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.’