The Lords of Arden Read Online Free PDF Page A

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