Текст книги "The Follies of the King"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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T

HE FOLLIES OF THE KING

JEAN PLAIDY

―――――――

GAVESTON

―――――――

BELOVED PERROT

THE old King was dying. There, in the little village of Burgh-on-Sands

where he was in sight of the Solway Firth beyond which lay the land he had planned to conquer, he had come to the end of a long life of endeavour and triumph. He had brought his country out of the pit of disaster into which the ill rule of a demoniacal grandfather and a weak father had led it, and he had made England a proud country again. His ancestors, chief of them that great William who had become known as The Conqueror, would be proud of him.

But God had seen fit to take him before his work was completed. He had

done much but not enough. He had known he had been inspired and he would

become a legend. His enemies quailed before him and wherever Edward had

ridden into battle, that aura of invincibility had gone with him.

‘When I am dead,’ he said to his son, ‘let my bones be placed in a hammock and carried before the army that the enemy may know that I am there in spirit.’

Young Edward was paying little attention. There was one subject which

occupied his mind.

Perrot! He was thinking. My dearest, my beloved, my incomparable Perrot, when the old man is gone, the first act of my reign shall be to bring you back to me.

He was vaguely aware that his father was babbling on about sending his

heart to the Holy Land with a hundred knights who should serve there for a year and was wondering how soon he could dispatch a messenger. Perrot would be

waiting. For so long it had seemed that the King was near to death.

He had, in fact, lived for sixty-eight years, which was a long span. But

Edward had always seemed different from other men. Some of his subjects

believed that he was immortal and he had appeared to have that notion of

himself― until now.

The old man was uncanny. He had always had a gift for reading the thoughts of those about him. Even lying there, with death at his elbow, when he should be thinking of facing his Maker, he gave his son a shrewd look and said: ‘Never recall Piers Gaveston without the consent of the nation.’

Uncanny! Yes, as though he knew that the tall, handsome young man at his bedside– so like the young man he himself had once been but only as far as his appearance was concerned– was not thinking of his dying father but of his dear friend Piers Gaveston, his Perrot.

‘Yes, Father,’ he said meekly, for he saw no point in arguing on a matter

which he was determined was to be his first act on gaining authority. In any case the old King would be unable to prevent it when he was dead.

And as he stood by the deathbed he knew that his father despaired of him

and the country’s future, yet all the young Edward could think of was: ‘Soon my dear Perrot, you shall come to me.’

Then the end was very close. The old King lay back, whispering of his faith in God– and soon he was dead.

Now men were looking at the young King with that awed respect they

showed to the crown. He was his father’s son and therefore they must give him allegiance.

A great triumph came to Edward. A new reign had begun.

His reign.

–――――――

‘My lord,’ they said, and knelt before him. They kissed his hand, those

barons who had (on more than one occasion!) proved they could give less than absolute loyalty to their King. He must be wary of them. He must not show

them just yet how different life was going to be. There must be no more of this obsession with Scotland for one thing. He hated the place. He longed for

Westminster, Windsor and the south.

He was already planning to leave an army up here and return to London―

but he would have to go carefully. He fully realized that. Lincoln, Warwick and his uncle Lancaster had too high an opinion of themselves and on account of his youth they wanted to guide him. He would let them believe they were

succeeding― just at first.

Reynolds was different. Reynolds was his friend, and always had been, ever since he had come into his personal household. Perrot had liked him and

Reynolds had joined their exploits and very often had given a spice to them, which even Perrot had admired. Reynolds secretly laughed at authority—

particularly had he mocked the traditions which the old King had been so eager to maintain. They had found great excitement in flouting authority. Often, when he was merely Prince Edward, he had wondered why his father had allowed

Reynolds into his household and, when he had raised the matter with his

intimate cronies, Reynolds had explained rather dryly that even the most

virtuous of men, upright, just and honoured though they might be, at times they found it necessary to transact little matters which must be performed in secret if the aura of honour, justice and nobility was to be maintained. Then they turned to those who would serve them in certain capacities― and keep their mouths shut. Reynolds’s talk was always full of innuendoes. Even Perrot had been

fascinated by it.

Reynolds was a priest, which made it all so much more amusing, but he was

very good at theatricals; he knew where to find the best musicians and liked to dress up and act himself. They had had good times together, and when the King had reproved his son for his extravagances and cut off his allowance, it was Walter Reynolds who had contrived to have him supplied with what were called household necessities and which turned out to be a new set of kettle drums or a case full of fine materials for making costumes.

Walter Reynolds was his friend; they had mourned together when Perrot had

been sent away. It was Walter who had slyly whispered that it might not be for long by the look of things and had nodded and winked and pranced about as

though he were following a funeral bier.

Walter was a vulgar man. But young Edward liked vulgar men. His sisters

and his parents had never understood why he preferred the company of his

servants to that of noblemen.

There were exceptions of course. There was Perrot who was full of court

graces. None could dance as he could. None looked so beautiful or loved fine garments more. But even he was not royal― only the son of a Gascon knight

whom the King had favoured because he had done him some service.

‘Walter,’ he said when the man appeared before him, ‘it is time for action.’

‘What are your wishes, O King?’ replied Walter, smiling that sly secret

smile of his.

‘They will be leaving with my father’s body ere long.’

‘True, my lord. And you must needs remain here with your army and that

grieves you, I’ll swear.’

‘It’ll not be for long. I must make a show of carrying out my father’s

wishes.’

Walter nodded grimly.

‘But I shall soon be in Westminster.’

‘What mean you, lord King? To leave garrisons here as your father did?’

Edward nodded. ‘It is all I will do, and it is enough. With all his fine battles what has my father won? Here we are facing the Scots as he was years ago. It’s a lost battle, Walter, and I have had enough of it.’

‘Yet, my lord, your uncle Lancaster―’

‘That man’s a fool. I shall soon show him that. But I sent for you, Walter, and I think you guess why.’

Walter nodded laughing.

‘I am to go south― with all speed. I am to send a messenger to France―’

‘That is it. Tell my dear Gaveston that he must come back to me. Tell him

the King commands him― without delay.’

‘Aye, my King. I’ll tell him. I’ll warrant he is all ready to leave. He’ll be waiting the signal. Depend upon it. He’ll be all eagerness to kneel to his King, mark my words.’

‘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.’

–――――――

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.

–――――――

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.

There was a great deal of fun to be had and Perrot knew how to make the most of it. Perrot could act and dance better than anyone else.

As ever his thoughts came back to Perrot.

And so to Westminster, there to make arrangements for his father’s funeral.

Lancaster had been right. The people were ready to give him a royal welcome.

He was so like his father, who was making rapid progress towards sainthood.

People were talking of his just good rule which a few years before had been called harsh and cruel.

‘Edward has not left us,’ they said, ‘but he lives on in his son.’

A few very old men remembered when the old King had come from his

crusade in the Holy Land to be crowned King of England. Towering above other men because of those long Norman legs which had given him the affectionate nickname of Longshanks, he came with a beautiful wife who had followed him romantically to the Holy Land that she might not be separated from him. So Edward I had come in as a romantic hero and had gone out as a saint, his

glorious deeds remembered, his misdeeds forgotten.

So the people loved his son. They welcomed him. They wanted to see him

crowned; they wanted him to have a beautiful bride.

Well that must come.

He would have preferred not to marry, but he had always had known it

would be required of him. Perrot and he had discussed it often. Isabella– the most beautiful girl in Europe― royal, well endowed, daughter of the King of France. Everyone would approve of that.

He began to laugh suddenly. If he married, Perrot should have a bride too.

Why not? He pictured Perrot’s face when he put that proposition to him.

To the Palace of Westminster then which had been so beloved by his

grandparents who had refurbished it, spent a fortune on it and had added

exquisite murals and painted ceilings. Perrot liked it. It was here that he had talked of his ambitions.

‘You are a prince,’ he had said, ‘the heir to the throne and I am but a humble knight. It bemeans you to be my friend.’

For the moment Edward had been stunned. Perrot who was always so sure

of himself! Perrot who walked like a king and who could, by a show of

displeasure, reduce Edward to humility. He could see nothing bemeaning to

him. He could only be grateful to God for giving him such a friend.

Then it came out. Perrot had wanted honours. ‘So that I can stand beside my friend― not as an equal― none in this realm can be that― but worthy of him,’

he had explained.

He had wanted Ponthieu. ‘Ask the King. Tell him you think some honour

should be given me. Tell him what a good friend I have always been to you.’

Edward, who wanted above all things to please his friend, felt uneasy. He

knew that their enemies looked askance at their friendship. Some of them had whispered to the King that it was not good for the Prince to be so often with Piers Gaveston.

He had seen the wistful look in Perrot’s eyes. Perrot wanted to be an equal of those others about him. Lancaster and Lincoln treated him as though he were some higher servant.

Wanting to show Perrot what he would do for him, he had actually asked his father for Ponthieu.

What a scene there had been! The old man had turned scarlet in the face.

The Plantagenet temper which had haunted the family since the days of Henry II was ready to flare into being. They had all had it. In Edward I, it had been largely held in check. In King John, it had run so wild that he would have a man’s eyes plucked out or his ears or nose cut off simply for having aroused it.

Well, he, Edward, had seen it in his father’s eyes when he had asked for

Ponthieu for Perrot.

All his father’s fears for the future, all his dissatisfaction with his son was there in that moment when he seized him by the hair and had even pulled out some by its roots.

Edward touched his head now remembering. It was still sore from the attack.

In it had been all his father’s resentments, his dislike of his son’s way of life, his longing for a son who, would follow him to battle and of whom he would have made a king to match himself.

It had been a mistake. It had resulted in Perrot’s banishment. Perrot and he had slipped up there. Edward had been lenient with his daughter’s

misdemeanours. When his sister Joanna had been alive, she had twisted her

father round her finger many times. But she had been a girl, and the King had doted on his daughters. But his son had failed to give him what he wanted. He cried out for a brave son who would go to war and bring Scotland to the crown; and fate had give him Edward, who was handsome but not in a manly way, who was clever enough but lazy, who had no taste for battle an liked better to frivol with his giddy companions, roistering in the streets, or playing music and dancing and lavishing time and attention on his players. Edward’s little half-brother, Thomas and Edmund, fruit of the King’s second marriage were as yet too young to show what they would be.

So― his coronation, then his marriage― but first there must be his father’s burial.

The casket which would hold the dead King’s body being prepared. It was

simple, as the King would have wished and made of black Purbeck stone. It was not to be sealed for they would have to make a show of carrying out his orders which were that his bones be carried in a hammock before the army when it

marched against the Scots. Every two years, according to his orders, the tomb was to be opened, and the wax of the cerecloth renewed. His tomb should not be sealed until complete victory over Scotland was achieved.

They would do it of course. They were afraid to do anything else. Dead

Edward was as terrifying as living Edward had been.

There was a light tap on the door and one of Edward’s attendants looked in.

He seemed apprehensive. The King started up as the messenger bowed low.

‘My lord, a man awaits without. He says to tell you to be prepared for grave news.’

‘Grave news! What news? Who is this man?’

‘He will tell you himself, my lord. Those were his orders. Will you see

him?’

‘Send him to me without delay.’

He was frowning. Grave news! What now? He wanted nothing― nothing

but news of Perrot.

The door opened. The messenger was back. He bowed low. ‘Come in, my

lord,’ he said. ‘The King will see you.’

Into the room came a figure wrapped up in an all-concealing cloak. The

messenger stepped backwards, bowed and shut the door on them.

‘Who are you?’ cried the King. ‘Why do you come in this way―’

The cloak was flung off and, as it fell to the floor, Edward gave a cry of great joy and flung himself into the arms of his visitor.

‘Perrot! Perrot?’ he cried, ‘Oh, you villain― to hold yourself back from me even for those moments― This joy has been delayed.’

‘That my beloved King might find it all the more precious.’

‘Oh Perrot, Perrot, if you but knew what it has been like without you.’

‘I know that full well, my beloved lord. Have I not been without you? But it is all over now. We are together again and you are the King. You are the master now, sweet friend. That old man delayed his departure too long but at last he has gone.’

‘Oh Perrot, what joy! What joy! You came with all speed then.’

‘I was ready awaiting the signal. I had news that your father was nearing the end. As soon as I saw your messenger, I knew. I was ready and waiting.’

‘Let me look at you, sweet Perrot. You are a little different. What is it? You long dark clever eyes. No. Your dark curling hair, your rather arrogant nose, your laughing mouth― no it is not these.’

‘It is this silk robe. Where have you seen silk like this? I must show you the cotehardies I have brought with me. You will be amazed. What a becoming

garment. I promise you, you will love it.’

‘Talk not to me of clothes, Perrot. What care I for clothes? You rogue, you, to talk of grave news― a messenger― from afar. How could you keep me from

this bliss even for a moment?’

‘Pardon, sweet lord. It was a mischief in me. I had suffered so―’

‘Forget it. Forget it. You are back., How long has it seemed without you.

You teased me then. You always did. How I missed your teasing. I am

surrounded by these dreary lords. They depress me. They compare me with my father―’

‘You are incomparable.’

‘Oh Perrot, my love. I thought I should die when you went away.’

‘Thank God you did not. For how could I have lived without you? It would

have been a greater tragedy for Perrot to be robbed of his Edward than for England to lose her King.’

They were incoherent in the joy of their reunion.

‘Let us savor this,’ said Edward. ‘Tomorrow we will talk of many things.’

–――――――

Lancaster burst into the apartments of the Earl of Warwick and seeing his

expression, Warwick immediately dismissed all those who were in attendance on him.

‘By God, Warwick,’ cried Lancaster. ‘ Have you heard the news?’

‘Nay, my lord, and if your looks express your feelings, I fear the worst.’

‘He is back. That low-born traitor to the realm, the King’s evil-genius.’

‘Gaveston?’

‘Who else? By God, we should have had his head were he left in

banishment.’

‘I think that the King’s father would not have said nay to such an act. Had he thought his son would break his word to him, Gaveston would not have lived to bring trouble back to our country. But ‘tis no use brooding on what might have been. He’s with the King, I’ll swear.’

‘Has been with him since the moment of his return. They’ll not be parted. It sickens me to see him there. The King will have him at his side, at his table, in his bed. He swears he’ll never let him go again.’

‘The King will have to learn that he rules by the will of barons. Even his great grandfather must have learned that lesson in the end.’

‘I see trouble, Warwick.’

‘Where Gaveston is, there will be trouble. So it was when the King was but his father’s heir. But Edward is King now. The people will support him― for a time.’

‘You mean we must do nothing to bring about Gaveston’s banishment?’

‘I think we should tread warily. Let us see what comes from his return. The King dotes on him and the people are with the King. They always are in a new reign. It seems likely that Gaveston will make such great demands and Edward doubtless grant them that the people will see for themselves what a menace this man is. They will not like the relationship between them. So what we must do at this time, my friend, is wait.’

Lancaster was disappointed. He wanted immediate action. He was noted for

his impulsiveness and he was not an especially wise man. But for the fact that he was the grandson of a king, he would have been insignificant, so reasoned

Warwick.

So he was eager to impress on Lancaster that they must act with care. That the new King was self-willed was obvious, that he had perverted sexual tastes was another– well he was not the first king to have been afflicted in that way.

He could be a good king for all that. Edward was young. He had much to learn.

It was the task of his barons, who were eager to see peace and prosperity in the country, to bring him to understanding of his responsibilities.

‘So Gaveston is back,’ he mused, ‘though the late King banished him. We

must accept that.’

‘Aye!’ cried Lancaster, ‘and the late King advised us and his son never to have him back.’

‘Young Edward is the ruler now, my lord. And he has commanded Gaveston

to return.’

‘That he may shower gifts on him― lands, possessions, titles― It is going

to be Henry the Third with his extravagant friends soaking up the country’s life blood all over again.’

‘They were his wife’s relations, and they were numerous. This is the King’s lover. Listen Lancaster, Edward must be married without delay. He recognizes the necessity to do so, I’ll swear. He has to give us an heir or two and they say young Isabella is something of a siren. Nay, my lord, let us do nothing rash. We will acquaint the leading barons of Gaveston’s return. We will have them on the alert, shall we say? We have to crown the King and when he is married to this beautiful girl― Oh come, Lancaster. He is young yet. His father was stern with him. He is now free. Let us give him a beautiful wife and a chance. It may well be that Gaveston will mean nothing to him within a few months.’

‘I think you take too facile a view of this, Warwick.’

‘That may well be. But there is little we can do as yet. He has sent for

Gaveston and Gaveston has returned. Let us get the coronation over and the King married and then if―’

‘Yes,’ said Lancaster. ‘And then?’

‘Then, my lord, if Gaveston is a danger to the King and the country, we

must find some means of disposing of him.’

Lancaster looked into the shrewd dark-skinned face of the Earl and nodded.

–――――――

‘Perrot, they say I must marry and soon.’

They were walking in the gardens arm in arm. They had not been out of

each other’s company since Gaveston’s return.

‘I know it. They seek to turn you away from me.’

‘Fools! It would be easier to conquer Scotland than do that.’

‘I had hoped that it would be an impossible task.’

‘Absolutely impossible, dear Gaveston.’

‘Well, you must perforce marry, get the wench with child and do your duty

to your crown.’

‘Well, I will do it for them.’

‘They say she is a beautiful girl.’

‘They say― they say. As you once said before, she is the daughter of the

King of France. My stepmother remembered her. Isabella was but a baby when Marguerite left France to marry my father. There is a tradition of beauty in that family. Her father is Philip le Beu and her aunt was so noted for her charms that my father dearly wanted to marry her and he got her sister, my stepmother, instead. Marguerite is not uncomely. Yes, I do think I shall have a beautiful wife.’

Gaveston pouted. ‘You talk thus to plague me.’

‘Never, Perrot. She will mean nothing to me. But I am the King and there

certain duties I must submit to.’

‘Hateful duties.’

‘Dear Perrot, I know your feelings well. Do not imagine that I shall not

compensate you. I have news for you. You will not long be plain Piers

Gaveston, you know. What would you say to an earldom?’

‘I should say my gracious thanks, my lord; and my heart would rejoice―

not in the earldom― others have those― but in the love of my lord which is beyond price, beyond assessment and means more to me than any titles or

lands.’

‘It shall be an outward sign of my devotion, dearest brother.’

‘My brother indeed.’

When they were young in the royal schoolroom where Edward’s father had

put young Piers out of gratitude to the boy’s father who had performed a service for him– they had instant liking to each other. That attraction had never

wavered and the first thing of consequence Edward his young friend had been,

‘You are my brother.’

From then on they called each other ‘brother’ and still did so in of nostalgic tenderness.

‘Listen, Perrot. What earldom do you think? Nay, I’ll tell you. You are to be the Earl of Cornwall.’

Even Gaveston, growing accustomed to lavish gifts, could not believe his

ears.

‘Cornwall! That is a royal title!’

‘Well, Perrot, do you not like it?’