“I surmise,” interjected the grim, old man, “that De Montfort has in some manner gained an ascendancy over the King. Think you he looks so high as the throne itself?”
“Not so,” cried the oldest of the knights. “Simon de Montfort works for England’s weal alone—and methinks, nay know, that he would be first to spring to arms to save the throne for Henry. He but fights the King’s rank and covetous advisers, and though he must needs seem to defy the King himself, it be but to save his tottering power from utter collapse. But, gad, how the King hates him. For a time it seemed that there might be a permanent reconciliation when, for years after the disappearance of the little Prince Richard, De Montfort devoted much of his time and private fortune to prosecuting a search through all the world for the little fellow, of whom he was inordinately fond. This self-sacrificing interest on his part won over the King and Queen for many years, but of late his unremitting hostility to their continued extravagant waste of the national resources has again hardened them toward him.”
The old man, growing uneasy at the turn the conversation threatened, sent the youth from the room on some pretext, and himself left to prepare supper.
As they were sitting at the evening meal, one of the nobles eyed the boy intently, for he was indeed good to look upon; his bright handsome face, clear, intelligent gray eyes, and square strong jaw framed in a mass of brown waving hair banged at the forehead and falling about his ears, where it was again cut square at the sides and back, after the fashion of the times.
His upper body was clothed in a rough under tunic of wool, stained red, over which he wore a short leathern jerkin, while his doublet was also of leather, a soft and finely tanned piece of undressed doeskin. His long hose, fitting his shapely legs as closely as another layer of skin, were of the same red wool as his tunic, while his strong leather sandals were cross-gartered halfway to his knees with narrow bands of leather.
A leathern girdle about his waist supported a sword and a dagger and a round skull cap of the same material, to which was fastened a falcon’s wing, completed his picturesque and becoming costume.
“Your son?” he asked, turning to the old man.
“Yes,” was the growling response.
“He favors you but little, old fellow, except in his cursed French accent.
“’S blood, Beauchamp,” he continued, turning to one of his companions, “an’ were he set down in court, I wager our gracious Queen would he hard put to it to tell him from the young Prince Edward. Dids’t ever see so strange a likeness?”