by Helen Burton
After the fortune-teller's booth, with its predictably glowing futures for both of them, Thomas Beauchamp untied the dancing bear, sad and mangy at it's staff, declaring that it was too noble a beast to pirouette before the Gallic peasantry. The bear, after all, was one of the badges of his house and he felt strongly about it. It lumbered off inquisitively towards a troop of mummers, setting up stage to re-enact the tale of Amadis de Gaul. The bear-leader gave chase.
Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and Edward, Third of that name since the Conquest, sat down outside a thronging tavern, drinking ale like a couple of apprentices on holiday, and wondered what to do next.
‘Do you think you'd like a woman?’ suggested Edward. He had recently married a distant cousin and childhood playmate and, far from feeling displeased with the novelty of matrimony, was experimenting with monogamy. Unselfishly, he conceded that that shouldn't stop his young friend from enjoying the delights of the flesh. Thomas was fifteen and looking for a way out. He tilted his ale pot and bought a few seconds thinking time.
‘What, leave you on your own amongst this riff-raff? We ought to be starting back; if we're missed there'll be hell to pay. Oh, but it's good to be off the leash!’
Edward shrugged his shoulders and snapped his fingers for more ale. ‘I shall be better pleased when tomorrow's ceremony is over.’
Beauchamp looked at him sharply. ‘Bending the knee to a Valois? I never understood why you agreed to come here at all.’
Edward's smile twisted. ‘Mortimer can be persuasive; you of all people know that.’
‘But to give in without a fight!’
‘Statecraft, Tom. Ever heard of it?’
Beauchamp snorted. ‘Another word for being too idle to stand up for yourself - My Liege,’ he added, getting to his feet and making an elaborate bow.
‘Do you want to go somewhere and settle it?’ There was a sudden gleam in Edward's blue eyes.
‘God, no,’ Beauchamp yawned. ‘You were about to start a lesson in statecraft. I'm all ears.’
Edward shrugged, ‘I would have had to give in, there was no way round it. Homage had to be done, so I drove a bargain, a hard bargain with friend Mortimer. I would go quietly, acquit myself like the king he has no intention of ever letting me become, present myself as an ornament to England, soothe raddled French nerves, and he would give me what I wanted. I thought he wouldn't give in, believe me, he'd call my bluff and I'd be shipped off to France willy-nilly and prodded up the aisle. Tomorrow they will both have reason to be proud, he and my mother.’
‘Have a care,’ said Beauchamp, ‘don't play the part too well. Might I get to hear what you demanded of him?’
‘Oh, you'll hear soon enough if he doesn't renege, but I have it all set down. You wouldn't be able to read it if I flashed the deed in front of your nose!’
The other boy looked indignant. ‘That joke is old and stale, My Liege. Under Richard Bury's tutelage I read and write a tolerable hand. I had to learn quickly. Mortimer set me at those innumerable letters to the Pope requesting a dispensation for my marriage to Katherine. I'm in no hurry for it; one of that clan breathing down my neck is one too many. You'd think parchment cost nothing these days. Every blot and we'd start all over again and he'd use the haft of his dagger across my knuckles!’
‘But your writing's improved?’
‘Whose side are you on, Ned? You've only got to cry laissez majeste and he leaves you alone! I never understood why he could not have abandoned me in my happy state of squalor, lost without trace in the midland mire. But he schools me hard, harder than his own sons, and for what? Doesn’t he fear I’ll turn my sword against him when I come into my own?’
Edward smiled. ‘Don't you remember what you were like when you arrived at Westminster? At least you dress like a member of the ruling class and you can ride…’
‘Oh, yes, I can ride, and that rankles too! Out in all weathers, always that mile further until I had to be lifted out of the saddle. Yes, I can ride.’
‘And you're a better man at the tilt than I, to my shame.’
‘But I'd have done as well for my own satisfaction, without the goad.’
‘Are you sure? You can be pretty bloody about things when you've set your mind against them. Don't glower, Black Thomas. Come on; let's see if we can remember the way back to our lodgings. That way d'you think?’
‘No, that, very definitely.’ Arguing, they set off together into the benighted alleys of Amiens, the little ruelles where the upper stories of house and tavern closed in above them.
‘Bloody hell, we are lost!’ said the King of England.
‘Well, just keep moving, we're being followed.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain, don't look round.’
‘How many?’
‘Six, I should say. What are you doing?’
‘I'm going to challenge. I'm an Englishman, I don't run.’
‘You're also a king but they won't know that; you can't risk dying like a dog in a ditch!’
‘I stay. I can’t compel you to do the same.’
‘Damn you, Ned!’
They both turned, cloaks flung back, swords out, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow street. The windows above them were lightless, sightless eyes; the doors on either side would be bolted and barred for it was past curfew. There were seven, well-armed, steel drawn, anonymous.
‘Put up your swords!’ Beauchamp's mouth was dry. ‘We're with the English Embassy; we have safe conduct throughout this city.’
Someone laughed and they caught the words 'Roi de Angleterre' tossed about between them. Then there was no more time for exchange of words and the clash of steel, magnified and thrown back from the high walls, cut out all other sound. The two boys held their antagonists at bay for a surprising length of time, mainly because the street was so narrow, but these were men, fully grown and better armed.
‘I can hold them - give you time…’ gasped Beauchamp without a glance at his companion.
‘No, you fool!’
‘They're not interested in me. Run, Ned!’
‘You waste your breath, I'll not leave you. God, we're done, they're bringing up reinforcements from the rear!’
Beauchamp half-turned, an involuntary reflex, at his words, and felt the blade he had parried so neatly up till that moment slicing through his tunic to take him in the side. He caught his breath and, swinging aside, came in under the blade, using his own sword, two-handed. But now there were voices, shouting, bellowing into the night:
‘Lancaster, Lancaster for Harry of Derby!’ And armed figures were strong at their backs; Edward's cousin leading. Even in the darkness the arms of England gleamed dull scarlet and bright gold, and, brighter than all, the shining silver cap of his fair hair. ‘Stand aside, boys, this is men's work, let's make an end here!’ Derby was St. George, St. Michael and All Hallows fused into one splendid personage. Their attackers turned and fled into the darkness, leaving a dead man who would tell no tales. Harry of Derby's men hunted them through the night but they had melted into the silent city. Lancaster's son turned to face his royal cousin:
‘You bloody idiot, Ned, what do you mean by this charade?’
‘My Lord, the idea was mine.’ Beauchamp had a hand pressed to his side.
‘Ah, the Warwick bear-cub! He has a tongue in his head, a will of his own, don't you, Ned?’
‘Harry, I'm equally at fault but Tom's hurt.’
‘Are you?’ Derby snapped his fingers and someone hurried forward with a torch.
‘I'll be all right,’ said Beauchamp, looking white-faced and sick. ‘If your men hadn't yelled I shouldn't have been taken off my guard!’
The young man grinned. ‘You're a sullen, ungrateful brat, Tom Beauchamp, and any more bright ideas will see you on the next boat home and your sure come-uppance. You are hurt! Even you wouldn’t pump blood for amusement's sake.’ Henry had a strong arm about the shoulders of both boys, steering them out of the ruelle and towards the royal l
odgings, backed by his grim-faced retinue.
The house was soon ablaze with light and Derby took control, ordering his cousin to bed, rousing the royal physician from his slumbers to minister to the young Earl of Warwick. Then he set a double guard on the King's chamber before retiring to his own and pouring himself a generous cup of muscadel. His long handsome length, clothed in a bed gown of violet brocade, edged with miniver, he was relaxing at last when a frantic knocking at the door brought him to his feet. Thomas Beauchamp stood in the shadows, swathed in his cloak.
‘Don't you ever do as you're bid, bear cub? I thought you were in bed nursing your battle-scars.’
‘My lord, I have to speak with you.’ He was pale, the young face earnest. Derby closed the door.
‘You'd better sit down. What did Gaddesdon have to say about you?’ Gaddesdon was the King's own apothecary, implicitly trusted.
Beauchamp shrugged his shoulders. ‘I'll mend; it’s just a flesh wound. All those months of practice sword-play and it never quite prepares a man for the real thing. I'm sorry, I'd no idea he was in such danger. I never thought …’
‘Boys rarely do. I imagine Philip felt a bird in the hand tonight might compensate for a botched, resentful ceremonial tomorrow. Our French friends do not trust us, it seems.’
‘Harry, it wasn't the Valois!’
‘Why do you say that?’ Derby sat beside him on his bed and poured another cup of wine.
Beauchamp was staring at his feet. ‘I saw a face I knew, an English face.’
‘There are traitors in every camp.’
‘I don't want humouring, Harry. He was Mortimer's man; he was at Windsor three weeks ago.’
‘A flight of fancy, Tom.’
‘Damn you, I'm certain! Which eliminates abduction and points the finger at murder? But what has he to gain by it?’
Henry got to his feet, pacing the floor. ‘Ned is no longer the biddable schoolboy to be cozened into any enterprise; he itches to take the reins into his own hands. Edward disposed of leaves a younger, more tractable brother. Prince John's minority will give Mortimer a few years of respite.’
‘Then we must act?’ The boy was prodding his bandaged rib-cage experimentally.
‘When the time is ripe, not yet. And better that Edward knows nothing of what you have just told me. He has enough burdens to bear under that man's yoke and he is far too open to act naturally when he returns to England. I want your oath on your silence before you leave this room.’
‘You have it, of course.’
‘Good lad. Now, off to bed with you, we've all got a part to play tomorrow. And Tom?’ Beauchamp half turned to face him. ‘Bless you for your sharp eyes and quick wits. Never fret, we'll hold him safe for England.’ He closed the door, set the pin in the latch and lay for a long time, hands linked behind his blond head, grey eyes troubled. He heard the first birds of a soft summer dawn before he finally drifted off to sleep.
~o0o~
The June sunlight flooded through the cathedral windows at Amiens, shivering down in jewel-coloured shafts which lay in shattered rainbows upon the floor of the nave. Philip of Valois sat upon his throne and looked decidedly uneasy, gnawing at the inside of one cheek in a nervous gesture his intimates knew only too well. He was aware that he cut a magnificent figure in his robes of French-blue velvet, powdered with the lilies of France, the sceptre in his right hand, the crown which had so lately belonged to his cousin, Charles the Fair, firmly upon his head. But he was nearing his middle years and the man approaching him, stepping steadily, firmly along the aisle was young, very young, with days still to go until his seventeenth birthday. He was tall, almost six foot already, and his red-golden hair, falling to his shoulders, shone as brightly as the gilded locks of the plaster saints, candlelit in their appointed niches. Edward wore a long, crimson robe, embroidered with the leopards of England, his sword hung at his side, golden spurs at his heels, the crown of England on his fair brow. So the leopard was unchained. His mother, Queen Isabella, and his guardian, Roger Mortimer, self-styled Earl of March, had remained in England whilst he crossed the channel, reluctantly, to pay this homage to the new king of France for the lands which he held of him.
As come he must, Edward had arrived in style, flanked by his two royal uncles, followed by three haughty bishops, four earls and forty knights. A thousand English horsemen lined the road beyond the cathedral, dressed in his unmistakable livery: scarlet and white, all funded, so it was said, by the King's Italian bankers. So many young men, mourned the King of France, feeling his years, and peering myopically at those who followed the King. The silver-blond head of Henry of Derby, the Earl of Lancaster's son, representing his blind father, taller than his king, long of limb - the most handsome man at Plantaganet's court; John de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex; Edward’s friend and mentor, the grave young William Montague, and a dark boy whom Philip did not know by sight but he recognised the device upon the scarlet mantle, lined with cloth of gold - the golden crosslets of de Beauchamp. So this lad must be the young Earl of Warwick, Mortimer's ward. He would be a year or more younger than his king and the youngest of a youthful barony. Gone now was the wild urchin who had ranged the Warwickshire hills in torn cote and scuffed boots, he was dressed as magnificently, as ostentatiously, as his king. He carried himself well, wearing a look of haughty disdain to equal that of the prelates who glided silkily before him. Only when, beneath the peal of silver trumpets, Lancaster's son murmured something from the corner of his mouth, did the blue eyes dart sideways, the mask slip and the beginnings of a merry smile transform the earl into a boy of fifteen, dazzled by the occasion perhaps, but not much overawed.
The Chamberlain of France was demanding the homage from the golden king, asking whether he became Philip of Valois' man for the Duchy of Guienne and its appurtenances, as his ancestors, Kings of England and Dukes of Guienne, had done before him. The boy stepped forward without hesitating, climbed the steps to the throne, bowed, but oh so slightly, and placed his hands between those of Philip de Valois. ‘Truly,’ he said, swearing away all claims to this man's throne with a single word. Henceforward, all designs on the lands of France would be regarded as sacrilege. But afterwards, when the solemnity of the afternoon was past, it was remembered that he had not discarded his crown and his spurs, he had not stripped off his sword or kissed his French cousin full on the lips as was the usual requirement for liege homage. There would be scribes on both sides to chronicle these omissions and, with hindsight, they were to stand out as portents of troubled times to come.
~o0o~
If Roger Mortimer was surprised or angered by Edward's escape from the camisarde at Amiens he did not show it. He was genial, lavish in his praise for a job well done. He then swept off to Windsor with Queen Isabella, leaving Edward to ride to Eltham where his little bride awaited him; now, as she would always be, the perfect antidote when cares of state beset him.
Thomas Beauchamp rode to Windsor in Mortimer's train, happy to find himself the hero of the hour when news of the ambush found its way about the court. If Henry of Derby privately felt he had played some small part in succouring the King he wisely kept silent and allowed the young earl to bask in glory.
Roger Mortimer came across him in the armoury, perched upon an old arrow chest; arms linked about one knee, embroidering an already overworked story further for the benefit of an adoring band of small pages dressed in the White Wolf's distinctive yellow livery. Mortimer roared at them, aimed a kick at the nearest and watched them scatter for their duties.
‘You might,’ said he, ‘have had a more edifying tale to tell if you'd failed to lower your guard at such an inopportune moment. Should the whole of Windsor be celebrating your foolishness, your lack of adherence to basic training?’
That stung. Beauchamp said, ‘Why the concern for my person? I have a brother, as Edward has a brother. He does not lack siblings; loyal advisors are apparently a rarer commodity.’
‘If you wish to say something, boy, out
with it! Explain yourself!’
‘I have said all I intend, My Lord.’
‘By God, you have not! Don't talk in riddles, make your accusations plain.’
‘I think you find them plain enough, My Lord; you are roused to a choler over them. I wouldn't provoke you further.’
‘Wouldn't you? You're cocky since your return home. And what are you bidding for, position as ladies' lap-dog? Sprawled upon cushions in the solar, stuffing marzipan whilst the Queen's demoiselles twitter about you. It’s high time you forgot past glories, my dear, and got down to some hard work. I've an hour to give you with tourney swords; grab a helmet and put on a jack. Let's see what improvements we can drag out of you.’
‘My Lord, the sun’s too low, the courtyard will be in shadow,’ Beauchamp yawned affectedly. ‘Besides, I have to dress for supper.’
Mortimer picked up a padded jack from a pile in the corner and flung it at him. ‘Get into that and come out and show me how you bested the Valois' men, if such they were.’
Beauchamp was scowling as he fastened the padded tunic before sorting out a practise helm and buckling on his sword. He followed his guardian out into the darkening courtyard and grooms ran before them to light cressets about its perimeter. Up above them, in the state apartments, the squares of dimly lit windows indicated a court preparing itself for the ritual of the evening meal. Dark silhouettes flitted before the lamp-glow, a lady's veil fluttered outward as curiosity brought several heads to the windows.
‘You have your audience, Thomas; play to them,’ said Roger Mortimer, silken smooth, and the first prickings of disaster crept up Beauchamp's spine and seized the nape of his neck. They drew out the blunted tourney swords and faced each other in the summer dusk. Lightly clad and fleet of foot the boy's agility served to match his opponent's analytically planned movements, delivered with force and direction and an economy of effort. But he began to tire first, aware that he would be bested, and his patience ebbed with his breath, sheer temper beginning to show. The White Wolf had time to smile at him.