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