her canopied bed and
was sitting, straight-backed, in a chair by the window, a warm fur-lined
coverlet over her knees. The eyes that looked out from beneath her heavy,
veiled headdress were still a remarkable green, hard as agates. She received the
news that her great grandson had been found, or rather, had arrived at the
gate, as bold as may be, without emotion. Geoffrey Mikelton was not to be
fooled by the inscrutability of her gaze. The timbre of her voice gave more
away.
‘Send the truant to me!’ she rasped.
Mikelton was privately thankful that he
was not eleven years old. He went down to the kitchens where the child was
unconcernedly tearing off a hunk of bread from a new-baked loaf.
‘Put that down. Lady Maud wishes to see
you.’ When the boy took no notice he extricated the bread from his fingers,
slapped it down on the table, pulled his Lord’s son before him, straightened
and dusted off his mud-spattered suit of Lancaster’s livery and said,
‘Upstairs, at the double, and mind your manners unless you want a good
switching!’
John only smiled and shrugged his
shoulders, sauntering out of the kitchen. Then, he ran for the nearest
staircase and eventually arrived pell-mell at his great grandmother’s doorway. He
yanked aside the heavy dark tapestry which covered the opening and gave her a
practised and elaborate bow.
Maud looked up. In spite of Mikelton’s
best efforts the boy still looked like a feral child; hair wild, he was
breathless from his ascent of several staircases.
John de Montfort was an attractive lad,
more like her older grandson, his namesake Lord John, who had fallen at
Bannockburn Fight, than his stockier, dark-eyed father.
‘You had better come here!’ Maud’s voice
was still strong; not the quavering tones to be expected of eighty seven
summers.
Her great grandson crossed the room
warily and regarded her from under a flop of dark auburn hair.
‘Nearer. That’s better. Now, what goes
on? Why are you here?’
‘I won’t go back. They all hate me!’
Maud smiled into the wings of her veil. ‘Well,
I wonder why?’
‘Bastard John, they called me, Lancaster’s pages, Lancaster’s squires. I’d rather be a bastard Montfort with our
matchless lineage, our descent from the great King Alfred, than some petty,
parvenu princeling; all yes, My Lord and no, My Lord!’
‘You told them that?’
‘Of course!’ He gave her a dazzling
smile.
‘Oh, Johnny, what shall we do with you?’
‘You won’t send me back?’
Maud was silent for a time, tapping the
ends of her fingers together. Then she said: ‘There are reasons why you are
better away, for the time at least.’
‘What reasons, Great Grandmother?’
‘In a few weeks your father is to marry. Oh,
I know there have been names put forward before, ever since your mother took up
the Religious Life, but this time it will happen. A man needs sons.’
‘He’s got a son. He’s got me!’ flared
John.
‘Don’t be so obtuse, Johnny. He needs a
wedded wife with a sizeable dower and legitimate sons to succeed him here.’
John said, ‘He could have married my
mother.’
‘Yes, he could have done but it was too
late after you were born. He wrote to Rome, petitioned to have you legitimised
so that you could stand as his heir. The Pope, in his dubious wisdom, would not
have it. Had your father married Lora Astley, had she given him ten more sons,
you would still have been barred from the entail. I never liked your mother,
John, but she could see the unfairness of it all and the effect it might have
on your life.’
John sniffed volubly. ‘I don’t want
another woman here. You won’t want it, great grandmother; a new chatelaine
ordering us all about. You’d hate that!’
Maud laughed. ‘Margaret Furnival is
fourteen years old. I expect she’ll mould to our ways.’
‘How can I stay now? And how can I go
back to Kenilworth?’ John’s violet eyes were bright
was sitting, straight-backed, in a chair by the window, a warm fur-lined
coverlet over her knees. The eyes that looked out from beneath her heavy,
veiled headdress were still a remarkable green, hard as agates. She received the
news that her great grandson had been found, or rather, had arrived at the
gate, as bold as may be, without emotion. Geoffrey Mikelton was not to be
fooled by the inscrutability of her gaze. The timbre of her voice gave more
away.
‘Send the truant to me!’ she rasped.
Mikelton was privately thankful that he
was not eleven years old. He went down to the kitchens where the child was
unconcernedly tearing off a hunk of bread from a new-baked loaf.
‘Put that down. Lady Maud wishes to see
you.’ When the boy took no notice he extricated the bread from his fingers,
slapped it down on the table, pulled his Lord’s son before him, straightened
and dusted off his mud-spattered suit of Lancaster’s livery and said,
‘Upstairs, at the double, and mind your manners unless you want a good
switching!’
John only smiled and shrugged his
shoulders, sauntering out of the kitchen. Then, he ran for the nearest
staircase and eventually arrived pell-mell at his great grandmother’s doorway. He
yanked aside the heavy dark tapestry which covered the opening and gave her a
practised and elaborate bow.
Maud looked up. In spite of Mikelton’s
best efforts the boy still looked like a feral child; hair wild, he was
breathless from his ascent of several staircases.
John de Montfort was an attractive lad,
more like her older grandson, his namesake Lord John, who had fallen at
Bannockburn Fight, than his stockier, dark-eyed father.
‘You had better come here!’ Maud’s voice
was still strong; not the quavering tones to be expected of eighty seven
summers.
Her great grandson crossed the room
warily and regarded her from under a flop of dark auburn hair.
‘Nearer. That’s better. Now, what goes
on? Why are you here?’
‘I won’t go back. They all hate me!’
Maud smiled into the wings of her veil. ‘Well,
I wonder why?’
‘Bastard John, they called me, Lancaster’s pages, Lancaster’s squires. I’d rather be a bastard Montfort with our
matchless lineage, our descent from the great King Alfred, than some petty,
parvenu princeling; all yes, My Lord and no, My Lord!’
‘You told them that?’
‘Of course!’ He gave her a dazzling
smile.
‘Oh, Johnny, what shall we do with you?’
‘You won’t send me back?’
Maud was silent for a time, tapping the
ends of her fingers together. Then she said: ‘There are reasons why you are
better away, for the time at least.’
‘What reasons, Great Grandmother?’
‘In a few weeks your father is to marry. Oh,
I know there have been names put forward before, ever since your mother took up
the Religious Life, but this time it will happen. A man needs sons.’
‘He’s got a son. He’s got me!’ flared
John.
‘Don’t be so obtuse, Johnny. He needs a
wedded wife with a sizeable dower and legitimate sons to succeed him here.’
John said, ‘He could have married my
mother.’
‘Yes, he could have done but it was too
late after you were born. He wrote to Rome, petitioned to have you legitimised
so that you could stand as his heir. The Pope, in his dubious wisdom, would not
have it. Had your father married Lora Astley, had she given him ten more sons,
you would still have been barred from the entail. I never liked your mother,
John, but she could see the unfairness of it all and the effect it might have
on your life.’
John sniffed volubly. ‘I don’t want
another woman here. You won’t want it, great grandmother; a new chatelaine
ordering us all about. You’d hate that!’
Maud laughed. ‘Margaret Furnival is
fourteen years old. I expect she’ll mould to our ways.’
‘How can I stay now? And how can I go
back to Kenilworth?’ John’s violet eyes were bright
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