A murmur of assent rose from the knights and nobles, and the king continued: "I thought you vain and presumptuous in undertaking the assault of a fort held by an equal number, many of whom are well accustomed to war, while the lads who followed you were all untrained in strife, but you have proved that your confidence in yourself was not misplaced. The Earl of Talbot has adjudged you victor, and none can doubt what the end of the strife would have been. Take this chain from your king, who is glad to see that his citizens of London are able to hold their own even against those of our court, than whom we may say no braver exist in Europe. Kneel now to the queen of the tourney, who will bestow upon you the chaplet which you have so worthily earned." Walter bent his knee before Edith Vernon. She rose to her feet, and with an air of pretty dignity placed a chaplet of laurel leaves, wrought in gold and clasped with a valuable ruby, on his head. "I present to you," she said, "the chaplet of victory, and am proud that my gage should have been worn by one who has borne himself so bravely and well. May a like success rest on all your undertakings, and may you prove a good and valiant knight!" "Well said, Mistress Edith," Queen Philippa said, smiling. "You may well be proud of your young champion. I too must have my gift," and drawing a ring set with brilliants from her finger she placed it in Walter's hand. The lad now rose to his feet. "The prince, my son," the king said, "has promised that you shall ride with his men-at-arms when he is old enough to take the field. Should you choose to abandon your craft and do so earlier I doubt not that one of my nobles, the brave Sir Walter Manny, for example, will take you before that time." "That will I readily enough," Sir Walter said, "and glad to have so promising a youth beneath my banner." "I would that you had been of gentle blood," the king said. "That makes no difference, sire," Sir Walter replied. "I will place him among the young gentlemen, my pages and esquires, and am sure that they will receive him as one of themselves." Geoffrey Ward had hitherto stood at the foot of the steps leading to the royal pavilion, but doffing his cap he now ascended. "Pardon my boldness, sire," he said to the king, "but I would fain tell you what the lad himself has hitherto been ignorant of. He is not, as he supposes, the son of Giles Fletcher, citizen and bowmaker, but is the lawfully born son of Sir Roland Somers, erst of Westerham and Hythe, who was killed in the troubles at the commencement of your majesty's reign. His wife, Dame Alice, brought the child to Giles Fletcher, whose wife had been her nurse, and dying left him in her care. Giles and his wife, if called for, can vouch for the truth of this, and can give you proofs of his birth."