by Jean Plaidy
Warenne was a handsome young man just about twenty years of age. His father had died when he was six months old and he had not long before succeeded to his titles on the death of his grandfather. During the preceding year he had been married to the King’s niece, Joanna, the daughter of Edward’s eldest sister Eleanor and the Count of Bar, so he considered himself a member of the royal family through marriage. He was a proud young man and pleased to be connected with the King and on more than one occasion he had done his best to humiliate Gaveston.
He was noted for his skill in the joust and had become acknowledged champion of that art, and there could be no doubt that he was delighting in the opportunity offered him of humiliating the King’s dear friend. Gaveston was, of course, determined that it should be the other way round.
There were many who were aware during those tense moments that this was something more than a joust à Plaisance. The feeling that a great deal was at stake had permeated atmosphere and the tension was growing.
As the two men rode into the field and came at each other with their blunted lances the King leaned forward in his seat.
‘Go to it, Perrot,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Make Warenne grovel in the dust.’
They tilted, each highly skilled. Everyone knew that Warenne was a champion so it was Gaveston who surprised them the most. All the skill of the champion was his. That much was clear. The thunder of hoofs as they galloped towards at each other; the clash of steel as they met and then suddenly a cry went up. One of them was down.
The thundering of Edward’s heart matched that of the horse’s hoofs. A mist swam before his eyes so that he was not sure which was which.
‘Oh God, yes it is― it is―’ he murmured. ‘Warenne is down.’
What a moment of humiliation! What a moment of glory!
Warenne would never forget nor forgive this moment.
Defeated, he a champion, beaten by an upstart Gascon knight who owed his title to the King’s favour for questionable services performed.
Even Edward could not help feeling a little sorry for Warenne in that moment.
He had returned crestfallen to his pavilion, the roars of the crowd in his ears, hatred for Gaveston in his heart.
And then Arudnel.
Gaveston’s friends were warning him. ‘You cannot hope for your luck to continue,’ they said. ‘Leave Arundel to one of us.’
But Gaveston was drunk with success. He was supreme. He was sure of it.
He had staged this tournament that he might show these people that he was superior to them in every way and he was going to prove it. This was his triumph.
He knew that fortune was smiling on him that day. He was aware of the King’s burning gaze. He felt as though he had been born for this day. From henceforth these men who had set themselves against him should acknowledge their superior. The tournament was a symbol and they knew it.
And so to Arundel— Edmund Fitzalan who had recently married Warenne’s sister Alice. They were a close community, these noble lords. Arundel had behaved arrogantly to Gaveston. He was another one of those who resented the friendship with the King.
Ambition rode with Gaveston. Every bit of skill he had taken such pains to acquire must do him good service.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. He looked towards the canopy.
Gaveston knew his dear friend was watching, praying, hoping― Arundel was down. A silence, then the uproar.
Gaveston, no― the Earl of Cornwall― had proved himself to be the champion of champions.
Two of the greatest jousters of the times and both defeated! This was triumph indeed.
‘You have done it,’ said Walter Reynolds. ‘Rest on your laurels, Perrot. You have brought these two down.’
But Gaveston shook his head. ‘No, it shall be Hereford too. I’ll not rest until I have defeated the three of them.’
‘My dear lord, you tempt the fates.’
‘I have done that all my life, Walter. And today the fates are with me.’
There was no dissuading him and soon he was riding out to meet Hereford, proud Humphrey de Bohun, Constable of England, and another of those who considered himself part-royal because he was married to a sister of the King’s.
He was considered to be a great champion at the joust and his wife Elizabeth was seated under the royal canopy with her brother, the King.
Elizabeth would be praying for her husband; but the King’s thoughts, of course, would be all for his beloved Gaveston.
Gaveston felt like a legendary hero on that day. He knew he could not be beaten. Fortune was smiling on him. He, the son of a humble Gascon knight, was becoming the most important man in the realm.
Even as Hereford rode towards him, he knew.
And incredibly it happened. The mighty Earl, the champion jouster, was lying in the dust and the new champion Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, was riding round the field to come to rest before the King.
Edward could not hide his joy and pride. There were tears in his eyes.
‘My champion of champions!’ he murmured.
So the day ended in a resounding victory for Gaveston, a humiliating defeat for his enemies. The crowds were shouting Gaveston’s name and vying with each other to wear his colours.
Gaveston asked the King if his lord was pleased with the little entertainment he had devised for his amusement.
‘Dear Perrot,’ replied the King, I am more than delighted. But I see some black looks around here. Do you?’
They laughed together— intimate laughter, implying shared secrets.
‘My dear lord,’ said Gaveston’s young wife, ‘you were wonderful. There can never have been such a noble knight.’
‘Is that so?’ said Gaveston. He glanced at her briefly then turned to the King.
‘Magnificent Perrot,’ cried Edward, ‘I will come with you to your pavilion. I want to tell you of my special appreciation.’
Margaret was about to follow them when her husband turned to look at her.
There was that in his eyes which commanded her to stay where she was. She stood, disconsolate, looking after the King and her husband as they made their way to the most brilliantly luxurious of all the pavilions.
‘My lady,’ whispered Walter Reynolds who was standing by and had seen what had happened, ‘you cannot hope to come between such friends.’
Margaret looked as though she were about to burst into tears.
‘My lady is but a child,’ murmured Walter Reynolds.
The Earl of Warwick asked Margaret if he might escort her ‘It will be a pleasure to do so, dear lady, since your husband is engaged with the King.’
Gaveston looked round and saw Warwick with his wife. His voice, always resonant and clear, came to them as they stood there.
‘Look Edward. The mad hound is taking charge of my wife.’
Their laughter floated back to the group.
Warwick had flushed scarlet. He knew that people, instigated by Gaveston, called him the Mad Hound behind his back and it was true that he had an unfortunate habit of spitting as he spoke, which Gaveston called foaming at the mouth.
‘He may call me the mad Hound,’ muttered Warwick. ‘One day that mad hound will seize him and destroy him.’
* * *
How they rejoiced. How they laughed. Walter Reynolds said they must have a special play to celebrate the occasion. The arrogant nobility had been bitterly humiliated.
‘They say,’ commented Gaveston, ‘that Hereford, Arundel and Surrey will never get over it.’
‘I hope they will not try to take their revenge,’ commented Edward uneasily.
‘I would challenge them again tomorrow,’ boasted Gaveston.
‘Oh, but I did not mean at the joust. I fear they will put their heads together and talk against us.’
‘Men will always stander those of whom they are envious.’
‘Why they be envious? They are rich men and have all they want.’
‘They do not have your
love, my lord, as I have it.’
‘They should know that is for one alone.’
‘We should be watchful, my lords,’ said Reynolds. ‘They are in conference with your cousin Lancaster and Warwick.’
‘I’ll warrant the mad hound is foaming at the mouth,’ cried Gaveston.
‘And that Lincoln strokes his fat belly and is taking a little more food and wine to comfort him.’
‘And Lancaster fiddles away to get them dancing to his tune.’
‘While our one-time champions lick their wounds.’
There was much laughter in the royal chamber and when the players came in they made little Francekin perform for them on his new kettle drums. Francekin was such a boy.
Then they gave themselves up to the pleasure of planning Christmas. How wonderful it would be to spend it together. Edward had a special cotehardie for his friend. It was set with the most valuable jewels he could find. How delighted Perrot would be with that. He could scarcely wait to give it to him.
He lay dreaming of the joy in store for his dear friend.
But Gaveston’s thoughts were on another prize.
‘You know, dearest boy,’ he said, ‘that you will soon have to go to France.’
Edward pouted. ‘Oh pray, Perrot, do not remind me it.’
‘You will not stay long, just long enough to pay your respects to the King of France and marry his daughter. Then you will return to your Perrot. But while you are away there must be a Regent. You will have to appoint him before you go.’
‘You know who that will be, Perrot— my cousin Lancaster.’
‘Old Fiddler! Oh no, that must not be.’
‘It will be only for a short time. I know he is stupid but there will be plenty around him to keep him in order.’
‘Dear lord, you know that I have beaten three so-called champions in combat. I have shown myself to be superior them, have I not?’
‘Indeed you have, Perrot.’
Gaveston seized the King’s arm. ‘Then give me this chance. Show your trust in me. Let me hold the power for you while you are away from these shores.
Only that can give me a crumb of comfort.’
‘Perrot! They would never agree―’
‘Why, my lord? Who would dare to disagree with the King?’
‘They will say that it should naturally go to Lancaster.’
‘Let them say what they will. It is for you to bestow the Regency on whomsoever you wish. And I venture to believe that you have more trust in me than in the Fiddler or Burst Belly or even the Mad Hound.’
‘By God’s ears, Perrot, I’ll do it.’
‘Oh my lord, my sweet lord.’
‘You are content then, Perrot?’
‘Content when my lord plans to leave me― even though it will be brief? It must be brief. How can I live without you? But I will take the Regency and I will say this is a symbol of his trust in me and believe me, dearest lord, it will not be the power which comes to me in which I shall delight but the knowledge of the trust my dear lord has in me.’
‘Oh Perrot, Perrot, I shall soon be back with you.’
Gaveston grimaced. ‘A husband. Fancy that, lord. You will come back with a wife.’
‘What you have, I shall have. Nothing more.’
‘Let us hope,’ said Gaveston gaily, ‘that our wives will be good friends and that their friendship will compensate them for their husband’s neglect.’
Gaveston was feeling intoxicated with power. He had not really believed it.
Surely Edward would have stopped at the Regency. It was clear though that there was no end to his infatuation.
This, said Gaveston to himself, is but a beginning.
* * *
The lords had met. Among them were Warwick and Lancaster and, still licking their wounds, Hereford, Sussex and Arundel.
They were incredulous.
‘It can’t be true,’ cried Arundel. ‘The Regency. This upstart. My God, Thomas, it should be you.’
‘I cannot think what madness has beset my cousin,’ said Lancaster. ‘I had naturally assumed that I should be the one.’
‘Gaveston,’ cried Hereford, ‘to be put above us all. This nobody. It’s a madness.’
It was Warwick who begged them to be calm.
‘He can do little harm. We shall see to that and It will not be long before the King returns.’
‘And if he attempts to rule the country― and us?’ asked Hereford.
‘We shall know how to deal with him,’ answered Warwick.
‘Nay, the King will return a husband. His bride is noted for her beauty.
Philip will have them married with great pomp and when the King has a beautiful wife he will grow away from Gaveston.’
‘Do you think he will ever grow away from Gaveston?’ asked Arundel.
Warwick’s dark eyes glowed suddenly. ‘If he does not, my lord, it will be our duty to see that Gaveston is removed.’
Removed. A good word. It covered so many meanings. That was what they were all thinking as they looked at Warwick.
Little flecks of foam were visible on his chin. The Mad Hound, Gaveston had called him. They remembered Warwick’s words. ‘He will find that the Mad Hound can destroy him.’ Perhaps it would not come to that. Who could say? Warwick was smiling almost blandly.
‘Give the King a beautiful wife. If anyone can change him, can take him away from this passion for Gaveston, Isabella can.’
There was a sense of relief in the room. Warwick was right. Edward was young yet. He was weak; easily influenced, and Gaveston, they all had to admit, was clever.
Marriage was the answer. Beautiful Isabella would save the King.
‘We must impress on the King that he should leave without delay,’ said Arundel.
‘So that,’ went on Lancaster, ‘on his return we can go ahead with plans for the coronation.’
They nodded.
They were convinced— most of them— that Isabella might well make a good husband and father of Edward, and so weaken and, hopefully, destroy the evil influence of Piers Gaveston.
THE QUEEN’S DISCOVERY
THESE were days for the Princess Isabella and she was gratified to be the centre of attention. They were all so pleased about the proposed match; and so was she― for she had heard her bridegroom-to-be was one of the most handsome in the world. She had never seen him but those who had assured her that there had been no exaggeration of his good looks.
‘He is tall,’ they said, ‘with flaxen hair. He is just like his father and he was known in his youth to be a fine-looking man. You will be a Queen,’ they went on. ‘Queen of England― think of that.’
She had thought about it and it pleased her. She patted her luxuriant curls and assured herself that she would be a good match for this handsome man, for she was an acknowledged beauty herself. She had seen even her father’s eyes soften at the sight of her and everyone knew what a ruthless man he was! He was the most powerful King in Europe and her mother had been a Queen in her own right before she had married, so no one could be more highly born than the Princess Isabella.
It was only to be expected that because of her outstanding beauty she would make a grand match.
Her brothers— Louis, who was always quarrelling, Philip, who was tall and aloof and Charles who was so good-looking that they were already calling him Le Bel, a title which in her father’s heyday had been given to him— were pleased with the match. So were her uncles Charles de Valois and Louis d’Evreux. In fact the uncles were to go to England when she and her bridegroom left for his country.
She was glad of that. It would make the parting less acute although of course she had always known that, as a Princess, she would have to leave her home one day. It was the fate of all princesses. It had not worried her unduly, and even though at this time she was barely sixteen years old she was prepared for what life would offer. Her strong-minded mother, who never forgot that she was the Queen of Navarre as well as France, and her ruthless f
ather had endowed her with something of their own natures, and she was quite ready to hold her own position in whatever society she found herself.
She only had to see her reflection to receive assurance and if she could not have seen for herself in her mirror, the eyes of the men at her father’s court told her that without doubt was possessed of a rare attraction.
Five years previously she had been solemnly betrothed to Edward, Prince of Wales. This had taken place in Paris and she remembered it well. The Count of Savoy and the Earl of Lincoln had represented the Prince of Wales and her father had given his blessing and her hand to the heir of England. It had been a very impressive moment when she had placed her hand in that of Père Gill, the Archbishop of Narbonne, who had stood proxy for Edward. From that moment she had known that as soon as she was old enough she would become Edward’s wife. Since then she had tried to learn all she could about Edward. She had discovered that he often disobeyed father and she was amused. Her father had talked of the King of England as that wily old lion and gave the impression he did not by any means love him, although he respected him.
‘We must always be watchful of the old lion,’ he had said, and he was always delighted when the Welsh and the Scots gave his rival trouble. But he was eager for this marriage and so it seemed was the old King of England.
Her mother had explained it to her. ‘Alliances such as you will make with the Prince of Wales are a safeguard of peace. And when you are Queen of England, never forget France.’
She had sworn she never would.
It was comforting too that her aunt Marguerite was the Dowager Queen of England. She was coming to France for the wedding. Jeanne, Isabella’s mother, often talked of Marguerite.
‘Your aunt is a good woman, Isabella. She was happy with the old King.
Marguerite is such a meek and docile woman that she would believe she was happy as long as her husband did not ill-treat her or too blatantly consort with other women. The King of England was a faithful husband and that is considered rare. Therefore your aunt was a very happy wife. She has said so often.’
