This was great bitterness for one who had been the pattern of knighthood in Europe, who was a King’s son and the hero of the English. So he came to Bordeaux, where his family waited him in a castle above which the Leopards floated, and saw the ships in the harbour waiting to carry him back to England. At Cognac he had delegated his powers and his offices to his brother, and Johan of Gaunt had taken up the almost hopeless task; but he was ambitious, a famous knight, eager to play a great part among the Princes of Europe, also in his full health and lusty; but Edward wasted from day to day. After the feverish fury of the attack on Limoges and the ferocity of his vengeance, he fell deeper into his sickness and brooded bitterly in his mind. When he had halted at Lormont a messenger had ridden up to meet him with word from the Princess, Jehanne of Kent. She had her two children with her, and one, the elder, was sick. Edward said no word to this message, and so they carried him, a silent knight, into the castle. All gaiety, all joy, all splendour of chivalry and deeds of arms, all the brightness of glory and bliss of youth seemed overclouded now. Edward the King was old, Edward the Prince was sick and defeated, Philippa the Queen was dead, and English chivalry was smirched by the massacre of Limoges. And the ships waited to take ingloriously home the proudest knight in Europe to rest his limbs in the Savoy and presently his bones in St. Peter’s Church at the Abbey near Westminster. When he came to the castle he asked after his little son Edward. They carried him to a room overlooking the Bay of Biscay that lay placid beneath a pale October sky, and laid him on a couch by the window; and he asked again for his son. Immediately the Princess Jehanne, his wife, entered the room and came to his side, and in silence went on her knees beside him. “Ah, _joli coeur_!” he said, and raised his weary eyes and took her long face between his hands and gazed down into it. “What happened at Limoges?” she asked, without a word of greeting or duty. His hands fell to his sides and his worn countenance overclouded. “I kept my word,” he muttered. Tears came into the eyes of Jehanne of Kent. “I would you had been foresworn, seigneur,” she answered, “for the hand of God is against us.” “In what way?” asked Edward. “In your sickness,” she said, “for, certes, I perceive you very weak–and in the illness of the child.” “Help me up,” answered the Prince, “that I may go to him.” He raised himself to a sitting posture and put his feet to the ground; his simple dull red robe flowed round him unbroken by a jewel, his dark thin face had the look of a man weary of himself. With her arm round his shoulder Jehanne supported him; she was very grave, like one who had no comfort to give.