The Lords of Arden (3 page)

~o0o~

The June sunlight flooded through the
cathedral windows at Amiens, shivering down in jewel-coloured shafts which lay
in shattered rainbows upon the floor of the nave. Philip of Valois sat upon his
throne and looked decidedly uneasy, gnawing at the inside of one cheek in a
nervous gesture his intimates knew only too well. He was aware that he cut a
magnificent figure in his robes of French-blue velvet, powdered with the lilies
of France, the sceptre in his right hand, the crown which had so lately
belonged to his cousin, Charles the Fair, firmly upon his head. But he was
nearing his middle years and the man approaching him, stepping steadily, firmly
along the aisle was young, very young, with days still to go until his
seventeenth birthday. He was tall, almost six foot already, and his red-golden
hair, falling to his shoulders, shone as brightly as the gilded locks of the
plaster saints, candlelit in their appointed niches. Edward wore a long,
crimson robe, embroidered with the leopards of England, his sword hung at his
side, golden spurs at his heels, the crown of England on his fair brow. So the
leopard was unchained. His mother, Queen Isabella, and his guardian, Roger
Mortimer, self-styled Earl of March, had remained in England whilst he crossed
the channel, reluctantly, to pay this homage to the new king of France for the lands which he held of him.

 As come he must, Edward had arrived in
style, flanked by his two royal uncles, followed by three haughty bishops, four
earls and forty knights. A thousand English horsemen lined the road beyond the
cathedral, dressed in his unmistakable livery: scarlet and white, all funded,
so it was said, by the King's Italian bankers. So many young men, mourned the
King of France, feeling his years, and peering myopically at those who followed
the King. The silver-blond head of Henry of Derby, the Earl of Lancaster's son,
representing his blind father, taller than his king, long of limb - the most
handsome man at Plantaganet's court; John de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex;
Edward’s friend and mentor, the grave young William Montague, and a dark boy
whom Philip did not know by sight but he recognised the device upon the scarlet
mantle, lined with cloth of gold - the golden crosslets of de Beauchamp. So
this lad must be the young Earl of Warwick, Mortimer's ward. He would be a year
or more younger than his king and the youngest of a youthful barony. Gone now
was the wild urchin who had ranged the Warwickshire hills in torn cote and
scuffed boots, he was dressed as magnificently, as ostentatiously, as his king.
He carried himself well, wearing a look of haughty disdain to equal that of the
prelates who glided silkily before him. Only when, beneath the peal of silver
trumpets, Lancaster's son murmured something from the corner of his mouth, did
the blue eyes dart sideways, the mask slip and the beginnings of a merry smile
transform the earl into a boy of fifteen, dazzled by the occasion perhaps, but
not much overawed.

 The Chamberlain of France was demanding
the homage from the golden king, asking whether he became Philip of Valois' man
for the Duchy of Guienne and its appurtenances, as his ancestors, Kings of
England and Dukes of Guienne, had done before him. The boy stepped forward
without hesitating, climbed the steps to the throne, bowed, but oh so slightly,
and placed his hands between those of Philip de Valois. ‘Truly,’ he said,
swearing away all claims to this man's throne with a single word. Henceforward,
all designs on the lands of France would be regarded as sacrilege. But afterwards,
when the solemnity of the afternoon was past, it was remembered that he had not
discarded his crown and his spurs, he had not stripped off his sword or kissed
his French cousin full on the lips as was the usual requirement for liege
homage. There would be scribes on both sides to chronicle these omissions and,
with hindsight, they were to stand out as portents of troubled times to come.

~o0o~

If Roger Mortimer was surprised or angered
by Edward's escape from the camisarde at Amiens he did not show it. He was
genial, lavish in his praise for a job well done. He then swept off to Windsor with Queen Isabella, leaving Edward to ride to Eltham where his little bride
awaited him; now, as she would always be, the perfect antidote when cares of
state beset him.

 Thomas Beauchamp rode to Windsor in Mortimer's train, happy to find himself the hero of the hour when news of the
ambush found its way about the court. If Henry of Derby privately felt he had
played some small part in succouring the King he wisely kept silent and allowed
the young earl to bask in glory.

 Roger Mortimer came across him in the
armoury, perched upon an old arrow chest; arms linked about one knee,
embroidering an already overworked story further for the benefit of an adoring
band of small pages dressed in the White Wolf's distinctive yellow livery. Mortimer
roared at them, aimed a kick at the nearest and watched them scatter for their
duties.

 ‘You might,’ said he, ‘have had a more
edifying tale to tell if you'd failed to lower your guard at such an
inopportune moment. Should the whole of Windsor be celebrating your
foolishness, your lack of adherence to basic training?’

 That stung. Beauchamp said, ‘Why the
concern for my person? I have a brother, as Edward has a brother. He does not
lack siblings; loyal advisors are apparently a rarer commodity.’

 ‘If you wish to say something, boy, out
with it! Explain yourself!’

 ‘I have said all I intend, My Lord.’

 ‘By God, you have not! Don't talk in
riddles, make your accusations plain.’

 ‘I think you find them plain enough, My
Lord; you are roused to a choler over them. I wouldn't provoke you further.’

 ‘Wouldn't you? You're cocky since your
return home. And what are you bidding for, position as ladies' lap-dog? Sprawled
upon cushions in the solar, stuffing marzipan whilst the Queen's demoiselles
twitter about you. It’s high time you forgot past glories, my dear, and got
down to some hard work. I've an hour to give you with tourney swords; grab a
helmet and put on a jack. Let's see what improvements we can drag out of you.’

 ‘My Lord, the sun’s too low, the
courtyard will be in shadow,’ Beauchamp yawned affectedly. ‘Besides, I have to
dress for supper.’

 Mortimer picked up a padded jack from a
pile in the corner and flung it at him. ‘Get into that and come out and show me
how you bested the Valois' men, if such they were.’

 Beauchamp was scowling as he fastened the
padded tunic before sorting out a practise helm and buckling on his sword. He
followed his guardian out into the darkening courtyard and grooms ran before
them to light cressets about its perimeter. Up above them, in the state
apartments, the squares of dimly lit windows indicated a court preparing itself
for the ritual of the evening meal. Dark silhouettes flitted before the
lamp-glow, a lady's veil fluttered outward as curiosity brought several heads
to the windows.

 ‘You have your audience, Thomas; play to
them,’ said Roger Mortimer, silken smooth, and the first prickings of disaster
crept up Beauchamp's spine and seized the nape of his neck. They drew out the
blunted tourney swords and faced each other in the summer dusk. Lightly clad
and fleet of foot the boy's agility served to match his opponent's analytically
planned movements, delivered with force and direction and an economy of effort.
But he began to tire first, aware that he would be bested, and his patience
ebbed with his breath, sheer temper beginning to show. The White Wolf had time
to smile at him.

 ‘Enough, My Lord, this sword thrust isn't
healed over. Gaddesdon said I should be mindful of it.’ Beauchamp had a hand to
his side, ready enough to acknowledge defeat. Mortimer pricked at the breast of
his jack with the tip of his sword:

 ‘In the heat of battle will you plead an
old wound and demand an amnesty?’

 ‘No, of course not.’

 ‘Then neither will you do so here. On
guard, Thomas! Higher there, cover your head. I could have driven straight in
…’

 ‘I'm done, My Lord, the bout is yours. I'll
match you when I'm fit, my word on it.’ But Mortimer, driving in, had smashed
his young opponent's blade upward, jarring his arm from wrist to shoulder. The
boy’s right side ached and throbbed mercilessly and still the White Wolf
smiled. Thomas Beauchamp tossed his sword aside, the ring of steel upon the
stone flags setting up a peal of echoes; it was followed by his helmet. He ran
a hand through his dark hair and tossed his head.

 ‘Now you may pick them up again,’ said
Mortimer, reasonably, and clear enough for his voice to reach the rooms above
them where the boy was aware of featureless, gathered heads.

 ‘My Lord, I will not, I have had enough!’
said the boy, and knew he was doomed.

 In her chamber, Isabella Capet, daughter,
sister, wife and mother of kings, sat upon a stool whilst her innumerable
ladies fluttered about her: one to brush out the lustrous dark hair, one to
hold the silver mirror, one to lovingly smooth out her supper gown upon her
coverlet, tweaking away motes of fluff from the glossy ermines. Of her younger
ladies, one, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, sat hunched upon the window seat,
knees drawn up to her pointed chin, a bowl of sugared almonds at her side. Like
Isabella, she had hair of ravens' wing darkness, blue-black and glossy but
there any similarity ended. Isabella's beauty was plump and ripe, undisguisedly
sensual, a Queen but so much more a woman. The girl in the window was slender
as a reed with a narrow-boned face of sculpted loveliness. Fine winged brows
sprang away from sea-green eyes and, with a frame still slim and angular as a
boy's, save for the high, rounded bosom, she was a nymph from the classical
tales, a princess from the Arthurian legends, insubstantial enough to glide
back into the mists of Avalon. She had been watching the protagonists, every
now and then pushing another of her sweetmeats between perfect white teeth.

 ‘What is happening?’ The Queen Dowager
licked a white finger and smoothed it along the arch of one eyebrow. ‘I hear
Milord Mortimer's voice.’

 The dark girl shrugged her slender
shoulders. ‘Milord Roger is baiting the Bear Cub, or can it be the other way
about?’ She laughed, hugging her knees closer. ‘The boy has just suggested a
novel use for milord's tourney sword; picturesque perhaps but anatomically
painful!’

 Isabella waved her mirror aside and
signed for her ladies to lift the heavy silk gown over her head. The
rose-coloured taffeta fell in shimmering folds from her white shoulders and she
smoothed it over her hips with bejewelled fingers.

 Mortimer said, ‘Do you think I will not
use this if you refuse to fight?’ The sword was pricking at the boy's jerkin.

 ‘I know you will not!’ retorted his ward
but he was forced to give ground, to move rapidly backwards across the court as
the blade leapt and arced about him, feinting at his unprotected head, slapping
at his legs until he fetched up, back hard against a stone mounting block.

 ‘Now,’ said Roger Mortimer equably, ‘you
can turn about and I will show you another use for the noble blade you so
despise and you can judge its efficacy.’ They were pinned in the light from a
brace of sconces and the windows, floating squares of light above them, were
crowded with interested onlookers, driven indoors by the night and the
darkness, awaiting the supper hour - bored. ‘You're long overdue for a
trouncing.’ He slapped the blade against Beauchamp's unprotected thigh.

 ‘Not here,’ said the boy dully, mouth dry.
In the two years since they had ridden away from Warwick there had been many
reckonings, deserved and undeserved, but none as public as this one, turned and
sent flying across the block with one hefty blow.

 ‘Ye gods!’ said the girl in the window,
‘Milord is magnificent when roused to anger. What power in that driving
forearm!’

 The Queen was aware of the loaded sarcasm
in the clear young voice. She sighed: ‘The Beauchamp brat is a sore trial to
Lord Roger. It is a game they play between them -
How far dare I
go
versus
How far can I let him taunt me
. Thomas is fifteen, Thomas invariably
loses. But Roger is set upon rearing him for his daughter, for his pretty Kate,
though I doubt the boy will get her before he's twenty one. In the meantime,
there are lessons to be learned, as all boys must learn.’

 ‘And what will a public thrashing teach
him, My Lady, due humility? And shall we require humility of our Earls of
Warwick? Oh, that is vicious! I wouldn't care to have my young brothers striped
so!’

 Mortimer had sheathed his sword; he
grabbed the boy by his belt and yanked him upright, straightening his tunic as
if he were one of his own ten-year-old pages.

 ‘Are you mastered, Thomas? I hope so. Dammit,
boy, you drove me to that, what did you expect? Now, you can gather together
the tattered rags of your dignity, retrieve your sword and change for supper. Off
with you!’ For once, Beauchamp did not trust himself to reply; he did as he was
told.

~o0o~

Supper took on the aspect of a nightmare. The
great hall was a gauntlet to be run of sarcastic comments from the household
knights, sympathetic grins from pages half his age and the smothered laughter
of Isabella's damsels. Worse was to follow as the company lined up at the
trestle tables waiting for the party on the dais to seat itself. One of
Isabella's bumptious little pages appeared at Beauchamp's elbow carrying a blue
silk cushion, fringed with silver tassels. He gave a jerky bow: