Loyalty Read Online Free PDF

coincide with their arrival. The boy wanted to impress them with his prowess.
       “Come, sirs, on your feet,” said the prince, waving his companions away, “I don’t like to see loyal men grovelling in front of me. There are others who will grovel before me, soon enough.”
       His voice was high-pitched, over-excited, and far too eager to please. James almost felt sorry him.    
       This, then, is Harry the Fifth’s grandson , he thought as he rose and bowed, casting a shrewd eye over the prince. Edward certainly looked the part: tall for his age, handsome and athletic and well-proportioned.
       “Majesty,” said James, “I am James Bolton, a priest of Staffordshire. I come with a message from the Earl of Warwick.”
       “Well met, Master Bolton,” said Edward with a smile.
       His mood changed, and he frowned and placed a finger to his lips. “Staffordshire. A battle was fought there, years ago, between our forces and those of Lord Salisbury, may his soul baste in Hell.”
       “Blore Heath, Majesty,” replied James, “I have good cause to remember it. My father was killed there, fighting for your royal father.”
       Edward’s reaction took him by surprise. The prince’s eyes filled with tears and he moved forward as though he meant to embrace James.
       “I honour him,” said Edward in a choked voice, “and all those who have given their life’s blood in our cause. When I am King, I mean to erect chantries to them all over England. Every day a thousand priests shall sing Te Deum for their souls.”
       James could not think of anything intelligent to say. He nodded mutely as Edward stepped back and clasped Gauvaine’s hand.
       “Come,” said the prince, “my mother is expecting to receive you.”
       Queen Margaret was waiting for them in the hall on the first floor of the keep. James could not help but compare the impoverished state of the Chateau de Dampierre to the magnificence of Warwick Castle. Small though it was, the castle seemed half-empty, and the voices of Gauvaine and the captain of the guard echoed hollowly through the shadowy, deserted corridors.
       The few servants they passed were a shabby, down-at-heel set, completely lacking in the finery and elegant manners one might expect from those employed in a royal household. James noticed whitewash peeling from the walls, and the dusty and threadbare condition of the tapestries and friezes that decorated the hall. It was at least cool inside, for which he was thankful after sweltering his guts out on the road from Paris.
       His attention was drawn to the figure of the Queen. She stood in the centre of the hall, with her back to a hooded fireplace.
       Four youngish men stood near her, all of them warriors judging by their powerful builds and hard faces. Their once-rich clothing was patched and grubby, and they regarded the newcomers with haughty suspicion. James reckoned them to be diehard Lancastrians, gentlemen who had lost everything accompanied the Queen into exile rather than submit to Yorkist rule. 
       “Gentlemen,” said Margaret, offering her hand. Gauvaine strode quickly towards her, bowed and kissed her fingers, and was greeted with a warm smile.
       James quickly drank her in as he followed Gauvaine’s example. Margaret was shorter than he remembered, and wore an ankle-length green dress with gold brocade at the wrists and throat. She wore no headdress, her hair being bound up in a plain wimple, and no jewellery save a single plain gold band on the index finger of her left hand.
       In short, she looked rather more like the wife of an impoverished merchant than a queen. Taken aback by her plain appearance, James was shocked by how she had aged. The natural creamy tone of her skin was sustained by a clumsy application of rouge and cheap cosmetics. Cracks and wrinkles around her mouth and eyes could be discerned under the layers of paint. 
       Only Margaret’s large, expressive