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.