Desired, Page 4

  Princess Isabel sat between her brothers, Prince Edward and Prince Lionel, which Brianna thought was a pity. It made her look like a crow among peacocks. Her younger brother, Lionel, was a blond giant with a ruddy complexion. He was no scholar, could neither read nor write, but he had an easygoing personality. He was good-natured even when drunk, which was every night according to gossip.

  From her seat, which flanked the head table, Brianna studied the heir to the throne. He was already kinglike in appearance and manner. As well as being the Prince of Wales, he was Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, and when his father was abroad, he was Guardian of the Kingdom. Edward was very tall with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, a little blunted at the tip like his father’s, and he had the same all-seeing blue eyes. His vitality and golden hair lent him a brilliant aura and all seeing him knew he was marked by destiny to be a great leader of men.

  Brianna bent toward Joan so she could whisper. “You were flirting with Edward. Have you set your cap for him?”

  “Of course not. We are cousins. Flirting comes naturally to me.”

  The corners of Brianna’s mouth went up. Joan was such a mixture of honesty and deception, there was never a dull moment with such an amusing friend. “Then why did you maneuver Isabel into riding to Berkhamsted?”

  Joan ate with gusto. She licked her fingers daintily. “Open your eyes. The flower of England’s nobility sits across from us. Surely you are not blind to the hot, hungry looks cast your way?”

  Brianna glanced at the table opposite. Her eyes widened as she saw Sir John Chandos, William de Montecute, Robert de Beauchamp, Roger de Cheyne, and Michael de la Pole, all heirs to great earldoms, watching her with avid interest. She smiled shyly, unable to keep a blush from her cheeks. Any one of them looked ready to woo and win her. Her glance moved down the trestle table identifying sons of Neville and Percy, the two great Lords of the North. Sir John Holland was staring at Joan with open lust. “It will do no good to allow your fancy to fall where your heart leads. The king will choose our husbands.”

  Joan sighed. “You are so practical, Brianna. You are right, of course, but even the king cannot deprive us of our fantasies.”

  The young men across the hall were indulging a few fantasies of their own. The highborn royal wards were off-limits for dalliance, although their maids and serving women were fair game for bedding. Still, virgins who invaded a male bastion of three hundred strong might be ripe for plucking … or fucking!

  Princess Isabel turned up her nose at the mutton and bade her serving squire fetch her venison. She refused the ale and demanded wine.

  Lionel said, laughing, “Good girl, that leaves more for me.”

  Edward said bluntly, “Wine is reserved for the evening meal.”

  “Have you no minstrels or jongleurs? Whatever do you do for entertainment?”

  “We prefer whores, Isabel,” Lionel said, emptying his fourth tankard.

  Edward kicked him in the shins. “Bella, my men are here to learn warfare. I myself am here to learn how to train and lead armies. We are striving for knighthood, not dalliance with fair demoiselles.”

  “Speak for yourself, brother,” Lionel said, dropping his great paw onto Lady Elizabeth Grey’s knee.

  Edward fixed him with an ice-blue stare. “You and your men will escort Isabel back to Windsor this afternoon.”

  “Shit!” Lionel cursed, giving Isabel a look of disgust. Then he shrugged good-naturedly and turned all his attention to a giggling Lady Grey.

  Prince Edward excused himself, then sent a page running to summon Robert de Beauchamp, who was the highest-ranking officer in his young brother’s service. As Robert walked toward him, the Prince of Wales noted the similarity between Lionel and his lieutenant. Although Beauchamp was older, he was another exceedingly attractive blond giant with a laughing, open countenance.

  “The Duke of Clarence will be escorting Princess Isabel and her ladies back to Windsor this afternoon. He looks up to you, Beauchamp. Try to set an example and for God’s sake keep him from lifting the ladies’ tunics. If he wants to come back to Berkhamsted next week, discourage him.”

  “Has he offended you, Your Highness?”

  “Nay.” Edward shook his head. “I can’t help liking the young devil, but his drunkenness and lechery are demoralizing for the men. His appetites are insatiable. His mind is never off his gut or his dangling gut.”

  “He came to manhood early,” Beauchamp excused, smiling.

  Prince Edward gave him a scathing look. “There is more to manhood than drinking and fucking. In any case, I’ll be moving the men to Windsor soon. They would benefit from some of your father’s harsh training.” He clapped him on the back, wondering why the great Earl of Warrick’s son had chosen to be in his brother’s service rather than his. Warrick, marshal of all the king’s armies, was nicknamed the Mad Hound because of his fierce temper and fighting skills. Warrick’s son obviously had a milder nature.

  When Edward bade his siblings good-bye, he thawed somewhat toward his young sister. “Sweeting, don’t look so down in the mouth. I’ll be back at Windsor in a fortnight.” His eyes were drawn to Joan of Kent. William de Montecute and John Holland were both hovering to lift her into her saddle. Edward was not surprised. To him, she was the most deliciously feminine creature in all of England.

  He helped Isabel to mount, then raised his voice so that little Jeanette could hear. “When I return, I promise to take you hawking. We’ll make a merry day of it.”

  Lionel lifted Elizabeth Grey onto her palfrey, managing to touch her in several intimate places with his big hands.

  Brianna jumped as she heard a man’s voice close behind her. She spun about and had to look up.

  “May I assist you to mount, demoiselle?” He dipped one knee and held his hands together so she could place her booted foot in them. Brianna stood mesmerized for a moment, held in thrall by the unusual color of his eyes. He stood patiently in what must have been an awkward position.

  “Sorry,” she murmured with a smile of thanks, noticing the other young nobles casting envious glances at the man who was aiding her to mount. For the next five miles she argued with herself whether Robert de Beauchamp’s eyes were turquoise or aquamarine.

  When the fingers of dawn spread up the sky, it revealed to the French that the foreign dog and his squires had folded their tent and vanished like thieves in the night. As they made their way to the coast, Hawksblood informed his companions of his decision to go to England. There had never been the slightest doubt in Ali’s mind where Drakkar was heading. He had known he was on the path of Destiny just as surely as his lord knew, if he but looked deep enough to acknowledge it.

  Paddy was less philosophical, but infinitely more practical. Transportation across the Channel would be a bit of a problem with six valuable horses and a mountain of baggage.

  “I don’t suppose there’ll be any excursion boats,” he said dryly. “Will I commandeer a vessel at sword point?”

  Hawksblood replied, “The simple expedient of bribery should suffice from what I’ve learned of the French.”

  Paddy grinned at Ali. “That’s your forte, boyo.”

  “You have learned a new word. Your mental powers never cease to amaze me,” Ali mocked.

  The Irishman, always needing the last word, quoted a Bedouin maxim: “The beauty of man lies in the eloquence of his tongue.” Even Hawksblood was impressed with that one.

  They rode into an inn yard, then Ali slipped away to the wharfs. He chose a vessel that regularly transported men and horses between Cherbourg and Calais. The amount of the bribe easily covered the risk of the extra twenty miles to Dover. They departed on the evening tide before darkness fell, but the big Norman and his squires aroused no curiosity in a port the size of Cherbourg.

  Ali remained in the hold to watch over their precious mounts. Warhorses were bred with vicious tempers, but the singsong cadence of his voice could calm them instantly if they became restive. Paddy paced the de
ck, trying not to show his excitement at returning to Britain for the first time in fifteen years. He’d been aboard a ship that was wrecked near Greece. It seemed a lovely warm place to live until the Turks overran the place. That’s where he’d learned his warrior skills, fighting the mad Turks. Eventually, he’d been captured and rotted in a Turkish prison until the Islamic warriors called Ottomans conquered all of Byzantium.

  Christian, or Drakkar as he called himself then, was a Janissary in the corps d’elite of the Ottoman armies. When he freed Paddy from the Turkish prison, he owned him. Paddy’s life or death depended on the young Janissary with the face of a fierce hawk and the body of a Norman warrior. Paddy suspected he had been kept alive because he amused his new master. He still did.

  Christian stood frowning at a small animal in a cage so cramped it couldn’t turn around. It had the brightest eyes he’d ever seen.

  “What the hell is it?” he asked Paddy.

  “Looks like a black-footed ferret to me. Shall I set it free?”

  “If you don’t, I will,” Christian agreed.

  “Mon Dieu! Tenez-vous-en! Cease!” bellowed the captain.

  Paddy never took orders from anyone except Hawksblood. The instant he sprang the door of the cage, the ferret shot out, flashed across the deck, ran up the captain’s thigh, and bit him on the balls. Paddy and Christian whooped with laughter.

  Not so the Frenchman. Screaming a filthy oath, he grabbed the creature by the throat and flung it overboard. Christian stopped laughing and went to the rail to peer down into the pewter water. The black-footed, bright-eyed creature treaded water frantically, then disappeared beneath a swell. In a moment it surfaced, but its distance from the ship increased steadily.

  Christian pulled off his boots and chain mail and dove into the sea. The ferret climbed to his shoulder, then fastened its claws into his long hair and held on for dear life. Paddy helped Christian back aboard as calmly as if Hawksblood had been for his daily dip.

  The captain and crew were having fits. “You must be insane to risk your life for a rat catcher!”

  Christian looked at him with scorn. “You must be insane to fear a six-inch scrap of fur.”

  Paddy helped him replace his mail, then his doublet, and the shivering ferret disappeared inside. The captain opened his mouth to speak, saw the savage ferocity on the dark face and thought better of it.

  Paddy murmured, “He’s affeared if he opens his gob again, ye’ll set the little gnasher on him.”

  Christian’s lip twitched as he moved aft. The sea had been unbelievably cold. As he felt the wet chausses cling to his body, he separated his mind from the physical discomfort, knowing the stiff sea breeze would soon dry his garments.

  The sky darkened and one by one the stars appeared. Astronomy had been a favorite subject when he was eight. After initiation into the Mystic Order of the Golden Dawn he’d been expected to name the stars down to the fourth magnitude, and see those as faint as the sixth. His gaze passed over Rigel and Regulus, Alpha Centauri and Altair. They seemed like old friends to him. It was another hour before the moon rose. When it did, however, Hawksblood became aware of a faint reflection, leagues behind them, but gradually gaining.

  He stood transfixed, concentrating, focusing his full attention. He penetrated the barriers of distance and darkness for a few split seconds, but that was enough to tell him it was a French cog, small but swift. Logic told him piracy was best done in daylight, so this was probably a raiding party on its way to the English coast.

  He moved toward the prow and again focused all his attention. Eventually, he saw the faint outline of the stone fortress atop the chalk cliffs of Dover. Hawksblood spoke quietly to the captain, who shuttered the ship’s lantern. Then he went to the navigator at the wheel, pointed out the cliffs, which were only just becoming visible, and swept his arm to the south, indicating the direction he desired. The navigator, uncertain in English waters, followed Hawksblood’s instructions to the letter. Hawksblood spoke with such confidence that he generated confidence.

  The vessel was able to drop anchor in a sandy cove long enough to discharge its cargo, then slip away into the darkness.

  “Since Dover is the gateway to England, it is bound to be garrisoned.” Christian kept his voice low, knowing how sounds were magnified by wind and water.

  “There’s a watch all along the coast. They use a system of signal fires,” Paddy explained.

  Hawksblood smiled grimly. “You alert the watch; I’ll set the signal fire.”

  Ali did not feel slighted that the task of seeing to the extra horses and baggage fell to him. After a lifetime together, he and Drakkar could communicate without words.

  Hawksblood tightened the girth on his destrier and rode slowly along the coastline. His eyes were fixed on a black dot out to sea that sailed ever closer. He waited silently over an hour for the cog to sail close enough to disgorge its raiders. Every instinct screamed to descend upon them like death on the wind, but he schooled himself to patience until the last mounted man spurred from the sands.

  He boarded the cog stealthily, listening for the skeleton crew. His nose led him to the tar barrels. A ship’s lantern did the rest. By the time the explosion came, he was safely ashore.

  The fire lit up the sky, drawing Paddy and the soldiers from the garrison of Dover. They killed or captured every last raider, for the French had no retreat. The prisoners were herded into Dover Castle, where the Admiral of the Cinque Ports, Robert Morley, extended his personal thanks to Christian Hawksblood and offered hospitality.

  “Too bad His Majesty wasn’t here to witness this. He was here until yesterday recruiting ships to sail against France. I’m sending twenty of my best. He’s gone back to Windsor for the annual tournament.”

  Christian was dismayed. Twenty ships seemed so few against the might of France. “Surely the tournament will be canceled now that war threatens?”

  Admiral Morley hooted with laughter. “You don’t know Edward Plantagenet. Scotland and France may be threatening war, his debt to the Bardi bankers is nine hundred thousand florins and that’s all spent on past campaigns; now he’s borrowing for the wars that are pending, but nothing will stand in the way of the king’s tournaments.”

  Christian Hawksblood wondered what he was getting himself into. A poverty-stricken country with a debt-ridden king and court made his prospects seem bleak. He gritted his teeth. He had made his decision and he would stick with it for better or worse. With resolution, Hawksblood and company were on the road to Windsor the next morning.

  King Edward entered his wife’s luxurious bedchamber and bent to bestow a kiss on Philippa’s lips. “Sweetheart, how are you feeling?” He pressed a gold casket into her hands and strode across the chamber to peer into the cradle at his newest daughter.

  “Edward, you are too good to me. You shouldn’t give me jewels,” Philippa protested.

  “You give me precious sons and daughters and I give you precious little in return.”

  “Edward, you lavish gifts upon me. All I ask is your love.”

  “You will always have that, sweetheart. Don’t deny me the pleasure of giving you a few trinkets.”

  The queen’s ladies sighed at the king’s devotion. Still in his thirties, he was the handsomest man in all Christendom. Every heart in the room fluttered wildly. He had a smile and a wink for every pretty face, but he was totally devoted to Queen Philippa. He never seemed to notice that her body had thickened from constant childbearing and her face and hair were much faded.

  “I want you to be rested for all the entertainments we’ll have at the tournament. I’ve decided to build a great round tower. Come to the window, love, and I’ll show you.” He slipped a strong arm about her and pointed. “The Upper Ward has only rectangular towers, but the Edward III Tower must be round so that I can re-create King Arthur’s legendary round table. I’ve decided to found an order of chivalry. Only the premier knights of the realm will be inducted. If we start the building now, it shoul
d be ready in time for next year’s tournament. We’ll get that beautiful stone from Bedfordshire. What d’you think?”

  “I’ll mention it to Lady Bedford. Have you thought any more about her betrothal?”

  “I’ve had at least a dozen petition me for her hand, but Warrick has spoken for her so the matter is settled. Speaking of betrothals, I think your idea of a marriage between the Prince of Wales and Margaret of Brabant is excellent. We must keep our allies, or France will woo them away from us.”

  “Have you spoken to Edward about it?” Philippa asked.

  “Not recently, but he’s always known that Margaret’s name was on the list put forward by the Council. I’ll send for him.”

  “No need, Edward, he’s already here. I knew the tournament would draw him like a lodestone.”

  “Shall I carry you down to the hall tonight, sweetheart, or I could sup here with you, if you like?”

  “Nonsense. You enjoy the company and the entertainment, and your sons and Isabel will want to dine with you.” She saw that her rooms caged him. He had too much vital energy to play lapdog. He was an indulgent father and the most courteous and loving husband a woman could ever hope for.

  He helped her back to her couch and pressed her hands to his lips. “Thank you, Philippa. I have a hundred urgent things to attend to, but you and the children come first. Never forget that.”

  When he left the Queen’s Tower, King Edward made his way from the Upper Ward all the way down to the residences of his military knights in the Lower Ward where Katherine de Montecute was lodged while her husband, the Earl of Salisbury, was fighting in France.

  When she saw that the king had come openly to her apartments, her hand flew to her throat. “You have news of William, Your Majesty.” She saw pain in his blue eyes and knew the news was not good. She dismissed her servants and searched his face with growing alarm. Her head veil slipped to the carpet through nerveless fingers.