The Follies of the King

by Виктория Холт

  The Follies of the King

  Виктория Холт

  Jean Plaidy

  The Follies of the King

  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.

  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 ea
gerness 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 Per
rot 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.’