The Dragon and the Jewel (19 page)

“I care not! The stench of this court sickens me. Foreigners get every preferment anyway. After this I’m for Connaught, a place where de Burghs rule, not Plantagenets!”

Falcon raised a brow, black as a raven’s wing, to his other son, Rickard.

Quietly he answered, “I pledged to William Marshal … I still feel pledged to the Countess of Pembroke.”

His father searched his face. “’tis hopeless to love her when she has taken the vow of chastity.”

Rickard closed his eyes for a moment. “I have no illusions in that direction. I regret she took the vows because I would like nothing better than to see her cleave to a strong man who will protect her. I will see the year out in the king’s service. By that time I think she will have taken the veil. If and when she does, I will feel free to return home to Ireland.” He grinned suddenly at his brother and father. “But if you think I’m going to deny myself the pleasure of cutting Hubert’s guards to ribbons and hanging their balls from the nearest oak tree, think again!”

Half of Falcon’s men took Hubert’s child and wife, Princess Margaret, north for safekeeping. The king would never have dared to persecute Margaret for fear of bringing the wrath of Scotland down upon England. However, accidents happened all too frequently these days.

Falcon de Burgh chose a moonless night for his operation. The second reason he’d had for choosing Devizes as sanctuary for Hubert was its proximity to the Bristol Channel where his ship lay at anchor. A quick sail across the Severn would carry Hubert into Wales where the king’s writ could not reach.

It was a hard and bloody fight for the de Burghs were outnumbered two to one, but Falcon knew they had the advantage of surprise and he also knew the mettle of his men. When dawn broke upon the castle of Devizes and the mists swirled about the empty ramparts, it was as if both prisoner and guards had vanished from the face of the earth. Again there were rumors of black magic, but most tongues decided discretion was the better part of valor.

The next evening Sir Rickard de Burgh was offering his services to Henry while openly flirting with the queen. At the same hour Falcon was on his way back to Jasmine. Mick realized his father spoke the truth when he said, “Every battle is won before it is ever fought.”

E
leanor, Countess of Pembroke, had been widowed for more than a year. At first her name had been upon every malicious tongue. The misdeeds of her redheaded maid had been added to her own, and the sex scandal had amused the court of Windsor for months on end.

However, as the months drifted into a whole year, interest in the pale young woman waned and even the lusty, promiscuous Savoys ignored her existence since her vows had made her inviolate.

The queen no longer taunted her with jealous jibes, for where was the fun in tossing a cutting remark when it received no answering invective? The crowning glory of her sister-in-law’s hair was tightly braided, and the queen’s burnished gold tresses now had no rival. Queen Eleanor reveled at the way things had turned out. She had sworn to wean everyone from the princess’s camp and fate had done most of the work for her. Soon the doors of the convent would close behind Eleanor Plantagenet and she would never have to spare her another thought for the rest of her life. From that day forward she would be the reigning beauty of England.

It had taken a whole year to accomplish his goals, but with
Hubert de Burgh and William Marshal out of the way, Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, was in a
position to
exercise full control over the realm. He and his illegitimate son, Peter des Rivaux, took custody of all wardships, all forests, took over stewardship of all the king’s houses and appointed all new sheriffs. Authority was not delegated but brought under central control. Officials in Westminster offices managed the affairs of the whole country, while foreign mercenary soldiers enforced the law. It was tyranny—organized control.

Winchester kept the barons from consolidating with each other by a vicious whispering campaign, and so it was left up to the bishops to look after England’s interests. The powerful Bishop of Lincoln, who held the largest see in England, persuaded the Earl of Chester to tell the king that the counsel he was getting from Winchester was a danger to the realm because he estranged the English king from his English subjects. Suddenly, however, the aged Earl of Chester died, and it seemed that every voice which championed the English had been silenced. The English barons had no leader. At one time they looked to Prince Richard, but at the moment his only interest was in minting new coins of the realm, a venture that consumed all his time and interest.

Henry was elated at the moment. All the dreary business of the realm had been lifted from his shoulders, giving him more time to spend with his vivacious young queen and her fascinating, fun-loving court. He shared in the profits his brother Richard was reaping from the minting of new coins, and Simon de Montfort had brought peace to Gascony. Henry called Simon home to invest him as the Earl of Leicester. As the Earl of Chester was now deceased, he decided to be generous with Simon and give him all the lands around Leicester that came with the ancient title.

Simon de Montfort was shocked to learn that Hubert de Burgh had been pulled down from the lofty heights of Justiciar of England and fled to Wales. Chester’s death he accepted at face value, not only because he benefited from it, but also because Chester had lived to be a good age. The thing that shocked him the most, however, was the death of William Marshal. Though it had happened well over a year since, no word
had reached him in Gascony. The last news he had had of the Marshals was that Richard had married William’s sister. Simon wondered briefly if news of the marshal’s death had been hushed up.

King Henry feted Simon, took him to Winchester for the unbelievable Christmas festivities. Much to Simon’s chagrin, he realized that he had been chosen as the new favorite. Hubert and William had been father figures to the young king and Simon soon realized he was being cast in the same role. Though he was the king’s age, he was so much more mature both in body and intellect that Henry looked up to him and revered him.

Simon was appalled at the way the country was being ruled. De Montfort loved almost everything about England. He was a true Anglophile, becoming more English than an Englishman born.

At New Year’s, Henry was most generous with de Montfort and gave him title to lands in Coventry near Leicester. De Montfort was burdened by heavy debts from fighting Henry’s battles in Gascony, but he was farsighted enough to see that owning land meant wielding power. Amazingly no one seemed to resent the favor being heaped upon the newcomer, possibly because the queen had taken one look at the young Apollo with his dark, compelling beauty, and decided she would make him a “Queen’s Man.”

Simon took his men to Leicester and Coventry to see to the administration of his new holdings. From past experience he knew he must take a firm hand in running his households if he was ever to get out from under his mountain of debt. The king and queen allowed him to go only because he had promised to come back into their service when the court returned to Windsor in the spring.

Simon kept his ears open for whispers about William Marshal’s death and questioned his two squires about rumors. Guy, who kept company with the king’s younger knights, avidly repeated the stories that had circulated after the marshal’s death.

“’tis common knowledge his young wife killed him.”

Guy’s father Rolf asked bluntly, “How?”

“He was an older man who married a young girl. He didn’t
take her to live with him until she was about fifteen, then he didn’t last a year!”

“What do you mean, he didn’t last a year?” Rolf asked, puzzled.

Guy winked at Simon and explained to his father, “You know, he wore himself out in bed trying to please her.”

“Bullshit!” replied Rolf. “The marshal was my age, he wasn’t an old man.”

“Too old for the insatiable Plantagenet princess apparently. He died on the job!”

Rolf looked at Simon for confirmation. De Montfort nodded. “I’ve heard the same stories.”

The look of disbelief on Rolf’s face was replaced by one of admiration. “He died fucking—what a way to go!”

The squires couldn’t help laughing even though they knew de Montfort had held the marshal in high esteem. “You should hear the tales they tell in the stables about a red-haired maid of Princess Eleanor’s,” said Guy.

“I hear lots of tales, but I’m not gullible enough to believe everything I hear,” Rolf said repressively.

“These tales must be true. Men seldom admit their cocks are lacking in virility. This maid was so lusty it took six men to satisfy her.” He winked at his father. “Six Englishmen, that is; I wonder if she ever tried a French prick?”

Simon mused, “It seems at this court the morals of the ladies, be they maid or princess, leave much to be desired.” He turned his destrier over to Rolf. “Saddle my other horse. I think I’ll fly my falcon in Windsor forest.” Simon de Montfort went above the stables to get his bird.

“You shouldn’t talk like that in front of his lordship,” Rolf reproved his son. “I know he’s the easiest man in the world to talk to, but you forget he’s now a great earl.” He removed the saddle, bit, and bridle of the black stallion and began to rub him down. “A red-haired wench, did you say?”

Guy laughed, “Tie a knot in it,” he said as he brought Simon’s hunter from its box. “She hasn’t been seen at Windsor in over a year!”

* * *

Once Eleanor’s firm hand fell upon the jade-green velvet riding habit in her wardrobe, she could not wait to see how the vibrant color would change her appearance. When she stepped in front of her polished silver mirror, she shuddered with distaste at the ugly braids. She quickly unplaited the pious knots and brushed her hair into a wild mass of curls, then hunted for a jeweled net to complement her outfit and confine her unruly, waist-length tresses.

The mouths of the grooms and falconers had fallen open when the beautiful young princess demanded her horse be saddled and her merlin unhooded and jessed, but in their hearts they were pleased to see that she was again taking an interest in life.

Eleanor filled her lungs with fresh air. This was the first time she had ridden in over a year, the first time she had cast aside her mourning garments. Outside again, enjoying the solitude of nature, she marveled that four seasons had slipped by without her noticing their passage. She gained a more balanced perspective of how her small existence fit into the scheme of things. Though Eleanor Plantagenet Marshal’s heart had been broken, the world had not come to a crashing stop. The birds still sang as sweetly, the trees that had towered there for hundreds of years still spread their branches to the sunlight, the butterflies still fluttered about the pallid violets at the edge of the stream and that stream trickled along until it became a brook, then widened into a river whose current swept it out to sea. For the first time in over a year she allowed herself to become immersed in something other than grief.

She’d lost the confining net from her hair hours ago as she’d galloped beneath a low-lying branch in the vast forest of Windsor. She had truly forgotten how invigorating it could be astride her mare with the breeze whipping her black tresses into an impossible tangle.

For a small moment in time she had allowed her guilt to drop away as she took pleasure in the cool, green solitude of the woods. When she cast her little merlin she was not surprised when it missed its first prey, for the small hawk had been sadly neglected. It did not return to her hand until she cast the lure
several times, then when she stood in her stirrups and flung it high a second time, it brought down a pigeon.

Instead of bringing its prize to her hand, it flew to a high branch and devoured the pigeon. Eleanor did not get angry at the merlin. It was her own fault for flying her so seldom. The hawk had half forgotten her training and had reverted to her natural instincts.

Eleanor’s cheeks were filled with roses as she gazed upward at the defiant little rebel. Suddenly she heard a sound like a whistling and to her horror saw a sleek peregrine falcon thud into her merlin with its great talons. The tiny gray bundle of feathers dropped from the tree like a stone.

Eleanor dismounted in a flash and picked it up from the grass, hoping it had only been stunned, but she saw with dismay its throat had been torn open. A cry of deep hurt was torn from her own throat. This was the little merlin William had given her; brought all the way from their beloved Wales. Suddenly all the quiet reserve left her and the floodgates opened. She fell to the forest floor cradling the limp little bird, sobbing uncontrollably.

Simon de Montfort signaled his falcon and it immediately returned to his hand. He tied its jesses to his saddlebow and dismounted. With one massive hand he lifted the jade-clad figure from the ground, saying “Hush, child, hush. Don’t break your heart. What’s done is done. What can’t be undone must be accepted, child.”

“I’m not a child … I’m a woman!” raged Eleanor, her eyes blazing with hatred.

As he set her on her feet he saw that indeed she was a woman. A pair of tempting breasts thrust upward from her riding dress, and a pair of eyes like rare jewels glistened with tears in the most breathtakingly beautiful face he’d ever seen. “Forgive me,
chérie
, I thought you were a child because you are no bigger than a …”

For one unbelievable moment she thought he would say cockroach or piss-ant.

“You filthy swine! ’tis not I who am small, ’tis you who are a bloody giant!” Eleanor saw him through a red mist of rage. She was angry at the world in general and this odious male in particular.
Her eyes fell upon the falcon secured to his saddle. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch,” she screamed, and lunged toward the predator.

It stood its ground fiercely and tore open her embroidered glove with its talon.

Simon dragged her away. “You will not! Control yourself, you foolish little wench.”

“Then I’ll kill you, you filthy whoreson!” She twisted in his massive arms and raked her nails down his cheek.

He dropped her on her arse without hesitation. “Who are you?” he demanded. “You have a mouth like a cesspool.”

Her eyes glazed threateningly. “I don’t give out my name to any bastard who asks.”

De Montfort’s black eyes narrowed. “That’s enough, English, control yourself!”

“You are the one who needs controlling, you and that damned vermin you call a hawk.”

“That, English, is a peregrine falcon, the fastest, finest bird of prey in the world.”

“I hope you both rot in hell,” she shouted, her breasts heaving from her shortness of breath.

“I should teach you to curse in French, it sounds so much more civilized.”

“You? You? Teach
me
anything?
Fais de I’air,”
she cried, telling him to get lost.

Again his eyes narrowed, but she ignored the warning. “English, I think I’ll teach you some manners,” he threatened as he took a step toward her.

“Don’t call me that,” she warned. “Pigs can’t teach manners.”

“Someone should have taken you over their knee when you were a child. You shouldn’t speak to your betters in gutter language.”

“Don’t call me that!” she screamed. “You … you Frenchman! You filthy foreigner! You come over here with your superior airs, with your unmitigated gall, and take over. You’re thick as scum on a pond. Don’t ever dare to lay a hand on me, Frenchman—you’re not fit to clean my boots!”