Chapter 11
I t was past the hour of midnight before the king dared to seek Katherine de Montecute’s chamber. She had lit the candles and turned down the bed, but she had not retired. She knew he would come. She wore a diaphanous chamber robe of azure, his favorite color. She brushed her dark gold hair for an hour so that it would crackle and cling of its own volition.
Katherine’s worries had tripled while King Edward had sailed toward France. That country already held one man she loved. Next she had feared for her son, and then for her lover. She had been giving much thought to the future. If something happened to her husband, the Earl of Salisbury, that title would pass to her son. In spite of the earl being the king’s friend, William had never profited from it. They only had Wark Castle, a formidable, stark fortress near the Scottish border. Tonight, she intended to press the king for an heiress for her son, William. Instinctively, she knew she would get more from Edward before he slaked his thirst for her. Her royal lover was capable of bestowing favors with a lavish hand.
“Katherine, you are more beautiful than a goddess.” He went down before her on his knees in homage to her loveliness.
“Edward, thank you for keeping my son safe for me. If he too had been captured, I think I would have lost my sanity.”
“I almost decided to leave him here in England to spare you anxiety, Katherine, but he is a young warrior, entitled to earn his spurs.”
“I know he is a man grown, Edward. I want him to make a good marriage, one that will befit the future Earl of Salisbury.” She ran her fingers through his thick hair and pressed his face between her warm breasts.
He unfastened the ribbons of her robe so that his mouth and hands had full access to her voluptuous globes. His voice thickened as he began to nuzzle and kiss her ripe body. “Let me love you, Katherine. We will decide this later. Never fear, I will reward the De Montecutes with a worthy bride.”
Katherine covered her breasts with her hands, preventing him from suckling her. “Edward, I want to get this out of the way so that I can give my full attention to welcoming you home, as a hero should be welcomed.”
He searched her face and rose to his full height, desire beating in his temples. “Who do you have in mind, beloved?”
“Blanche of Lancaster?” she asked with great cunning, knowing full well that child and her fortune were being reserved for one of the king’s sons.
“I cannot promise you Blanche, my love. She is royal and her father has the right to demand a royal husband for her. Katherine my love, ask me for any but her.”
Katherine sighed heavily, allowing the silence to stretch between them.
The king’s heart constricted, fearing he could not please her.
Finally she took pity on him and broke the silence. “Well, I believe William is much taken with Joan of Kent. He would be well pleased with Joan, I have no doubt, and if her son is well pleased, can a mother be other than well pleased also?”
Edward swept Katherine into his arms and carried her to the bed. “Joan of Kent it shall be!” he declared magnanimously.
Katherine’s arms slipped about his neck and she lifted her parted lips for his kiss. “Thank you, darling. You can announce it at the tournament.”
Edward felt a qualm about his son’s infatuation with Joan, but if she were married, it would remove the temptation to make her his wife. Once Edward lay down beside Katherine, thoughts of everyone, save the two of them, were blotted from his consciousness.
If he had known the depth of emotion Edward and Joan felt for one another, however, he would have had more than one qualm. In the Banqueting Hall they had tried to pay attention to what others said to them, tried to listen to the epic tale of valor that Godenal had composed in honor of the Plantagenet victory, but they could not. Neither knew what was said to them, neither even knew what they ate. Both were obsessed by the object of their desire. Their eyes met a thousand times. They tore their gaze from each other, only to find it drawn back again and again.
Prince Edward carried Joan’s note like a lovesick swain. He had read it so many times, he knew it by heart: “ My Prince, Words cannot tell you how proud I am of your great victory at Sluys. My heart is bursting with pride and love for you. I want to cry from the highest turret of Windsor that you are my champion! I long to embroider your beloved name upon my sleeve for all the world to see. You are my Perfect Gentle Knight. I ache to be in your arms again. Yours forever, Jeanette .”
It was agony to have only one dance together, but it was long enough for Edward to pass her a love letter and to touch her for a few minutes. The result of being in proximity, however, only able to touch hands, took its toll. Joan was left with a longing that made her heart ache. Edward’s hunger raged until he was in an agony of need.
Joan waited until she was in her bedchamber before she read Edward’s words: “ My little Jeanette, I thank you with all my heart for your love note. From now on I shall write to you each day. We cannot go on this way, never being alone together. I intend to buy a house in London, as your brother has done. I shall entrust Christian Hawksblood with my letters for you and ask you to do the same. I burn for you, but ask you to be patient until our haven is ready. I kiss your lips, I kiss your heart, but save the other kiss for lower until you are safely in my arms. E .”
Joan touched her lips to the letter and slipped it beneath her pillow. “Glynis, I want you to make me a spell.”
The dark Welsh girl drew close. “What kind of spell, my lady?” With the ancient knowledge of her pagan ancestors she was completely aware that Joan was in love. It was the object of her affections that disturbed Glynis. She knew Joan’s path would not be smooth. The road to her goal was long and littered with stumbling blocks. Glynis sighed. Her charge was so sweet, childlike, and uncomplicated, she thought that if she wished hard enough for something, she would get her wish. Joan had no idea that wishes could turn to curses.
“A love spell,” Joan confessed. “Glynis, I am in love and I want to be loved in return. Cast me a spell that will make me irresistible!”
“Take off your clothes. The nude body adds to the power of your invocation and the spell you project.” Glynis gathered green candles, herbs, and an incense burner. With a long taper she lit the green candles, then set aloes and incense to smolder. “Repeat after me,” Glynis intoned, and Joan began the incantation:
“I am possessed by burning love.
Let this man yearn for me, desire me.
Let his desire burn for me.
Let my love come forth from the spirit and be transmitted to him.
Let him desire me as nothing has been desired before.
Fill him with love for me!”
The following day Joan was inundated by young men who asked for a favor to wear in the tournament. She gave scarves to John Holland, Michael de la Pole, Roger de Cheyne, and William de Montecute.
De Montecute refused the scarf. “Lady Kent…Joan, I beg you give me something more personal. I ask a token that represents a pledge between us.”
“What sort of pledge?” she asked, amused.
“A pledge of love. Give me a stocking, Joan. Something personal you have worn against your body.”
Suddenly she was not quite as amused. “William, you shock me! You should not be saying these things to me,” she rebuked.
William became more intense than ever. “Soon I hope I will have the right. Joan, you must know you are irresistible to me.”
The word “irresistible” echoed back to the love spell she had cast. Jesu, she hadn’t been specific enough. She should have invoked Edward’s name especially! “I’m sorry, William. Take the scarf or ask another lady for her favor.”
He had to be satisfied for the moment. He took Joan’s scarf, pressed it to his lips, inhaled its fragrance, then tucked it into his doublet.
For Prince Edward she had a sleeve. Inside, she had embroidered their entwined initials. She had it tucked inside her bodice in case of a chance encounter. Joan spotted Brianna coming from the Queen’s tower and called for her to wait. Brianna was wearing buttercup yellow, which made her look as if she walked in sunshine. “Let’s play truants and go to the lists to watch them practice,” Joan suggested.
“We shouldn’t, but I cannot resist you,” Brianna agreed.
“Mmm, no one can resist me today, it seems.”
“Have you bestowed your favor upon anyone yet?”
“I’ve handed out four identical pink scarves,” Joan said with a giggle.
“Any combatant courageous enough to fly the color pink must indeed be smitten,” Brianna said, laughing.
“I have a sleeve tucked away for my special champion,” Joan said, patting her bodice.
“And that champion is?” Brianna inquired.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Joan said lightly. “Have you given Robert your favor?”
“Not yet,” Brianna replied, “but he asked me and I promised.”
In the field beyond the lists, the pavilions of the contenders were being set up. The tents held armor, weapons, changes of clothing, wooden bathing tubs, medical supplies, saddles, harnesses, cots, and stools. Each contestant had his own squires and pages whose main duties were to help him don armor, replace broken lances, assuage thirst, bind wounds, and offer unfailing encouragement.
When challengers came from far afield, they might even have to sleep in their pavilions if the castle was filled. This tournament, however, would be relatively small with contenders coming only from the surrounding counties. But no matter how small, a tournament was a lodestone attracting merchants, peddlers, jongleurs, bards, and a ragtag assortment of scoundrels who lived by their wits.
In an adjoining meadow merchants were setting up stalls to display their goods imported from near and far, so that by the day of the tournament, Windsor would take on the atmosphere of a fair. Horses, tapestries, Syrian silks, Persian rugs, Venetian glass as well as things like home-brewed beer would be on sale.
Brianna stopped feeling guilty about their truancy when she saw Princess Isabel and her other ladies watching the jousters practice. In fact, most of the female population of Windsor was here, be they scullery maid or countess. Those who worked in the kitchens knew today was their only chance for a bit of leisure, for tomorrow they would be working sixteen hours a day preparing festive food.
Some men were erecting a canopy above the lodges where the queen and the noble ladies would sit to watch the jousting. A jongleur on horseback was practicing tossing a sword high into the air then catching it.
Sir John Chandos had set up Edward’s pavilion next to Christian Hawksblood’s. Joan and Brianna recognized them immediately. One was red and purple, topped by a gold minaret, while the other was black silk, flying a golden dragon of Wales pennon.
Brianna blinked in disbelief as she saw Adele and Glynis emerge from the Arabian tent. Close on their heels came Paddy and Ali. When Adele saw Brianna, she quickly explained before she was questioned. “Paddy is from my own county in Ireland.”
Glynis added, “We were curious about Drakkar’s pavilion.”
“Drakkar?” Brianna asked vaguely.
Ali bowed to her. “Drakkar is Lord Christian’s Arabian name, my lady.”
“Lord Christian?” she mocked with raised eyebrows.
“Actually, it’s Prince,” Paddy asserted in an offended tone. “Prince Drakkar!”
“How romantic!” Joan cried, as if she believed every word.
Brianna pulled her friend away just in time to prevent the foursome from seeing her burst out laughing.
Joan joined in her friend’s laughter. “His squires are very droll.”
“I really like Paddy,” Brianna whispered wickedly, “he’s so full of shit!” Again they went off into peals of laughter.
Hawksblood had been up since four in the morning. He was training a company of Cornish fighters in warfare with the long-knife. He wanted to make them proficient in night attacks under cover of darkness, where the need for stealth and silence must be practiced over and over.
Later in the morning he had directed his squires to set up his pavilion next to Prince Edward’s. He promised to pass Edward’s letter on to Joan of Kent and told him he’d help his squire, Chandos, to select the armor and lances he’d need for the tournament, so that Edward could go into London to house-hunt. Christian decided he had an hour to spare to train Gnasher to obey his signals. He stopped by one of the kitchens to get some scraps of meat, then with the ferret riding on his shoulder, headed toward the lists.
Young Randal Grey spotted the little animal from a great distance and was drawn by curiosity. “Is that a tame ferret?”
“Half-tame,” Christian replied.
“Can I hold him?” Randal asked eagerly.
“Sometimes he bites,” Christian warned.
“I don’t mind,” the redheaded imp assured.
Christian hid his amusement. “Here’s a piece of meat. Hold it out and see if he’ll come to you. No! Not between your fingers, his teeth are like needles. Hold it on the flat of your hand.”
When the ferret took the meat and pried his fingers apart searching for more, Randal was delighted. “Can I have him?” he begged.
“No. The little Gnasher is one of my secret weapons,” Christian explained.
“Why do you call him Gnasher?” Randal asked.
“I’ll show you.” Christian pointed his finger at an unsuspecting Paddy and ordered, “Gnash!”
The black-footed ferret streaked across the grass, ran up Paddy’s leg, and would have bitten him on the balls, if he hadn’t been protected by the leather cup he wore. However, the surprise attack took Paddy so unaware, Randal fell down laughing at the Irishman’s antics.
When the Gnasher returned to Christian, he scratched it behind the ear. “Don’t you have a pet?”
Randal shook his head, then a faraway look came into his eyes. “My dad gave me a little dog once, but my mother made me get rid of it. I miss him. He’s dead.”
Christian knew Randal was not speaking of the dog, but of his father. He knew the pain a child suffered when he was separated from a loving parent at too tender an age. “How would you like to be in charge of Gnasher here during the tournament? We’ll keep him in the tent and you can bring him food and water. If I’m in need of my secret weapon, I’ll call on you for his services.”
“Thank you, Sir Christian.” Randal’s grin almost split his face in half.
“Has anyone spoken for you for squire’s training?”
The mop of red curls shook and for a moment Randal looked utterly forlorn. “I was hoping Prince Edward—” His voice tapered off to silence.
Hawksblood fixed him with a fierce glare of scrutiny. “I’ll have a word with him,” he muttered.
Randal thought he might die of happiness.
Prince Lionel and the men of his household had been practicing with their lances since sunup. Robert de Beauchamp manipulated him by giving him encouragement. “I’d like to see you champion this year, Your Highness. I think you can defeat Prince Edward.”
Lionel wiped the sweat from his dripping brow. “My father, brother, and I fought as a team last year and we were victorious.”
“I’d like to see the House of Clarence challenge the House of Wales. You’ve grown a lot since last year. You are heavier, taller, and your reach is the longest at Windsor. I myself have a long reach, but you’ve got me beat, I believe.”
“Do you think we can do it?” Lionel asked slyly.
“Queen Philippa’s knight, Walter Manny, is here. Why don’t you ask him to be our thrid man? He’s a seasoned veteran.”
“Goddamn, I’ll do better than that. I’ll get my mother to ask him.” He glanced over toward the palisade, a wooden barrier running the length of the lists, to enjoy the crowd of females gathered to watch their practice. “Don’t look now, but your bastard brother watches us.”
Robert grinned. “Let’s give him a little demonstration.”
Lionel grinned back. “Hugh! Richard! Let’s show the ladies how we thrust a lance.”
The two young men galloped a hundred yards down the lists. “Which one do you want?” Hugh asked.
“What the hell’s the difference? We’ll both eat dirt! Why the hellfire don’t those two goddamn giants joust against each other?” grumbled Richard.
“De Beauchamp is too proud to sprawl in the dirt and too wise to unhorse Prince Lionel,” Hugh said shrewdly. “I’ll take the Ox.” It was a name the prince’s men used behind his back because of his thick skull.
Hawksblood watched the performance with a practiced eye. For a big man, Lionel couched and charged well enough, but when it came to the strike, he relied upon his size and weight to carry his opponent from the saddle, rather than skill. Both lances were splintered with the heavy impact, but it was the smaller man who was flung to the dirt.
Squires ran out to clear the broken lances from the lists, while Robert de Beauchamp and Richard positioned themselves, with lances couched. A tournament marshal dropped the white baton, but Robert began his charge before the baton fell, giving him a head start and a longer gallop. Momentum alone would be enough to unhorse his opponent. Robert’s lance splintered with an earsplitting crack, but its impact had been enough to unseat his challenger.
If De Beauchamp had thought to impress his brother, he had not succeeded. Hawksblood shook his head. How would they fare in battle if they had not mastered the lance?
Christian sensed rather than saw Brianna. He turned his dark head to watch her approach. His body quickened at the sight of her. Whatever she chose to wear always made her look more beautiful than the last time he’d seen her. The color yellow had mystic properties. Today, she looked like the Egyptian goddess Isis.
He smiled inwardly at their last encounter. She did not realize it, of course, but when she bit him, it had moved them many steps closer to intimacy. In truth, biting was actually a form of foreplay.
Hawksblood remembered Edward’s letter when he saw Joan with Brianna. Suddenly, Joan broke away from her friend and ran to him. She was about to ask the prince’s whereabouts, but when he pressed the letter into her hand, she realized Edward had written because he would not be able to see her. Joan slipped the folded sleeve from her bodice and pressed it into Christian’s hand. “Will you give him this favor, my lord.”
“I will, demoiselle,” he pledged, seeing exactly why Prince Edward was besotted with the angelic-looking creature.
Brianna watched the exchange with dismay, disappointment, chagrin, regret, disenchantment—all these and more! She felt pique that Joan was irresistible. She felt anger that Christian Hawksblood gave Joan a love note when he had led her to believe that his heart belonged to her, Brianna. A voice inside her head clearly said, That’s not anger, that’s jealousy!
Aloud she said, “Rubbish!” She caught sight of Robert and waved gaily. He left Prince Lionel and galloped over to meet her. He took off his helm and ran his hand through his blond, unruly locks. As she gazed up at him she thought he presented a handsome picture astride the great charger. When he grinned down at her, he looked so boyish, she told herself she was lucky to have him. “Queen Philippa gave me leave to go home to Bedford,” she said breathlessly, “providing I take Adele and a couple of serving woman for propriety.”
“That’s wonderful, Brianna. We’ll leave the day after the tournament. The king is most impatient to begin the building. Did you bring me a favor to wear in the lists?”
“No, I…” She hesitated only a moment, then on impulse she unthreaded the ribbon that attached one of the yellow sleeves she was wearing. “Here, take this.”
He touched it to his lips and winked down at her. She was left standing there with one bare arm.
Joan of Kent rejoined her and Robert. “What an impulsive thing to do, Brianna.”
“You never seem to suffer from your impulsive behavior,” she said coolly, hoping with all her heart that Christian Hawksblood had witnessed her generosity to Robert. She felt the pull of his gaze but fought valiantly against looking his way. She was a willful woman; he a mere man. She’d be damned if she’d allow him to overpower her!
“Brianna, can we announce the formal betrothal at the tournament banquet?” Robert asked.
Brianna hesitated, looked at Joan, then almost defiantly she looked up at Robert. “Yes, have the papers drawn up, my lord.”