The Dragon and the Jewel (17 page)

De Montfort was torn between routing them from his castle or keeping a wise silence. He bowed and followed Joan from the room. Upstairs he found her trembling and in tears. “Forgive me, forgive me, my lord. I am in love with you, Simon, but Louis will crush me if I give you possession of my lands. Women have so little control of their own lives. I dared to hope I could choose for myself, but it is not to be.”

Joan began to sob and he enfolded her against his massive
chest. In a ragged voice she said, “I know I shall regret this moment for the rest of my life.” She tipped back her chin to gaze up into Simon’s magnetic black eyes. “You are a magnificent man.” Her knees turned to water just looking at him. “For one tiny space of time you were mine. Thank you, my lord, for being so gallant to me.”

The enormous relief he felt that proof of the marriage had been erased told him that he had had a narrow escape. Fate had snatched him from the jaws of matrimony because his destiny lay elsewhere. He was convinced of it.

At Westminster, however, Isabella Marshal knew she was about to fulfill her destiny. It took a full thirty minutes for the bride and her attendants to wind their way along the passages of Westminster to the doors of the abbey. The church was filled to capacity with the large Marshal family, the nobles of England, and the vast number of relatives and friends of the queen.

Before she entered, Eleanor thought Isabella looked slightly daunted. Whether it was the long aisle she must maneuver or the thought of becoming a princess was not clear, but Eleanor went up on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. “We are doubly sisters— first I married your brother, now you are marrying mine.”

Isabella’s sweet smile made her face radiant and Eleanor knew why Richard had fallen in love with her. Eleanor slipped into the abbey and walked proudly to the front pew, which was reserved for the royal family. The queen cast her a look of pure venom as she saw the silver tissue gown and silver crown, but Eleanor didn’t even notice. She had eyes only for William who stood at the altar steps with Richard. He would not be able to join her until he had given the bride away. A small shiver crept over Eleanor as the dampness seemed to emanate from the cold stone walls.

The smell of incense almost overpowered her, but when the pure voices of the choirboys filled the vaulted chapel, it was so beautiful it lifted her heart. Her spirits rose and her moment of disquiet passed. At last the Archbishop of Canterbury asked, “Who giveth this woman to this man?”

William’s sure voice gave the response. “I do.” He placed his
favorite sister’s hand into that of his friend, Prince Richard Plantagenet.

From the moment he joined his wife in the front pew, everyone receded for Eleanor and William. He took her small hand in his and immediately his warmth entered her body. They looked into each other’s eyes as they silently repeated the solemn vows intoned by the archbishop. William remembered the little girl who had sworn when the spider bit her, and a wave of protectiveness swept over him. He would cherish her forever.

Eleanor gazed up at him, wanting more than anything in the world to believe that what she saw in his eyes was love. The great Marshal of England hadn’t wanted her, hadn’t chosen her, and so she had set out to make him proud of her. For years she applied herself diligently to her lessons, curbed her impulsive behavior, even stopped swearing. She had become a lady. Oh, she was exactly the same inside—her passions seethed wildly in her royal blood—but she had learned patience, even shrewdness. Though she was cursed with a quick temper, she had learned to curb it. By hard work and sheer determination she had molded herself into the kind of young woman of whom a great earl could be proud. She clung to his hands as William whispered, “I love you.” It had all been worthwhile! She would make him a perfect wife.

The festivities began at two o’clock in the banqueting hall and lasted ten full hours. Ten thousand dishes had been prepared by order of the king, and the tables groaned beneath platters of roast boar and oxen, fat geese and plump plover. Fishcarts had been rushed from England’s largest ports, piled with turbot and herrings, shellfish, eels and lampreys. The forests of Windsor had provided venison and enough meat to fill a thousand savory game pies.

King Henry loved to entertain with high jollity and hilarity. Today all was done with magnificence. Gleemen sang “To English Ale and Gascon Wine.” The steward had never worked so hard in his life as he watched the squires, assisted by the pages, carry the platters, mets, and mazers to the tables. As the trenchers were being cleared away, the guests were entertained by the very latest craze, a mystery play.

As Eleanor’s eyes scanned the vast assembly with amusement
, she pointed out to William that the guests were divided into two camps closely resembling enemies who were about to go into battle. The current holders of the ancient earldoms, such as Chester, Kent, Norfolk, Northumberland, and Derby, fraternized only with the noble Anglo-Norman families and the old English bishops, such as Chichester, Lincoln, and York. The ceremonial robes of the men and the quiet good taste of their ladies was in stark contrast to the other camp.

The Provençals, most of whom were related to the new queen, were dressed in the very latest fashion, some of which had been imported from the continent. Compared with the sober taste of the Normans, the Provençals preferred gaudy, exaggerated fashions, and it seemed that all eleven of Thomas of Savoy’s offspring vied with each other for center stage.

The influential Bishop of Winchester hid his devious venal personality behind a mask of learning and charm. He had shrewdly chosen to befriend the Poitevins, Gascons, and Provençals who were now taking over all the lucrative posts.

When the trestle tables were pushed back against the walls to make room for dancing, the queen and her cohorts took pleasure in making loud comments and laughing at the clothes of the English ladies. When Eleanor saw young Eve de Braose close to tears, she
decided
to join the fray. Without effort, her tongue could cut a strip from any female foolish enough to disparage her or any lady belonging to her husband’s family. At least half a dozen of the queen’s maids wore the saucy new-fashioned pillboxes with tiny veils. Eleanor drawled to the bride, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in one. They look for all the world like the little hats that musician’s monkeys wear to collect coins.”

Isabella tried her best not to laugh and Eleanor noticed with relief that Eve’s chin went up and she decided not to cry after all. The queen, to be different, wore a new fashion that was actually most flattering—a wimple that surrounded and framed the entire face. The bride said generously, “The new wimple is a lovely fashion. It makes a lady’s face look like a flower.”

Eleanor’s lips twitched. “A cauliflower?” she questioned, and the ladies surrounding them went off in peals of laughter, to the great consternation of the queen and her court.

William squeezed her hand under cover of the cloth and she
felt a moment of shame at her pettiness. She would not mar this day by indulging in silly, feminine jealousies. She bestowed a dazzling smile upon him and, still handclasped, they rose to join the dancing.

William’s eyes never left her face. In fact, he gazed at her so hungrily she became flushed with sheer pleasure. Though the females turned up their long noses at Princess Eleanor, the male Savoys did not. She decided to bestow only one dance apiece upon them for the sake of politeness, but when Peter of Savoy’s conversation became deliberately titillating, she wished she had not partnered him.

The very feel of his hands made her want to shrink from him, and his bold leer made her lower her lashes to cover the contempt in her eyes. Rumor had it that he had gotten two young maids with child, and Eleanor fervently wished the dance would come to an end.

“Now that your elderly husband has returned from France, you will have to play the faithful wife for a time, but should you fancy the services of a younger man, I guarantee you satisfaction.”

She almost made a cutting remark about the crop of bastards he was sowing, but decided not to even engage him in conversation. She would make it very plain that she much preferred to be partnered by her husband or her brothers.

When Richard spun her about she asked, “When are you leaving for Cornwall?”

“As soon as I can extract myself from the endless entertainments Henry has planned.”

Eleanor laughed indulgently. “He’s really outdone himself this time. I’ll bet he’s in hock up to his neck. You are obviously escaping before he presents you with a bill for your own wedding.”

Richard bent his lips toward her ear. “Actually I’m spiriting Isabella away so we can get on with the business of making babies. I intend to produce a son before Henry.”

The corners of Eleanor’s mouth lifted in a mischievous smile. “Me tool”

Amusement shone from his eyes as he admired his beautiful sister. “By the tears of God, I bet you will do exactly that.”

S
ince anyone who was anyone had secured rooms for the night at Westminster, the “bedding” didn’t take place until well after midnight. Richard and Isabella took it all in good sport, both secretly relieved that the bride would not be stripped naked to prove she went to her marriage bed without blemish as she would have if she’d been an unwed virgin.

Eleanor hung back thinking perhaps Isabella would prefer to have her sisters accompany her to the nuptial tower, but William’s sister took hold of Eleanor’s hand and begged, “Please come with me—you’re the only one who can control Richard and Henry if they start being outrageous.”

Eleanor cast her husband an apologetic glance and left the table with Isabella. As he rose to follow her a pain nearly cut him in half. It started at the top of his stomach, slashed up through his diaphragm, and stabbed into his chest wall and heart. He sat back down abruptly and sweat broke out upon his brow. Bones of Christ, he’d never experienced chest pain in his life except from battle wounds. What was amiss? He sat still for a minute, thankful none had observed his plight, then slowly, experimentally he tried to stand. The excruciating pain had gone as quickly as it had struck.

He trailed after the noisy crowd of revelers through the heavily shadowed passages of Westminster, wondering if the pain had been caused by something he’d eaten or if it came from his heart. When he arrived at the nuptial tower, it was bursting at the seams with merrymakers who had clearly imbibed too much good English ale and Gascon wine. He craned his neck to see over the crowd but could not see Eleanor. Then her voice came to him clearly as she admonished, “No more wine for Richard, Henry! Isabella doesn’t want an unconscious bridegroom.”

Eleanor felt a hand touch her bottom. She whirled about and looked up into the lecherous face of Peter of Savoy. Her hand flew up to strike his cheek and she shuddered with revulsion. His eyes narrowed in his handsome face and she knew she had just made an enemy. God’s feet, they were all so immature, she couldn’t bear their company one moment longer. She pushed her way from the room and heaved a sigh of relief as William’s arm reached out to extract her from the crowd. She leaned against him gratefully, knowing that the moment she had been awaiting all her life was here at long last.

William plucked a torch from its wall bracket to light their way to their own tower. She hoped that Brenda and Allan were not waiting for them. She had told the maid and squire they could have the night off as she and William wished to be completely private.

She watched William’s strong hand place the torch in a cresset at the door to their tower suite, and as they entered the lower chamber a feeling of shyness overcame her. She hurried across the room to the fire, which burned low on the hearth, then suddenly began to plump up the cushions on the chairs and straighten the ornaments upon the mantel shelf.

William’s eyes softened as he saw her straight little back. He came behind her and reached up to remove her silver crown. As she whirled about to face him, he saw the tiny flicker of apprehension and his heart skipped a beat. “Don’t be afraid, love,” he whispered.

Her apprehension melted away. “Oh, William, I’m never afraid when you’re with me, I’m only afraid when you’re not with me.”

He kissed her nose. “Perhaps you’re not afraid, but you are suddenly shy.” He smiled down at her. “You go up … I’ll give you all the time you need.”

As she climbed to the upper chamber she was suffused with warm, delicious happiness. She loved him with all her heart and all her soul and all her mind. She removed her silvery gown and petticoats and washed her hands with rose-scented water. She took up her nightgown made especially for this night. It was made of sheer lavender sarcenet, which floated about her body as lightly as thistledown. She shook out her raven hair until it hung in silken waves about her bare shoulders.

William would surely come through the doorway any moment. She quickly turned back the covers on the wide bed and ran her hand over the pristine white linen embroidered with roses and crowns.

William sat below in front of the fire, his brows drawn slightly together. Surely he was not so old that he was having heart trouble? He dismissed the idea quickly. He was perfectly all right now. Eleanor’s extreme youth was making him feel his years. Nothing must spoil this night for her, he decided firmly.

The minutes stretched out as Eleanor sat in the bed, propped against the pillows. Why didn’t he come? Perhaps he had fallen asleep. No, he was being thoughtful and giving her time to compose herself. Her thoughts flew to Isabella and she remembered the night she had seen her in bed with Richard. He had been so eager she experienced a moment of longing. Surely William hadn’t changed his mind? What had Isabella said when she asked her how to get William to consummate the marriage? “Let him see you in a state of undress and nature will take its inevitable course,” Isabella had advised.

Finally Eleanor could sit still no longer. She put aside her shyness and slipped down the shadowed stairs to the chamber below. William’s eyes widened with pleasure at the sight of her, all thoughts of himself wiped from his mind. The light from the fire silhouetted her nakedness through the sheer nightrail, and his breath caught in his throat as he feasted on her lovely curves. Desire snaked through his loins as he stood to open his arms and she flew into them.

She buried her face against his shoulder, her heart overflowing
with happiness at the hunger she’d seen written in his eyes. His lips traced a molten line against her throat as his hands crushed her against his hardness. His hot mouth teased her ear and his husky whisper sent a shiver of delight down her spine. “Let me carry you up to bed.”

Halfway up the dark stairs the pain cut into him again. He stopped, drew in his breath, and by sheer dint of will banished it from his chest.

Eleanor raised her head from his shoulder. “What’s wrong, am I too heavy for you?”

“Heavy?” He laughed, “By the tears of God, I hope you don’t think me too old and infirm to carry my bride to my bed?”

She joined in his laughter. What a ridiculous question to ask a champion. Wasn’t he William, the great Marshal of England?

Again the pain vanished as quickly as it had come and he wasted no time even thinking of it. He lay Eleanor gently upon the bed. “You won’t mind if I don’t snuff all the candles? I’m starved for the sight of you.”

The pink of her cheeks deepened as she replied, “I want to see you too.” She watched him with breathless curiosity as he divested himself of his doublet, shirt, and finally his chausses. His legs were thick with corded muscle and between them his groin was covered by chestnut hair.

So, this was what a naked man looked like, she thought. Then she amended the thought. Not all men looked this splendid. William was no ordinary man. When he reached out a strong hand to remove her lavender nightgown, she thought she might faint from the heightened tension of the moment. The gown whispered to the carpet and the bed sighed as William’s full weight came upon it. He gathered her to his heart tenderly, anticipating the feel of her satiny skin against his hard body. She gasped with pleasure. God, how she loved the feel of this man—his heat, his weight, his hairiness!

His fingers closed over her breasts. “Sweet, sweet,” he murmured, caressing the rosebud tips with his thumbs until they ruched, then touching each one with the tip of his tongue.

“Ohh,” she cried out in pleasure. His palms sought the silken place beneath her breasts as he lifted them to his mouth. He
caressed every inch of her as he explored her loveliness. His kisses took her breath away and her heart sang with the dizzying thought that she would never be separated from him again. They would share the same bed for the rest of their lives and there would be no other loves for either of them, ever.

“My little love, how long I have waited for you.”

For her too the wait had been endless, but well worth every moment. He curbed his need, schooling the heated blood in his veins so that he would not ravish her. She was his precious jewel whom he had vowed to cherish. “Did I tell you how very beautiful you looked today?” His hands moved ever lower, but he caressed each new place, knowing that lovemaking was completely new to her.

On an intake of breath she answered, “Yes, you make me feel utterly lovely. The sapphires you gave me were the bluest I have ever seen.”

“Not so. They pale in comparison to your eyes. They are like deep pools—I could drown in them,” he whispered as his fingertips separated the tiny folds of her woman’s center to seek the jewel inside.

A thrill ran through her body as a result of William’s touch and also at what her own hands encountered. She let them stray and play about over his muscles, then set her mouth to his shoulders and chest and rib cage to kiss and taste him.

He slipped a finger inside her then held it still so that she could become familiar with the sensation. She cried out, then quickly apologized for he hadn’t really hurt her.

“Sweet, cry out as much as you like. I’ll try to be careful, but the first time there will be pain.” Slowly he began a stroking motion with his finger, seeking to produce a little moisture to make her first penetration more bearable. After a prolonged manipulation she arched into his hand. “Mmm … William.” Her soft mouth parted as the first spark of sensual pleasure was ignited. He quickly crushed her lips with his in a demanding kiss that told her better than words that there was much more he wanted from her. They were bathed in an aura of love and longing and need as if sealed in a cocoon that separated them from the whole world. Their bed was so intimate a place, they
could do anything to each other, privately, secretly. This was paradise.

She reached down to touch the hard insistence against her thigh, and they both jumped at the shock. “Don’t! Don’t move your fingers, love, or I am lost,” he explained hoarsely.

“William … you are so big, so rigid.” She faltered, a note of fear creeping into her voice.

“Don’t be afraid, my darling. It is better when I am extremely rigid and hard. Penetration is easier that way, trust me.”

“I do, William,” she said simply, ready to yield all control to her beloved husband.

He knelt above her, loath to hurt her, but he was too far gone for further loveplay.

Eleanor was in a passion of conflicting emotions. She had never wanted anything more in her life; she had never wanted anything less in her life!

He whispered, “Forgive me, Eleanor,” then it was done. She closed her eyes and a little scream escaped her lips as the pain and fullness spread inside her like a burning sunburst. It took her a moment to gather her scattered thoughts. Truly it had been more pain than pleasure, but she loved the closeness of their bodies and knew he still impaled her. William lay fully upon her, his great weight engulfing her. She remembered screaming, yet he too had cried out as if in pain. He lay motionless now. So this was “the little death” Isabella had spoken of. It was indeed a mystical experience.

William’s weight became too much for her and she tried to ease her position slightly. She found that she could not move, however, and said softly, “William, you are hurting me.”

He made no reply, no sign whatsoever that he even heard her. He had fallen asleep. She must rouse him. His ear was not too far distant from her lips and she cried his name, “William! William!” A small wisp of fear curled in her body. He was not asleep, he was unconscious. Tears of God, if only she weren’t so ignorant. Could the hymenal rite cause a man to faint?

His crushing weight prevented her from breathing properly. She took quick shallow breaths as a feeling of dread penetrated her brain. Her mind screamed its denial of what she feared,
telling herself over and over that if she just endured it a moment longer, all would be well.

She did not know how long she lay imprisoned beneath him before she lost control and began to scream, but the next thing she knew Rickard de Burgh had entered the tower chamber from the ramparts and was lifting William’s body off her.

De Burgh stared in horror at the naked princess, her virgin’s blood staining the snowy sheets and the dead body of the Earl of Pembroke, Marshal of England. He groped blindly for Eleanor’s bedrobe. “My lady, my poor sweet lady,” he whispered.

“No, Rickard, no. Help me, sweet Jesus, help me! He cannot die; I won’t let him die!” She enfolded William’s naked body in her arms, sobbing wildly.

“Eleanor, he is gone, we cannot bring him back.”

She recoiled from his words. “Don’t call me that, the name is cursed!”

Firmly he pried her from the body of her husband and forced her arms into the velvet bedgown.

“Fetch a physician—fetch the king,” she cried hysterically.

“If I fetched the angel of death, my lady, he could not give him back to you. Quickly, Eleanor, before these rooms are overrun—what happened? Was William ill? Did he drink wine left in this chamber?” Rickard demanded suspiciously.

She shook her head, her face paler than death. Rickard had sensed danger to Eleanor, not William. If only he could have done something to prevent this tragedy. He had no option but to break the news of the sudden death, but prayed that no blame would touch this innocent lady. He drew the bedcovers over the blood-spotted sheet and murmured, “You should have a lady to attend you.” He didn’t think she even heard him. He left her desperately clutching William’s cold hand.