Many weighty things were on the mind of Edward the King. There
was truce for the moment with France, but it was a truce broken by
many small deeds of arms, raids, surprises and ambushes upon
either side, and it was certain that it would soon dissolve again
into open war. Money must be raised, and it was no light matter
to raise it, now that the Commons had once already voted the tenth
lamb and the tenth sheaf. Besides, the Black Death had ruined the
country, the arable land was all turned to pasture, the laborer,
laughing at statutes, would not work under fourpence a day, and
all society was chaos. In addition, the Scotch were growling over
the border, there was the perennial trouble in half-conquered
Ireland, and his allies abroad in Flanders and in Brabant were
clamoring for the arrears of their subsidies.
All this was enough to make even a victorious monarch full of
care; but now Edward had thrown it all to the winds and was as
light-hearted as a boy upon a holiday. No thought had he for the
dunning of Florentine bankers or the vexatious conditions of those
busybodies at Westminster. He was out with his hawks, and his
thoughts and his talk should be of nothing else. The varlets beat
the heather and bushes as they passed, and whooped loudly as the
birds flew out.
"A magpie! A magpie!" cried the falconer.
"Nay, nay, it is not worthy of your talons, my brown-eyed queen,"
said the King, looking up at the great bird which flapped from
side to side above his head, waiting for the whistle which should
give her the signal.
Pages:
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137