The Lords of Arden (4 page)

 ‘My Lord of Warwick, My Lady begs that
you will take this and use if for your greater comfort.’ He bowed again and
fled.

 The boy could have hurled the offering at
the rose-silk queen, standing on the dais at Mortimer's side, laughing at him. The
whole gathering took their cue and roared with her; waves of laughter
undulating about him. Harry of Derby, a hand on his arm said, ‘Bow and smile
and just sit on it. It might help after all!’

 It was an endless evening and Thomas
escaped as soon as he could, standing on the battlements in the welcome night
air, chest tight with anger he could not express, eyes stinging with mortification.
He struck a fist against the nearest merlon, turned and went below. At the turn
of the stair, a young woman blocked his path, a slender creature in a dark gown
sprinkled with silver stars which caught the ambient light from the tiny window
above them. Her skin was milk white in the darkness, a fine veil fluttered
about her dark head.

 ‘My Lord Warwick.’ She made a graceful
reverence.

 ‘My Lady.’ He did not recognise her but
then, Queen Isabella had sixty demoiselles on call so it was hardly surprising.
This girl was as tall as he, perhaps she was only a year or two older but he
knew by the gleam of gold on her left hand that she was a married woman,
intimate with the mysteries whispered about in the pages' dormitory, practised
by squires in dim stable lofts, and that the gulf put her beauty as far beyond
him as the summer stars. He would have stood aside for her to pass but she
said:

 ‘In Amiens they say you stood by the
King, that perhaps you saved his life; that was a brave act.’

 He shook his head, embarrassed that she
should speak to him. ‘I was there, that was all. It was nothing, pure
instinct.’ With this girl it would have been impossible to spin the tale he had
embellished for the small boys in the armoury.

 ‘And do you always follow your instincts,
Thomas of Warwick?’ She had taken his wrists between her slim fingers and her
left hand slid up his arm until she found the nape of his neck and the dark
thatch of his hair. He was a nice-looking boy, he would be a handsome man when
he reached his full height and began to flesh out the light bones. Don't you
want to kiss me, My Lord?’ The other hand, about his waist, strayed to caress
his bruised rump, massaging the sore places with an insistency which sent fire
through his body and he grabbed her, two-handed, his lips finding her mouth at
last, his body hard against hers, his arousal in little doubt.

 She put him away from her, her palms flat
against the breast of his cote. ‘My Lord, you grow too ardent, I must go.’

 ‘Please, not yet. Tell me your name.’

 ‘It doesn't matter and there's someone
above.’ She took his face between her hands and kissed him gently. ‘Sweet
dreams, My Lord.’ And she slipped from his side to descend the spiral again as
Harry of Derby almost cannoned into them. He raised an eyebrow comically at
Beauchamp's flushed face:

 ‘You're a dark horse, young Tom; starlit
trysts at your age!’

 ‘Harry, follow her, you know everyone, I
must have her name.’

Derby
had every intention of tracking the girl down but not to discover her name;
he already knew it. He had seen enough to recognise her; his intentions were
other. He patted Beauchamp on the shoulder in elder-brotherly fashion and sped
down the spiral and across the court after the gliding dark shadow.

 She stopped short at his step and turned
to face him. ‘Such haste, Lord Harry?’

 ‘What game are you playing, My Lady; he's
a child. You have a husband still young and fiery enough to satisfy most women,
and one who would not appreciate night time gallivantings with schoolboys.’

 She smiled at him. ‘Your concern is
natural and laudable. Put your mind at rest, we shall be gone by tomorrow; my
stint as Isabella's handmaiden ended tonight. I shall be happy to ride north,
to get the stench of the town out of my nostrils and the wind through my hair;
your little protégé is quite safe from my evil machinations.’

 ‘Then was that fair, to tantalise and
tease. If you were my wife, lady…’ he began severely.

 ‘If I were that, Harry, we should have
better things to do than stand at loggerheads on such a summer night. It was
not meant cruelly, merely to restore a battered amour-propre; you saw this
afternoon?’

 ‘Thomas asks for all he gets, he's an intractable
little devil, but Edward has struck up a friendship with him and Edward will
need friends. Very well, I will concede it kindly meant though you have fuelled
a fire with your witchery. Do you happen to have a penchant for schoolboys or
might you perform a similar service for the House of Lancaster?’ His long
fingers were firm upon her shoulders; his silver fair hair brushed her cheek. She
ducked away from his kiss, laughing, and fled into the state apartments. Derby took himself to bed, mildly rattled. He could not sleep.

The barge which glided smoothly into
Westminster Stairs was hung about with the White Wolf's arms and clustered with
men in his familiar canary yellow livery. Edward and Philippa were at Westminster and the entire court was moving house to join them.

 Thomas Beauchamp, leaving Windsor, warmly clad against the winter wind, a thick frieze cloak over a fine blue woollen
tunic, had been ordered back to change.

 ‘The robes you wore for Amiens, your best
finery!’ roared his guardian as the boy stalked away from the landing stage. ‘There
is to be a state banquet tonight; try not to disgrace us!’

 Beauchamp had re-appeared in scarlet and
gold, a circlet on his dark head studded with balas rubies. ‘My Lord, this is
too fine. Should I eclipse your lordship?’ he enquired in sugared tones.

 ‘Get in; we've delayed long enough
waiting for you. The men will not be best pleased to pull against the tide.’ Mortimer
tossed him a leather purse and the boy weighed it from palm to palm.

 ‘My Lord?’

 ‘Largesse, Thomas. Let the people get to
know you.’

 ‘I'd rather they remembered my deeds than
my ability to shy silver pennies. What's the function tonight?’

 ‘You ask too many questions, Thomas. Cast
off aft there!’ Mortimer took his own seat in the stern, pulling an ermine
mantle close about him against the December chill. The banks of the Thames were mist blurred, the sedge stiff as a forest of spears, white with hoar frost. When
they drew into the near bank Thomas tossed his pennies to pretty girls and
apprentice lads of his own age. All along the river-board they encountered
pinched winter faces. Mortimer's insignia brought forth few cheers.

 Westminster Palace was thronged with the
nobility, their ladies, their squires, their hangers-on, all gathered together
in the great hall when Mortimer's entourage embarked at the water-stairs. Beauchamp
fell in step beside his guardian; their spurs rang as they crossed the cobbles
of the court. They were fully accoutred in spite of the fact that their mounts
were following later with the rest of the baggage. A youth in the Royal livery
hurried out, flinging himself in Mortimer's path, bowing low.

 ‘My Lord Earl, the King is ready and
waiting. All is - as it should be.’

 Mortimer nodded and strode into the
palace, making for the great hall. He glanced down at his ward, but not so far
as he was used; Thomas had turned sixteen and had shot up rapidly of late. ‘Wait
until you are announced then go forward. But first, remove your spurs and your
sword and circlet. You go forward into the royal presence bare-headed.’

 ‘Forward, My Lord?’

 ‘To be presented to the King! Don't start
to argue with me now, get in there!’ He waited until the heavy doors were open
and nudged the boy forward.

 Edward Plantagenet sat upon his throne in
the regal robes he too had worn for the homage at Amiens, the royal crimson and
gold. The heavy gilt hair was bright in the torchlight; tiny points of fire
flamed from the chains about his neck, the rings upon his fingers. His court
was ranged on either side of the hall: grey-bearded lords in long brocaded
robes, young men in alarmingly short jupons of crushed velvet or shot silk,
ladies like coloured butterflies, gold and silver nets, sequin-spattered,
flickering like fireflies in the shadows.

 Between King and subject lord stretched
the length of the gabled hall, carpeted in sweet flags. Beauchamp hovered on
the threshold, his mind in turmoil. Edward's Chamberlain rapped his staff upon
the floor and voices were stilled to a fading murmur like a faraway sea.

 ‘Thomas de Beauchamp, step forward!’
rasped the voice and there was no way out but to obey. Was this some plot of
Mortimer's hatching, some new humiliation? Afterwards, he could never remember
the walk to the throne beyond the feeling of nakedness without sword hilt or
dagger left to finger for comfort on the way. But others could have told him
that he walked proudly, neither laggard nor with the hurried strides of a man
anxious to be over some unpleasantness. His own scarlet surcote and mantle
contrasted with the royal crimson, the gold crosslets caught the torchlight. He
halted before the throne and the blue eyes which met Edward's solemn gaze were
guarded, veiled quickly by the long dark lashes.

 ‘Tom, you must kneel!’ hissed the king
from the corner of the royal mouth and Beauchamp swept back his cloak with a
theatrical flourish and knelt upon the lowest step, arms loose at his sides
though his fingers were clenched tightly into his palms.

 The Chamberlain was speaking again,
carried away by the pomposity of his own deliverance. ‘Thomas Beauchamp, do you
swear homage to the most puissant Lord Edward, King of England, for the Honour
of Warwick and its appurtenances as your father, Guy, Tenth Earl, did, and his
ancestors before him? Do you give your allegiance to the King for life and limb
and earthly worship?’

 Edward held out his hands, palms facing
one to the other and, placing his own hands together, it was easy for Thomas to
slip them between and to feel Edward's firm, friendly clasp.

 ‘I swear!’ His voice was clear enough to
reach the darkest, smokiest recesses of the hall, as if to deny any who might
later question the day's events. Then he raised his dark head and kissed Edward
full upon the lips in the age-old kiss of fealty. At sixteen years old he had
suddenly become his own master and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
As the King raised him, a hand on each shoulder, he could not decide whether he
wanted to laugh or cry.

 ‘That's over,’ said Edward,
matter-of-factly, ‘and I've something to show you. You're sixteen and we never
celebrated your name day, but I'm about to remedy the omission.’ He stepped
down from the throne, one arm flung easily across Beauchamp's shoulders as if
to acknowledge that the act of liege-homage had been no empty ceremony, that
his friendship for this young man was real enough. They turned to face the
assembled company.

 ‘My lords, Thomas de Beauchamp, Eleventh
Earl of Warwick. Will you welcome him to your ranks?’ The silence was broken,
they clapped enthusiastically and many cheered as the two boys walked the
length of the hall. The doors at the far end were flung open before them and
they passed out, finally, into the last of the light and the chill December
night.

 ‘My Liege,’ began the new earl - the cold
wind brought him back to earth, his feet no longer felt as if he trod upon
shifting sands.

 ‘Not a word! Now, close your eyes.’

 ‘Ned, what is this!’

 ‘Cover them properly! Now, are you
ready?’

 ‘Yes, yes of course.’

The King clapped his hands and there was
no mistaking the clop of shod hooves in the cobbled yard. An ostler emerged
from the darkness of the stable-block, leading a black stallion, young and
mettlesome, who seemed to dance towards them through the river mist.

 ‘Now you can uncover!’ Edward watched his
friend's face, his own radiant with the pleasure of giving. ‘I chose him
carefully; he’s an Arab. I thought he would suit your temperament.’

 Beauchamp swallowed, ‘Ned, I've never
seen finer even in your own stables. I'm speechless.’

 ‘You must think of a name,’ said Edward
practically.

 Beauchamp put out a hand and cupped the
velvety muzzle, letting his other hand run over the arched neck. ‘From Araby,
you said? Then he shall be named for the bravest and wisest of the race; he
shall be Saladin, Black Saladin. Ned, you've given me so much today but how did
you do it! How in this world? To have persuaded Mortimer to give up the
wardship when he could have held on to it for another five years; and besides,
to give a man seisin of his lands at sixteen - it's unheard of!’

 ‘Call it a royal whim; I like to be
different. It's a simple tale. I struck a bargain with friend Mortimer, your
freedom for…’ He shrugged his shoulders.

 ‘For the French Homage,’ finished Beauchamp.
‘My freedom paid for with English humiliation. Why, Ned?’

 Edward was examining his own gift. Prowling
about the horse he faced him across the curve of its back. ‘We've been friends
for three years now but I know how you've fretted over this wardship. I wanted
to see you fly, to get a taste of freedom myself at second hand.’ But Beauchamp
had turned away to fondle Saladin's black neck, one hand clenched in the dark
mane, his face hidden. ‘Hell, you're supposed to be pleased!’ said the King of
England, moving round to his side.

 ‘You fool, I am! You've given me
everything I want in this world and I am not free Edward Plantagenet, nor ever
can be now. I gladly exchange the White Wolf's bondage for a greater
allegiance. Ned, I am your man from this day until the ending of my life, in
whatever you command. Wherever you send me I will go - to the ends of the earth
and back without question or hesitation, should you require it of me.’

 ‘Lord, man, don't be too humble, I'm not
used to it from you, and don't kneel, not here whilst we're alone.’ He took his
friend by the shoulders and raised him. The curling dark lashes were damp with
unshed tears and Beauchamp had to dash a velvet sleeve across his eyes,
grinning ruefully.

 ‘Hear me, Tom. I want you to ride for Warwick, set your house in order, whatever must be done…’

 ‘Yes, of course, then I'll be back, I'll
be at your side, I'll…’

 ‘Listen, hothead, that isn't what I want,
not yet. You'll ride for Warwick and there you'll remain until I send for you,
I alone.’

 ‘But - yes, if you wish, though you've
something up your sleeve. You're hatching some plot or other.’

 ‘Hush, not a word. If the enterprise
fails, heads will roll and I'll take as few as I may down with me. If it
succeeds I'll need true steel at my side for future years.’

 ‘But now I could be of service. Ned, I
can have thousands at my back…’

 Edward was laughing. ‘To the ends of the
earth, you said, and I only asked you to go to Warwick!’

 Beauchamp coloured. ‘Whatever you command
will be done,’ he said rather tonelessly.

 Edward had an arm about him. ‘Your time
will come, Tom, but not in this. And Tom, the last three years - you've not
hated it all? We've had some splendid times together?’ His smooth forehead
beneath the gold coronet was furrowed, the clear blue eyes troubled. Then
Beauchamp flung his arms about his king and they clung to one another.

 ‘The best of times, Ned, the very best!’ And
it was Black Saladin who took the awkwardness from the moment by pawing the
ground and finally nudging at Beauchamp's neck and snorting loudly about his
ears, demanding the attention which was his due.

~o0o~

Thomas Beauchamp rode north-westwards in
the days before the Christmas feast, backed by a borrowed retinue culled from
Edward's own household, arrayed in the royal livery. He had mastered Saladin
and said his farewells, the old life was already behind him as he made to ride
out from Westminster.

 At the last moment, Roger Mortimer strode
forward, valiant in green brocade, red-brown hair burnished to bronze in the
winter sunshine. He put out a hand for Saladin's bridle. Thomas seemed to have
grown in stature since he had given his liege-homage. He bore himself well. Again,
he wore the now familiar Beauchamp scarlet and gold, echoed in his horse-cloth
and in all of Black Saladin's trappings.

 ‘A safe journey, My Lord of Warwick, and
all good fortune.’ The ringing words were conventional enough and he let his
free hand rest upon the boy's knee. Beauchamp glanced down at the hand with
hauteur, then lifted his eyes and gave its owner a cold blue stare, eyebrows
raised, before turning his head over one shoulder and addressing his retinue.

 ‘Forward!’ he ordered and, shaking his
reins free from Roger Mortimer's restraining hand, he urged the black stallion towards
the palace gates without word or look; he never saw the White Wolf again.

 It was snowing heavily when Beauchamp
crossed the boundaries of his own Honour. So had it snowed on the day he had
left the shire under Mortimer's stern eye. Castle and church rose above a
jumble of gabled roofs, blurred and softened in outline by the light of late
afternoon; a tapestry townscape etched against a heavy snow sky. St. Mary's
bells were ringing for vespers. The bridge lay before them, with a dark,
sluggish Avon moving slowly beneath its arches to drop in a white welter of
foam over the weir on the other side. The gatehouse rose gaunt and bleak before
them, tiny figures visible upon the ramparts, and already people were appearing
on all sides, curious, hesitant.

 Beauchamp rode out into the centre span
of the fourteen arches and reined in Black Saladin before pricking him
maliciously with his spur rowels. The great stallion rose furiously onto his
hind legs, forefeet pawing the air. The wind seized at the folds of Beauchamp's
mantle so that it streamed behind him like a scarlet sail, revealing the red
cote beneath, the gleam of gold accoutrements, the rubies studding his belt. But
it was above all the dark profile, the Beauchamp nose and jaw, the burning blue
eyes, the dark thatch of hair which left few in doubt as to his identity. He
drew his sword smoothly from the scabbard and thrust it up into the winter air,
circling it about his head, calling on the men dutifully lined up behind him in
double file.