The Lords of Arden by Helen Burton Page A

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