The Lords of Arden (30 page)

 ‘And yet you're preparing to double-cross
him?’

 ‘You should thank your stars that I am! Now
you must avoid meeting with anyone on the way and you must go quickly, there
isn't time to make you understand.’

 Richard was on his feet. ‘You knew John
wanted my death, that day you warned me against yourself. Why should you spare
my life now?’

 ‘By God, Richard, there isn't time for a
bloody inquisition. Perhaps I don't even know the answer.’

 Montfort knelt and kissed his hand, grave
as any courtier, and Beauchamp raised him to his feet, a hand firm on each
shoulder. Then he took a ring from his own little finger and pressed it into
the young man's palm; an amethyst in a gold setting, a lady's ring -
pensez
de moy
- Lora's ring. The boy's dark eyes were bright with unshed tears, a
mingling of gratitude and sheer relief and more than a little bewilderment. Warwick swore at him, ‘Christ, boy, don't do that on me.’ For a brief moment he pulled the
fair head against his shoulder, and then stood him off with a shake. Richard
turned and fled.

~o0o~

The young man in black, who rode alone
through the Upper Guard at Warwick and out into the snow light of the Great Court, had none of the sureness, the outward arrogance of Bastard John, who had come
a-calling with Peter de Montfort only a few days before. Warwick strode out to
meet him from the comfort of his hall. His red and gold jupon was effulgent
beside the young man’s understated dark elegance. Montfort slid one leg over
his pommel and alighted gracefully. He gave the 11
^th
Earl of Warwick
a bow which was little more than a businesslike nod.

 Thomas Beauchamp had to admit to himself
that he knew very little of Peter Montfort’s eldest son; there had been a gap
of almost a decade between them as children which set them worlds apart. He
looked for the sweet singer who had risen, phoenix-like, from the gilded pie;
he looked for the boy Nicholas had pilloried and whipped for his insolence; he
looked for the confident conspirator who had paced the river at his side
beneath the caves of Guy’s Cliffe, but all he saw was a handsome chancer who
knew he was sleepwalking into disaster and was powerless to stop what he had
begun.

 ‘A devilish bad day to be upon the road,’
said Thomas for something to say.

 ‘Indeed, My Lord. But I have the
consignment we treated for.’

 ‘Excellent. Let your men enter. I would
see what you have brought us; whether you have kept your part of our bargain.’ He
stood back and watched as the carts from Beaudesert trundled across the
cobbles; saw them run smartly into the nearest stable block and clicked his
fingers for two of his captains to follow. The doors swung to behind them.

 ‘They will need checking over. You would
expect that of us,’ said Warwick easily.

 ‘My brother….’ began John.

 Thomas smiled. ‘Not here, later. But
shall we say that Richard de Montfort will not trouble these walls again. Now,
food and ale for your men and you must dine with us; the Countess will insist.’
He put an arm to Montfort’s elbow and steered him indoors. Katherine was inside
the solar, hemmed about by progeny of various sizes and both sexes; toddling
tots and boisterous babies.

 ‘Why, John’ she called above all the
hubbub, ‘were you unable to keep away from us? We shall take that as the
perfect compliment, shall we not, My Lord? Orabella, a cup of malmsey for our
guest. Have you met? But of course, you are old friends; close friends, I
believe.’ Her smile was malicious as she gave him her hand. A bevy of
nursemaids arrived to cart the children away.

 ‘John will dine with us,’ said Thomas,
‘please keep him entertained. I have a matter that must be attended to.’ He
swept out without another look at his guest and strode for the stables.

 Katherine, a regal vision in violet
velvet, said, ‘I expect you are hoping to be home before dark.’

 ‘No, My Lady, I do not return to
Beaudesert. I travel to Ashby for the winter jousts.’

 ‘Ashby!’ cried Katherine. ‘I adore Ashby.
I wonder, would it please you to wear my favour? I might find something
pretty.’

 ‘No!’ said Orabella and

 ‘No, thank you,’ said John
simultaneously.

 Katherine laughed, showing sharp, white
teeth. ‘A pity, you rode so well for me at Coleshill. How is Johanna?’

 ‘She is travelling,’ said Orabella. ‘She
enjoys travelling.’

 ‘Orabella, my lute please. John shall
sing for us.’

 A small page, affecting invisibility, had
brought a stool, but was wondering how close to his adored mistress he should
place it. John snatched it from him and set it down a safe distance from Kate’s
plump, pretty fingers. He didn’t want them homing for his hair.

 Orabella had moved to a side table and
swept up the beribboned plaything. She leant over John’s shoulder, veils
fluttering and said, ‘You will need to tune it.’ But the other hand rested upon
his neck in the briefest caress. ‘What have you done?’ she hissed. He flicked
the ribbons away and bent low to tune the instrument without replying.

 Then Warwick burst in, making straight
for the fire. ‘All’s well and we’re ready to dine. John, we’ll talk later. Kate,
John shall sit between us as our honoured guest. Yes, I insist.’ He was all
smiles, like an anticipatory crocodile, and full of bonhomie as they went into
the hall, climbed the dais and took their places, elevated above Thomas’s vast
household.

 Katherine, glancing at John, said,
‘You’re hardly eating anything.’

 ‘I’m sorry, it is very good.’

 Warwick brandished a mutton chop. ‘I see
Gilbert is back from his errand. Someone send him up here; I need his news.’ He
signed to one of his squires who bowed obsequiously and went to touch the man
on the collar. Cap in hand he climbed the steps and louted before the Earl.

 Thomas nodded. ‘You made good time; that
was well done. Did you follow my instructions?’

 ‘To the letter, My Lord.’

 ‘Well, speak up!’

 ‘The young man, My Lord, we delivered him
to the Lower Gatehouse just as you said. He was no trouble, My Lord; affable
lad really. His family will be pleased to have him home, no doubt.’

 Thomas said, ‘Did you hear that, John? Good
news. Your brother has reached Beaudesert.’

 ‘Bravo!’ said Kate. ‘We were all very
fond of Dickie, you know.’

 John had paled noticeably. He started to
rise but found himself yanked back into his seat by a plump white hand on the
trailing sleeve of his cote.

 ‘Don’t,’ hissed the Countess, ‘say
anything. What you utter in this hall can not be set aside. Try the custard;
it’s the cook’s new recipe. I thought, a little more sugar perhaps?’ She leant
across him to her husband. ‘Thomas, there must be other news; surely Gilbert
found time to stop for a jug or two in Henley.’

 The man turned to her eagerly, pleating
his cap. ‘Yes, My Lady, they are all talking. Peter Montfort’s men were set
upon on the high road, and some said to be gravely injured. His constable, old
Mikelton - a grouser if ever I heard one but a good heart at that – barely
escaped with his life. Now there’s a man with a tale to tell his master if he
dares. The eldest son, him they call Bastard John, handsome young devil but
chancy, if you know what I mean, they say he instigated the attack to rob his
father. Now why would he do a thing like that? There’s felony on a grand scale.
It’s being said the boy will hang but then, they have to catch him first. It’s
my guess he’ll abjure, leave the country…’

 ‘That would be sensible,’ agreed the
Earl. ‘But go and see yourself warmed and fed. We’ll hear more later.’ Beauchamp
turned back to his family. ‘Now,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I think we should retire
to the solar before John says something we shall all regret. Orabella, you may
accompany us if you wish it. Pillow talk, I find, is so unreliable. You may as
well hear us at first hand.’

 ‘My Lord,’ said John through gritted
teeth, ‘you insult the lady.’

 Thomas looked amused. ‘I forgot to ask.
How is Johanna?’

 ‘She’s travelling. She enjoys
travelling,’ chorused Kate and Orabella.

 They trooped, all four, back into the
solar where the Earl and Countess took to their quasi-thrones and Orabella sank
down upon a stool below a window and reached for her embroidery basket.

 John waved aside the offer of a seat;
standing, his height gave him some advantage over the seated Earl.

 ‘As you wish,’ Thomas said. ‘I imagine
you have something to say. Speak away.’

 John was still incredibly pale but his
voice was steady enough. ‘My Lord, you have played me false. I have delivered
what I promised and I know you are not displeased. When was Richard released?’

 ‘As soon as Geoffrey Mikelton was seen to
move out from Beaudesert with his precious cargo. I knew then that your father
was set on keeping his side of the bargain. To give him his due, he was not a
man to renege over a promise. It seemed pointless holding the boy longer. Our
business was concluded.’

 ‘And our agreement?’ choked John. ‘Did
that mean nothing? Your father, My Lord, was held to be a man of honour. Is
there no entail for honour?’

 ‘Have a care, boy. Orabella won’t save
your precious skin a second time. And who are you to match a father’s honour
against a son? Do I hear the pot calling the kettle black? I remember Harry
Derby said you were an amoral young wretch - and now turned the most unnatural
of natural sons. Take heart in that I have, at least, saved you from the sin of
fratricide.

 ‘And did you think I would not have you
watched? How uncharacteristically naïve. And when I had been able to satisfy
you that Richard was dead, what then? You would have been away to Ashby, where
your touchingly gullible father believes you are spending your days in sport
and dissipation, and where, I have no doubt, there are friends enough to vouch
for your presence in the inns and at the gaming tables, if not in the lists. And
when your father discovers that his Constable was set upon, his men maimed and
left for dead by the hand of hooded desperadoes, who does he blame? Thomas
Beauchamp, a man of no honour, it seems, a man who would break a promise and do
away with his hostage in cold blood!’

 ‘It was worth a try!’ said John with a
flash of the old insolence. ‘Now you shall not detain me. I have an appointment
at Ashby.’

 It was Katherine who interposed then,
waving a bejewelled hand. ‘Fool of a boy, is there a Tree of Arms that would bear
your name without some crony of your father’s demanding it be struck off? If
you go to Ashby you are a dead man!’

 ‘You could not,’ said Warwick, looking
him up and down, contempt in every line of the handsome, dark face, ‘even put
your heart successfully into this gross betrayal of the man who fathered you. You
let Geoffrey Mikelton go free to ride home and raise the hue and cry. What
self-respecting brigand would have let him live to tell the tale. The Montfort
blood in you must rise up at its dilution with that of your base-born mother!’

 It was quick-witted Kate who saw the boy
go for his dagger, a fraction before her husband did, and she was out of her
chair and between them. ‘Thomas, Thomas, don’t bait him! That is unworthy. He
has no redress. He is already a wanted man with a father threatening the noose.
What more can you do to him!’ With one hand behind her back she was signalling
that John should sheath his weapon again. Thomas kissed his wife and motioned
her back to her chair. ‘For what it might be worth, I have no quarrel with you,
John, but your father and I have a history. There is hurt between us and I have
long sought revenge. When Richard fell into my hands, I rejoiced. But Richard
deserved better than to be made the unwitting instrument of his father’s
undoing. You, I discovered, fitted the part so much better; the eldest son, the
feckless, faithless, treacherous and the best beloved. You played your part so
beautifully. Peter de Montfort will know the full pain of betrayal as he
visited it upon me long ago. And in the end, I did not need to lift a finger. John
de Montfort, you shot your own bolt. At least have the grace to admit it.’

 ‘Thomas,’ said Katherine, ‘turn him off
if you must but stop haranguing the boy. I have heard enough!’

 Thomas laughed. ‘I could do that and
where would he go, a Wolf’s Head, a hunted man? Or should I put him under lock
and key and deliver him to his father’s justice tomorrow. An uncertain fate
indeed. Another thought came to my mind. John, you trained under Henry of
Derby?’

 ‘My Lord, you know I did.’

 ‘Then you could serve me, make yourself
useful…’

 John said, ‘You tear my reputation to
shreds, you call me by every filthy epithet you can dredge up and you ask for
my service and my loyalty!’

 ‘Well, who else will take you now?’

 ‘But you do not trust me…’ John was
fighting with incredulity. This man was far ahead of him; he could not think
fast enough.

 ‘And do you trust me?’

 ‘No, My Lord. How could I?’