The Lords of Arden Read Online Free PDF Page B

the
cathedral windows at Amiens, shivering down in jewel-coloured shafts which lay
in shattered rainbows upon the floor of the nave. Philip of Valois sat upon his
throne and looked decidedly uneasy, gnawing at the inside of one cheek in a
nervous gesture his intimates knew only too well. He was aware that he cut a
magnificent figure in his robes of French-blue velvet, powdered with the lilies
of France, the sceptre in his right hand, the crown which had so lately
belonged to his cousin, Charles the Fair, firmly upon his head. But he was
nearing his middle years and the man approaching him, stepping steadily, firmly
along the aisle was young, very young, with days still to go until his
seventeenth birthday. He was tall, almost six foot already, and his red-golden
hair, falling to his shoulders, shone as brightly as the gilded locks of the
plaster saints, candlelit in their appointed niches. Edward wore a long,
crimson robe, embroidered with the leopards of England, his sword hung at his
side, golden spurs at his heels, the crown of England on his fair brow. So the
leopard was unchained. His mother, Queen Isabella, and his guardian, Roger
Mortimer, self-styled Earl of March, had remained in England whilst he crossed
the channel, reluctantly, to pay this homage to the new king of France for the lands which he held of him.
     As come he must, Edward had arrived in
style, flanked by his two royal uncles, followed by three haughty bishops, four
earls and forty knights. A thousand English horsemen lined the road beyond the
cathedral, dressed in his unmistakable livery: scarlet and white, all funded,
so it was said, by the King's Italian bankers. So many young men, mourned the
King of France, feeling his years, and peering myopically at those who followed
the King. The silver-blond head of Henry of Derby, the Earl of Lancaster's son,
representing his blind father, taller than his king, long of limb - the most
handsome man at Plantaganet's court; John de Bohun, Earl of Hereford and Essex;
Edward’s friend and mentor, the grave young William Montague, and a dark boy
whom Philip did not know by sight but he recognised the device upon the scarlet
mantle, lined with cloth of gold - the golden crosslets of de Beauchamp. So
this lad must be the young Earl of Warwick, Mortimer's ward. He would be a year
or more younger than his king and the youngest of a youthful barony. Gone now
was the wild urchin who had ranged the Warwickshire hills in torn cote and
scuffed boots, he was dressed as magnificently, as ostentatiously, as his king.
He carried himself well, wearing a look of haughty disdain to equal that of the
prelates who glided silkily before him. Only when, beneath the peal of silver
trumpets, Lancaster's son murmured something from the corner of his mouth, did
the blue eyes dart sideways, the mask slip and the beginnings of a merry smile
transform the earl into a boy of fifteen, dazzled by the occasion perhaps, but
not much overawed.
     The Chamberlain of France was demanding
the homage from the golden king, asking whether he became Philip of Valois' man
for the Duchy of Guienne and its appurtenances, as his ancestors, Kings of
England and Dukes of Guienne, had done before him. The boy stepped forward
without hesitating, climbed the steps to the throne, bowed, but oh so slightly,
and placed his hands between those of Philip de Valois. ‘Truly,’ he said,
swearing away all claims to this man's throne with a single word. Henceforward,
all designs on the lands of France would be regarded as sacrilege. But afterwards,
when the solemnity of the afternoon was past, it was remembered that he had not
discarded his crown and his spurs, he had not stripped off his sword or kissed
his French cousin full on the lips as was the usual requirement for liege
homage. There would be scribes on both sides to chronicle these omissions and,
with hindsight, they were to stand out as portents of troubled times to come.
     
    ~o0o~
     
    If Roger Mortimer was