T

HE FOLLIES OF THE KING

JEAN PLAIDY

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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.’