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.
‘A Warwick! A Warwick! St. George for Warwick!’ The old battle cry struck the sleeping stones at his feet, carried up to the
gatehouse and sprang back again, hit the walls of the river-cliff and spilled
out in shattered echoes to be swallowed finally by the Arden woodland. ‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’ Thomas Beauchamp had truly come into his own. He urged Saladin forward
and took the causeway at a gallop until the crimson river of horsemen who
followed were absorbed at last by the dark tunnel of the gatehouse arch. And a
short time later, Thomas Beauchamp set his own hand to Black Guy's standard. The
great rectangle reared up against the snow sky, the cross of St. George and the
Warwick bear where they should always have been. The light held just long
enough for the townsfolk to stand on their doorsteps and look upward, wondering
at the change in their fortunes, before the last of the day was submerged in
the forestland, the final glimmer haunting the foam of the weir, a white
incandescence.
~o0o~
Nicholas Durvassal was doing what he was
best at - eavesdropping. It was a wet November day , almost twelve months after
Thomas’s homecoming, with a bone-chilling north-easterly funnelling along the
Avon when, running pell-mell across the great court, he had almost skidded
beneath the feet of a bedraggled mare, picking her way daintily through the
gatehouse arch, her rider swathed miserably in the sodden frieze of his cloak. The
mare skipped sideways and Sir William Lucy had had to dart in to pluck
Durvassal from harm's way, depositing a light cuff on his ear with the
admonition that he should look where he was going in future.
Nicholas was an elfin child, with fine,
light bones, green eyes and a silken mop of silver blond hair cut in a blunt
fringe across his forehead and rolled under at his collar. He scowled beneath
the fringe and stood back against the wall to watch Sir William escort the
stranger into the hall, calling out for wine and a bowl of hot potage as he
went. Nicholas's father had joined them and they had closed the heavy oak door
firmly, shutting the child out of the circle of bright firelight and glowing
warmth within. But Nicholas had recognised the King's badge stitched upon the
messenger's shoulder, and had seen the exchanged, anticipatory glances of his
elders. He pushed the door open a little way, stayed long enough at the crack
to hear the first words, jerked out by the rain-sodden stranger, and the
excited exclamations of Lucy and his father and even before the Lord of
Charlecote could announce that he would go in search of Earl Thomas, Durvassal
was away from the door and sprinting across the courtyard again, running
helter-skelter up the spiral with a nine year old's boundless energy, until he
reached the battlements and Thomas Beauchamp's side, breathless and mud-spattered
but still able to deliver one of his pretty, practised bows, knee bent, arms
flourishing, flop of silver blond hair masking his face. Nicholas was old
enough to believe that subservience, once embarked upon as a general policy,
should be done well. Thomas had chosen him as his own page; Thomas's interests
were therefore his life, no matter that he had been picked merely because his
father, the good Sir John, had shown unshakeable loyalty to the de Beauchamps.
‘My Lord, there is news from London - good
news, My Lord, sent from the King's Grace to his well-beloved Thomas, Earl of
Warwick. He's dead, My Lord, the White Wolf is dead! They're coming to tell
you, but I was quicker. Taken at Nottingham, in his bedchamber in the castle -
he put up a fight - killed sixty men-at-arms,
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.
‘A Warwick! A Warwick! St. George for Warwick!’ The old battle cry struck the sleeping stones at his feet, carried up to the
gatehouse and sprang back again, hit the walls of the river-cliff and spilled
out in shattered echoes to be swallowed finally by the Arden woodland. ‘A Warwick! A Warwick!’ Thomas Beauchamp had truly come into his own. He urged Saladin forward
and took the causeway at a gallop until the crimson river of horsemen who
followed were absorbed at last by the dark tunnel of the gatehouse arch. And a
short time later, Thomas Beauchamp set his own hand to Black Guy's standard. The
great rectangle reared up against the snow sky, the cross of St. George and the
Warwick bear where they should always have been. The light held just long
enough for the townsfolk to stand on their doorsteps and look upward, wondering
at the change in their fortunes, before the last of the day was submerged in
the forestland, the final glimmer haunting the foam of the weir, a white
incandescence.
~o0o~
Nicholas Durvassal was doing what he was
best at - eavesdropping. It was a wet November day , almost twelve months after
Thomas’s homecoming, with a bone-chilling north-easterly funnelling along the
Avon when, running pell-mell across the great court, he had almost skidded
beneath the feet of a bedraggled mare, picking her way daintily through the
gatehouse arch, her rider swathed miserably in the sodden frieze of his cloak. The
mare skipped sideways and Sir William Lucy had had to dart in to pluck
Durvassal from harm's way, depositing a light cuff on his ear with the
admonition that he should look where he was going in future.
Nicholas was an elfin child, with fine,
light bones, green eyes and a silken mop of silver blond hair cut in a blunt
fringe across his forehead and rolled under at his collar. He scowled beneath
the fringe and stood back against the wall to watch Sir William escort the
stranger into the hall, calling out for wine and a bowl of hot potage as he
went. Nicholas's father had joined them and they had closed the heavy oak door
firmly, shutting the child out of the circle of bright firelight and glowing
warmth within. But Nicholas had recognised the King's badge stitched upon the
messenger's shoulder, and had seen the exchanged, anticipatory glances of his
elders. He pushed the door open a little way, stayed long enough at the crack
to hear the first words, jerked out by the rain-sodden stranger, and the
excited exclamations of Lucy and his father and even before the Lord of
Charlecote could announce that he would go in search of Earl Thomas, Durvassal
was away from the door and sprinting across the courtyard again, running
helter-skelter up the spiral with a nine year old's boundless energy, until he
reached the battlements and Thomas Beauchamp's side, breathless and mud-spattered
but still able to deliver one of his pretty, practised bows, knee bent, arms
flourishing, flop of silver blond hair masking his face. Nicholas was old
enough to believe that subservience, once embarked upon as a general policy,
should be done well. Thomas had chosen him as his own page; Thomas's interests
were therefore his life, no matter that he had been picked merely because his
father, the good Sir John, had shown unshakeable loyalty to the de Beauchamps.
‘My Lord, there is news from London - good
news, My Lord, sent from the King's Grace to his well-beloved Thomas, Earl of
Warwick. He's dead, My Lord, the White Wolf is dead! They're coming to tell
you, but I was quicker. Taken at Nottingham, in his bedchamber in the castle -
he put up a fight - killed sixty men-at-arms,
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