hawking; he began to teach Harry and Thomas their knightly exercises; and he played chess with Mother. Whenever in after years the lordings looked back to that golden time, the sounds that echoed in their ears were the far-off notes of the forlogne; and the picture that rose in their memories was of Father and Mother playing at chess, the sunlight slanting into the chamber, and one of Mother’s little dogs lying curled up in the pool of warmth it cast on the floor.
The lordings made a new friend this autumn, for the Earl of Warwick was sojourning at his great castle nearby, and he used to ride over to Kenilworth, bringing his son with him. Richard Beauchamp was eleven years old, which at first made the lordings stand in awe of him. He had beautiful manners, and he was already expert in arms. Father said he wished his own sons showed such knightly promise; and Mother said that they should take heed how demurely he behaved; but in spite of this unpromising beginning the lordings liked him. He was not tall, but well-made, like Father. He had curly brown hair, a long upper lip, and a delicate nose that turned up slightly at the tip. It was not long before the lordings discovered that he was not as quick-witted as they were: sometimes it would be a full minute before he was able to perceive a jest they had all seen in a flash; and when they asked him what thing was most like a horse, or why men set cocks instead of hens on church steeples, which were quite easy riddles propounded by their domestic fool, he could never guess the answers, but stood with an anxiously knitted brow until one or other of them shrieked the answers at him between gusts of rude laughter. He was a proud boy, quite often unbending, but he never minded being laughed at by Harry and Thomas; and when they fell into hurling he was far too chivalrous really to exert his superior strength against them. His father was almost as old as Bel sire, and, like him, he was engaged in large building plans. He used to prowl about the Great Hall at Kenilworth, shaking his head over the expense of such an erection. He was adding a new tower to his own castle at Warwick, besides building a church there; and if you had not known that he was swimming in riches you would have supposed that the costage was ruining him. The lordings thought him as troublous as Great-uncle York. He pretended that he came to Kenilworth to watch the progress of the building; but what he seemed to want to do was to be private with Father: talking, talking, and always with his lips close to Father’s ear, as though he were afraid of being overheard. The lordings often saw them pacing about the herber together, my lord of Warwick’s hand on Father’s shoulder, and a look in Father’s face that told his sons he was holding his temper on a tight rein.
Father set a guard on his temper, but he was not a patient man, and nothing exasperated him more than folly or clumsiness. He would fold his lips, but sometimes his irritation got the better of him. The lordings quaked when they saw a certain flash in his eye. He was a fond father, but they knew better than to presume on his indulgence. John and Humfrey could take liberties with him, for he dearly loved the babies of his family; but Harry and Thomas frequently fell into disgrace, and smarted for hours because of some piece of recalcitrance. Thomas erred through a love of mischief; but Harry was too much inclined to pit his will against Father’s.
‘That whelp,’ my lord of Derby more than once told his lady, ‘will live to be a thorn in our flesh!’
Then he would catch sight of Harry, running like a hare in a game of Bars, easily outstripping Richard Beauchamp, and he would exclaim, softening: ‘God’s love, the boy runs as fast as a hart!’
He was proud of Harry’s musical talent, too, and of his quickness at his lessons. Harry, leaving Thomas labouring behind him, had mastered his hornbook, and was at work on a Latin primer. Father had no
The lordings made a new friend this autumn, for the Earl of Warwick was sojourning at his great castle nearby, and he used to ride over to Kenilworth, bringing his son with him. Richard Beauchamp was eleven years old, which at first made the lordings stand in awe of him. He had beautiful manners, and he was already expert in arms. Father said he wished his own sons showed such knightly promise; and Mother said that they should take heed how demurely he behaved; but in spite of this unpromising beginning the lordings liked him. He was not tall, but well-made, like Father. He had curly brown hair, a long upper lip, and a delicate nose that turned up slightly at the tip. It was not long before the lordings discovered that he was not as quick-witted as they were: sometimes it would be a full minute before he was able to perceive a jest they had all seen in a flash; and when they asked him what thing was most like a horse, or why men set cocks instead of hens on church steeples, which were quite easy riddles propounded by their domestic fool, he could never guess the answers, but stood with an anxiously knitted brow until one or other of them shrieked the answers at him between gusts of rude laughter. He was a proud boy, quite often unbending, but he never minded being laughed at by Harry and Thomas; and when they fell into hurling he was far too chivalrous really to exert his superior strength against them. His father was almost as old as Bel sire, and, like him, he was engaged in large building plans. He used to prowl about the Great Hall at Kenilworth, shaking his head over the expense of such an erection. He was adding a new tower to his own castle at Warwick, besides building a church there; and if you had not known that he was swimming in riches you would have supposed that the costage was ruining him. The lordings thought him as troublous as Great-uncle York. He pretended that he came to Kenilworth to watch the progress of the building; but what he seemed to want to do was to be private with Father: talking, talking, and always with his lips close to Father’s ear, as though he were afraid of being overheard. The lordings often saw them pacing about the herber together, my lord of Warwick’s hand on Father’s shoulder, and a look in Father’s face that told his sons he was holding his temper on a tight rein.
Father set a guard on his temper, but he was not a patient man, and nothing exasperated him more than folly or clumsiness. He would fold his lips, but sometimes his irritation got the better of him. The lordings quaked when they saw a certain flash in his eye. He was a fond father, but they knew better than to presume on his indulgence. John and Humfrey could take liberties with him, for he dearly loved the babies of his family; but Harry and Thomas frequently fell into disgrace, and smarted for hours because of some piece of recalcitrance. Thomas erred through a love of mischief; but Harry was too much inclined to pit his will against Father’s.
‘That whelp,’ my lord of Derby more than once told his lady, ‘will live to be a thorn in our flesh!’
Then he would catch sight of Harry, running like a hare in a game of Bars, easily outstripping Richard Beauchamp, and he would exclaim, softening: ‘God’s love, the boy runs as fast as a hart!’
He was proud of Harry’s musical talent, too, and of his quickness at his lessons. Harry, leaving Thomas labouring behind him, had mastered his hornbook, and was at work on a Latin primer. Father had no
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