to a hiss. 'Son of a witch, you come from the Devil and to the Devil you will go. Be sure, Prince Edward, you do not go with him, for all of Satan's army bays for Gaveston's sin-drenched soul!'
Prince Edward nodded solemnly.
'Most interesting,' he commented. He smiled and stretched out a hand. 'Your silver, Piers.'
The Gascon, grumbling with rage, handed it over.
'Your Grace,' Gaveston muttered, 'let me kill the bastard!'
'No, Piers, not now. You will only alarm the hawks and spoil the hunt.' He stroked the Gascon's dark hair. 'Don't be a scold, Piers,' he whispered. 'You are becoming more like Father and the Lady Eleanor every day.'
The Lord Edward urged his horse forward as the prophet slipped off the road. Gaveston turned and, crooking a finger, summoned closer the captain of the guard.
'Kill the bastard!' he muttered. 'No, not now. But before he's a day older.'
The sun had hardly moved in the heavens when the mad prophet's body, his throat slashed from ear to ear, was dumped in a scum-rimmed marsh deep in the forest and sank without trace. An hour later the mercenary captain rejoined the royal party as they sat on their horses amongst the thick, rich weeds of a slow moving river. The soldier nodded at Gaveston, who winked back, smiled, and slipped the hood off the falcon which stirred restlessly on his wrist, the bells of its jesses tinkling a warning of the death it would bring to this soft, green darkness.
'Now I have drawn blood,' Gaveston muttered to himself, I can enjoy the hunt.'
He waited until the beaters roused a huge heron which broke cover and soared up above the trees. Gaveston lifted his wrist, stroked his favourite bird with the finger of his gauntlet and let it loose. The falcon, its dark wings spread like the angel of death, flew in pursuit; it rose high in the sky, paused, drifting on the late summer breeze, and then, wings back, plunged like an arrow. The falcon struck the heron with a high-pitched scream and a burst of feathers. The courtiers 'oohed' and clapped their hands but gasped as the old heron turned its long neck and, drawing back its head, plunged its daggered beak deep into the falcon's body. Gaveston watched, speechless, as the falcon fell in a bundle of blood-soaked feathers, whilst the heron swooped low to hide in the reeds.
'Quite extraordinary,' the Prince murmured. 'I have heard of it, but that's the first time I have seen it.' He nudged his favourite playfully. 'A warning, Piers,' he whispered. 'You aim too high! The Earldom of Cornwall and the premier place on my council – but not now!' He raised a finger to his lips. 'Not yet, Piers. Whatever would my father, not to mention the Lady Eleanor, say to that?'
Gaveston glared back, wondering once again if he had truly broken the hold of that bitch, Eleanor Belmont. Prince Edward looked away. Would Gaveston heed the warning? he wondered. Edward loved Piers more than life itself but dared not prefer him any higher. The Prince glanced sideways at his favourite: Gaveston had his ways but Edward knew his dark side. He had seen the small, yellow wax figures his paramour kept; one with a crown representing the king, the other with a little scarlet skirt, the colour of a whore, Gaveston's description of the Lady Eleanor Belmont. The prince stared into the darkness of die trees. So many secrets, so much tension! When would his father die? And, above all, when would the bitch Eleanor?
From a window high in Woodstock Palace Sir Amaury de Craon, spy, assassin and special envoy of his most sacred majesty. Philip IV of France, watched the Prince's hunting party return up the winding gravelled path of the palace. De Craon thought fleetingly of the Lady Eleanor as he studied the two figures riding so close together, ahead of everyone else, the Lord Edward and Gaveston, chatting like David and Jonathan coming home from a day's hunt De Craon glared down. Lady Eleanor he had not liked but Gaveston he could gladly murder.
De Craon sucked in
Prince Edward nodded solemnly.
'Most interesting,' he commented. He smiled and stretched out a hand. 'Your silver, Piers.'
The Gascon, grumbling with rage, handed it over.
'Your Grace,' Gaveston muttered, 'let me kill the bastard!'
'No, Piers, not now. You will only alarm the hawks and spoil the hunt.' He stroked the Gascon's dark hair. 'Don't be a scold, Piers,' he whispered. 'You are becoming more like Father and the Lady Eleanor every day.'
The Lord Edward urged his horse forward as the prophet slipped off the road. Gaveston turned and, crooking a finger, summoned closer the captain of the guard.
'Kill the bastard!' he muttered. 'No, not now. But before he's a day older.'
The sun had hardly moved in the heavens when the mad prophet's body, his throat slashed from ear to ear, was dumped in a scum-rimmed marsh deep in the forest and sank without trace. An hour later the mercenary captain rejoined the royal party as they sat on their horses amongst the thick, rich weeds of a slow moving river. The soldier nodded at Gaveston, who winked back, smiled, and slipped the hood off the falcon which stirred restlessly on his wrist, the bells of its jesses tinkling a warning of the death it would bring to this soft, green darkness.
'Now I have drawn blood,' Gaveston muttered to himself, I can enjoy the hunt.'
He waited until the beaters roused a huge heron which broke cover and soared up above the trees. Gaveston lifted his wrist, stroked his favourite bird with the finger of his gauntlet and let it loose. The falcon, its dark wings spread like the angel of death, flew in pursuit; it rose high in the sky, paused, drifting on the late summer breeze, and then, wings back, plunged like an arrow. The falcon struck the heron with a high-pitched scream and a burst of feathers. The courtiers 'oohed' and clapped their hands but gasped as the old heron turned its long neck and, drawing back its head, plunged its daggered beak deep into the falcon's body. Gaveston watched, speechless, as the falcon fell in a bundle of blood-soaked feathers, whilst the heron swooped low to hide in the reeds.
'Quite extraordinary,' the Prince murmured. 'I have heard of it, but that's the first time I have seen it.' He nudged his favourite playfully. 'A warning, Piers,' he whispered. 'You aim too high! The Earldom of Cornwall and the premier place on my council – but not now!' He raised a finger to his lips. 'Not yet, Piers. Whatever would my father, not to mention the Lady Eleanor, say to that?'
Gaveston glared back, wondering once again if he had truly broken the hold of that bitch, Eleanor Belmont. Prince Edward looked away. Would Gaveston heed the warning? he wondered. Edward loved Piers more than life itself but dared not prefer him any higher. The Prince glanced sideways at his favourite: Gaveston had his ways but Edward knew his dark side. He had seen the small, yellow wax figures his paramour kept; one with a crown representing the king, the other with a little scarlet skirt, the colour of a whore, Gaveston's description of the Lady Eleanor Belmont. The prince stared into the darkness of die trees. So many secrets, so much tension! When would his father die? And, above all, when would the bitch Eleanor?
From a window high in Woodstock Palace Sir Amaury de Craon, spy, assassin and special envoy of his most sacred majesty. Philip IV of France, watched the Prince's hunting party return up the winding gravelled path of the palace. De Craon thought fleetingly of the Lady Eleanor as he studied the two figures riding so close together, ahead of everyone else, the Lord Edward and Gaveston, chatting like David and Jonathan coming home from a day's hunt De Craon glared down. Lady Eleanor he had not liked but Gaveston he could gladly murder.
De Craon sucked in
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