Free The Lords of Arden by Helen Burton Page A

There was no bar to their relationship; she was
healthy and clean - there were those who made it their business to check on
such things - and she was delightfully unambitious. She left Warwick in the
spring and returned on Christmas Eve to deposit a wicker cradle at the
gatehouse, containing My Lord's baby daughter. In honour of Christ's birth,
Thomas had her christened Mary.
     Now, facing Orabella, he shrugged his
shoulders and waved her inside, closing the door. He wore a fur-trimmed robe
over shirt and hose, unbelted.
     ‘I had thought perhaps you would find it
compromising as I am alone. But please do sit down.’ He swept his cloak off the
room's only armchair and she sank into it gratefully and with a smile:
     ‘I am Roger D'Aylesbury's wife, my
husband's reputation is all the protection I need,’ she said and began to stare
about her at the tapestried walls: Alexander riding in triumph to Persepolis. ‘This was her chamber, wasn't it? This is where Queen Isabella slept the night
her lover came to beg for his life?’
     Thomas nodded, ‘I shall be glad to be on
the move again. I find it stifling in here. Those tapestried eyes, looking down
upon the lives and loves of lesser kings and queens. She was beautiful –
Isabella. I suppose she still is, hidden away in her castle prison, but she was
hated - more than any queen we ever had and he …’
     ‘I came,’ said Orabella ‘to report upon
your little waif and stray.’
     Thomas drew up a stool and sat opposite
to her. There was no fireplace for they were in the old Norman keep, but a
brazier of charcoal took the chill off the room. The tapestried eyes seemed
alert, expectant. Orabella turned her back on them and faced Thomas de
Beauchamp, his own eyes very blue and clear in the light from the branched
torchiere.
     ‘Did you find out his surname?’
     ‘No, but he insisted it did not matter as
it wasn't his own name, but that of his foster parents. He ran away as they
were delivering him to his new masters to start an apprenticeship.’
     ‘He was right,’ said Thomas, ‘wasn't he? It
really didn't matter because you know who he is, don't you, My Lady?’
     Orabella said, ‘Roger has always been a
good friend of his father. They campaigned together many times and once, I met
his mother, Lora Astley. You read the ring-posy - Lora, pensez de moy? I was
newly wed and Roger took me round the shire, showing me off to all his
neighbours and cronies, though I must have looked a pinched, sharp little thing
in those days. But Lora was pleased to take my hand and run me up to her
chamber in the Audley Tower. Chamber! It was a bower fit for a princess, decked
out in light eastern silks and shimmering gauzes, rose and white and lilac. And
she showed me the gowns Peter de Montfort had bought for her, and the jewels,
especially the amethysts: clasps and brooches and circlets and, in particular,
that ring. She even let me slip it on my finger. We laughed because it got
stuck over my knuckle; she had such tiny hands. It was not long after that that
she left him. If she was pregnant when she fled he could be her son. He must be
her son, hers and Peter's. And I am certain that Peter does not know of his
existence.’
     Thomas nodded. ‘Thank you, My Lady, for
confirming my own thoughts. Richard de Montfort should prove a useful pawn. Where
is he?’ He rose and went to pour her some wine but she shook her head.
     ‘He left here late this morning under an
escort of Roger's men. I sent him back to London. Oh, not under duress, I
persuaded him that it would be best and I think he was tired of scavenging
about the carts and glad to go. Besides, the ring of armed men made him feel
very important. You may, of course, send after them but I do not think you will
catch them now.’
     Thomas was staring ahead, his knuckles
white about the stem of his wine cup. ‘But you know where they are taking him?’
     ‘I did not ask and you will need to put
my men to the