liking for unlettered gentlemen.
4
Not until the leaves dropped from the trees, and the mists, rising from the mere, stole into the castle, did they leave Kenilworth. A November day saw my lord of Derby’s household setting forward upon the road to Leicester. The lordings were disconsolate, foreseeing winter days ahead, when they would be kept between the walls of Bel sire’s castle, and made to mind their books. ‘I wish we might live at Kenilworth for ever!’ said Thomas.
‘When the summer comes again we shall return,’ Mother answered.
‘I don’t suppose it ever will!’ muttered Thomas.
John said nothing. Curled up in the litter at Mother’s feet, he looked beyond Thomas’s pony to Kenilworth, still pink, but fading fast into the fog. Summer would come again, but it would not be the same. Harry might be a page in the King’s household; Father might have gone overseas again; Richard Beauchamp would certainly be a squire, with no longer leisure to play with them.
Harry, riding on the other side of the litter, said: ‘One couldn’t stay always in one place! I want to go on!’
‘Where will you go, my son?’ Mother asked, tenderly watching him. ‘What will you do?’
He coloured, but he did not speak. It was Thomas who supplied the answer. ‘France, like Bel sire, and he will make a grande chevauchée! I know what Harry means to do!’
‘But Bel sire is making a peace with France,’ Mother reminded them.
‘A sickly peace!’ Harry said quickly. ‘That’s what Wilkin says!’
‘Oh, Wilkin!’ Mother said, laughing.
Three
Parting Hence
1
It seemed afterwards as though Kenilworth, which held the summer, held also the happiness of the lordings’ childhood; as though when it slipped into the mist tranquillity vanished with it. If there was happiness at Leicester they could never remember it, yet there must, they supposed, have been happy days in Bel sire’s castle. There had been Christmas-tide, with mumming in the Great Hall, sweet music provided by Spanish Grandmother’s foreign musicians, and a joculator who created illusions so astonishing that Johanna Waring signed herself, and muttered that it was sorcery. Father had visited the castle then; probably he had brought gifts for his sons, but they were forgotten too. They saw little of Father that winter; he stayed in London, with Bel sire. He was keeping his sword loose in the scabbard, if Wilkin were to be believed, for my lord of Arundel’s enmity was growing apace. He was one of many who disliked M. de Guyenne’s peace policy, seeing it as shameful that the conquests of the King’s father and grandfather in France should slip away, the Treaty of Brétigny become meaningless, England, year upon year, be threatened with a French invasion. But his enmity had its root in something that struck nearer to the bone than that. A scandal was whispered through the chambers of Leicester Castle. Bel sire’s son, Messire Henry of Beaufort, had got my lord of Arundel’s daughter, Alice Fitzalan, with child. Oh, yes! She had been his mistress since he had returned from his studies abroad. No question of marriage, of course: he was a priest dedicate, already held two prebendaries. Well, well, he was not the only man in Holy Orders with a bastard or two to his discredit; and, to do him justice, he was rearing the child at his own costage. A personable youth, Messire Henry: one could not wonder at the Lady Alice’s wanton conduct; one could only be surprised that my lord Arundel should not have caged this dove of his more securely, instead of scheming, when the mischief was done, to pull down the whole house of Lancaster.
In late November, when draughts crept up the stairs and whistled under doors, stirring the rushes, and making all the ladies tuck their robes round their feet, news came to Leicester that Great-aunt York was dead. She was Spanish Grandmother’s sister, so the lordings were put into mourning clothes, and scolded if they dared to
4
Not until the leaves dropped from the trees, and the mists, rising from the mere, stole into the castle, did they leave Kenilworth. A November day saw my lord of Derby’s household setting forward upon the road to Leicester. The lordings were disconsolate, foreseeing winter days ahead, when they would be kept between the walls of Bel sire’s castle, and made to mind their books. ‘I wish we might live at Kenilworth for ever!’ said Thomas.
‘When the summer comes again we shall return,’ Mother answered.
‘I don’t suppose it ever will!’ muttered Thomas.
John said nothing. Curled up in the litter at Mother’s feet, he looked beyond Thomas’s pony to Kenilworth, still pink, but fading fast into the fog. Summer would come again, but it would not be the same. Harry might be a page in the King’s household; Father might have gone overseas again; Richard Beauchamp would certainly be a squire, with no longer leisure to play with them.
Harry, riding on the other side of the litter, said: ‘One couldn’t stay always in one place! I want to go on!’
‘Where will you go, my son?’ Mother asked, tenderly watching him. ‘What will you do?’
He coloured, but he did not speak. It was Thomas who supplied the answer. ‘France, like Bel sire, and he will make a grande chevauchée! I know what Harry means to do!’
‘But Bel sire is making a peace with France,’ Mother reminded them.
‘A sickly peace!’ Harry said quickly. ‘That’s what Wilkin says!’
‘Oh, Wilkin!’ Mother said, laughing.
Three
Parting Hence
1
It seemed afterwards as though Kenilworth, which held the summer, held also the happiness of the lordings’ childhood; as though when it slipped into the mist tranquillity vanished with it. If there was happiness at Leicester they could never remember it, yet there must, they supposed, have been happy days in Bel sire’s castle. There had been Christmas-tide, with mumming in the Great Hall, sweet music provided by Spanish Grandmother’s foreign musicians, and a joculator who created illusions so astonishing that Johanna Waring signed herself, and muttered that it was sorcery. Father had visited the castle then; probably he had brought gifts for his sons, but they were forgotten too. They saw little of Father that winter; he stayed in London, with Bel sire. He was keeping his sword loose in the scabbard, if Wilkin were to be believed, for my lord of Arundel’s enmity was growing apace. He was one of many who disliked M. de Guyenne’s peace policy, seeing it as shameful that the conquests of the King’s father and grandfather in France should slip away, the Treaty of Brétigny become meaningless, England, year upon year, be threatened with a French invasion. But his enmity had its root in something that struck nearer to the bone than that. A scandal was whispered through the chambers of Leicester Castle. Bel sire’s son, Messire Henry of Beaufort, had got my lord of Arundel’s daughter, Alice Fitzalan, with child. Oh, yes! She had been his mistress since he had returned from his studies abroad. No question of marriage, of course: he was a priest dedicate, already held two prebendaries. Well, well, he was not the only man in Holy Orders with a bastard or two to his discredit; and, to do him justice, he was rearing the child at his own costage. A personable youth, Messire Henry: one could not wonder at the Lady Alice’s wanton conduct; one could only be surprised that my lord Arundel should not have caged this dove of his more securely, instead of scheming, when the mischief was done, to pull down the whole house of Lancaster.
In late November, when draughts crept up the stairs and whistled under doors, stirring the rushes, and making all the ladies tuck their robes round their feet, news came to Leicester that Great-aunt York was dead. She was Spanish Grandmother’s sister, so the lordings were put into mourning clothes, and scolded if they dared to
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