; winter
waited in the lengthening shadows with the first frosts, to sear the gilt and
the glitter of autumn. The two young women left the glade; the flattened
grasses and the discarded berries of cuckoo pint were all that remained.

~o0o~

The Warwickshire loam was frost-hardened
when the jingling bridles of another little cavalcade followed the clatter of
hooves over the river bridge at Wootton. The riders swung right, leaving the
highway to trot through the abbey gates and dismount in the yard.

 Father de Sentlis, Prior of the Benedictine
Abbey at Wootton, was in his church, awaiting the bell to call the Black
Brothers to vespers, when the entire party swept dramatically through the south
door and moved in a colourful tide along the nave. They were mostly young
people; squires in the scarlet of Warwick's livery, fledgling knights in
parti-coloured cotes and girls in popinjay colours. A short distance before the
sanctuary they slowed and halted and only one kept on until she reached the
altar rail. A very young girl in a black velvet cloak, its enveloping hood
edged with soft white fur, framing a perfect heart-shaped face. Her skin was
milk white with only the faintest rose-blush upon her cheeks, put there by the
ride through the October weather. She had a pert and charming retrousse nose
and lips that held their own carmine tint. Beneath winged brows her eyes were
the dark grey-purple of ripe sloes, almost black in the dimness of the nave. She
acknowledged the Father Prior with a bob of a curtsey.

 ‘Mistress Mary?’ John de Sentlis was a
stickler for correct address. He did not call her Lady Mary, the courtesy title
used by the sycophants about Warwick's court, for Mary de Beauchamp was born on
the wrong side of the blanket, child of Thomas's boyhood, of the days when,
freed of his formidable governors and mentors he had set out to prove his
manhood in the surest way. Even when Katherine arrived from Ludlow, there was
never a question of hiding this child away or banishing her from Warwick.

 ‘My Lord Prior,’ Mary's voice was clear
and, though low-pitched, rang about the abbey church and set up its own echoes
in the side chapels. No lisping girlish treble this, it had her father's
authority in its precision. ‘I come to take an oath before God's altar in this
Holy place. And as He will be my witness I charge you, and all gathered here,
to listen also and to bear the truth of my utterance back to My Lord father at Warwick.’

 The first faint prickings of apprehension
touched John de Sentlis upon the neck. He searched the faces of the girl's
attendants for one of age or seeming wisdom and found none to comfort him.

 ‘Mistress Mary – demoiselle…,’ began the
Prior, ‘for the love I bear your father -’ but she wasn't even listening, her
eyes were fixed upon the jewelled cross upon the altar table and she crossed
herself piously.

 ‘Let all here witness that I, Mary de
Beauchamp, natural daughter of the most puissant Earl, Thomas of Warwick, do
solemnly make covenant with God, my maker, that, until My Lord, my father shall
be adjudged victor in battle in the fields of France, I shall neither take a
husband or wear again the colours of joy but will clothe myself in black weeds
for mourning or in white robes to proclaim my unmarried state and,’ she added
as an afterthought, ‘I ask all here to pray for me.’ So saying, she prostrated
herself upon the cold grey flags of the chancel, arms outspread.

 ‘Christ in heaven!’ said William Lucy, a
breathless and tardy arrival in the south porch. ‘Her father will have an
apoplexy!’

 The Prior of Wootton thought he should
make some sort of apology. ‘But what can you do, these lovesick adolescents; I
heard she had her heart set on Durvassal's son.’

 Lucy was particularly chic in a jupon of
Kendal green; he lounged back against the door jamb. ‘Her heart set on
Nicholas? Rather, a mind set against Richard Herthill; but that is another
matter. And the Demoiselle de Beauchamp would look as well in black sackcloth
as any other maid in cloth of gold; she might even set a fashion, who knows.’

 The Prior shook his head. ‘We live in
strange times. All the talk of wars, too many giddy young people and too many
oaths squandered. All those fine young gallants following the King with patches
over one eye, sworn to see Edward suzerain of France before they see the world
in focus again. Too many heartsick young girls making butterfly vows of
chastity at dimly lit altars without knowing what they do.’ He continued to
shake his head sadly.

 Lucy only grinned. ‘Cheer up, Father
Prior, there's a difference here. This one knows exactly what she does, have no
doubts about that!’

~o0o~

Nicholas Durvassal arrived unheralded at
Spernall in the midst of a ferocious storm. He walked into the hall, unpinning
his heavy, sodden cloak. His hair clung in damp strands to his head and his
cote moulded itself closer to his fine body. John Durvassal, Lord of Spernall
and hereditary butler to the Earls of Warwick, sat back in his chair, berating
a group of underlings who stood before him, caps in hand, heads bowed. He noted
his son's arrival and lifted a hand in greeting before continuing with a tirade
of colourful language and finally dismissing the sheepish menials who filtered
away down the hall to take up various tasks.

 ‘Nicholas. Does your mother know you're
here?’ He was getting to his feet.

 ‘Not yet, sir. I wanted to have words with
you before I see her; it is important.’

 Durvassal put an arm companionably about
his son's shoulders. ‘Well, what is it then?’

 ‘Can't we go somewhere else?’

 ‘I don't see the need. This is my hall,
nucleus of my demesne. Why should I move elsewhere?’

 ‘Then send them out,’ Nicholas gestured
to the chastened servants.

 ‘If I deem it necessary. What do you want
to discuss?’

 ‘My marriage. I do not wish for it.’ He
stood still and straight before his father, his very bearing defiant. John
Durvassal poked at his son with a long fore finger.

 ‘You do not wish it! Since when have your
wishes been paramount? This is a matter of local politics. Good God, boy,
Brandstone's daughter is young, virgin, sound in wind and limb - not a beauty
perhaps but if she were a cross-eyed hag you'd have her if I so wished it!’