The Follies of the King - Plaidy Jean (электронная книга TXT) 📗

‘And no more eager than his King to touch his dear face.’

‘I’ll tell him that, my lord. I’ll tell him that. And now my lord King, with your permission, all speed to Perrot Gaveston.’

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It was good to be riding south. He had done his duty. He had directed the

army— his army now, he thought with a smirk— to Falkirk and Cumnock,

though he had not exactly led it after his father’s fashion. He had directed it from the rear— far safer, more comfortable and suited to a man who believed there was something rather ridiculous and pointless to war. He had, it was true, received the oaths of fealty from one or two of the Scottish lords, and then he had decreed that it was safe enough to leave Scotland well garrisoned and return to London.

There was his father’s funeral to be attended to and that followed by his own coronation and his marriage? he would have to marry soon now. He was

already betrothed to Isabella daughter of the King of France who was to be the most beautiful princess in Europe.

‘Princesses are always beautiful,’ Perrot had said. ‘And is it not odd that their beauty grows in proportion to their royalty and their endowments?’

‘It would seem that Isabella is richly endowed,’ he had replied, ‘for reports of her beauty come from all quarters.’

Perrot had shrugged his shoulders. He performed that gesture with more

grace than any other man.

‘She will take you from me,’ he said quietly, almost petulantly.

‘She never shall,’ Edward had declared. ‘No one on earth could do that.’

Perrot pretended not to be reassured but he was. He knew? they both

knew? that the affection they gave to any would never rival that which they gave each other.

He was smiling, thinking of Perrot, and his cousin Thomas, Earl of

Lancaster who was riding beside him murmured that he trusted would be no

perfidy from the Scots.

‘Ah, the Scots.’ replied Edward with a yawn, ‘a tiresome race? you ever try their oatmeal porridge, Tom?’

Thomas said that he had tried and loathed it.

‘Good Thomas, I agree with you. Let us thank God that we have turned our

backs on the bleak inhospitable land.’

‘Tis natural enough to be inhospitable to unwanted guests, my lord.’

Edward laughed. ‘You speak truth there. Let us go where we are wanted. I

wonder what sort of welcome the people of London will show me?’

‘A grand one, I’ll warrant. You are the son of your father and looking at

you, my lord, none could doubt it.’

‘Nay, my sainted mother was never one to stray from the marriage bed

though my father did desert her often enough for his wars.’

‘She followed him in battle, my lord, and was never far behind.’

‘Ah, battle? battle. His life was one long battle.’

‘A great King, my lord.’

‘Don’t say it in that way, Tom. I forbid it.’

‘In what way, my lord?’

‘In a we’ll-never-see-the-like-of-him-again kind of way. I tell you this, his son has no intention of being his father’s shadow and the sooner you and the rest realize that, the better.’

‘I doubt those close to you expect it,’ retorted Thomas.

‘Then that is well. Now we must give the old man a worthy send-off. I’ll

plan it myself. Gaveston will help me.’

‘Gaveston, my lord?’

Edward looked slyly at his cousin. ‘Piers Gaveston. You know him well.’

‘But he?’

‘Will be awaiting me on my return to Westminster, I believe.’

‘It was the King’s wish?’

‘That King is dead, cousin.’

‘It was his wish?’ Thomas’s face was serious. Thomas gave himself airs,

believing himself to be as royal as Edward and so he was in a way, although not in the line of succession. He was the eldest son of Edward’s father’s brother Edmund, first cousin to the King and because his father had died while Thomas was a minor in the King’s care, he had become the Earl of Lancaster, Leicester and Derby. Weighty titles which allied with royalty had given Thomas a high opinion of himself. No wonder he thought he could be on familiar terms with a king.

‘I repeat, cousin,’ said Edward firmly, ‘that King is dead. This one now

riding beside you lives.’

‘Aye, ‘tis so,’ replied Thomas noncommittally.

They would learn, thought Edward smiling.

‘You’re glum, Thomas,’ went on the King. ‘Think you Richmond and

Pembroke will not look after the affairs of the border?’

‘The late King had planned to do battle. Robert the Bruce has returned.’

‘I have told you, Thomas, that we will not discuss the late King, except it be the matter of his obsequies. We will make our way to Waltham where he lies and then take him to Westminster. He shall have a funeral worthy of him

Methinks he would wish to lie beside his father. He loved him dearly. I

remember well the stories he told us of our grandfather.’

‘The King was always a family man.’

‘He was a paragon of virtues to those whom he favoured. There are some

who would consider him less so. But? I will not speak ill of the dead. Death sanctifies. Even those who failed to gain respect in life can do so often enough in death. So my father whose stature was great in life will become a giant in death. Therefore, good Thomas, we will bury him with such pomp as will satisfy the people of London.’

“You will remember his request that his bones should march with his army.’

‘I remember it, cousin.’

The King rode forward ahead of Lancaster. He was in no mood for further

conversation. He was thinking of reaching London, of his father’s funeral, of his own coronation. Gaveston would be there.

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The journey to Waltham lasted two weeks and every day the King chafed

against the delay. Now he must make the solemn entry to London and there his father must be laid to Abbey of Westminster. It must be a grand funeral. The people would expect it. He could imagine the old man’s wrath if he were

looking down on the scene. So much good money wasted, money which might

have gone into armaments to wage war on the Scots and keep the rebellious

Welsh in control.

Such a great King! Greater dead than he was alive. He had enemies then. He always had to be watchful of the barons who had been given a high opinion of themselves since Magna Carta. Old Longshanks knew how to keep them in

order, but even the mighty fail in due course. In the coffin lay the remains of a once great King, whose very bones— so he thought? would strike terror into an enemy. Nothing but bones!

And here he was in London, the capital. His capital now. He loved the city.

It had been a custom of his to wander with Perrot through it incognito, to mingle with the crowds, to take on the roles of noblemen, merchants, strolling

players? just as the mood took them. His disguise had never been easy to achieve. He was so tall and flaxen-haired and so like his father that he could be easily recognized. It had been a special challenge and how he and Perrot would congratulate each other if they came through a nightly adventure identity in intact!

Edward sometimes wished he had not been born his father’s son. To wander

down the Chepe over the uneven stones where the kennels running down the

middle were often choked with refuse, past the wooden houses, shops and stalls with their signs and lanterns swinging on straw ropes, that was adventure. To drink a flagon of ale in the Mermaid or Mitre Taverns, to mingle with merchants and beggars, milkmaids and moneychangers, honest traders and those bent on nefarious traffic— that was living and he and Perrot, with a few well chosen companions escaped to it when they felt in the mood to do so. They had been happy days of adventure and pleasure.

And afterwards? to wash the grime of the streets from their hands and

faces, to throw off their humble garments, to dress in silks and brocades and fine jewels and perhaps call the players to perform for them, that was pure pleasure.