It was going to be a most exciting occasion.

On the appointed day people came from miles to see the contests. The roads were full of travellers with the usual company of beggars and pickpockets in their wake. Pennants fluttered from those pavilions in which knights donned their armour and waited to be called to the fight. They were beautiful, those pavilions, many made of double satin, the valences embroidered with their owner’s motto. The Royal Pavilioners and Sergeants of the Tents were busy all through the day preceding the tournament, setting them up and making sure they were not damaged. Merchants of London and the big cities vied with each other to obtain contracts for making and maintaining these pavilions. And a colourful sight they were.

When the King appeared there was a great shout of greeting from the people, for there was nothing they loved more than displays of this sort and the rumour had already been circulated that the King was at some variance with certain members of his court who did not like his friend Gaveston. They knew of course that the late King had banished the Gascon and that the new King had recalled him and given him, as well as a rich and royal bride, great honours.

The feeling had seeped out that the tournament in some way a contest between the King, who had his own idea of what a King’s duties should be, and those barons who wanted to impose their will on him.

As yet the outcome of this struggle seemed of little importance to the people. What they wanted to see was an exciting tournament and when the combatants emerged they would pick their favourites.

The King had taken his seat beneath the royal canopy and among his party was Margaret de Clare, his niece, the newly-married wife of Gaveston. As soon as the knights appeared in their splendid armour, her eyes sought her husband among them and as she recognized him, they shone with a pride which was matched by the King’s own obvious love for his friend.

Gaveston was chafing against the fact that he had been designated as one of the challengers, believing that he should have been greeted as a champion. Well, he was here to show these arrogant knights what he thought of them. He and his group of challengers were determined to inflict such defeat on them as would never forget.

His friends understood what was expected of them. They were young, vital and spoiling for the fight. Although the leading champions were here, some of them were not in the first flush of their youth, their limbs might well be stiffening a little and it was speed and agility which were needed in the fight― not arrogance and strains of royal blood.

It was a brilliant show. Edward knew that his Perrot was going to succeed.

There was an air of confidence about him and for days he had been complaining bitterly of the treatment he received from many scions of ancient houses.

They were going to be taught a lesson and Edward was longing to see it administered.

Edward made it clear that the tournament had been devised by the Earl of Cornwall (he and Gaveston had decided was the title by which he must be referred to from now on) for their pleasure and that it was a joust à Plaisance― which meant that it was purely for sport and that each lance would be fitted with its coronel— an iron head roughly shaped and with several blunt points which would prevent harm coming to the combatants. This was different from a joust à l’Outrance which meant that the contenders fought until one was forced to surrender and would surely be wounded― often severely— or even killed, for such jousts as these were fought with a sharp lance or spear.

Gaveston distinguished herself with great éclat. In a very short time he was tackling one of his greatest enemies the leader of the Champions, John Warenne, Earl of Surrey and Sussex. With great panache and with a certain malicious delight, he went into the fight. He had challenged Warenne because he knew that he was one of those who deplored the King’s friendship with him and had not hesitated to make his feelings known.

Warenne was a handsome young man just about twenty years of age. His father had died when he was six months old and he had not long before succeeded to his titles on the death of his grandfather. During the preceding year he had been married to the King’s niece, Joanna, the daughter of Edward’s eldest sister Eleanor and the Count of Bar, so he considered himself a member of the royal family through marriage. He was a proud young man and pleased to be connected with the King and on more than one occasion he had done his best to humiliate Gaveston.

He was noted for his skill in the joust and had become acknowledged champion of that art, and there could be no doubt that he was delighting in the opportunity offered him of humiliating the King’s dear friend. Gaveston was, of course, determined that it should be the other way round.

There were many who were aware during those tense moments that this was 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.’