He did not wear them long.

The nineteenth was that great king, bad man, and worse father, Henry Curtmantle himself.
It was a very dark night, without moon or stars, a hot and still night wherein a man weather-wise might smell the rain.

The going upon the moor was none too good in a good light; yet they tell me that the old King went spurring over brush and scrub, over tufted roots, through ridge and hollow, with as much cheer as if the hunt was up in Venvil Wood and himself a young man.

When his followers besought him to take heed, all he would do was snap his fingers, the reins dangling loose, and cry to the empty night, 'Hue, Brock, hue!' as if he was baiting a badger.

This badger was the heir to his crown and dignity.
In the Dark Tower they heard him coming three miles away.