The Lords of Arden (40 page)

 And so he had the whole story, settled
easily in his chair in his office with the boy on a stool at his feet. ‘Your
brother served me,’ said Harry. ‘He was dismissed my service and no, you may
not ask me why. One day he may tell you but I think not. I would not wish to
let another of Beaudesert’s sons cause havoc in my household.’

 ‘My Lord, I am not my brother.’ How often
had he said those words in the past few months? ‘And if the family honour is
stained it is incumbent upon you to let me redeem it. Truly, My Lord, there is
no other way.’ He was earnest and eager; He would look well in the blue and
white of Lancaster. Harry wondered afterwards why he had given in so easily.

The departure from Southampton was a time
Richard de Montfort knew he would never forget. The army had marched south
singing, they had bivouacked beyond the port for three days and now, on the
fourth, they had woken to a crystal clear June morning, a pearly sunrise and a
light sheeting of dew over all. A first glimpse of the water, flat and green-blue
had sent ripples of excitement through the ranks and then, when the fleet
became visible the murmur swelled into an involuntary cheer.

 They lay alongside the harbour wall, stem
to stern, a forest of masts and spars with brightly coloured hulls and painted
sails, garish with pagan designs and Christian symbolism, all decked fore and
aft with intricately carved rails and fanciful prows, lanterns wrought of iron.
There were sailors in the shrouds and manning the fighting tops;
desperate-looking men with bearded lips and gold earrings.

 And the names were fanciful and romantic
or just plainly functional: the Gabriel, the Falcon, the Plentie and the
Isabelle, the Michiel and the Fleurdeluce and Derby's flagship in pride of
place, the Christopher, with her sails already set, a sea-green hull and an
azure sail with Harry's favourite badge, the red rose of Lancaster. Emblazoned
shields lined the bulwarks, or and sable, argent and purple. There was enough
breeze to set the pennants flapping, to set the great lug sails slatting at
their masts, to turn the newest ship-boy green in his crow's nest perch.

 Only the noise vied with the brilliance
of colour, from the army at their back to the rumble of cart wheels on cobbles
as they loaded up stores; the rattle and dip of oars; the voices of the sailors
as they cupped hands and called across to each other, vessel to vessel, and the
exited screaming of the gulls, dipping and wheeling over all.

 ‘Never, never,’ mused Richard, ‘shall I
forget this. When I'm an old man, nodding at the hearth, I'll take this picture
out and polish it up and be glad I was here.’

 And Derby only laughed, reached out and
clapped him on the back. ‘Wait until you're crouching groaning in the bilges,
stricken with the mal-de-mer, with your insides out like a gutted fish and
death seeming an easy option, then we'll see the price of glittering memories!’
He laughed again, pricked his horse forward and rode down to his flagship.

~o0o~

The campaign to secure English Gascony from
the importunate French continued throughout the summer, into the autumn and on towards
winter; from the landing at Bayonne on a clear June morning until they made
siege camp outside the walls of La Reole in late October. These were lands and
towns owing allegiance to the English crown and their citizens were loyally
behind the tall, blond Englishman now at the height of his physical powers, who
had been named King's Lieutenant by a trusting monarch and given carte blanche
in all military affairs. But for all these were English crown lands with their
musical Gascon names: Bergerac, Castillion, Lalinde, Auberoche, Villereal they
were coveted by the French and the French Commander, the Compte de L'Isle, made
his dispositions and attempted to thwart Henry - whom they called the Compte
D'Erbi - at every turn.

 After the initial march in midsummer heat,
with five hundred men at arms and two thousand archers at his back, Henry
reached Bordeaux and, hearing that de L’Isle was at Bergerac with a sizable
army, took to the river and with a fleet of boats sailed along the Dordogne, through Castillion to Bergerac. The French army was put to rout, de L’Isle
escaped to make for La Reole and the town surrendered to Henry's forces. He
spent the late summer in the area mopping up small pockets of resistance and
returned to Bordeaux in the autumn. The enterprising Compte, having
strengthened La Reole, marched to Auberoche, recently garrisoned by the
English, and laid siege to it.

 Auberoche sat upon a rocky promontory
overlooking the tiny river Auvezene and a little meadow-lined valley sloping up
to heavily wooded country. The English set out from Bordeaux, keeping to the
forestland, awaiting reinforcements for they were twelve hundred against ten
thousand Frenchmen. In the open space between the woods and the river lay the
French pavilions, coils of smoke wending up from the cooking fires as they
prepared for supper, completely unaware of the English presence. With battle
cries of 'Derby! Guienne!' the English fell upon them, their surprise complete.
The enemy did not even have time to arm. De L’Isle was captured and with him,
killed, wounded or taken hostage, was the flower of southern France.

 Derby entertained his captured generals
to supper and two days later turned south towards the Garonne and La Reole to
which he laid siege in late October. The fortress was perched precariously on
its outcrop of rock, high above the river; with its solid foundations and thick
walls it was thought impregnable. Henry entrenched himself and set to work
building siege engines and belfries - towers for the archers to discharge their
arrows into the garrison up on the walls - before the sappers moved in to mine
at their feet. The town surrendered with some relief, it had only been in
French hands for two decades and the citizens felt themselves English in
sympathy, but the castle held out; the Commander was not a Gascon, he hailed
from Provence. La Reole fell in the first few days of the New Year...

~o0o~

Isabel of Lancaster, Countess of Derby,
arrived at La Reole at the head of a cavalcade which more resembled a wedding
party than a company setting out to ride through hostile countryside
accompanying a prospective prize of war. The Countess was a plump, pretty
woman, her soft pink and white face hidden behind several layers of veiling,
the bright, dark eyes, darting here and there like the glance of a scurrying
field mouse. She sat a tall high-stepping white mare, caparisoned in the blue
and white of Lancaster and decked with brass bells. Beside her rode her single
lady-in-waiting, tall and graceful, a perpetual look of worldly-wise amusement
on her handsome face. The retinue, all sporting Derby's colours and his red rose
badge, cluttered the courtyard about them.

 Henry was at his countess's stirrup,
lifting her down, planting a hearty kiss full upon her lips. The garrison stood
about, grinning broadly. In months of campaigning and weeks of siege there had
been little time for dalliance for any of them and the sight of a high-born
lady decked out in her velvets and furs was a welcome sight. Lady Derby blushed
peony red, the little white hands fluttered about her. ‘Fie, My Lord, will none
perform the same office for my dear Jeannette?’ She motioned towards the
lady-in-waiting, the slender equestrienne on the chestnut mare.

 Richard Latimer, in Derby's blue and
white livery, fair hair combed for the occasion, stepped out and held up his
arms for the descent of the glorious Amazon and, cocking a knee over the
pommel, she slid lightly out of the saddle and into his arms. She smelt of the
east, of sandalwood and jasmine. The cool touch of her furs was sensuous, the
hazel eyes were challenging.

 ‘Prettily done, sir,’ said the Amazon,
‘and is the kiss included or do I get short measure?’

 Richard needed no second bidding to such
gallantry; he slipped a hand beneath the heavy coils of her hair and his mouth
closed over hers.

 ‘Bravo!’ said Lady Derby, subsiding into
peals of silver laughter. ‘Well played, sir! Now we can all get inside out of
the weather. Is there one stone left on top of another? I must say, My Lord,
that if nothing else you have been thorough!’

 They kept their Twelfth Night as merrily
as any household safe in England, with roaring fires and good victuals, for the
surrounding countryside was plentiful. There was fine hunting in the forestland
and Richard, in constant attendance on Harry Derby, found himself frequently in
the company of the Lady Jeannette. The Countess, a confirmed mischief-maker,
encouraged their friendship at every turn. And indeed, it was a friendship born
of opportunity rather than love at first sight. Jeannette was an accomplished
young woman, well-travelled but still able to exhibit her delight in new scenes
and new companions.

 Richard had been starved of feminine
company in the months he had spent in Derby's train. He would never take the
love he had for Rose Durvassal and fling it in the lap of a whore but life went
on and Jeannette was a gallant girl who could laugh at hardship. A second kiss,
stolen in a deep window embrasure, when the moon was high and full over the
castle rock, seemed as natural as breathing.

 Richard was surprised when Harry sent for
him early next morning, bade him close the door of his office and spent a
disquieting time looking him over.

 At last, Richard said, ‘If I have
displeased you, My Lord, then I am sorry for it.’

 Harry said, ‘This liaison with the Lady
Jeannette, what do you mean by it?’

 ‘I don't understand.’

 ‘Can I speak plainer? Have you slept with
the girl?’

 ‘You don't have the right to ask. That is
my affair!’

 ‘Nevertheless, I demand an answer and you
will stand there, Master Latimer, until you deliver it!’

 ‘No, My Lord, I have not, but it is none
of your business! The lady will dispose of her body as her heart dictates and I
am a free agent.’

 ‘Oh, much freer than you think! Out of my
service and on your way back home!’

 ‘But you can't! My Lady your wife gave us
both encouragement; she saw no harm.’

 ‘Isabel does not know your true identity,
Richard de Montfort.’

 ‘Does it matter? I am not worthy of her,
is that your reasoning?’

 Henry sighed, ‘You have, I suppose,
disclosed your parentage to Jeannette?’

 ‘No, My Lord, not to any. My Lord, her
husband neglects her, she talks of divorce.’

 ‘Ah yes, the husband. Is that perhaps the
nub of the matter? You took his place in the family, wasn't that enough but you
should seek to supplant him in his bed?’

 ‘You talk in riddles!’ the boy flashed at
him. ‘I don't know the man, I thought it better that he didn't have a name. I
would rather not be able to put face to it.’

 Henry sighed again. ‘Dear God, Dickie,
you really don't know who she is!’ He took him by the shoulders and shook him
lightly. ‘The lady, the Countess's 'Dear Jeannette' is the Lady Johanna de
Montfort, daughter of Sir John de Clinton of Coleshill, cousin to Thomas
Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and wife to your brother. I think you should take a
couple of mounts, ride off into the forest and break the news to her as gently
as possible. I can do without your services for as long as is necessary but I
want this finished today. Have I made myself clear?’

 ‘I didn't know, I swear I didn't know -
we'd never met -’

 He rode away with the Lady Jeannette and
came back several hours later with his sister-in-law, Johanna. At first angry,
then dismayed, she had finally ended by laughing and giving him a less than
sisterly kiss. They trailed their mounts home to La Reole, hand in hand, bound
to a stronger – if platonic - friendship.

 Lady Derby, ever the gracious hostess, was
entertaining a messenger sent from England when they came together into the
hall. She spun round in a shimmering sweep of emerald velvet which hissed
across the rushes. ‘Jeannette, we have an emissary from your kinsman, from
Thomas of Warwick; good news from England at last. The King is moving; troops
are ordered to Portsmouth and Southampton. The waiting is over! Jeannette, he
has sent your husband to us.’

 John de Montfort, red and gold and
handsome as ever, came smiling towards them across the floor with no sign that
he was saddle sore and weary.

 ‘My lady.’ He gave Johanna a curt nod,
and the violet eyes glittered. Richard he caught across the mouth with one
swipe from a leather gauntlet.

 ‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Derby, ‘he always
was a wilful boy!’

~o0o~

Minutes later they were standing together
in the Countess’s improvised solar; Harry and Isobel Derby, the Montfort
brothers and Johanna. It seemed that everyone was talking at once, regardless
of rank. Then Derby’s voice thundered out for silence. He turned to his wife.

 ‘My Lady, what goes on here? I arrive
home to find these two most unnatural of natural sons all but at each other’s
throats, though I doubt they’ve set eyes upon each other for more than a twelve
month!’

 Isobel Derby looked sheepish and
contrite. ‘My Lord, I rather feel the fault is mine. I was pleased to welcome
John; it’s been so long since we’ve seen him and he was so much a part of the
family – you must remember.’

 ‘Oh, I remember,’ said the Earl, raking
his one-time squire from head to foot.

 Isobel was prattling on in the pretty,
ingenious way she had. ‘I happened to mention that Richard was here, was one of
your body squires. Why, my Lord, it was only this morning you revealed his true
identity and how could I keep his presence from his own brother. I was
explaining how much I relied on my dear Jeanette and how fond of each other
brother and sister had become – so good for family relations – and that even
now they were out together, enjoying the winter sunshine, had been gone awhile
with no account of time – so like them…’