The Lords of Arden (23 page)

 Mikelton could only watch as Richard was
dragged roughly from the saddle, hampered by his bound wrists, and flung
forward to pull himself up short only a foot or two away from Thomas Beauchamp.
His voice was young and clear and carrying, charged with anger.

 ‘You have known from the beginning, My
Lord. I was your dupe and never more than a hostage!’

 Thomas Beauchamp smiled, as once, years
ago in this very court, another man had smiled, and brought up his right hand
to strike Richard across the face, not once but three times; the boy,
staggering from the blows, struggled to keep his feet. Mikelton would have
remembered that other occasion; he had accompanied his lord when they brought
the boy Earl back to Warwick and his gaoler. Mikelton would ride home to
Beaudesert and give good account of this afternoon's tableau. He had no doubts
as to whose son he had delivered into certain captivity.

 Beauchamp met the old man's gaze across
the court and inclined his head in a curt gesture of dismissal. Peter's
constable gathered the reins of the riderless bay, wheeled about, and left the
courtyard.

 Warwick turned back to Richard de
Montfort. ‘Did you expect to harangue me before the greater part of my
household and get away with it without an example being made? I think not. Was
that out and out masochism or merely a statement as to which side of the fence
you intend to stake your claim? Ah, now I see you are too cowed to open your
mouth for fear I close it for you again.’

 ‘No, My Lord, that isn't so.’ Richard's
fair skin was flaming; his teeth ached.

 Beauchamp said, ‘I feel you are a little
premature in supposing that I relinquish my claims as your lord and master. You
had my express orders to keep away from Montfort land; I could not have spoken
plainer. You disobey my laws, break your word, harass my neighbours…’

 ‘No, My Lord, I never gave my word, I saw
no reason, no need. The quest was my own - or so I thought - and for all your
oaths you do not own me.’ This time he kept his voice pitched lower out of the
hearing of Warwick's retainers and the curious gathering of cooks and buttery
girls. He was learning, but Warwick could feel the leashed fury which contained
him. He put an arm across his shoulders and turned him towards the hall.

 ‘We shall go indoors and find a little
more privacy. You see, I am all solicitude, anxious to save you from yourself. Next
time it will be a lash between the shoulder blades.’ The long fingers moved to
the nape of his neck and slid below the band of his shirt until he felt the
smooth flesh shudder and withdrew the hand with a laugh.

 ‘How long have you known of my parentage
when even the Montforts seemed genuinely unaware?’

 ‘My poor boy, you are rambling. What
proofs have you of descent from Montfort?’ They were in the hall now, standing
above the fire, there was no-one nearer than the shadowy recesses of the window
embrasures, the dark at the foot of the stair-well.

 ‘I had the ring,’ said Richard. ‘Return
the gold band I left with you for safe-keeping and I will give you proof.’

 ‘Did you so? I cannot recollect…’ Warwick was speaking slowly, as if his mind was elsewhere. Then he sprang back to the
present. ‘I hired you as a fletcher, a city apprentice, and how do you repay
me? With delusions of grandeur; weaving tales of fantasy about a noble birth,
like a starry-eyed goose girl. But I am inclined to leniency and intend to
leave you whole until My Lord de Montfort has seen you at least.’

 ‘If he has sense in his head he will
abandon me to my fate,’ hissed Richard. ‘He knows nothing of me. Am I worth the
risk of a confrontation with an old enemy?’

 ‘Oh, I should pray that you are,’
murmured Warwick silkily, almost into his ear. ‘But, until he comes, a few days
close-confined may help to cool your hot head. Nicholas, have him taken away,
and I shall see you held responsible for his safe-keeping!’ He turned on his
heels and left the hall.

~o0o~

The Lady Rose de Brandstone never cried
except on those occasions where she felt a display of helpless femininity might
bring about her desired ends, and then it was spectacularly done. She sat upon
the chapel steps a good half hour before Milord Warwick was due to make his
daily, solitary devotions. Lady Rose wore violet which was becoming, she had
torn away her veil which was not, and sat twisting it between her small hands
whilst her greatest glory, the untameable red hair, cascaded joyously about
her. At the sound of his footsteps she buried the red head in her lap, took a
deep breath and began to sob.

 Thomas Beauchamp found her thus, leant down
gently, and took her shoulders between his beringed hands.

 ‘Why, sweetheart, what is it?’

 She lifted her face and her blue eyes,
deep pools of misery, spilled their tears down her pale cheeks. She was an
irresistible combination of child and woman. Thomas put out a hand to lift one
teardrop from its trembling brink. ‘Is it Nicholas? Speak out child.’

 ‘Oh no, My Lord. I had to see you, to ask
your mercy. I knew I should find you here and I have waited long.’ She slipped
to her knees and knelt before him, hands raised in supplication.

 ‘Suppose,’ said Warwick, ‘that you forget
all you have heard of the beautiful women of legend and romance, clasping their
hands and tearing their hair. Suppose that I sit upon the steps and you may
perch upon my knee, pretending I am that worthy father of yours, or some elder
brother, and that will make all easy.’ He set her aside, sat down upon the
folds of a sumptuous black cloak and pulled her down. She nestled very close to
his shoulder, tracing the patterns of leaf and scroll upon the figured velvet
of his jupon with her forefinger.

 ‘Oh, My Lord, I know he has played you
false, that he is miscreant and unworthy to serve you but…’

 ‘Who? Girl, you're talking in riddles!’

 ‘Richard, My Lord, Richard de Montfort.’

 ‘Ah, what is he to the Lady Rose de
Brandstone, the soon-to-be-bride of the handsome Nicholas?’

 Rose pouted, ‘Oh, Nicholas is to be my
husband, it has been decreed and how can I gainsay your wishes, My Lord?’ She
smiled at him archly. ‘But Richard is to be my knight - my true knight in the
ways of the Courts of Love. He will wear my favour and charge through the lists
and…’

 ‘Richard, my poppet, has a fight to stay
in the saddle with dignity and I doubt if he's ever had a sword in his hand. I
fear he will be a sad disappointment. When did you strike up this attachment? Didn't
your mother give you a lecture on what befits a young girl so close upon her
wedding day? If there have been trysts in stable or linen closet with that
young scoundrel…’

 ‘My lord, how could you suggest such a
thing? We met only on the day he left here and incurred your displeasure. He
rescued me from a ditch when my pony bolted. I opened my eyes and there he was
as a true knight should be.’

 Warwick grinned. ‘I hardly feel Nicholas
will approve of this one-sided affaire. He had better find you occupation more
suited to a young matron and keep you at your needle.’

 Rose tossed her head. ‘Nicholas does not
even know I exist. But, My Lord, you must not side-track me. You see why I make
plea for Richard, and ask that you free him from his captivity? I know he
played you false but he's not so very much beyond being a boy and boys are
fools and hotheads all. My father would have whipped him till he couldn't sit
but, that over, all would be forgotten. But to starve a man of light and air
and warmth and...’

 ‘Rose,’ said Thomas severely, ‘the rooms
in the Bear Tower are usually set aside to house our guests: my ageing aunts,
my soft-living nieces, and I receive no complaints from them!’

 Rose jumped from his knee and faced him
in a fury. ‘Do not cozen me, My Lord; he is not in the Bear Tower. You do well
to be ashamed of his lodging but Nicholas was happy to boast of it. Nicholas
dislikes him.’

 Thomas took her hands. ‘You are a
termagant. What has Nicholas told you? He tells me very little.’

 Rose stamped her foot. ‘That Richard is
in Tartarus, the old oubliette at the base of King Alfred's Tower, where a man
can't stand or sit or lie, where he can take no account of day or night, week
or month - and you ordered it out of a petty revenge on his father. And that, My
Lord, is unworthy!’ And, surprised and frightened finally at her own
presumption, she burst into real tears.

 Beauchamp took her arms and shook her
lightly. ‘Is this the truth?’

 ‘I only know what I've been told. Why
should he lie?’

 ‘Very well, dry your eyes and run along
to your bed. I will check on this story myself and have him out of hold. Will
that satisfy you?’

 She smiled up at him, bobbed a curtsey
and fled down the passage, a blur of violet silk, her veil fluttering from her
hand.

 Beauchamp crossed the courtyard, calling
two of his garrison to his side, sending one to the guardroom for the key to
the cell, the other to summon Nicholas Durvassal from the hall.

 King Alfred's Tower was a ruin; it
remained perched precariously above the river cliff, open to sun and air. The
lowest floor was intact, a cellar prison, damp and unused, walls dripping with
slime and cold enough to eat into the very marrow of the bones. Tartarus was
reached by an iron trap in the floor, the only air filtering through a small grating
in the trap from the damp, noisesome cell. The man who had sprinted away for
the key came back with Alex Kemel, Captain of Bowmen. On Warwick's orders, they
prised open the iron door, letting it fall back with a crash which shook the
cold tower to its foundations.

 Tartarus had been carved out of the
bedrock and cruelly fashioned. As Rose had said, no man could stand or sit or
lie, but only crouch until his spine grew numb and he gained a little relief
from his suffering. No light filtered in with the foetid air. Beauchamp had
left his torch in a rusted sconce and the flames licked upwards, ruddy and
spiteful. The cell took on the aspects of hell. Here and there the runnels of
green slime glowed, iridescent. Kemel and his man dragged their prisoner out
into the torchlight. Kemel said, ‘Whatever lesson he is to learn, he will have
learnt!’

 Richard de Montfort was blind, his limbs
contorted, rigid with cold. The foul dank air pervaded the tower room and Kemel
let the trap spring back. It would have been purgatory for a small man; to a
long-limbed youngster it was a special torture. Richard's eyes became
accustomed to the wavering torchlight; he was shaking now with ague, breath
coming harshly. The life returning to his contorted limbs brought violent
cramps and painful spasms and he clamped his teeth onto the sleeve of his
surcote, one hand clawing the beaten earth of the floor in an effort to still
the shuddering which had taken over his whole body. Thomas sent his two
henchmen away and, stooping beside the boy, unpinned his own cloak and placed
it over him, one hand firm upon his shoulder.

 ‘Take your time, Richard.’

 ‘Be damned in hell, My Lord!’ were the
first words Montfort had been able to utter and they cost him dear as another
muscle spasm took him.

 Durvassal appeared in the doorway,
impeccably groomed, effortlessly elegant from spun-silver hair to the buffed
tips of his boots. He did not come close, as if the sight of his prisoner were
a contagion that must be avoided.

 Beauchamp flared up at him, ‘How dare you
abuse your authority. This was not called for; I have never used it, not on the
most hardened felon and you have always known it!’

 Durvassal shrugged. ‘
Hold him safe
,
were your words, My Lord. Where safer? He should prove malleable enough when
he's thawed out.’

 Thomas turned to his prisoner. ‘For what
has happened here tonight, I am sorry. It was not intended but, nevertheless,
the ultimate responsibility is mine. Can you rise? I think we should go from
here.’

 They walked out into the starshine. It
was an incredibly beautiful night, where the clear air magnified every silver
aster and tricked the eye into believing that each constellation hovered so
close to the earth that a climb up to the battlements would enable a man to put
out a hand and pluck an orb as he would reach for an apple on a tree.

 The room in the Bear Tower was clean, if
sparsely furnished, with furs upon the bed and a candle. There was a fire in
the grate and even a bath tub, buckets standing by. Nicholas hovered indolently
in the doorway.

 ‘My Lord, you would pamper him!’

 And Warwick had to reach out a hand to
haul Richard back, set as he was to take Durvassal by the throat. ‘Nicholas,
out of my sight. Do not let me set eyes upon you again until summoned. Your
services will not be required tonight. Out!’

 ‘No,’ spat Richard, still restrained by Warwick's hand on the breast of his cote, ‘you won't be needed to warm his bed tonight, he
has a new plaything!’ But Nicholas had felt it expedient to leave.

 Warwick had slammed the door shut behind
him and grimly rounded on Montfort. ‘Then you'd better start earning your keep,
Richard. There's a full tub, provided at great inconvenience as we’re two
flights up. Get stripped! I like my whores clean and compliant.’ He saw the
scarlet mantling the boy's face from the roots of the fair hair to the hollow
of his throat above the narrow band of his shirt.