I daresay, before they
overpowered him. And the Queen Dowager begged for his life, implored her son to
have pity on him and, and…’
‘Nicky, you little wretch, how did you
hear all this? Is it true or some fancy? Where is this man?’
‘In the hall, My Lord, I heard it at the
door. Don't be angry, come down and see him for yourself.’ He was hopping
excitedly from foot to foot, plucking at the trailing sleeve of Beauchamp's
velvet surcote. William Lucy, the Lord of Charlecote and, along with John
Durvassal, one of the young Earl's advisors, had slipped along the catwalk
behind them. He signed angrily for Durvassal to go below stairs and joined his
lord. They both stared out over the roofs of the town; local thatch mingling
with the towers of churches. A bell sounded for vespers.
‘It's true, all the boy said. King Edward
and William Montague took the castle, entering by an old staircase leading up
from the catacombs in the rock beneath. Mortimer could never have known of its
existence - a foolish omission on his part. He was taken with the Queen
Dowager, whisked off to London on a charge of High Treason and duly hanged from
the Tyburn elms. Edward awaits you at Westminster, at your pleasure. It is all
over, My Lord.’ For a moment Lucy rested a hand on the young man's shoulder,
reassurance in the light pressure of his fingers.
‘Yes, it's all over. Will, would you see
to the man's comfort and let the news be proclaimed in the town, the usual
thing? I'd like to stay up here for a while then we'll celebrate. Wine for all
tonight, to drink a toast to the King's new freedom.’
It was raining quite heavily, but he
seemed heedless of the downpour as he followed the walls round to the old Saxon
mount, the highest point and the best vantage for a view from the southern side
of his eyrie. The river stretched away to his right, into the middle distance,
its outline blurred. Thomas ran a hand through the dark hair now plastered to
his head. Tomorrow new freedoms, but he was tugged apart. Half of his being
clung to this gaunt castle rock, the place of his birth, the Black Hound's
kennel, for which he had sensible plans and airy dreams. The other half soared
away to London to the golden king who was his liege lord and the best friend a
man ever had, and who needed him at his side. He would ride tomorrow, in all
the splendour he could muster, with Warwick men at his back. Tonight he would
give thanks in the chapel for Edward's deliverance from the traitor earl, the
man he had hated so faithfully for so long. But he could not reach the joy he
knew should be in his heart. Of all the memories of his youthful persecutions
only one vignette pushed to the forefront of his mind; a dark, winter's night
and the shadow of Mortimer's powerful bulk leaning over him to place his own
furred robe over the shivering body of a child. And the picture persisted,
however hard he tried to dissolve it.
He swung round angrily as Nicholas
Durvassal, even more breathless and wetter than his lord, dared to reach up and
touch his bowed shoulder.
‘My Lord, visitors never come singly. I
am sent to tell you that the Lord of Beaudesert is at the gate, with all his
entourage. The news must have reached Henley village before it came here. Peter
de Montfort offers you his felicitations and his friendship and asks to wait
upon you.’
Thomas came out of his reverie. Peter de
Montfort, the childhood mentor who had seen him given over to the White Wolf,
who had raised neither hand nor voice to his defence, who had ridden back to
his own lands and his own security. Peter whose betrayal had cost him more
tears than any of Mortimer's whippings and harshness.
‘My Lord, will you speak to me!’ pleaded
Durvassal. And Thomas at last straightened and turned and took his small page
firmly by the shoulders.
‘Listen, Nicky, go back to whoever sent
you and say that I will not receive this man, that there is no place for him in
my hall. Can
overpowered him. And the Queen Dowager begged for his life, implored her son to
have pity on him and, and…’
‘Nicky, you little wretch, how did you
hear all this? Is it true or some fancy? Where is this man?’
‘In the hall, My Lord, I heard it at the
door. Don't be angry, come down and see him for yourself.’ He was hopping
excitedly from foot to foot, plucking at the trailing sleeve of Beauchamp's
velvet surcote. William Lucy, the Lord of Charlecote and, along with John
Durvassal, one of the young Earl's advisors, had slipped along the catwalk
behind them. He signed angrily for Durvassal to go below stairs and joined his
lord. They both stared out over the roofs of the town; local thatch mingling
with the towers of churches. A bell sounded for vespers.
‘It's true, all the boy said. King Edward
and William Montague took the castle, entering by an old staircase leading up
from the catacombs in the rock beneath. Mortimer could never have known of its
existence - a foolish omission on his part. He was taken with the Queen
Dowager, whisked off to London on a charge of High Treason and duly hanged from
the Tyburn elms. Edward awaits you at Westminster, at your pleasure. It is all
over, My Lord.’ For a moment Lucy rested a hand on the young man's shoulder,
reassurance in the light pressure of his fingers.
‘Yes, it's all over. Will, would you see
to the man's comfort and let the news be proclaimed in the town, the usual
thing? I'd like to stay up here for a while then we'll celebrate. Wine for all
tonight, to drink a toast to the King's new freedom.’
It was raining quite heavily, but he
seemed heedless of the downpour as he followed the walls round to the old Saxon
mount, the highest point and the best vantage for a view from the southern side
of his eyrie. The river stretched away to his right, into the middle distance,
its outline blurred. Thomas ran a hand through the dark hair now plastered to
his head. Tomorrow new freedoms, but he was tugged apart. Half of his being
clung to this gaunt castle rock, the place of his birth, the Black Hound's
kennel, for which he had sensible plans and airy dreams. The other half soared
away to London to the golden king who was his liege lord and the best friend a
man ever had, and who needed him at his side. He would ride tomorrow, in all
the splendour he could muster, with Warwick men at his back. Tonight he would
give thanks in the chapel for Edward's deliverance from the traitor earl, the
man he had hated so faithfully for so long. But he could not reach the joy he
knew should be in his heart. Of all the memories of his youthful persecutions
only one vignette pushed to the forefront of his mind; a dark, winter's night
and the shadow of Mortimer's powerful bulk leaning over him to place his own
furred robe over the shivering body of a child. And the picture persisted,
however hard he tried to dissolve it.
He swung round angrily as Nicholas
Durvassal, even more breathless and wetter than his lord, dared to reach up and
touch his bowed shoulder.
‘My Lord, visitors never come singly. I
am sent to tell you that the Lord of Beaudesert is at the gate, with all his
entourage. The news must have reached Henley village before it came here. Peter
de Montfort offers you his felicitations and his friendship and asks to wait
upon you.’
Thomas came out of his reverie. Peter de
Montfort, the childhood mentor who had seen him given over to the White Wolf,
who had raised neither hand nor voice to his defence, who had ridden back to
his own lands and his own security. Peter whose betrayal had cost him more
tears than any of Mortimer's whippings and harshness.
‘My Lord, will you speak to me!’ pleaded
Durvassal. And Thomas at last straightened and turned and took his small page
firmly by the shoulders.
‘Listen, Nicky, go back to whoever sent
you and say that I will not receive this man, that there is no place for him in
my hall. Can
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