Loyalty Read Online Free PDF Page A

court. The duke was notoriously parsimonious, and there was apparently little love lost between the tight-fisted old man and his formidable daughter.
       James reined in before the main gate while Gauvaine went forward and announced them to the guards. While he waited, he wondered at what sort of reception they might get. 
       He cast his mind back ten years, to a misted September morning outside the town of Market Drayton in Staffordshire. James had waited there – in a drunken haze, as he usually was in those days – for news of the battle being fought at Blore Heath, a couple of miles east of the town. His father and eldest brother had fought in that battle, a disastrous Lancastrian defeat. Bolton senior had died on the field, pulled down and butchered by Yorkist blades, while Richard barely escaped with a whole skin.
       James had glimpsed Queen Margaret in the flesh, inside her carriage on the outskirts of the town. Like him, she was waiting for news of the battle. He recalled her creamy skin and long, pale face, and her delicate fingers playing nervously with a set of rosary beads. Her face had turned an even ghastlier shade when some bloodstained survivors from the battle galloped up with news that her forces were routed.
       Will she remember me? he thought, and gave a wry smile. The Queen of England was scarcely likely to remember some drink-sodden priest.
       He heard a grinding of wheels as the portcullis was winched up. Gauvaine beckoned at his companions to follow him into the inner ward. Jolted out of his memories, James spurred his courser towards the gate.
       The inner ward was spacious and pleasantly laid-out with gardens and fountains. The men-at-arms that had formed James’ escort were directed to the stables, while one of the guards offered to take his courser. 
       As he handed over the reins, he was distracted by the sight of three lanky youths sparring on one of the rectangular squares of lawn. All three wore padded jacks and fencing masks, and were armed with wooden swords and little round targes. The tallest of them was fighting against the other two, and displaying more aggression than his opponents. Curses and yelps of pain echoed across the ward as he dealt out stinging blows with his practice sword.
       “They will sport a few bruises tomorrow,” said James as Gauvaine ambled over to watch the fight.
       “All part of learning the knightly arts,” the French replied with a shrug, “that is no fair fight, though.”
       “Two against one rarely is.”
       “I don’t mean that. Those boys have been instructed not to hurt the tall one. Look, they keep backing away. Have at him, for God’s sake!”
       His bull-horn of a voice startled the fighters. As one they stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him.
       The taller boy was first to react. He tossed away his sword and wrenched off his mask, revealing a long, almost girlishly pretty face with an aquiline nose and high forehead, and long fair hair plastered to his skin with sweat. His eyes were deep blue and gleamed with fierce vitality as he laughed and spread his arms.
       “Sir Gauvaine!” the boy shouted in the breaking, high-pitched voice of adolescence, “my guards saw you were coming. Don’t you know me?”
       “Indeed I do, sire,” said Gauvaine, with a humility that ill became him. He went down on one knee and bowed his head.
       “Get down, you fool,” Gauvaine ordered James. “Can’t you recognise your future king when you see him?”
       James knelt without further hesitation. He had never seen Prince Edward, only son of Queen Margaret and Henry VI, but the boy’s identity was obvious. No wonder his sparring partners had been reluctant to fight back, or that proud Gauvaine had abased himself in the dust.
       My guards saw you were coming. James’ suspicious mind mulled over the remark. He concluded that Edward had deliberately staged his sparring practice to