by Helen Burton
Beside Plantagenet rode Edward Balliol, the Scots claimant and Edward's own protégé, the stalwart William Montague - hero of Nottingham Castle, Harry of Derby and Thomas de Beauchamp, at the head of his Warwickshire levies. On the crest of Halidon, Edward and his commanders, with their cavalry, dismounted, and prepared to fight on foot. Before them, down the slope of the hill, were ranged banks of archers, armed with that most deadly of weapons, the English long bow. Between Halidon and Douglas's four-pronged attack lay a wild stretch of marshland, emerald green and luminous in the lingering light of the sun; the last sunset the beleaguered garrison of Berwick were to see before the day dawned, fixed for their surrender.
Douglas too, dismounted his cavalry, but he was forced to it for there was no way of crossing that morass on horseback. Advancing on foot, their lines fragmented, their formation irregular, the Scots were easy victims to the deadly hail of English arrows, thick as motes in a sunbeam; they fell by the thousand. Those who struggled through the marsh, hampered by the weight of their armour, climbed the slope to meet Edward's captains, still fresh and chafing from their earlier inactivity, sword and battleaxe at the ready. Archibald Douglas was mortally wounded and about him fell a galaxy of Scottish earls: Lennox and Carrick, Athol and Strathearn and Sutherland, and, besides, many a scion of the houses of Stewart and Fraser. Berwick was Edward's and with Berwick came Scotland herself for there were no lords of note left to defend her on that day. English losses were negligible and Edward had grown in stature; the boy king had come of age and Bannockburn was at last avenged.
Thomas Beauchamp crossed the Tweed at Edward's side with a new and healthy respect for the king who had given them today's victory. But it was mingled with certain awe for the man who had cold-bloodedly ordered, and seen carried out, the execution of the hapless Seton boy. For the future, it would serve them all well, he and Harry and Montague, never to presume too closely on Edward's friendship. It placed the first distance between him and the friend of his boyhood; setting Edward apart as a man but putting him firmly upon the throne of England and freeing him forever of any taint of his weak-willed, profligate father.
They had left the reeking hill behind them in darkness when Edward turned to him. ‘Tom, I have to take the surrender, go through all the formalities; it will take time. Gather your men and ride, swift as you can, to Bamburgh and Philippa and stay until I come to you. Assure her all is well and send her my heart's love. Will you do it?’
‘Gladly, Ned.’ They clasped hands and Thomas wheeled about and abandoned the defeated town and rode south to the Queen.
~o0o~
Bamburgh had stood a hundred and fifty foot above the sea since King Ida had built the first wooden fortifications. The Normans had used the local sandstone to build their square, red keep and their successors had added to the magnificent pile. Thomas Beauchamp and his men took the long approach road to the outer bailey at the gallop. They kept him a long time at the gate before they let him through and he was glad that their security was so tight. Philippa met him in the great hall, her ladies a solid phalanx at her back. She let him cross the rush-strewn floor alone and he had no perception of the chilling spectacle he presented; his surcote soaked and dried in blood, obscuring the Beauchamp crosslets, his gauntlets stiff, a dark smear across his cheek. He saw a plain young woman of medium height, stolidly built, with dark brown hair and dark eyes, dressed in a blue wool gown, and could hardly have been blamed for comparing her with her predecessor - Isabella Capet with her rose-coloured shot taffetas, her silver tissue, her blue-black hair and dazzling complexion. With several feet still to go he dropped to one knee before the girl, head bent, suddenly very weary and Philippa covered the floor between them in a few swift, light steps.
‘Tom, my dear, you're hurt; don't kneel.’
He looked up at her, embarrassed. ‘This? It's not mine. Oh, My Lady, I'm sorry to appear like this before you but I thought you'd wish for the news as quickly as possible.’ He had taken and kissed her hand and realised how cold it was, how pale her face. She was preparing herself for grave news, for the worst news, and he cursed himself for appearing so before her and in such haste. What could she think but that all was lost and Edward fled or slain.
‘Madam, a great victory and Ned - the King - is safe, unharmed. He will be here as soon as he has taken the final surrender.’
‘And you rode through the night, hot foot, to put my mind at rest? Bless you, Thomas.’ And the plain little Queen put her plump white hands upon his soiled shoulders and kissed him on one smeared cheek, regardless of the light stuff of her gown, all concern for his welfare. And the relief in her eyes lit her face, leaving it radiant. Philippa could never compare with Isabella Capet, with Eleanor of Aquitaine, with any of the legendary queens who had come to England from a scattering of countries across the wild channel, but no queen was ever loved as the English loved Flemish Philippa. She clapped her hands. ‘I will hear all when you're fed and rested. Someone conduct my Lord of Warwick to the best chamber and see that he has all he requires. Orabella, would you?’ And though Beauchamp did not notice it, a look passed between the two young women and Orabella's expressive brows rose a fraction. She curtsied to her queen and without a glance at the young man beside her led the way up into the keep via a dark, twisting flight of stairs.
The chamber was bright and clean and welcoming with a fire in the hearth, for even in July Bamburgh felt the north-east winds too keenly; the bed was piled high with rugs and furs.
‘This is your room?’
She nodded, drawing him forward, then standing him off so that she should see what changes war had made to the indolent young man she had last seen in the Queen Dowager's chamber at Nottingham. He had stripped off his gauntlets and taken her hands; there were blue circles beneath his eyes and the reek of death still about him.
‘Come to me, you said, when you're hot and bloodied from the foe. I am here, Orabella.’ And because he would not have her believe that he was being seduced by a woman's wiles, like a green boy, he pulled her into his arms and crushed her light, golden velvet against his stained surcote, his mail shirt cruelly hard against her softness, his mouth finding hers. Her hair, tumbling from its veils, held the scent of summer flowers but the smell of death finally came between them and she pushed him from her, crossing to pour him a cup of wine. Then she performed the office of esquire and disarmed him herself, until he stood in shirt and hose. With all the panoply of war removed to a heap in the corner of the room he became a young man again, not yet twenty and not yet as sure of himself as he would like to have been. ‘I've thought of you, many times these last few months, I would have come sooner if Edward had let me leave Berwick - I was afraid for you, for Philippa ...’
Orabella smiled. ‘Edward was right, there was no danger and it would take more than Archie Douglas to frighten Philippa. We sat round the solar fire and sang marching songs. Do you want to rest?’ But he shook his head. He wasn't interested in an anti-climax. He was tired, God, how tired he was! But he still wanted her.
She let him slip the velvet gown from her shoulders, standing statue-still until her kirtle followed to pool at her feet where she stepped neatly out of it, kicking it aside. Her smock was of the finest linen, clinging to every line of her slender straight body. She let him carry her to the bed where for all his bravado and attempted gallantry he only wanted to lose himself in her white body, to wipe out the phantoms of the dark hill; strange, bloody shapes rising from the dark morass, still yelling their curdling war-cries, and his own hand still clutching at his battle-axe. He wanted to forget the dust and noise of the bombardment and the face of the Seton boy as they put the halter about his neck and he began to struggle and when Edward, the bright king and generous friend, had proved himself as ruthless and as cruel as any of his Angevin brood of ancestors.
Afterwards, spent, sweat beading his pale face, furrowing his breast; he lay on his back with sightless eyes, and a sick realization of what his own fate might have
been; openly stricken for the last time in his life, a luxury he could never again afford. Then Orabella, watching him, rose and knelt above him, covering them both with the blue-black mantle of her hair, bringing him back to life again with practised caresses and her own brand of sorcery.
Chapter Five
May - 1338
Orabella held sway over Thomas Beauchamp's affections for five years but, with the coming of the White Wolf's daughter, she had always known she would lose him; had known it long before he did. It was May, the time for brides, with bluebells misting the boles of Warwickshire oaks; an endless, surging, inland sea, heavy with perfume, only to be outshone by the May blossom; white clouds of incense scattering the last of springtime upon the threshold of summer, with its darker leaf and its bluer sky.
There was a cuckoo now, mocking them from the branches of an ancient ash over on the banks of the ait. They had climbed the mount to look out across the river and the island and the tartan weave of forest green over in the Park. A kingfisher darted from reeds, arrow-straight, at the river edge, iridescent in the sunshine.
Orabella sat down upon a grassy tussock, hands linked about her knees like a little girl. She squinted up at him, her green eyes narrowed against the light. ‘You don't have to stay and pace and fret, you could ride out and see her for yourself.’
‘No,’ said Thomas and dropped down beside her. ‘A bridegroom too eager? For that I am not. A man too fearful at what he might find? Yes, that, but it’s not to be admitted.’
Orabella laughed. ‘Oh, you'd set out on Black Saladin in your wedding finery, tossing pennies in every hamlet, so that they would all remember you - others have done it differently.’
‘How? Pilgrim and penitent, an approach full of reverence and awe? I think not.’
‘You are always 'Warwick',’ said his mistress. ‘Have you never wanted to be any other man, even for a day's length?’
He shook his head. ‘Never. I don't see what you're aiming at.’
She sighed, plaiting daisies. ‘A woman would not have to have it spelled out for her. Katherine Mortimer isn't marrying a romantic, is she? Warwick cannot ride out in all eagerness a day or so before his wedding, bridle bells jangling, roses round his hat, but a man of consideration might well send his valet, his body-squire, to see how she does, to enquire after her comfort on the journey, to deliver a well-phrased message from the groom-to-be. A suit of your own livery, Tom, a reasonable hack - you could ride out with a welcome and be reassured she's not a harridan.’
‘It's all the same to me if she is,’ Beauchamp shrugged.
‘Liar!’
‘I can always bed her in the dark. Would it work? I must say I like the idea. I shall do it, Orabella! Imagine her face when we meet at the church door and she finds she's set to wed her husband's squire!’
‘I shall not be there. Philip is developing measles.’
‘I'm sorry, you never mentioned it.’
‘No,’ said Orabella, ‘it may well come to nothing but I should be at home with him. I shall send my apologies and my blessings on you both.’
‘Girl, I don't think I can lose you.’ He had taken the daisy chain from her hands and was weaving it amongst her dark hair, drawing her down beside him, kissing her abstractedly. ‘Our friendship will remain, sure and true as ever, promise me that.’
She promised him, but the rift was made. Katherine Mortimer would fall in love with him. Most women found Thomas Beauchamp irresistible though he had remained faithful to Orabella since that night at Bamburgh. But she could not give him legitimate heirs, she must bow out now, merge into the background. She let him make love to her for the last time with as much enthusiasm as he usually put into the exercise; before nightfall she was riding home to Edstone. Philip met her at the door, bounding with energy, begging for a bedtime story. She began to wonder if the last five years had ever really existed.
~o0o~
The Lady Katherine Mortimer was resting at Bordesley, the great Cistercian Abbey which made such a convenient staging post on the way from Ludlow. She had a suite of rooms put at her disposal in the Abbot's lodgings. She had said goodbye to her formidable mother, to her loved brothers, to her small sisters at Ludlow, the great Geneville inheritance on the Welsh border, passed now to the Mortimers of Wigmore. She had her old nurse and her long-suffering ladies and her priceless trousseau, and, at eighteen, she was beginning on the greatest adventure of her life.
She sat before a crackling fire, for spring nights can be chilly within the thick stone walls of a monastery, and Juliana held her mirror and Emma combed out her long chestnut hair and watched it ripple down her mistress's back. It was really too early to retire but she had supped with the Abbot, received his blessing and there was nothing for it but to sleep and make the morning arrive the quicker. She peered into her mirror; not a blemish in sight. She pinched colour into her cheeks and smiled archly at her reflection. The distant drum of hooves cornered and rode in through the gate and slowed and stopped and the young man who travelled alone, and whose shoulder bore the Warwick badges of Bear and Ragged Staff, sprang from the saddle and handed his reins over to one of the lay brothers. There was much whispered consultation at the door to My Lady's apartments and it was a flushed Juliana who reported back, dithering, to her young mistress.
‘It's the Earl, milady, your new husband, he's sent his own man to enquire after you and nothing will do but he sees you so that he can report back that you're in good health and spirits.’
Katherine laughed. ‘Nonsense, he's getting nervous. Do I look like a hag? Do I sound like a shrew? He cannot see me, it's bad luck!’
‘Only for the groom, milady,’ Emma ventured timidly. She was a stolid, plain young woman with mouse-fair hair and sad grey eyes which fixed themselves upon her mistress like an old dog who daily fears his uselessness will result in his being kicked out of the hall. Emma was no danger; she was a perfect foil for Katherine's brown beauty.
‘I will not see the man. If he'd wanted, Thomas Beauchamp could have come himself.’
‘I do think you ought, it would only be civil,’ said Juliana.
‘Then what tales will he take back to King Thomas who does not budge from his palace gate? Am I beautiful, Juliana?’
‘You know you are, My Lady, you don't have to ask.’
‘But it would be all the same if I were cross-eyed, Mournful Mary or Plain Jane.’ Her eyes, golden hazel, slid towards Emma. ‘Then he shall see the bride, just for a moment - and veiled. Come Emma, kneel at my prie-dieu, take my veil and when I show him in, rise and make your reverence and ask how My Lord does, and cast your eyes down. I shall be the maid, the country girl from the borders. I shall take him away and ply him with questions a lady could never ask of her lord's esquire. Quickly!’
Katherine Mortimer opened the door to a young man in Warwick's livery; tall, narrow-hipped, with well-muscled shoulders, as a swordsman should have, and shapely legs encased in scarlet hose, and boots of Spanish leather. He bore himself well, as should the esquire of the most puissant Earl of Warwick. His eyes were the clear blue of flax flowers.
Thomas saw a young maidservant, her overdress kilted up above her kirtle and tucked into her girdle like a milkmaid. She was tiny but well-rounded with a bosom that strained against the stuff of her bodice and wild chestnut curls rippling about a pretty, heart-shaped face. The clearest of hazel eyes warmed to amber.
‘My mistress is sensible of the honour his lordship does her but she's tired and should be in her bed. She will receive you just for a moment, sir, if you'll kindly step this way.’ Katherine mimicked the accent of the border and even added a Welsh lilt.
Thomas followed her into the firelit room and accustomed himself to the dimness after the light of the spring evening outside, melting now to greens and golds. There was a woman at the prie-dieu, she got clumsily to her feet and came towards him, eyes downcast. She was veiled as he supposed was proper and he bowed low and took the pudgy hand she thrust out suddenly towar
ds him, returning his greeting with a shaky curtsey. He muttered commonplaces and she returned them in a tuneless monotone, until a heavy silence dropped between them and the bright little maid said, ‘You mustn't tire yourself, Milady. I will take My Lord's envoy into the ante-chamber and pour him a stirrup cup before he rides for home.’ She left her mistress's side and moved to the door, all plump curves and swaying hips and tossing curls.
‘Katherine always overdoes it!’ sighed Juliana.
Thomas was happy to follow the girl and to leave the veiled ghost to her prayers. He felt no disappointment. Wives were rarely beauties outside the romaunts - only other men's wives, like Orabella. ‘What's your name?’ He asked the girl, perching on a side table and swinging one long scarlet-clad leg.
‘Kate,’ said the girl, her eyes on his tightly muscled thighs, ‘that is, Katherine, like My Lady.’
‘You are not,’ said Thomas, ‘otherwise like your lady.’
‘No. Such a pious woman; such a dear saint. Do you think that Thomas de Beauchamp will find her to his liking?’
‘I really could not say. He was told she was a rare beauty. Men lie about their daughters.’
Katherine handed him a cup of wine. ‘Her mother always said it was as well she was spoken for from babyhood; she’d have a difficult time of finding a husband otherwise. Up at all hours at her prayers, fasting, and a hair shirt under her smock too; such a virtuous lady.’