The Lords of Arden (2 page)

 ‘Traitor!’ the voice was a child's,
hardly through breaking. Thomas spat, flecks of blood from his torn mouth
spattering Peter's boots. Then he let Durvassal lead him towards the hall.

 Mortimer gave Montfort his hand. ‘You are
welcome to dine with us, and my hearty thanks for returning the truant.’

 Peter felt the pressure of the heavy
signet against his palm. ‘He’s only a child.’

 Mortimer shrugged. ‘Then he'll bend to my
ways or I'll break him. I'm in no hurry, he'll end by eating out of my hand, as
douce as a cage-bird.’ He turned on his heels and left Montfort to mount up
again and ride home to Beaudesert, out of temper. Peter quarrelled with his sister,
and Lady Butler packed her innumerable bags and rode home to Sudeley before the
afternoon was out.

 Thomas sat on the edge of a trestle in
the kitchen whilst his old nurse made him a wych-hazel pad to press against his
swollen mouth, and even the meanest scullion felt he could come forward with a
cure for a nose-bleed. The boy was arguing hotly with John Durvassal, cooks and
pot-boys milling about them.

 ‘He never said a word in my defence,
never even remonstrated when that devil struck me. What would that have cost? He
was my father's friend. I thought he was my friend. I gave him my trust. I was
a fool. Why, John?’

 John dodged round a laundress who was
flourishing a large key. ‘Let me slip, this down your back, My Lord, it always
works.’ She was young and pretty with a brimming bosom. She had her dreams of a
better life. In a year or two the boy would be casting about for feminine
company and she would be on hand. Durvassal waved her away.

 ‘There was nothing he could have done,
the wardship is signed and sealed and witnessed and perhaps this will teach you
to hold your tongue, My Lord. Now you'd best go to your room as you were bidden
or there'll be another outburst.’

 Thomas shrugged, but jumped down from his
perch and sauntered off, head high. Once in his room above the old hall, he
jammed the pin in the door latch and sat down upon the tattered splendour of
Black Guy's old campaigning bed, his head crowded with thoughts of Peter de
Montfort's treachery and his own isolation. ‘One day there'll be a reckoning. You
will suffer for these bruises, My Lord, I swear it. On oath I swear it!’

~o0o~

It must have been after midnight as the
bell for Matins had tolled out from the Church of the Friars Preachers. It was
a dark night, for the clouds had bunched up again and, above the river, mist
wraiths swathed the castle in bands of fine gauze and the gatehouse towers
seemed to swim through space, disembodied, anchorless.

 Thomas Beauchamp was barefoot, clad only
in shirt and hose. Silent as the stable cat he managed to unwind the rope from
its cleat and watched the Mortimer standard slide from its masthead into a
sagging heap at his feet. He stood for a moment, staring down at it, then, from
his belt, he unsheathed a long misericord; its wicked blade flashed as the boy
bent to set it at the bright silk. The watcher in the shadows dislodged himself
and moved forward:

 ‘I thought if I waited long enough you
would not disappoint me.’ Roger Mortimer had his bed-robe over his hose; blue
and silver brocade, trimmed with sables. His soft leather riding boots had made
no sound on the stones. He looked up at the flag-staff and down at the
crouching figure. ‘I think you've made your point, now I should advise retreat.
Put that knife away and no more will be said. But if you deface the standard of
my house, if you persist in playing the spoilt, petulant child then you will
suffer for it. You're not too old to go straight across my knee, so give it
thought.’

 Beauchamp's blue eyes held a challenge,
both defiant and uncertain.
You wouldn't dare! Would
you?
His
gaze was as eloquent as words, but he was in too deep for his pride to let him
draw back and he nicked the silk with the point of his dagger, set strong white
teeth to the hem and tore the cloth apart, straight and sure through its
centre. Then Mortimer had the knife out of his hand and slithering away across
the leads out of harm's way. He hauled the boy to his feet; one hand in an iron
grip about his left wrist, a hold there was no breaking. For all his size and
superior strength, Mortimer lacked the boy's faunlike agility as he hopped from
one bare foot to the other, using them both to kick at his captor's unprotected
shins. Beauchamp’s right hand was still free and he found the tiny knife he
always carried next to his skin, hidden below the folds of his shirt. As
Mortimer flung him over by the imprisoned wrist he made good use of the blade,
searing the man's thigh, slitting the fine hose as if it had been tissue;
furrowing through the skin beneath. Mortimer roared out a colourful oath but
did not release his punishing grip on the slim wrist, fighting for possession
of the lethal little knife until there was blood on both their hands and, grappling
the boy from behind, he smashed Beauchamp's knuckles hard against the stone
coping of the parapet so that, involuntarily, the fingers relaxed their jealous
grip and the knife clattered to the ground where Mortimer kicked it swiftly
into a gutter. The boy was still fighting hard to free himself, his feet
slithering on the damp stonework, his breath sobbing, but he could never have
supposed himself a match for this man and he was patently tiring.

 Mortimer was aware of the dark stain, wet
against his thigh; it was not a deep gash but its soreness irked him.

 ‘Enough of this charade, let's make an
end.’ With one swift movement he had the captured wrist twisted up behind the
boy's back so that he gasped out loud and then he was running him for the
stairs which wound down from the leads to the guardroom where four members of
the garrison sat about a glowing brazier, sharing a plate of pork scratchings.

 ‘Out!’ bellowed Mortimer and they
scattered for the lower stairs. Beauchamp, freed at last, rubbed at his bruised
wrist and glanced about him, defiance spent, afraid for the first time. The
Earl carried a stout riding switch, tucked into the leg of his right boot. Thomas
took his eyes away from it as if his gaze might bring remembrance to its owner.
Beside the brazier lay a tangled heap of tackle; straps with buckle ends and a
wickedly studded belt. He swallowed hard. Since his mother had ended her
widowed state and left with his small brothers for a third marriage to William
de la Zouche, no-one remained who would have dared lift a finger to Black Guy's
offspring. He had run wild as a gypsy, though many heads had shaken over his
exploits and many an eyebrow was raised. The qualms of old retainers and
household knights did not apparently trouble the White Wolf. Here was a man who
had taken a Queen in adultery, who had executed a King's favourite and
proffered the pen with which the same King had signed his own abdication,
handing England over to the man who held his young son, a boy little older than
Thomas Beauchamp. He did not use the switch or cast a glance at the piled
harness by the brazier, he used the flat of one powerful hand with considerable
enthusiasm before hauling his ward upright and standing him squarely in front
of him.

 The boy's face, flushed scarlet with the
indignity, flamed hotter than his smarting rear. He had been served like a
six-year-old with tantrums and he knew it.

 ‘Don't,’ said Mortimer, ‘dare to cry now.
You didn't cry this morning and that must've hurt.’ He put a finger to the
bruised mouth. You can thank your stars that we leave here in a few hours and I
need you fit to ride.’

 ‘Ride? Ride where?’ Beauchamp had
flinched back from his touch.

 ‘London; Westminster where a King awaits
us. I've no intention of letting you out of my sight. You might find it a
compliment but I don't trust you one inch.’

 ‘I will not go!’ said Beauchamp, jerking
his head up.

 Mortimer smiled. ‘Right on cue. How
predictable you are, my child. But I have a solution which should leave both of
us with honour intact. You ride beside me, feet lashed to the stirrups and a
leading rein attached to my saddle bow. That way you can make your protest
known quite openly through each village and town we navigate. Alternatively, of
course, you might like to ride at my side in your best jupon and mantle, with
that arrogant Beauchamp nose stuck in the air and that haughty, if bruised,
Beauchamp chin jutting out.’

 ‘You mock me, My Lord. Have you forgotten
that I'm hand-fasted to your daughter, to Katherine?’

 ‘Why should I forget it? It alters
nothing.’

 Beauchamp was drawing invisible patterns
on the stone flags with a bare toe. ‘Men say she is a spoilt moppet, but they
also say that of seven daughters she is the apple of her father's eye.’

 ‘A man should not have favourites,’ said
Mortimer.

 ‘No, My Lord? Then consider. When
Katherine comes to me, however many years lie between, I shall remember and I
shall know how to use her. And for every humiliation and hurt I have of you I
swear I shall visit my vengeance upon her a hundred fold!’ They were the words
of a passionate child, nearing the end of his tether but Mortimer said:

 ‘By Christ, you mean it, don't you, you
vicious little brat, you'd store up your hates. Do you think I cannot protect
my own? Listen to me, Thomas, and look me in the eyes, you wretch; you don't
usually find it a problem. Your father and I nursed a fine enmity for each
other for reasons which will have to await another night's telling. When he
died, perhaps I even grieved for a worthy enemy's loss, though I can't expect
you to understand that at your age, but I do not visit vengeance upon any man's
children. If you suffer it will be for your own sins, your own crass stupidity.
Does that seem in any way fair and reasonable?’

 Thomas said, spitting fire, ‘I don't want
you to be fair and reasonable, it makes it so much harder...’ his voice trailed
off.

 ‘My poor child, I'm proving a sad
disappointment. No lightless dungeons, no bread and water diet, no merciless
floggings - though those I will provide if you flaunt my authority again. I'm
tired of you, boy, get to bed and nurse your hurts. At once, Thomas!’

 Roger Mortimer, when all was said and
done, had four sons of his own, not to mention the seven little girls. He
finished putting into action his plans for the ride south and slipped out of
the draughty hall and up to the bedchambers above, pushing open the massive,
studded door of Black Guy's chamber. It took him a while to accustom himself to
the blackness; the starlight hardly penetrated the broken shutters. The late
Earl's bed was in complete darkness, its bulk taking up half the room. In one
corner, menacing the shadows, stood Guy de Beauchamp's war armour, draped about
a wooden stand; chain mail shirt, gauntlets and greaves, scarlet tabard rounded
with his sword-belt, his shield, the sightless visor of his great war helm. Sentinel,
he stood as ghostly warden over the son who could hardly have remembered him. A
gust of wind rattled the shutters; the dust eddies pattered across the floor, a
mouse scuttled under the bed. Even in sunlight, this room was depressing beyond
belief, its tapestries faded and threadbare, its bed-hangings havens for the
moth and the spider; a shrine to a man long dead, no place for his wild young
offspring.

 Mortimer approached the bed; he could
feel the cold striking up through the floor. He sat down on the edge of the
mattress and, a hand on the covers, could recognise the thin worn blanket which
covered the heir to one of England's richest earldoms. He let a hand flutter
over the dark head, smoothing the tangled hair away from the boy's damp face:

 ‘I'm sorry, Thomas, we've a long, hard
road together, you and I. Save all that useless passion to fuel your hatred, do
you hear me?’ But Beauchamp had turned his face into the shelter of his bare
arms. Mortimer ruffled the dark hair in a gesture of comfort and let his hand
slide down to rest for a moment on the nape of the boy’s neck. Before leaving
he took off his own fur-lined robe and spread it over the slight, hunched
figure. When the latch dropped behind him, the Black Dog's son flung the
peace-offering onto the floor and, shivering, naked under his own thin blanket,
cried all the harder.

To those not bent on enquiring too
closely, they were a couple of lads out for an evening's pleasures, bent on
fun, on mischief perhaps, wandering the narrow streets of Amiens, exclaiming at
everything. Amiens was a town en fete, set to welcome the visitors from England, the fine lords accompanying the boy king who came to do his homage to Philip of
France as was only right and proper.

 The shops and booths were shutting down
as dusk approached but there was still the flotsam and jetsam which clung to
every gathering, were it market or fair, tournament or coronation: the
jugglers, the funambulist, the bear-leader, the man with the singing dogs, the
talking parrot and the chattering ape on a golden chain. There was the seller
of hot meat pies and the woman with a basketful of ginger cakes, the singer of
songs and the gypsy dancing troupe and, as always, the girls with the unbound
hair, the necklines which revealed too much and the lifted skirts that promised
so much more.

 Every corner brought forth something new
to watch, some sight to provoke laughter or to cause them to clutch each other
by the arm. It was a clear June evening and the sun went down leaving
opalescent skies and a single star at the zenith. The two boys wore light
cloaks of dun coloured frieze, which covered plain tunics and dark hose, the
older and taller was hooded. Once, ducking inside a striped pavilion where a
fortune-teller from the Indies promised him long life, good health and great
happiness, the hood fell back revealing his English fairness amongst these
darker French; shining gilt hair somewhere between copper and blond,
Plantagenet red-gold. He pulled the hood about him again and his bright eyes,
blue as lapis, caught those of his companion. The other boy was perhaps a year
younger, shorter, slighter yet, with a head of dark hair and dark brows which
shadowed eyes equally blue, clear as flax flowers.

 After the fortune-teller's booth, with
its predictably glowing futures for both of them, Thomas Beauchamp untied the
dancing bear, sad and mangy at it's staff, declaring that it was too noble a
beast to pirouette before the Gallic peasantry. The bear, after all, was one of
the badges of his house and he felt strongly about it. It lumbered off
inquisitively towards a troop of mummers, setting up stage to re-enact the tale
of Amadis de Gaul. The bear-leader gave chase.

 Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and
Edward, Third of that name since the Conquest, sat down outside a thronging
tavern, drinking ale like a couple of apprentices on holiday, and wondered what
to do next.

 ‘Do you think you'd like a woman?’
suggested Edward. He had recently married a distant cousin and childhood
playmate and, far from feeling displeased with the novelty of matrimony, was
experimenting with monogamy. Unselfishly, he conceded that that shouldn't stop
his young friend from enjoying the delights of the flesh. Thomas was fifteen
and looking for a way out. He tilted his ale pot and bought a few seconds
thinking time.

 ‘What, leave you on your own amongst this
riff-raff? We ought to be starting back; if we're missed there'll be hell to
pay. Oh, but it's good to be off the leash!’

 Edward shrugged his shoulders and snapped
his fingers for more ale. ‘I shall be better pleased when tomorrow's ceremony
is over.’

 Beauchamp looked at him sharply. ‘Bending
the knee to a Valois? I never understood why you agreed to come here at all.’

 Edward's smile twisted. ‘Mortimer can be persuasive;
you of all people know that.’

 ‘But to give in without a fight!’

 ‘Statecraft, Tom. Ever heard of it?’

 Beauchamp snorted. ‘Another word for
being too idle to stand up for yourself - My Liege,’ he added, getting to his
feet and making an elaborate bow.

 ‘Do you want to go somewhere and settle
it?’ There was a sudden gleam in Edward's blue eyes.

 ‘God, no,’ Beauchamp yawned. ‘You were
about to start a lesson in statecraft. I'm all ears.’

 Edward shrugged, ‘I would have had to
give in, there was no way round it. Homage had to be done, so I drove a
bargain, a hard bargain with friend Mortimer. I would go quietly, acquit myself
like the king he has no intention of ever letting me become, present myself as
an ornament to England, soothe raddled French nerves, and he would give me what
I wanted. I thought he wouldn't give in, believe me, he'd call my bluff and I'd
be shipped off to France willy-nilly and prodded up the aisle. Tomorrow they
will both have reason to be proud, he and my mother.’

 ‘Have a care,’ said Beauchamp, ‘don't
play the part too well. Might I get to hear what you demanded of him?’

 ‘Oh, you'll hear soon enough if he
doesn't renege, but I have it all set down. You wouldn't be able to read it if
I flashed the deed in front of your nose!’

 The other boy looked indignant. ‘That
joke is old and stale, My Liege. Under Richard Bury's tutelage I read and write
a tolerable hand. I had to learn quickly. Mortimer set me at those innumerable
letters to the Pope requesting a dispensation for my marriage to Katherine. I'm
in no hurry for it; one of that clan breathing down my neck is one too many. You'd
think parchment cost nothing these days. Every blot and we'd start all over
again and he'd use the haft of his dagger across my knuckles!’

 ‘But your writing's improved?’

 ‘Whose side are you on, Ned? You've only
got to cry laissez majeste and he leaves you alone! I never understood why he
could not have abandoned me in my happy state of squalor, lost without trace in
the midland mire. But he schools me hard, harder than his own sons, and for
what? Doesn’t he fear I’ll turn my sword against him when I come into my own?’

 Edward smiled. ‘Don't you remember what
you were like when you arrived at Westminster? At least you dress like a member
of the ruling class and you can ride…’

 ‘Oh, yes, I can ride, and that rankles
too! Out in all weathers, always that mile further until I had to be lifted out
of the saddle. Yes, I can ride.’

 ‘And you're a better man at the tilt than
I, to my shame.’

 ‘But I'd have done as well for my own
satisfaction, without the goad.’

 ‘Are you sure? You can be pretty bloody
about things when you've set your mind against them. Don't glower, Black
Thomas. Come on; let's see if we can remember the way back to our lodgings. That
way d'you think?’

 ‘No, that, very definitely.’ Arguing,
they set off together into the benighted alleys of Amiens, the little ruelles
where the upper stories of house and tavern closed in above them.

 ‘Bloody hell, we are lost!’ said the King
of England.

 ‘Well, just keep moving, we're being
followed.’

 ‘Are you sure?’

 ‘Certain, don't look round.’

 ‘How many?’

 ‘Six, I should say. What are you doing?’

 ‘I'm going to challenge. I'm an
Englishman, I don't run.’

 ‘You're also a king but they won't know
that; you can't risk dying like a dog in a ditch!’

 ‘I stay. I can’t compel you to do the
same.’

 ‘Damn you, Ned!’

 They both turned, cloaks flung back,
swords out, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow street. The windows above them
were lightless, sightless eyes; the doors on either side would be bolted and
barred for it was past curfew. There were seven, well-armed, steel drawn,
anonymous.

 ‘Put up your swords!’ Beauchamp's mouth
was dry. ‘We're with the English Embassy; we have safe conduct throughout this
city.’

 Someone laughed and they caught the words
'Roi de Angleterre' tossed about between them. Then there was no more time for
exchange of words and the clash of steel, magnified and thrown back from the
high walls, cut out all other sound. The two boys held their antagonists at bay
for a surprising length of time, mainly because the street was so narrow, but
these were men, fully grown and better armed.

 ‘I can hold them - give you time…’ gasped
Beauchamp without a glance at his companion.

 ‘No, you fool!’

 ‘They're not interested in me. Run, Ned!’

 ‘You waste your breath, I'll not leave
you. God, we're done, they're bringing up reinforcements from the rear!’

 Beauchamp half-turned, an involuntary
reflex, at his words, and felt the blade he had parried so neatly up till that
moment slicing through his tunic to take him in the side. He caught his breath
and, swinging aside, came in under the blade, using his own sword, two-handed. But
now there were voices, shouting, bellowing into the night:

 ‘Lancaster, Lancaster for Harry of Derby!’ And armed figures were strong at their backs; Edward's cousin leading. Even in the
darkness the arms of England gleamed dull scarlet and bright gold, and,
brighter than all, the shining silver cap of his fair hair. ‘Stand aside, boys,
this is men's work, let's make an end here!’ Derby was St. George, St. Michael
and All Hallows fused into one splendid personage. Their attackers turned and
fled into the darkness, leaving a dead man who would tell no tales. Harry of
Derby's men hunted them through the night but they had melted into the silent
city. Lancaster's son turned to face his royal cousin:

 ‘You bloody idiot, Ned, what do you mean
by this charade?’

 ‘My Lord, the idea was mine.’ Beauchamp
had a hand pressed to his side.

 ‘Ah, the Warwick bear-cub! He has a
tongue in his head, a will of his own, don't you, Ned?’

 ‘Harry, I'm equally at fault but Tom's
hurt.’

 ‘Are you?’ Derby snapped his fingers and
someone hurried forward with a torch.

 ‘I'll be all right,’ said Beauchamp,
looking white-faced and sick. ‘If your men hadn't yelled I shouldn't have been
taken off my guard!’

 The young man grinned. ‘You're a sullen,
ungrateful brat, Tom Beauchamp, and any more bright ideas will see you on the
next boat home and your sure come-uppance. You are hurt! Even you wouldn’t pump
blood for amusement's sake.’ Henry had a strong arm about the shoulders of both
boys, steering them out of the ruelle and towards the royal lodgings, backed by
his grim-faced retinue.

 The house was soon ablaze with light and Derby took control, ordering his cousin to bed, rousing the royal physician from his
slumbers to minister to the young Earl of Warwick. Then he set a double guard
on the King's chamber before retiring to his own and pouring himself a generous
cup of muscadel. His long handsome length, clothed in a bed gown of violet
brocade, edged with miniver, he was relaxing at last when a frantic knocking at
the door brought him to his feet. Thomas Beauchamp stood in the shadows,
swathed in his cloak.

 ‘Don't you ever do as you're bid, bear
cub? I thought you were in bed nursing your battle-scars.’

 ‘My lord, I have to speak with you.’ He
was pale, the young face earnest. Derby closed the door.

 ‘You'd better sit down. What did
Gaddesdon have to say about you?’ Gaddesdon was the King's own apothecary,
implicitly trusted.

 Beauchamp shrugged his shoulders. ‘I'll
mend; it’s just a flesh wound. All those months of practice sword-play and it
never quite prepares a man for the real thing. I'm sorry, I'd no idea he was in
such danger. I never thought …’

 ‘Boys rarely do. I imagine Philip felt a
bird in the hand tonight might compensate for a botched, resentful ceremonial
tomorrow. Our French friends do not trust us, it seems.’

 ‘Harry, it wasn't the Valois!’

 ‘Why do you say that?’ Derby sat beside
him on his bed and poured another cup of wine.

 Beauchamp was staring at his feet. ‘I saw
a face I knew, an English face.’

 ‘There are traitors in every camp.’

 ‘I don't want humouring, Harry. He was
Mortimer's man; he was at Windsor three weeks ago.’

 ‘A flight of fancy, Tom.’

 ‘Damn you, I'm certain! Which eliminates
abduction and points the finger at murder? But what has he to gain by it?’

 Henry got to his feet, pacing the floor. ‘Ned
is no longer the biddable schoolboy to be cozened into any enterprise; he
itches to take the reins into his own hands. Edward disposed of leaves a
younger, more tractable brother. Prince John's minority will give Mortimer a
few years of respite.’

 ‘Then we must act?’ The boy was prodding
his bandaged rib-cage experimentally.

 ‘When the time is ripe, not yet. And
better that Edward knows nothing of what you have just told me. He has enough
burdens to bear under that man's yoke and he is far too open to act naturally
when he returns to England. I want your oath on your silence before you leave
this room.’

 ‘You have it, of course.’

 ‘Good lad. Now, off to bed with you,
we've all got a part to play tomorrow. And Tom?’ Beauchamp half turned to face
him. ‘Bless you for your sharp eyes and quick wits. Never fret, we'll hold him
safe for England.’ He closed the door, set the pin in the latch and lay for a
long time, hands linked behind his blond head, grey eyes troubled. He heard the
first birds of a soft summer dawn before he finally drifted off to sleep.