The First Princess of Wales (6 page)

CHAPTER THREE

L
ike a proud, young lion poised over his domain, England’s tawny-haired Prince of Wales surveyed the broad Thames Valley below. Lofty spires of the three great London cathedrals, countless bell towers, and toylike, beflagged turrets and towers of the rich and royal; a stone and timber, daub and straw city of twenty thousand souls: the very heartbeat of the kingdom lay at his feet as his massive, black stallion stamped and snorted impatiently under him at the edge of Epping Forest.

“I know, Wilifred, I know. But someday their love too will be ours when we have earned it so. Even the most valiant heart must bide awhile until the hour is fully ripe. Our great day will come, good lad. You will see.”

Edward Plantagenet, Duke of Cornwall, heir to the throne, Prince of Wales, loosed his taut, left-handed grip on Wilifred’s reins, and the horse turned back onto the road southeast to their destination, the prince’s big, stone London house on Fish Street. Though he did not glance back at his small entourage again, he knew full well what he would see if he did. Nine of his most select boon companions, themselves heirs to the greatest noble houses of the realm, followed their liege lord and future king closely with their small, private contingents of falconers, musicians, squires, pages, and packhorses. Indeed, they always traveled fairly light on these journeys to their prince’s personal properties like Berkhamstead Castle, or to his manors at Sonning on the Thames near Reading Abbey, Bushey northwest of London, Newport Manor, Cheshire, or the others. Today, since dawn, this traveling party hand-picked from his normal-size household of one hundred twenty men had made the journey of nearly thirty miles from Berkhamstead to London at a fast pace in just four hours.

He felt restless; he admitted it, more restless than usual. This spring—perhaps it was because his formal education with his tutors and his short sojourn at Oxford was over—he felt quite at odds with his life. He was poised, ready, waiting for something grand and wonderful, some sweep of circumstance to test his mettle and thrust him headlong into destiny. But to what, he knew not. And so, he bided his days in overseeing his vast and growing estates, in comradeship with those he would someday need to know to rule well, in observing his world, and in keeping in fighting trim in case this French thing ever came full circuit to a war, as he hoped it might. Damn, but this tenuous treaty with the French was only valid for two more years until 1346. He cursed quietly again and wished his broken arm from that bloody joust a month ago would heal and be done with!

As the horses clattered into the first narrow streets in the northwest suburbs of London, Hugh Calveley and Nickolas Dagworth, hands on swords, moved up to ride abreast with him, and Edward heard his faithful falconer’s voice directly behind as the strung-out band tightened into a closer group. Indeed, there was no need for the added security here among the Londoners, Edward believed, but he accepted their concern. Though his sire, the Plantagenet monarch, had been riding a crest of relative popularity these fourteen years since he had seized the reins of his kingdom from his mother Isabella, sister of the king of France, and her lecherous, treasonous lover, Roger Mortimer—curse his soul—it was always wise to be prepared. The recent English claim on the crown of France through that same misguided Isabella, now living in luxurious exile at Castle Rising in Norfolk, meant French spies or sympathizers would be hostile and, in such a crowded place as London, hard to recognize.

“My lord, though you choose to wear the darker colors like that forest green when you are absent from court, the people know you anyway,” Nickolas Dagworth turned to say.

Edward nodded. The deep green tunic and hose with riding boots hardly disguised him, for he hated hats or hoods and went bareheaded. He also noted how the stares the London folk would give to any large, armed band turned to expressions of joy or awe as they recognized him at the front of his men. Occasionally cries of “God save Yer Grace” or “Long live our Prince o’Wales” floated after them until drowned out by the clatter of the horses’ hoofs and raucous cheers.

He often wore the darker garments away from court festivities and frivolities, not because he meant to go unrecognized, for he seldom managed that, but because he truly favored them. The king always sported bright and riotous-hued velvets and silk but, by St. George, he had earned them in the Scottish Wars or in seizing the inheritance of his own throne from the damned Mortimer! But a prince-in-waiting—he felt like those ladies of the queen or of his lively sister Isabella, forever hovering, hanging on to someone else’s words and awaiting some order or task or honor. And, damn, but when his moment came, he would seize it and use it! If he could only stand this blasted, bloody waiting!

They entered the walled city across Holbourne Bridge through Newgate and rode past the huge Cathedral of St. Paul’s and down Old Fish Street to his three-storied stone house with the black slate roof. Unlike many of the older houses in the neighborhood, his London dwelling did not lean out over the street in each successive story. Rather, it stood straight and tall and boasted modern, large-paned windows and new-forged metal eaves and drainpipes.

Though it was the smallest of his properties, he greatly favored it over the other vast London dwellings of Westminster or Sheen which his family oftimes inhabited, and he often found himself imagining he was a rich, contented merchant, like Michael de la Pole or some such, just living here in peace and prosperity with a passel of strong children and a lovely, lively wife.

He shook his head to throw off the persistent, teasing fantasy as they reined in, scattering a children’s game of Hare and Hounds. The crowd in front of the house grew; a few women shouted and waved from upper windows. Women in his life, ah, women. He felt almost an emptiness there. Many women: pretty, smiling, meek, willing, so willing—but none he truly favored. None who moved him in his heart one whit beyond slaking his occasional quick thirst for one under him. His mind darted to the wild, stunning maid who had stopped his furious attempt to joust with his damned left arm broken last week. He smiled broadly and the crowd cheered. She, for a certainty, would not be meek or willing. She, like his most prized destrier or precious female peregrine falcon, would take some handling and some taming.

Nickolas Dagworth’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Your Grace, do you mean to sit in the street this fine May afternoon? The crowd will scatter if you go in, and the little ones whose game we ruined riding in like this are all peeking out and wanting to go back to play, I warrant.”

Edward stared down at his tall, black-haired friend. “Aye, Nick. Just pondering. Give the little knaves some coins and have them play Hoodman’s Blind. In truth, that is the way I feel half the time of late.”

Prince Edward dismounted and went in through the door the huge giant of a man Hugh Calveley held open for him. He noted the look of puzzlement his two friends exchanged over his last comment. St. George, let them wonder what brought on his black moods in increasing frequency lately. Damn, but even his closest friends did not need to know his every thought and whim just because they served him so assiduously. He was their liege prince, not their private property!

He whacked his leather riding gloves on the narrow, polished oak table in the slate entry hall and paused. He could hear the crowd dispersing and his horses being unpacked and led away around to the mews on the next street already, and soon the bustle of the carrying in and the voices of his entourage would be upon him again. He took his favorite hooded female peregrine, Greta, from the gauntleted arm of his falconer Philip Pipe, crooked his finger to his lutenist Hankin, and stomped up the stairs with the musician in his broad wake.

The house, which was frequently his retreat and his haven from all the demands of who he was and what he must become, welcomed him this warm spring day with cool, quiet arms. Below ground, two huge cellars were stocked with food and choice wine for his closest friends, or for the rare occasions he chose to entertain here. On the ground floor were the oak-paneled hall and the parlor with its own fireplace, and the kitchen and larder at the back. The second floor above ground held his large combined solar and bedchamber with its own stone-lined fireplace and private privy and
garde-robe
rooms where his clothes were stored. Above, under the slanting eaves, were various chambers used almost exclusively by servants since, except during the day, only a few of his men stood guard and the rest stayed at their own London townhouses nearby.

The private solar he entered now was richly appointed with blue Persian carpets and green tapestry depicting forests of the hunt. A large table, cushioned heavy chairs, a massive red canopied feather bed, and huge storage chests were the only furniture in the vast room.

“My Lord Prince, you wished a song?” Hankin, his lutenist, was asking. The slender, brown-haired man stood ready, his full-blown, pear-shaped instrument in his hands. No qualms of insignificance held his servants back from their love of rich colorings in their garments, Edward noted grimly to himself, eyeing Hankin’s fine tunic and hose of gold and scarlet, albeit covered with road dust. St. George, what did it matter? He paid them well to keep them richly clothed. He cared for them well enough, too, whenever he had not fallen into the mire of one of these dark moods.

Mire—Sir Mud and Mire, the saucy, little blonde had dared to call him. He could not wait to see that pert look turn to surprise when she learned who it was she had rudely scolded. Damn, but he would like to be the one to tell her himself, and yet, would that not turn her meek and mild and simpering like the rest of them? He felt a slight, unbidden stirring in his strong loins. By the blessed saints, his mere thoughts of the little witch were breaking down his body’s usual stony reserve.

He smiled again, the look lighting his grim face so that the waiting Hankin marveled at the change which came over his handsome, often austere, young lord’s countenance. Hankin cleared his throat.

“Aye, Hankin. If you are not too tired from that jaunt, tell the steward to fetch me some food and hot water for a bath. And, except for Lord Dagworth, have the others go on home. I will have no need for them until the morrow early. Then come back in and play me something to lighten this foul mood!”

Hankin’s eyes widened and he gripped the neck of his lute tightly. “Aye, Your Grace. At once.”

The door was left ajar as he hurried out, for Edward could hear the voices of his men below. Always, always their voices just beyond some door. At times he wanted, needed them, but not today. He leaned his powerful shoulder against the recessed windowsill and glanced down at his puffy right wrist. It had almost fully healed, although the swelling and stiffness were still with him. Next month at midsummer’s tournament, he would be ready.

“My liege lord, Hankin said you wished to see me.”

“Nick, aye, come in.” The prince’s shrewd eye appraised Nickolas Dagworth as he came across the wide stretch of solar to join him at the street window. A powerful man, a great fighter, and irresistible to the ladies. But Nick was older, almost twenty and six, and had already earned his spurs both in skirmishes with the fierce Scots and in a crusade with the Teutonic knights in Poland. It was ludicrous, really, that he, Edward, who had never really proved himself to his father or his people in anything but in being born Prince of Wales, should dare to command all these proved fighters, these true knights. And now the king had seen fit to send men of proved mettle like Dagworth or Calveley or Sir Thomas Holland on foreign missions to Flanders, while the prince of the realm rode here and there and here again and waited!

“Nick, I have changed my mind about the backgammon and dicing tonight. I need time to be alone.”

“Aye, Your Grace. Hankin said as much. But only until the morrow early, he said.” A battle scar on Nick Dagworth’s handsome face shone white against his brown cheek when he talked, as if flaunting itself, his scar of honor in battle.

“And then tomorrow, I have changed my mind about staying here for a few days,” Prince Edward went on. “We are off for Windsor. When I went to see the queen a week ago she still was not well from childbed fever. I intend to visit her again, I know not for how long.”

Nick Dagworth’s expression was properly compliant. All the prince’s men knew he favored visiting at his own castles and manors to the busy, demanding life on the fringes of his royal parents’ labyrinthine household. Since the prince had been an infant, he had been reared in households of his own, as were his two royal brothers after him.

“Aye, Your Grace. I shall tell them,” he said. “Windsor on the morrow. ’Twill be a lot of action there over the next few weeks with spring carryings-on and the summer jousting, eh?”

“Exactly. I mean to get this hand and arm back in perfect fighting trim to be ready when we need to teach the French their long-awaited lesson. St. George, I pray it shall be soon.”

“Soon enough, my lord prince. The peace treaty has but two years left. And in the respite all England grows stronger, even like your broken arm.”

“But did you mark the sports the commons played on the outskirts as we came in today? Stick ball, bladder ball—the king may have forbidden all sports but archery under pain of death in hopes of having a ready army or archers set to take the soil of France, but the people listen not. Damn, it does not matter. All that running out there will make them fit to charge forward and rout the French off true English soil when the time comes. I only hope it comes soon so those children in the street out there will not be grown soldiers then.”

Nick Dagworth nodded his dark head. “Aye, Your Grace. Our king has rightly claimed the land of France through his mother’s inheritance from her brother, the King of France. King Philip knows his claim—being merely first cousin—is not half so strong. And when we go to fight, my lord, I am certain, with your sire, you shall stand as our leader.”

Edward’s intense blue eyes sought Dagworth’s brown, hooded ones. True, there was some intent to flatter there, his men’s instinctive attempts to assuage these dark moods that plagued him. But they were full loyal and eagerly desired the chance for him to lead, to earn his spurs and thereby their undying loyalty through deed as well as birth.