The Lords of Arden by Helen Burton Read Free Book Online Page A

tonight?’
     ‘You ask too many questions, Thomas. Cast
off aft there!’ Mortimer took his own seat in the stern, pulling an ermine
mantle close about him against the December chill. The banks of the Thames were mist blurred, the sedge stiff as a forest of spears, white with hoar frost. When
they drew into the near bank Thomas tossed his pennies to pretty girls and
apprentice lads of his own age. All along the river-board they encountered
pinched winter faces. Mortimer's insignia brought forth few cheers.
     Westminster Palace was thronged with the
nobility, their ladies, their squires, their hangers-on, all gathered together
in the great hall when Mortimer's entourage embarked at the water-stairs. Beauchamp
fell in step beside his guardian; their spurs rang as they crossed the cobbles
of the court. They were fully accoutred in spite of the fact that their mounts
were following later with the rest of the baggage. A youth in the Royal livery
hurried out, flinging himself in Mortimer's path, bowing low.
     ‘My Lord Earl, the King is ready and
waiting. All is - as it should be.’
     Mortimer nodded and strode into the
palace, making for the great hall. He glanced down at his ward, but not so far
as he was used; Thomas had turned sixteen and had shot up rapidly of late. ‘Wait
until you are announced then go forward. But first, remove your spurs and your
sword and circlet. You go forward into the royal presence bare-headed.’
     ‘Forward, My Lord?’
     ‘To be presented to the King! Don't start
to argue with me now, get in there!’ He waited until the heavy doors were open
and nudged the boy forward.
     Edward Plantagenet sat upon his throne in
the regal robes he too had worn for the homage at Amiens, the royal crimson and
gold. The heavy gilt hair was bright in the torchlight; tiny points of fire
flamed from the chains about his neck, the rings upon his fingers. His court
was ranged on either side of the hall: grey-bearded lords in long brocaded
robes, young men in alarmingly short jupons of crushed velvet or shot silk,
ladies like coloured butterflies, gold and silver nets, sequin-spattered,
flickering like fireflies in the shadows.
     Between King and subject lord stretched
the length of the gabled hall, carpeted in sweet flags. Beauchamp hovered on
the threshold, his mind in turmoil. Edward's Chamberlain rapped his staff upon
the floor and voices were stilled to a fading murmur like a faraway sea.
     ‘Thomas de Beauchamp, step forward!’
rasped the voice and there was no way out but to obey. Was this some plot of
Mortimer's hatching, some new humiliation? Afterwards, he could never remember
the walk to the throne beyond the feeling of nakedness without sword hilt or
dagger left to finger for comfort on the way. But others could have told him
that he walked proudly, neither laggard nor with the hurried strides of a man
anxious to be over some unpleasantness. His own scarlet surcote and mantle
contrasted with the royal crimson, the gold crosslets caught the torchlight. He
halted before the throne and the blue eyes which met Edward's solemn gaze were
guarded, veiled quickly by the long dark lashes.
     ‘Tom, you must kneel!’ hissed the king
from the corner of the royal mouth and Beauchamp swept back his cloak with a
theatrical flourish and knelt upon the lowest step, arms loose at his sides
though his fingers were clenched tightly into his palms.
     The Chamberlain was speaking again,
carried away by the pomposity of his own deliverance. ‘Thomas Beauchamp, do you
swear homage to the most puissant Lord Edward, King of England, for the Honour
of Warwick and its appurtenances as your father, Guy, Tenth Earl, did, and his
ancestors before him? Do you give your allegiance to the King for life and limb
and earthly worship?’
     Edward held out his hands, palms facing
one to the other and, placing his own hands together, it was easy for Thomas to
slip them between and to feel Edward's firm, friendly clasp.
     ‘I