you remember that?’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘Of course I can
remember it but my father will never use those words to the Lord of Beaudesert;
he’ll sugar them. If you want them delivered pat you'd best go down and deliver
them yourself!’
Beauchamp grinned. ‘Nevertheless, do as I
say. I don't care what reason is given but I want that man off my land.’
‘But, My Lord, father says you were such
good friends once, that Montfort was always here, and well liked and well
respected - and it’s raining so hard. To send him away would be an affront.’
‘He can take shelter in the town, with
the Friars Preachers. He can do whatever he damn well likes. Are you going,
Nicholas?’
‘Yes, My Lord, but they won't like it.’ He
fled down the hill and went in search of his father, but it was William Lucy,
himself a distant kinsman to Peter de Montfort, who strode off to the guest
room over the gatehouse with a difficult and distasteful task in his own hands.
Peter, who had been warming himself at a
glowing brazier, noted Lucy's expression and raised his dark brows. ‘No
excuses, Will, he won't see me?’
‘It's not that.’ Lucy was playing for
time.
‘Isn't it? He feels I let him down. He's
right, of course, that is the way it must have seemed. I had hoped that this
would be a time to mend all but it seems I'm too precipitate. Well, another
time, another place perhaps. I can wait.’
‘I'm sorry to turn you away on a devil of
a day like this.’
‘Oh, I'll survive it. How is he, Will?’
‘Well and growing up but stubborn like
all the Beauchamps and quick to make judgements. He's Guy's getting. Every time
I look at him I remember his father. If we survive the next five years we'll
have a strong enough overlord and one well in with the Plantagenet dynasty by
all accounts!’
‘I should have liked to have set eyes on
him again; boys grow so fast. John is nearing eight years old; I keep putting
off sending him away. How is Elizabeth?’
Lucy said, ‘They're all well at home,
very well. Look, if you turn as you ride down the ramp he'll be there above the
gatehouse. We left him on the mount but he's a boy's curiosity still and by the
time you set off he'll be up there, take my word!’
Peter grinned. ‘Yes, that sounds like the
old Thomas. Give him my best wishes, Will. I'll be off before my men get too
comfortable in the guard-house.’ Peter shook himself like a familiar hound and
stamped to the door.
He led his sodden company, cloaked in
blue, back through the gatehouse arch and down the ramp and, remembering what
Will Lucy had said, he turned once and looked up at the battlements from which
the Warwick standard batted against the rain. Thomas Beauchamp was almost in
silhouette, wedged between two of the merlons, bare-headed. Peter recognised
the rigid set of those shoulders. 'Intransigent Thomas!' he muttered to himself
between gritted teeth, then laughed out loud and raised a gloved hand in a
gesture of farewell.
And when the snaking procession in blue
and gold was finally lost amongst the houses of the town, and the causeway was
empty again and black with rain, Thomas, Earl of Warwick, lowered his head onto
his folded arms and wept, but whether it was for an old friendship he had so
wilfully destroyed in an afternoon, or for the Queen Dowager's paramour, dying
a hideous death by the Tyburn Brook, even he was unable to say. But when he
finally went down to his own hall to lead the revels in celebration he felt
more bereft than he could ever remember.
Chapter Four
September 1332
Edward of England had pledged himself to a
crusade, a joint crusade with the French King, Philip de Valois. He had shown
great interest and enthusiasm for Philip's plans, he had even been seen
studying Roger de Stavegney's treatise 'Du Conquest de la Terre Sainte'. All
appeared set; Philip, perhaps, even began to trust his young English ally and
then, in a bolt from the blue, Edward had
Nicholas shrugged. ‘Of course I can
remember it but my father will never use those words to the Lord of Beaudesert;
he’ll sugar them. If you want them delivered pat you'd best go down and deliver
them yourself!’
Beauchamp grinned. ‘Nevertheless, do as I
say. I don't care what reason is given but I want that man off my land.’
‘But, My Lord, father says you were such
good friends once, that Montfort was always here, and well liked and well
respected - and it’s raining so hard. To send him away would be an affront.’
‘He can take shelter in the town, with
the Friars Preachers. He can do whatever he damn well likes. Are you going,
Nicholas?’
‘Yes, My Lord, but they won't like it.’ He
fled down the hill and went in search of his father, but it was William Lucy,
himself a distant kinsman to Peter de Montfort, who strode off to the guest
room over the gatehouse with a difficult and distasteful task in his own hands.
Peter, who had been warming himself at a
glowing brazier, noted Lucy's expression and raised his dark brows. ‘No
excuses, Will, he won't see me?’
‘It's not that.’ Lucy was playing for
time.
‘Isn't it? He feels I let him down. He's
right, of course, that is the way it must have seemed. I had hoped that this
would be a time to mend all but it seems I'm too precipitate. Well, another
time, another place perhaps. I can wait.’
‘I'm sorry to turn you away on a devil of
a day like this.’
‘Oh, I'll survive it. How is he, Will?’
‘Well and growing up but stubborn like
all the Beauchamps and quick to make judgements. He's Guy's getting. Every time
I look at him I remember his father. If we survive the next five years we'll
have a strong enough overlord and one well in with the Plantagenet dynasty by
all accounts!’
‘I should have liked to have set eyes on
him again; boys grow so fast. John is nearing eight years old; I keep putting
off sending him away. How is Elizabeth?’
Lucy said, ‘They're all well at home,
very well. Look, if you turn as you ride down the ramp he'll be there above the
gatehouse. We left him on the mount but he's a boy's curiosity still and by the
time you set off he'll be up there, take my word!’
Peter grinned. ‘Yes, that sounds like the
old Thomas. Give him my best wishes, Will. I'll be off before my men get too
comfortable in the guard-house.’ Peter shook himself like a familiar hound and
stamped to the door.
He led his sodden company, cloaked in
blue, back through the gatehouse arch and down the ramp and, remembering what
Will Lucy had said, he turned once and looked up at the battlements from which
the Warwick standard batted against the rain. Thomas Beauchamp was almost in
silhouette, wedged between two of the merlons, bare-headed. Peter recognised
the rigid set of those shoulders. 'Intransigent Thomas!' he muttered to himself
between gritted teeth, then laughed out loud and raised a gloved hand in a
gesture of farewell.
And when the snaking procession in blue
and gold was finally lost amongst the houses of the town, and the causeway was
empty again and black with rain, Thomas, Earl of Warwick, lowered his head onto
his folded arms and wept, but whether it was for an old friendship he had so
wilfully destroyed in an afternoon, or for the Queen Dowager's paramour, dying
a hideous death by the Tyburn Brook, even he was unable to say. But when he
finally went down to his own hall to lead the revels in celebration he felt
more bereft than he could ever remember.
Chapter Four
September 1332
Edward of England had pledged himself to a
crusade, a joint crusade with the French King, Philip de Valois. He had shown
great interest and enthusiasm for Philip's plans, he had even been seen
studying Roger de Stavegney's treatise 'Du Conquest de la Terre Sainte'. All
appeared set; Philip, perhaps, even began to trust his young English ally and
then, in a bolt from the blue, Edward had
Similar Books
