Read Online The First Princess of Wales by Karen Harper - Free Book Online

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