The Lords of Arden (25 page)

 Lady A, beside her mistress, pecked at
her food and sipped vernage, clear and gold in the cup, bored by the
artificiality of the evening, the endless comedy of manners.

 About the diners, Thomas's acrobats
balanced silver balls on the soles of their feet and, at the farthest table,
the mummers, who were to present their plays at the end of the evening, sat
over pots of sack and venison patties and wondered at the cavorting of the rich
and famous.

 Thomas touched Katherine on one plump,
white hand. ‘A last dish, something special…’ he murmured and Katherine smiled
and shook her head.

 ‘Not another morsel, My Lord, I need to
loosen my girdle as it is!’ But the earl was on his feet, all understated
elegance in sea green damask, clapping his hands. The silver trumpets were
braying out again. Four pages in red and gold wheeled in a wooden trolley,
rattling their way between the tables, lumbering precariously towards the dais.
Upon the trolley stood a pie, lightly baked an appetising golden brown but vast
enough to serve the whole company, slice for slice. Its surface was stuck about
with every kind of bird and flower in gilded marchpane; it was gaudy, it was
the worst kind of vulgarity and Katherine loved it. Hands clasped together,
eyes enormous, she watched it trundle towards her to brake just beyond her own
seat. There was another concatenation of trumpet calls - this time they were
out of synchronisation - and into the silence which followed broke the
splintering disintegration of the pastry crust. A hundred tiny gold pieces flew
up into the air. Katherine squealed in alarm as out of the wreck emerged a
figure, diabolic in black and silver, crumbs of pie-crust adhering to his
auburn hair. The black cote was of poor enough stuff, the silver buttons
tarnished but Katherine only noticed that he was tall, he was young, he was
handsome, and the long musician's fingers cradled a lute, its ribbons spilling
black and gold across his sleeve. He bowed low, the dark red hair falling
forward across his forehead, the violet eyes fastening upon hers as he
straightened up. Katherine drew in a breath, quite audibly and caught her lower
lip in her teeth before flashing a quick sidelong look at her husband and
smiling steadily. The man in the pie was seated on the edge of his trolley,
picking out a tune, the instrument none the worse for its incarceration.

 It was a pleasing voice, proxy for the
Earl, gliding obediently about the words of a love song chosen, no doubt, as
one of her favourites. There was no insolence, no passion beyond that knitted
into the poet's words and the lazy violet eyes did not linger upon the girl but
sought beyond her to where the tapestried walls disappeared into darkness.

 Lady A, who, like Kate, had recognised
the face of the White Knight of the Coleshill Jousts, thought, ‘If only
Katherine keeps her head Thomas will suspect nothing.’

 Only at the last did he raise one eyebrow
and a sardonic smile touched the corners of his mouth. Katherine had flamed to
the crimson of her gown but she seized the moment to turn swiftly and take her
husband's face between the white hands and fasten a kiss upon the hard straight
mouth. Warwick's own fingers came down upon her shoulders, pushing her back
into her chair, one hand sliding down to slip beneath the ermine edging of her
gown until he had cupped one breast in his palm and was crushing her mouth
beneath his own. At the lower tables they were shouting and stamping and
cheering.

 Thomas said, ‘Sweetheart, if I were to
take you here in the rushes I think they would only cheer twice as loud!’ And
he let her go. The pie man had vanished into air, as mysteriously as he had
come and Orabella had gone too. Katherine heaved a sigh of relief. He would be
watched, she could rely on Lady A, but what madness had possessed him to seek
her out here? She pulled herself together, patting coquettishly at her hair. The
man was dangerous, doubly so within her husband's walls but she had to speak
with him. Orabella would realise that, of course, it would all be in hand. Only
wait a while, act normally, be natural, chivvy the guests, laugh and nod at the
mummers, smile and smile...

~o0o~

It was Nicholas Durvassal who came upon
John de Montfort in the deserted solar, lounging in Warwick's own chair, the
firelight ruddy on the shuttered face, glinting in the tawdry buttons amongst
the night-black of cote and hose and leather boots.

 ‘Damn you, man, that is the Earl's place,
no-one else sits there!’ Durvassal burst out angrily, but the other did not
move except perhaps to stretch out long legs to the blaze. ‘What do you think
you are doing in here? Answer me, fool!’ Durvassal's tone had a ring of
authority few would have dared ignore but Montfort only put out a hand to take
a late, sharp apple from the wooden bowl beside him and bit deeply into it. Durvassal
moved then. ‘This is presumption indeed!’

 ‘I merely wait for milord, for Thomas
Beauchamp. I have time to wait, don't trouble for me.’ But Durvassal had turned
his head and called out for assistance and it was quickly forthcoming in the
shape of two of the garrison's archers coming off duty, jostling their way
through the arras to Durvassal's side.

 ‘No-one enters here without a summons. A
man of your sort, what could you possibly want with Thomas Beauchamp?’

 ‘I think that is my affair. I will wait.’

 ‘Caught thieving and trying to bluff it
out,’ said Durvassal. ‘Get up!’ He watched Montfort swagger to his feet and
stand, one hand on his hip, as tall as himself, easily as arrogant; Nicholas
feared himself well-matched. He stood by, red and gold and imperious, the
Earl's body-squire with referred power at his finger tips, confident in the
presence of menials. Who was this but the poorest sort of player, tricked out
in black and silver tonight but tomorrow back in dull burnet and frieze with
the dun-coloured multitude. ‘Search him and be thorough!’ He clicked his
fingers and the man stood and let them pinion his arms behind his back with
nothing but a hint of bored impatience on his handsome young face. But he could
not sustain his indifference; the searchers were too intimate and he broke free
and lashed out at them.

 ‘There's nothing on him,’ said one of the
archers with genuine regret.

 ‘Then I was in time,’ said Durvassal
grimly. ‘God knows what he would have purloined and made away with. Take him
out and set him in the pillory; that will divest him of his arrogance!’

 ‘Are you a gaming man? I should not bet
on it,’ said Montfort, pinned between his two guards. ‘Tell My Lord…’

 ‘I will tell him nothing. Out with him,
and Roger…’

 ‘Sir?’

 ‘For his presumption, have him whipped!’

It was a crisp, cold night and breath
froze in the air in little vapour clouds. The stars were brilliant white
daisies in a clear sky. Lady A placed a smooth pale hand on Beauchamp's arm. ‘Thomas,
the man at the pillory, are you aware of his identity?’

 Beauchamp shrugged his shoulders. ‘A
thief in the night, no more. One of the mummers. Nicholas caught him skulking
about the solar.’

 ‘Nicholas is having him whipped,’ said
Lady A.

 ‘Squeamish? Surely not you? I was proposing
to wander over and add my authority and approval.’

 ‘Then you really don't know who he is?’

 ‘The boy in the pie, so they tell me. It
does worry you, Orabella, I wonder why?’ They were out in the courtyard now. The
pillory was raised to provide a decent view from as wide a distance as
possible.

 ‘Your pie-man, Thomas, he of the haunting
voice, is Peter Montfort's son. He was a pretty boy; he's grown up somewhat.’ The
crowd had lit torches, crude affairs of rag dipped in resin. The light left the
cross-bar of the double pillory a shadowy crucifix upon the inside of the
curtain wall.

 The young man was trapped, as was
customary, by the neck and both wrists, and the mob would have been happy to
pelt him with anything to hand but not before they had witnessed the stipulated
degradation of a whipping which was why Nicholas, stage-managing, had ordered
cote and shirt slit from the neck and dragged from his back before they closed
the top bar of the pillory and held him fast. Durvassal could not soil his own
hands; he had summoned a sergeant at arms, willing enough to lift the lash.

 Thomas said, ‘I think we might have him
taken down. I should hate to see a dangerous precedent set. It is a noble
stock, if tainted with the Astley blood. But we must not show too great a
haste, Orabella; that would be unseemly. And admit it, it is great theatre; the
dark night, the wild, leering faces of the populace, torchlit, drunk with
blood-lust - and my wine, the hapless prisoner caught like a fly in amber, not
even the privacy of rough oak to cushion his face like a man at the whipping
post, but spread-eagled there in the wavering torchlight so that every frisson
of fear, every contraction of a nerve ending, every silent appeal to heaven,
lays the soul naked in the eyes. Oh, Nicholas has a remarkable talent for a
spectacle. I suppose one could reason that he has been well-taught!’

 Then the lash fell again.

 Orabella felt her own body convulse. The
sound echoed about the courtyard and bounced back from the surrounding towers
to shatter into a hundred echoes. She turned away remembering a sunny St.
Barnaby’s; Johanna Clinton in her flower-decked tower; Lady Kate, her plump
wrists bound with golden twine, and the young man in white who had charmed them
both so effortlessly.

 ‘Thomas, over the years, when have I ever
asked for anything? There are no debts between us but for God’s sake have him
taken down!’

 Thomas only raised his eyebrows and
smiled at her; but he clapped his hands and raised his voice:

 ‘Hold there! I come as emissary from the
Countess. It has been her evening and a happy one. She has put forward a plea
that so sweet a singer should not be constrained to trill out a baser note.’ He
was at the foot of the pillory now, Orabella at his side, and the crowd had
drawn away to give them space. His eyes were upon the young man's face,
sweat-streaked, colourless; blue eyes fixed upon violet.

 Montfort said, ‘I will not sing, My Lord,
for you or for her. I would not debase the art.’ And the violet eyes were
steady upon his own. He could not see, as Beauchamp could see, that Durvassal,
stung by his tone, had signed for the lash to descend again and there was no
time between its snaking hiss and its fall to dredge up another sliver of cold
courage. Montfort cried out, the breath harsh in his throat.

 ‘That is a lesson learned,’ said
Beauchamp pleasantly enough. ‘Zealous Nicholas! See that he is freed and
brought to the solar!’

 ‘But, My Lord!’

 ‘The solar, Nicky, at once, and there
will be no man-handling on the way; I need him conscious!’ He had turned on his
heels, confident that he would be obeyed. Orabella had melted away into the
darkness.

 In the firelit solar the shutters were
closed on the autumn night, the shadows huge on the painted walls, glowing with
rich, warm colour. It was perhaps the nearest to a scene of cosy domesticity
that the fortress could produce on such an evening. Outside, the wind whined
about the corner towers and the bare branches of Arden oaks threshed beyond the
river. Warwick was standing with his back to the fire, thumbs hooked in his
belt, warming himself; when they brought John de Montfort into the room he left
the warm circle of the hearth and motioned for his archers to go, moving to the
table and hooking out a stool before signing for the young man to sit.

 ‘I really think you should. Defiance has little to recommend it without an audience - it certainly doesn't impress me
- and dignity is difficult to maintain with your shirt off your back and I see
they tipped a bucket of water over you. How careless! Do avail yourself of the
offer before you pass out.’

 ‘I shan’t…’ Montfort began, gritting
teeth whose chattering threatened to obscure reasoned conversation.

 ‘No, of course not, but sit just the
same.’ Warwick took to his own carved chair with its high wooden back and,
looking totally relaxed, stretched out, hands at ease on the arms. ‘It has been
such a long time. Welcome to Warwick, John de Montfort.’

 ‘Who told you?’

 ‘Did I need to be told?’

 ‘Lady A?’

 ‘Tender hearted as ever, dear soul; you
have her to thank for your timely rescue. But you see, I knew you were coming
and when you burst from the pie-crust like a chicken from the egg it was almost
a fulfilment.’

 ‘Christ, the mummers!’ said Montfort
faintly.

 ‘Yes, my merry men all, but I must admit
I wasn't expecting your embryonic concealment. Was that a touch of your own? Rather
ingenious.’

 Montfort had his head down on his arms,
the water was trickling in icy rivulets over his body and the broken weals on
his back throbbed hellishly.

 ‘Don't be too hard on yourself.’ Warwick had risen and was pouring out a cup of mulled wine.

 ‘Damn you, My Lord. If you knew, why
didn't you stop it sooner?’

 Warwick's hard mouth twisted in a slow
smile. ‘You play the spy, snooping about in disguise like some latter-day Robin
Hood; you deserved an example making, but I hope you're not a man for a
grudge.’

 Montfort's head came up suddenly from his
arms and the violet eyes which were dulled and heavy lidded lit up in
astonishment, then he began to laugh, head down again, hidden on his interlaced
hands.

 Warwick slid the cup across the table. ‘You
must need that.’ But when it was drained and Montfort had reached out for the
jug to refill it he pushed it out of reach. ‘No, my young friend, you don't buy
oblivion just yet, we have things to discuss.’ He shook him lightly by the
shoulder and his fingers came away blood-smeared. He wiped them fastidiously on
a napkin but pushed the jug nearer, got up and began to prowl relentlessly
about the room. ‘Take your time.’

 ‘Am I under restraint?’

 ‘No, you're free to go when you wish but
I think you will have to accept our hospitality for tonight. Does that thought
offend you?’

 Montfort shook his head.

 ‘Then I imagine you would like to see
your brother.’

 ‘Is he my brother?’

 ‘I've never doubted it. You do want to
see him?’

 ‘No, it makes no odds.’

 ‘Of course not. Your father will be here
in a few days and he will pay dearly for a long lost son but you, John, what
price do you put on a sibling's head?’

 ‘What you have always wanted from my
father. What you have always known we kept close.’

 ‘So Peter would go that far for her son? I
had hoped so.’

 John shook his head. ‘That is my offer.’

 ‘For a brother returned unharmed?’

 ‘For a brother eradicated.’

 ‘So!’ Warwick's eyebrows went up. ‘Richard
melts out of the story, disappears inexplicably, throat cut and body secreted
down some dark oubliette.’

 ‘Something like that.’

 ‘I do think that you should see him
before you cold-bloodedly send him to his death.’

 ‘No!’

 ‘That's morally indefensible, you know. What
are you afraid of? He's like your father and there's something of the mother
you despise. That might unman you, I suppose. He's young, he's sturdy,
independent; he doesn't deserve to die.’

 ‘Shut up, for God's sake! You have my
offer.’

 ‘Is the back troubling you?’

 ‘What do you think? Your answer, My
Lord!’

 ‘I'll think about it. But I'll have to
produce him for your father; after that we'll see. Now, I have guests in the
hall. We’ll make contact after your father’s return. Goodnight, John.’

~o0o~

Warwick
did not prove niggardly with his hospitality. A bed
in a small mural chamber off the solar, which let in some warmth from the
damped-down fire and was furnished with clean linen, was more than Montfort
could have expected and surely exceeded his deserts. He lowered himself onto
the bed, far too weary and sore even to stoop down and remove his boots or
strip off the tattered remnants of his black cote. He left the rush light at
the bedside burning and lay listening to the sounds of the great fortress
preparing for the night hours: voices below in the courtyard, gates clanging
shut, a dog barking - abruptly silenced, someone whistling brightly a long way
off, footsteps on stone flags, water sloshing over a window sill, shutters
banging to and fro in the wind, an owl far away in the woods, calling to the
frozen stars - and, gradually, the silence grew, magnified and took over as if
the whole castle slept under some fabulous edict.

 But not quite all - a soft footfall
roused him from his reverie, kid slippers in the passageway, the swish of a
gown, the loud click-clack of the latch. He had his face turned away from the
door, he waited for a sign to identify his visitor and the long silence told
him that it could not be Kate.

 He said at last, ‘Lady A?’ And he was
right, Orabella in her favourite indigo velvet, the colour of the night sky,
moved around the foot of the bed and stood over him. Gone was the elaborate
goffered headdress she had worn to the feast, her dark hair was covered by a
simple gauze veil and plain gold fillet.

 ‘I come with a message from Katherine,
but she must not be compromised so I am armed with bowl and bandage and
concoctions of Lady's Mantle and White Horehound; ever the Angel of Mercy. Kate
believes tonight's whole escapade was planned as a ruse that you might come to
her; it flatters her vanity.’

 ‘But it's not true,’ John said, ‘Thomas
knows why I am here. And I'm hardly likely to go a’ wooing now. You can
reassure her on that score surely!’

 Lady A swept her gaze from his tangled
hair down his long length. ‘Thomas appears to have been most forbearing,
considering his feelings for your father; he could have slung you out neck and
crop. Katherine wants her jewel back, the Mortimer Eagle, the vulgar brooch you
flaunted at the Coleshill Joust.’

 ‘Then she can whistle for it. It was a
gift.’

 ‘You can't sell it or pawn it, it’s too
well-known. I hope you haven't tried.’

 ‘No, I recognized it. I'm keeping it
against a rainy day.’

 ‘Rainy day! My dear, it will be a
fully-fledged lightning strike if Thomas ever gets to hear of it! If you're
short of funds I imagine Kate will buy it back.’

 ‘What a dreary exchange. Tell your
countess that she may have it if she comes for it - for a price. On Wednesday,
I hear she goes to Wroxall for a fast-day. She could spend the night at the
Abbess's lodgings; it wouldn't be difficult to slip out and away to Beaudesert.
Her incognito would be preserved.’

 Orabella laughed. ‘She couldn't do it,
her nerves would be shredded before she left the abbey gate; she'd be a
gibbering wreck by the time she reached Henley!’

 ‘Then I can't help her.’

 ‘Have you no chivalry?’

 ‘Not tonight, only a blind desire for
revenge on the lady's husband. Just now, the idea of cuckolding him seems
appealing.’

 Lady A ignored what she didn't feel
required a sensible answer and only said, ‘Are you going to trust me with your
back?’

 ‘You don’t have to – I can shift for
myself.’

 She dismissed his words and she was
gentle with the lacerated, broken skin. She bound the bracelets about his
wrists; the flesh below the heel was raw.

 ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t realise,’ he
said looking down at her handiwork.