Desired

Chapter 24

W indsor womenfolk managed admirably without their men, who had been gone for a good month now. Daily life was calmer and less demanding without the noisy presence of dominant males, but time seemed to hang heavy, and as darkness approached each night it brought with it a nagging worry and concern for the fathers, brothers, sons, husbands, and sweethearts fighting across the sea in France.

Queen Philippa and Prince Lionel received regular communiqués, relayed from the Cinque Ports, and so far the news had all been good. Confiscated French possessions were pouring into England as fast as the fleet could transport them and an optimistic queen’s household began preparations for a move to the Court of Bordeaux, once King Edward had vanquished the upstart, Philip of Valois.

Brianna of Bedford enjoyed a freedom she hadn’t known since the day she had become inextricably involved with the men of the House of Warrick. The ladies of Windsor had spent this particular afternoon hawking and Brianna slipped away from Isabel’s party, then gave her horse its head so they could ride without constraint through the sunwashed Thames Valley.

She realized it was heartless to feel so happy and free when her men—she quickly amended the word “men” to “man”—was off fighting a war. But why should she feel guilty? War was the natural order for men. They spent their entire lives in training and dreamed only of battles, bloody sword thrusts, and knighthood. To a man, knighthood was more important than marriage. Many had more consideration for their warhorses than their wives! They wore their scars like badges of honor and thought themselves iron men, measuring their strength in tourneys when there were no wars to fight.

As she rode, her hair came tumbling down from its constraints and streamed behind her in the summer wind. It was so long, it brushed her mare’s flanks as they rode in wild abandon. When she was married she would have to keep it covered, save in the privacy of the bedchamber.

Unbidden, a brilliant flash of memory came to her of Christian brushing her hair. She closed her eyes, banishing the thought instantly. When she opened them, she saw bruise-colored clouds gathering and knew there would be a summer storm this night.

Night.

She tried not to think about night.

Her days were filled with activities, her evenings with her illuminated manuscripts, but her nights were filled with erotic dreams, and none of them about her husband-to-be. The guilt made her cheeks burn; the thought of Christian made her throat ache. Reluctantly she turned her palfrey and headed back to the stables.

When she arrived, she saw Princess Isabel’s mare and knew the hawking party had returned before her. She took her merlin up the stone steps of the mews and turned her over to a falconer. She hesitated for a moment, then strode inside to search out Salome. It didn’t take her long to locate the magnificent gerfalcon. She spoke softly to her, admiring the subtle coloring where her shoulders curved down into powerful wings. The raptor ruffled at Brianna’ crooning voice. “Do you miss him as much as I?” Her words were as soft as a sigh.

She reached out to stroke the bird. In a flash it raised its talons and grabbed her fingers. She cried out in startled alarm. Amazingly it did not draw blood, but gripped her viciously, refusing to let her go for a full minute. She knew it could have torn the flesh of her hand to ribbons and none to blame but herself. Clearly, she saw the analogy of danger between Hawksblood and hawk.

She stopped at the massive Round Tower that was being built with the beautiful stone from Bedford. She ran her hands over the roughened surface, taking comfort from its solid feel, taking pleasure in its muted shadings. “I’ll be back,” she whispered. “I’ll have my children there. We will be a safe and happy family.” She did not feel foolish talking to stone. Sharing her dreams, hopes, and wishes with an element of the earth seemed natural.

Lightning snaked down the sky and struck the tower. Brianna was awed, yet not afraid. It was a sign. Good or bad? There was no answer. From whence came the sign? God? Devil? Mother? Drakkar? Large drops of rain prevented her imagination from taking flight. She ran to her chambers for shelter from the storm, but she had nowhere to run for shelter from her thoughts or her strange mood.

Adele had already left for the hall. Brianna knew she feared storms and was glad Adele had gone to join the queen’s ladies for the evening meal where the music and the company would obliterate its noise. Brianna decided to stay put for the evening. The solitude of her chamber suited her. She would sketch, then perhaps paint. The subtle colors of Salome and the Bedfordshire stone challenged her artistic talent.

With a crisp russet apple in one hand and a piece of charcoal in the other, she sat down at her worktable and began to draw. She became absorbed in her work. The stone tower materialized, then the gerfalcon swooping from the crenellated stones to the outstretched arm of a knight. Her errant thoughts began to drift. Something was calling to her. Beyond the glow of the candles, the chamber was dark, shadowed. Something waited there, just beyond the light.

Or someone.

Suddenly lightning lit the room as if it were day and she saw that there was nothing there save her own private thoughts, floating in the stilly air. She could create a scene upon parchment so real she could feel the roughness of the stones, hear the swish of the raptor’s wings, smell the leather of the knight’s hauberk. Could she also create a living, breathing scene in this sanctuary into which she could step and, for a short time, become a part of?

The thought intrigued her, tempted her, slowly compelled her to try. From the back of her wardrobe she drew her mother’s gray velvet cloak. She had not touched it since the tournament. She stood before the mirror, hesitating. The candles bathed half of her in their golden glow, the other half was shadowed, hidden, dark. She knew the folly she was about to commit was a thousandfold more reckless than reaching out to the gerfalcon.

To Brianna, however, it was irresistible.

She lifted her chin defiantly, and with a flourish, swirled the gray velvet about her shoulders. Everything shifted, then merged. She was in a tower chamber that was surrounded by a raging storm of heavy, deafening thunder and blue lightning. She was in the arms of a knight. His big hands roamed over her body, which was completely naked beneath the gray velvet cloak.

Though her flesh shrank at the intimate things he did, she arched against him temptingly. As the lightning flashed, she saw his aquamarine eyes dilate with desire and she reached up a slender arm to bring the blond head down to her seeking mouth. “Robert…husband…” she breathed against his lips, and felt his mouth go slack with need.

He was frantic to free himself of his clothes, to slide her silken flesh over his, to bury himself deep within her. The moment he was naked he again pulled her to his hard length. Her seductive hand slid down his massive chest, stroked across his belly, then closed about his jutting manhood.

A deep, harsh cry of pleasure-pain was torn from his throat and he slipped to his knees, his mouth sliding down her body until it came to rest upon her mons. She looked down at his face. His sensual lips had blood upon them. His aquamarine eyes were closed forever. She raised her eyes to those of her lover.

“I knew you could lure him up here.” His voice was a dark intoxicant. She watched, mesmerized, as Drakkar withdrew his curved scimitar from Robert’s body. Now indeed they shared a bond of blood. The thought that he had murdered his brother so he could have her made her delirious with joy. His dark, savage laughter engulfed her as he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

His power was drugging to her senses. She joined in his laughter as she saw the crimson drops of blood upon her white thighs, then she was snaking them about his iron-hard body, knowing that within minutes he would transform her laughter to screams of pleasure. Nothing mattered to either of them but their blinding, intoxicating, reckless passion.

Adele found her unconscious, lying atop the gray velvet cloak as she had once before. When Adele shook her shoulder, Brianna roused and pushed her tangled hair back from her face. She was so pale, even her lips looked bloodless.

“What happened, my lamb? Are ye ill?” Adele was most disturbed.

“No, no…a nightmare, I think,” Brianna whispered, sinking into a chair.

Adele saw her eyes were wide with horror and thought Brianna was keeping something from her. “Sweet Mary, you’re not with child?”

“Nay,” Brianna said firmly, the very thought making her tremble.

Adele crossed herself, thanking the Holy Mother. “I’m going to fetch Glynis. ’Tis unnatural for a healthy young woman to faint. Mayhap she can mix you a herbal potion to strengthen you.”

Though the hour was late, Glynis, carrying her herbal box, and Joan, too, came to Brianna’s chambers, concern on their faces.

Brianna laughed shakily. “It was just a nightmare. It was so real, it frightened me, that’s all.”

Glynis took out a vial of distilled lily of the valley. “Put this in some wine for her,” she bade Adele. “The atmosphere is strange tonight. The very air is charged with disturbing forces. Storms are often portents of things that come to pass.”

“Aye, I’m terrified of the bloody things,” Adele admitted. “I though it had ended, but I still hear it rumbling in the distance.”

“What sort of things?” Joan asked, fascinated by Glynis’ words.

“Good or evil, sometimes both. A storm before a great battle can change the outcome. Storms have changed the course of history!”

Joan tried for a lighter note. She did not wish to dwell on battles when her beloved prince was off fighting a war. “When one side wins, the other loses. It has little to do with storms.”

Joan was not a deep thinker and Adele wished Brianna were more like her at this moment, for she could tell that Glynis’ words were provoking disturbing thoughts.

“Dreams too can mirror the future, especially a dream at the time of a great storm.”

Brianna shuddered uncontrollably. “Christ, I hope not! Mine was a nightmare, not a dream.”

“Dreams are not literal, my lady. They are highly symbolic. They must be interpreted. Tell me what you dreamed and I will show you its meaning is entirely different from what you fear,” urged Glynis.

“I…I cannot tell you. It was wicked, nay, it was evil,” Brianna admitted, sipping the wine Glynis prescribed.

“Oh, do tell us!” Joan begged.

Glynis added, “By telling us, you will purge it from your mind. It will be cathartic. It will cleanse you, purify you.”

Brianna wished to be free of it, but she should go to confession for absolution. She suddenly realized the subject was too intimate for the confessional booth. She looked at the faces about her. These were her only friends in the world, the only ones who cared about her. She knew whatever she told them would go no further. Even so, she could not bring herself to confess that she had deliberately tried to use the power of her mother’s gray cloak to communicate with her lover. Without her realizing it, the lily of the valley loosened her tongue. “I…I was in a tower chamber built from Bedfordshire stone. Robert was with me.” She blushed. “He was kissing me…I was returning his kisses.”

She stopped. To give her time to pick and choose her words, she finished the cup of wine. “His half brother, Christian Hawksblood, stabbed and killed him.”

Brianna heard Adele’s indrawn breath.

“That’s not the worst part. I was happy when he killed him. I saw blood on my thighs and I was glad !”

Joan’s eyes were wide, her bottom lip caught in pretty white teeth as she listened to the dream.

Glynis asked, “Did the dream involve intercourse?”

Brianna’s cheeks flamed as she recalled the passion of the mating. “Yes…that is, I was about to, but…but I think I fainted before…before…”

“My lady, it is clearly symbolic, as I thought. You were attracted to two brothers and so you dream of them. You felt guilt, so you dream of committing a terrible act that produces guilt. A tower of Bedfordshire stone is naturally your Castle of Bedford, which will go to your husband when you marry. You dreamed about one of them dying because they are both off to war and the fear is there with you every day. Even though you bury that fear, it surfaces in your dreams.”

“What about the blood on her thighs and the intercourse?” Joan whispered.

“That is the core of the dream. That is what is deeply disturbing you, my lady. You fear there will be no blood on your thighs on your wedding night after you and Robert are intimate.”

Brianna sat stunned. She had never given it a thought, but Splendor of God, what would Robert do when he discovered her no virgin? Brianna’s hands covered her burning cheeks. “I’ve been so wanton,” she said wretchedly.

Adele put her arm about her. “Tush! None of us are virgins here. Women have been duping men about maidenheads since the dawn of time.”

Glynis nodded her head. “It only happened recently. You will still be very small. He may not be able to tell, especially if he drinks deep at the wedding.”

“Prick your finger with a rose thorn or your brooch and put some drops of blood on the sheet,” Joan suggested. “There isn’t a man breathing can compete with a woman when it comes to being devious,” she added with pride.

Adele went down before Brianna. “I don’t want you worrying yourself sick about this. ’Tis a trifle! Thank Heaven above that your courses have started and you are not with child. Now that would be something to worry about, my lamb.”

Joan’s lovely brows drew together. Now that she thought about it, it seemed a long time since she had bled. She pushed the frightening thought away and jumped up. “In the morning when the sun comes up, it will banish all tonight’s darklings. The storm will pass, tomorrow will be a glorious day, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

The four young women smiled at each other as they said their good nights, but alone in their beds later, Joan and Brianna lay wide awake, each far more worried than she had been earlier.

Across the Channel in Crécy, France, the King of England, his marshals, and most of his captains and nobles also lay awake. Some had a fatalistic attitude, knowing they were badly outnumbered, and offered up prayers before they met their Maker.

Both the king’s son and Warrick’s son, however, believed they would win the day. They arose at five in the morning. Hawksblood and Prince Edward’s squire, John Chandos, helped the prince don his armor. He insisted upon wearing his distinctive black chain mail and to go over it he chose a crimson and gold surcoat.

His squire protested, “Your Highness, you will stand out from the others. Every Frenchman will know you on sight and all will lust to take the son of the King of England, dead or alive!”

Prince Edward insisted, “I wish to be recognized! I would despise myself if I feared to be known.”

Hawksblood knew the extent of Edward’s towering pride, for he himself had been blessed, or cursed, with the same self-esteem. The Black Prince went to join the king and the moment he left the tent, Hawksblood too donned black chain mail.

The king wore an equally brilliant azure and gold surcoat and together with his son, mounted on white horses, rode before the assembling ranks. He noted with satisfaction his green-jacketed archers in the front had kept their bows in their cases to keep them dry. Their faces were wreathed with assured smiles, for they, more than any in Edward’s army, knew their deadly power.

In the right division he placed Harcourt, the Black Prince, Warrick and his sons, along with his very best English knights. Under Northampton, a second battalion of two thousand archers and two thousand men-at-arms formed the left flank, covering the ridge. The king himself commanded a third battalion of equal strength, which could be dispatched swiftly to any part of the battlefield where they were needed.

King Edward raised his voice. “The French must travel eighteen miles around yon forest. They will come upon us abruptly and become involved in the conflict before they are ready to fight. There is no room for them to form a battle line.”

A great cheer went up.

King Edward raised his arms and continued, “The larger the French force, the greater their difficulty!”

Another cheer, louder than the first, arose.

“Never forget that one Englishman is worth three Frenchmen!”

The men cheered until they were hoarse. Cries of “Edward and St. George” and “Edward, fils du roi ” were deafening, but heartening. Rain began to fall, but none seemed to even notice. King Edward’s flashing smile came to rest upon his son. Suddenly he looked uneasy that the Black Prince was such a recognizable target.

Young Edward ground out, “I care not who comes to me. I’ll give a damn good account of myself. Just remember your promise to me!”

The king grinned broadly. “May the honor of this day be yours!”

The English army heard mass and waited.

At midday, the spotted the enemy. The sky was black, lightning forked the sky, and the rain teemed down. Genoese crossbowmen, weary after tramping eighteen miles through the storm with their heavy equipment, were reluctant to fight that day. The French high command called them Italian scum and scurvy cowards, and the French cavalry forced them across the wet fields until they were in range of the English and Welsh longbows.

Suddenly the rain ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun came out, shining in the faces of the French. As if conjured by a sorcerer’s hand, a flock of black crows rose up and flew cawing over the heads of the French.

It was an omen!

Suddenly, the goose feathers on the English arrows made it seem like a snowstorm had replaced the rain. The breastplates of the Genoese bowmen were no protection against the violent power of arrows propelled from longbows. In minutes their ranks were decimated. They turned and fled through the knights behind them.

“Kill me these cowardly rogues,” cried the King of France.

The English were treated to the ghastly spectacle of mounted cavalry destroying their own men with no mercy or concern!

Philip was in a black rage because he had seen the English flag quartered with the lilies of France. He threw caution to the wind and disorder reigned. The French rode onto the plain and up a slope, not only clogged by dead men and horses but slippery with their blood. The road was narrow, like a ramp to a slaughterhouse.

They came, they charged, they died!

But they came in such great numbers, the battle raged on all afternoon. Finally, the furiously attacking French broke through the archers and engaged the English right division. Suddenly, the men fighting about the Black Prince were surrounded.

For Hawksblood everything slowed so that he could focus his concentration upon every danger that threatened him. He knew exactly where to plunge his sword into three vital places unprotected by armor: the throat, the gut, and beneath the raised arm. He gave no thought to his back, for he knew Paddy and Ali protected it well. He clearly saw half a dozen French ride toward the Black Prince.

He knew John Chandos was at Edward’s back, and saw that his brother, Robert de Beauchamp, was beside the prince. Both the prince and Robert would likely die if he did not cut off the Frenchmen’s advance. He swerved his destrier directly into their path. He slew two and knew that Paddy and Ali slew two more. The other two French cavalrymen escaped by changing direction.

A great cry went up behind him and Hawksblood turned in the saddle to see Prince Edward go down. How could that be? It made no sense! Hawksblood was out of the saddle in a flash. He stood over his friend’s body as it lay in the mud, raised broadsword in one hand, battle ax in the other. For one moment he rued the decision to wear black armor identical to Edward’s, for he knew what a target he made, but he firmly set aside regret so that he could glory in becoming the target. He attracted so many of the enemy, there was a sea of blood about him before he was done.

It was a great excuse for Robert de Beauchamp and Sir John Holland to retreat to safer ground. They rode straight to the king. “The Prince of Wales is sorely pressed, Your Highness.” De Beauchamp hoped he was dead, but by seeking aid for the downed prince, he would avoid all suspicion of having a hand in it.

The king looked at Warrick’s son, whom he had knighted beside his own son that first day. Fear gripped the king’s throat. Surely Fate would not take his son’s life this day, yet spare Warrick’s son. “Is he wounded?” demanded the king.

“I know not, Your Highness,” swore De Beauchamp.

Holland had seen him put his sword into the prince’s horse so he would go down, but kept his mouth shut.

King Edward was ready to dig in his spurs to gallop to his son’s rescue. Then he remembered his promise. He did not ever want it said that Prince Edward would have failed if his father had not saved him. “I want him to win his spurs. You, too, must have a chance to acquit yourselves. Go back and aid him!” He was well pleased with these valiant young knights of his.

Hawksblood glanced anxiously to see if any of the blood gushed from Edward. He almost staggered with relief as he saw all the blood upon the Black Prince had come from the mortal wounds of his horse. The prince had merely been stunned in the fall. Now he got to his feet. He had dislocated his left shoulder when his horse fell on him, but he ignored the pain. John Chandos rode to him with a horse, as did Paddy for Hawksblood. The two knights in black mail mounted, grinning from ear to ear, then flung themselves into the thick of the fighting. A picture came fullblown into Christian’s mind of Prince Lionel killing his opponent’s horse in the tournament. He had no proof that Robert had copied Lionel, thrusting his sword into Edward’s horse, only the suspicion of his sixth sense. He tucked it away for future use and got on with the slaughter.