Behind him come his three daughters, the youngest but a lovely child, each mounted on easy-going jennets, his chancellor, and the few of his court who have not forsaken him on the road.
The mournful appearance of Don Pedro and the consciousness that he has been wanting to his royal guest in the attention due to an ally, so move the warm heart of the Black Prince that, bowing to the ground, he advances rapidly to embrace him, while Don Pedro, who has at once dismounted, would only have kissed his hand.
“Welcome, sire, to the territory of England,” cries the prince, addressing him in the French tongue, which both speak fluently. “I esteem myself happy to offer my personal homage to your Grace in my own name and in that of my royal father.”
“I thank you,” is Don Pedro’s laconic answer, turning upon him a curious gaze in which something of the bitterness of the disregarded suppliant appears. That he, an anointed sovereign, had been forced by the prince’s coldness to journey here, raises in his breast a wave of bitter pride which, in his revengeful nature, may in part explain the perfidy of his subsequent conduct.
“And you, fair flowers of Spain,” continues the Black Prince, turning to the Infantas, who had also dismounted and who gather timidly round the prince to make obeisance, “I would welcome you also, and express my deep regret that my consort, the Princess of Wales, to whose tender care I would have consigned you, has by reason of her condition not been able to leave Angoulême to meet you. Meanwhile, my brothers of Lancaster and York, nearer of your age and therefore more apt than myself in judging of your needs, will take her place in all necessary courtesies.”
John of Gaunt bashfully advances to take his place among the young princesses with his brother, both much encouraged by the glimpse of the lovely eyes of Doña Costanza, glowing like stars under the folds of a black mantilla which descends almost to her feet, while Don Pedro gravely acknowledges the salutations of the warriors and the court, and expresses his thanks for the magnificence of the courtesy with which he has been received.
“Can the stricken heart of a sovereign know comfort,” he says, in his high and trillant voice, singularly unpleasant after the agreeable intonation of the Black Prince, “against whom his people and those of his own blood have turned traitors, it is alone at the hands of your Grace. This moment of meeting with you, most illustrious Prince, is the only instant of consolation I have enjoyed since I left my rebellious country, given up to the horrors of civil war. I come in the guise of a beggar, but it is to one who can replace me on the throne.”
Whether Don Pedro, from long habits of hypocrisy, really believed what he said is doubtful, but he had at least the art of convincing those whom he addressed. This faculty of deceit, his specious flattery, his royal air, even under the modest garb he wore, at once fascinated the frank and open-hearted prince, overjoyed at the prospect of a speedy campaign to reinstate him.
As they pass into the pavilion where a sumptuous collation has been prepared, Edward himself, spite of the protest of his guest, not only offers to the king the golden embossed salver of scented water to wash his hands, but during the first course stands to serve him, behind his chair, before taking his own seat at the board.
“I know my place as a subject,” are his words, “and I pray your Grace not to impede me in the fulfilment of my duty.”