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
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
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