He embarked at Portsmouth in the spring of 1270, accompanied by his faithful Eleanor. The princess was with him when, at Acre, his life was attempted by an assassin. The romantic story of her extraction of the poison from the wound with her own lips, is not found in authentic history; but one chronicler narrates how, when a painful operation became necessary, the surgeon requested Edward’s brother and the lord de Vesci to carry the princess away;“so she was carried out, weeping and crying aloud.”
The support of the French army failing him, Edward quitted Palestine in July, 1272, and at Sicily he met the news of his father’s death and of his own accession to the crown of England. The king of Sicily was surprised at the grief which these news excited—a grief more poignant and more visible than that caused by an earlier despatch which mentioned the death of one of Edward’s children. The prince made the natural reply, that other children might replace the one which he had lost, but that he never could have another father. The warm and sincere affection which always subsisted between these two very different men, is proved by incidents which meet us at every turn; and our estimate of king Henry’s character is considerably raised by the fervour and the permanence of his son’s attachment to him.
Of Edward’s own character we have already seen something. In two chief characteristics, it is fully developed long before he reaches the royal dignity. He was in a more than ordinary degree a man who could love, and who was beloved. His father, his mother, his wife, his friends, were the objects of his unvarying attachment. This feature of his life is constantly apparent.
But he was also a man of honour and of integrity. He looked, in all matters, more to the question of right than to that of expediency. Born to wear a crown, he was careful to do nothing to diminish the royal dignity; but not even for the maintenance of his father’s privileges, would he do that which he did not believe to be just and right; and, above all things, the one principle, Pactum serva, was never to be departed from. A prince’s word, once given, must be held sacred. One other feature in his character is noted by the historians of his day. He was of an irascible temper, easily excited to anger; but his anger might be as quickly calmed as it was aroused. Walsingham tells us how, on one occasion, the prince was amusing himself with his hawks, and one of the lords in attendance overlooked a falcon which had made a stoop on a duck among the willows. The prince spoke sharply to him, and the other answered, with some pertness, that “he was glad the river was between them.” In a moment Edward had plunged into the stream, and was urging his horse up the opposite bank, in pursuit of the offender. But the attendant, knowing with whom he had to deal, flung off his cap, bared his neck, and threw himself on the prince’s mercy. Edward’s wrath was gone in a moment, he sheathed his weapon, gave instant forgiveness, and the two rode home in perfect amity together.
In like manner, while engaged in the pacification of the country after “the Barons’ war,” he found, in a forest in Hampshire, a noted captain of free‐lances, one Adam Gordon, or Gourdon, whose deeds made him the terror of all the country round. The prince sought him out, and met with him one evening when he and his followers were returning to their fastnesses. Edward at once singled Gordon out, and engaged him in single combat. Both being skilled in arms, and of tried valour, the contest was an arduous one. At last Gordon was wounded, and yielded himself. Edward respected his valour and his knightly prowess, received his submission, had his wounds attended to, took him into his favour, and presented him that night to his mother, the queen, at Guildford Castle. Gordon proved faithful, and remained long attached to Edward’s service.
A similar clemency marked all Edward’s proceedings. To “seek his grace” was always to find it. The few exceptions, in his whole life, are those of men who had “broken covenant,” and proved false and treacherous after confidence had been placed in them. Even Hume, generally unfriendly to Edward, is obliged to confess of the pacification which followed the victory of Evesham, that “The clemency of this victory is remarkable. No blood was shed on the scaffold; no attainders, except of the Montfort family, were carried into execution.”
And if we examine his conduct through life with an unprejudiced eye, we shall find this attribute of clemency—a very uncommon one in those days—distinctly perceptible in all his proceedings. A firm and resolute and warm‐tempered man, he could sometimes punish; but his general rule of conduct was once expressed by himself in a hasty exclamation: “May pardon him! Why, I will do that for a dog, if he seeks my grace!”