The Dragon and the Jewel

  Finally the long-awaited joust arrived. The king and the Earl of Leicester rode out onto the field together. The crowd cheered wildly as the two men raised their lances in acknowledgment and rode toward the stands to salute the queen and the ladies of the court. Simon de Montfort gallantly tipped his lance toward the queen, asking for her favor. With a seductive smile she took one of her royal purple scarves edged in gold and draped it on the tip of his lance. Eleanor was secretly amused, for when de Montfort went down, the purple scarf would he in the dust. Eleanor rose, detached her own head veil, which was fine-spun as a spider’s web, and offered it to her brother, King Henry. The two men affixed the scarves to their scabbard rings and wheeled away to opposite ends of the field.

  Henry went carefully over the lessons instilled in him by William Marshal, who had been the champion of his day. He heartily wished that de Montfort would not take a deliberate fall, but accepted the fact that chivalry dictated that he not unseat the King of England.

  Simon de Montfort had a decision to make. He was supremely confident of his abilities and would not feel the slightest humiliation in going down before the king, but he wanted to show Eleanor that if she chose, she was not bound by custom or vows or what was expected of her. She was free to choose for herself, as was every man and woman on earth. She would need courage to defy the king, the council, and the church, and he wanted to show her that he had enough courage for both of them.

  His decision made, he lowered the visor of his helmet and couched his lance beneath his powerful arm. The field marshal lowered his mace and the two men rode full tilt, veering neither to left nor right. A hush had fallen over the spectators for even though the joust was for pleasure, great risks were involved. The thunder of the hooves was the only sound that could be heard until the two men clashed. Simon’s lance hit its intended mark with his full weight behind it, and Henry lay sprawled in the field.

  The crowd gasped at the champion’s audacity. He wheeled his destrier about, jumped from the saddle, and aided the king to his feet. Henry good-naturedly threw his arm about Simon, laughing, and said, “Damn, for a minute there I thought I had you.”

  Simon took off his helmet and grinned. “You didn’t stand a chance; my reach is twice yours.”

  For some reason Henry felt good. Actually it was humiliating when men let him win only because he was king. This man had treated him as if he had been a worthy opponent, and the joust had been scrupulously fair rather than contrived.

  When the crowd saw that the king was untroubled by the outcome, they roared their approval and cheered both men wildly. The Earl of Leicester raised the queen’s scarf on high, and she became so flushed at his championing her over the king, she turned almost the shade of her gown.

  Eleanor sat very still. Simon de Montfort made his own rules. She knew she must conceal the wicked feelings he aroused in her. If the world knew, it would brand her a wanton harlot. Moreover, she must never let this arrogant nobleman know the effect he had upon her. He was insufferable now. What on earth would be the measure of his conceit if he knew his mere presence sent her heart fluttering like a bride’s?

  Henry held out her scarf which was no longer white. “Sorry, Maggot.” He grinned sheepishly and she knew he would never be anything more than a boy. When the jousting was finished and the champions came forward to receive their prizes at the hands of the queen and her maids of honor, the crowds left the spectator stands and gathered on the field in a milling circle, eager to catch every word exchanged.

  The champion of the day was, of course, the Earl of Leicester. He came forward and knelt before the queen. Even kneeling his eyes were almost on a level with hers. She presented him with a golden chalice encrusted with gemstones and as she raised her lips to bestow a kiss upon him, he could not mistake the invitation writ plain in her eyes. His experience with women told him the only sin they never forgave was not wanting to make love to them. His eyes lingered on her face, complimenting her beauty with a single look as only a Frenchman could, then he rose amid the cheers of the crowd.

  Eleanor’s eyes had never left Simon de Montfort. His plain white surcoat with its simple red cross was unsullied, almost as clean as before he had jousted. She wished she belonged to this man, but knew it could never be more than a wish. He had shown her he was above convention, above the law of chivalry, above other men. So that his head did not grow apace with his conceit, she raised her hand and beckoned to him coolly.

  He saw her gesture immediately for he was acutely aware of her every breath. When he came before her, he knelt as he had done before the queen. The crowd eagerly watched the two figures garbed in white, their black hair curling about their shoulders, one petite in the extreme, the other immense.

  She did not let even a glimmer of amusement into her eyes as she reached into her sleeve, then held out her hands to offer him the reward. She gave it with solemnity, and he reached out his damnably attractive hands to receive it. For a moment he was appalled. What obscenity had she placed upon his palms? He looked at her in disbelief, then looked back down at the foul objects. Suddenly he knew what they were and amusement filled his black eyes. She had been conspicuously absent from the walled garden for days, but now he knew she had been there for what she had just presented him with were two owl pellets that contained such delicacies as mice skulls, teeth, bones, and fins from the pond’s fish, which the young owls had pilfered. Owls devoured their prey whole, then each day presented a pellet containing the undigested parts.

  “I shall cherish them and think of you whenever I look at them,” he said gravely, tucking them beneath his surcoat.

  The curious onlookers had not seen the objects but assumed the princess had presented the champion with gold medallions or perhaps jewels.

  Simon de Montfort was elated. Eleanor was quite capable of playful tricks providing they were kept absolutely private. He could think of quite a few playful tricks he’d like to share with her—and would, the next time they were alone.

  24

  The celebrating went on long into the night. Simon looked about the hall in vain. He knew she would not come and be part of this boisterous merrymaking, and not because she did not like fun. He guessed she was capable of more mischief than any woman in the room. She did not come because she was contemptuous of the queen and her court.

  The Provençals looked down their arrogant noses at the natives and even Henry’s half brothers wrinkled their noses at anything English, from the climate to the food. As Simon drained his third tankard of ale, he in his turn became contemptuous of them. England was his chosen country and he thought it the finest land in the world. Her climate was temperate, her generous earth produced bountiful harvests of grains and fruits. Each and every county luxuriated in abundant fields, verdant meadows, wide plains, fertile pastures, milky herds, and strong horseflesh. Her rising streams, majestic rivers, and watercourses teemed with fish and fowl. Fruitful groves and forests covered the hills and the kingdom’s chestnut woods abounded in game. England’s yeomen farmers were the salt of the earth. Her peasants were plump, her children red-cheeked and happy, and the ale was unbelievable. He was the Earl of Leicester and this England belonged to him. All he needed was a countess, and he knew exactly where to find her.

  He went over the garden wall silently, his eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness and the shadows. The corners of his mouth lifted with delight. If she wished to elude him, she had made a tactical error by not changing from her white gown. Stealthily he managed to get quite close before she sensed his presence.

  She lifted her head like a doe in a forest glade when it scented danger. When she saw him she fled, lifting her trailing skirts in an effort to elude him, but he closed on her almost instantly and lifted her against his heart.

  “Kathe,” he whispered, his lips against her silken tresses.

  “No, no,” she cried, not bothering to keep her voice low for every inhabitant of Windsor tonight from the king down to the lowliest pot-boy was i
n the great hall at the tournament banquet. The entire Middle and Upper Wards were deserted.

  “Yes, yes,” he insisted. “There is that between us which cannot be denied. I know it, but more important, you know it.”

  “It is impossible,” she cried, struggling like a wildcat.

  He held her firmly. “I showed you today that nothing is impossible. In my heart I know you were meant for me. The inevitability of it all is so tangible I can taste it,” he said fiercely.

  “It would cause a scandal from one end of the realm to the other,” she cried.

  He chuckled. “What could they do? Stone you like Jezebel?” He pinioned her flailing arms to her body and fused his mouth to hers hungrily. His flesh reacted instantly, swelling, filling, aching for her. The kiss lasted a lifetime. For Eleanor it was like slow torture. Her mind and her body were at war with themselves. Her blood sang with delicious excitement, but her mind protested vehemently at her wicked behavior. Her innocence had primed her for a headlong descent into abandonment. Though she protested wildly she felt that whatever he did to her she had somehow agreed to.

  The kiss grew in intensity. Mouth fused to mouth, body melded into body until it was no longer necessary to pinion her arms. His firm mouth separated her soft lips and at last he was able to enter her delicious mouth with his tongue. The taste of her drove him mad.

  She moaned softly, loving it and hating it. When at last he released her mouth for a moment she breathed, “You make me feel like Jezebel; you make me feel wicked as sin. You are so strong, de Montfort, you know you can force me to your will.”

  “Nay,” he denied, “you are too tiny for a man my size to force. I’d have to woo you and play with you for an hour before I could make love to you. Let me be your secret lover, Kathe … I’ll devote my life to bringing you pleasure.”

  “You promise me pleasure but not happiness?” she questioned breathlessly.

  “No one can promise happiness to another, however much he may wish it,” he said softly.

  “And no man can measure the torment he may cause a woman,” she accused.

  “No pain is unbearable,” he said, “save that of regret. You torment me when you hold me at arm’s length and deny me. Put me out of my misery, Kathe.” His burning mouth trailed a fiery path down her throat and his arms tightened about her.

  “Please don’t! When you press me to your heart I want to …” She caught the words back guiltily.

  “You consume me,” he whispered savagely, and his hands closed over the mounds of her breasts.

  The swift intake of her breath told him exactly what effect he had on her. Eleanor had to fight him and herself both. The feel of his magnificent hands upon her was like an aphrodisiac. She knew if there had been light enough for her to see the dragons, to see those irresistible hands as well as feel them, she would have been lost, lost.

  “Let me go, de Montfort,” she said, desperately summoning her anger.

  He removed his hands from her. “How ironic that after winning every joust today, I should lose the final one—the only joust that means anything to me.”

  She wanted to cry with frustration. If only he would leave her alone, she could fight these disturbingly compelling feelings he aroused in her, but what chance did she have against him when he constantly wooed her? Her mouth felt bee-stung from his demanding kisses and her senses were filled with the male taste and scent of him.

  He was so attuned to her, he knew she felt a pang of regret that he had set her free, so he again enfolded her into his embrace and brought her against his hard, muscled chest. His mouth touched her soft lips gently, playing, warming, rousing until her arms crept about his neck.

  In her mind Eleanor wanted to pull away from his touch. She shook her head until her hair formed a wild, tangled mass against her white shoulders. He lifted great handfuls of it to his face, breathing in its fragrance, feeling its silky texture, even tasting it in his desire to experience everything about her. His strong hands encircled her waist and he pulled her to his body until she rested against his hips. She could feel his hard, pulsing manhood against her secret part and she was suddenly filled with abandon. Like a fierce black cat she fastened her mouth to his and her sharp white teeth bit down hard into his lower lip.

  He swore a foul oath and put his hand to his mouth. It came away bloodied, and when he looked up she was gone. He heard the key turn in the heavy wooden door to the garden as he stood there gazing into the darkness. The fragrance of her lingering perfume filled his brain. Far off a flash of lightning was followed by a low rumble of thunder, and raindrops pattered on the leaves of the copper beech trees. He lifted his face to meet the downpour. Perhaps it would cool his blood. Someday, he promised himself, they would stand naked in the rain while it washed over them, then slowly he would make love to her.

  Back in her tower, Eleanor was in a turmoil. He must never guess how he made her feel, and just as important, no one else must ever guess. She paced about the chamber restless as a tigress. She could not get away from him. He invaded her private garden by day and by night. If she kept to her chamber, he had shown her he was perfectly capable of climbing the tower and stretching himself upon her bed. She would have to put distance between them. Once she had removed herself, his eye would fall upon some other female who would welcome his impatient lust. God knows, there were enough smitten females at court, starting with the queen herself, from what Eleanor had seen.

  She pictured Odiham, the lovely little estate William had deeded to her. She smiled sadly as she remembered the terrible scene when William had discovered her brother Richard in bed with Isabella. That had happened two years ago, or was it three? It was still as fresh in her mind as if it had happened yesterday. Odiham was only twenty miles away, she could be there before lunch. A warning sounded in her mind. If she considered twenty miles a morning’s ride, what would Simon de Montfort consider it? An hour’s full gallop. She would be no safer from him at Odiham than she was at Windsor. Less safe perhaps, away from the eyes and ears of the court and the church.

  She made her decision in a moment. She would go to Wales. Oh, how happy she had been there with William in that beautiful, wild land, before she had lured him to her bed and to his death. She would tell no one where she was going, and yet she knew she could not simply disappear. She would have to put Henry’s mind at rest about her absence. She would need the services of Rickard de Burgh and a small troop of his men for escort.

  It did not take Eleanor’s quicksilver mind long to come up with a plan. She would tell the king and those in her service that she was going to Odiham for a time, and in truth she would go there, but from there she would make preparations for the journey into Wales. She would not go to Pembroke, there were far too many mountains to traverse, and the snowstorms in Wales came in early autumn. She would go to Chepstowe in the beautiful border country across the River Severn.

  She decided to take only her serving woman Bette, for both Odiham and the much larger Chepstowe had their own staff. She told Henry of her extended visit to Odiham and pleased, he did exactly as she thought and urged her to take Rickard de Burgh and a few of his men for escort. After swearing Bette to secrecy, the two women spent a whole day packing the warm things they would need for the colder climate.

  Eleanor was both surprised and relieved when she saw de Burgh was taking a dozen strong men along for a journey of only twenty miles. Had he read her mind? Did he somehow know that Wales was her destination? One never knew with Rickard de Burgh and his strange powers. When de Burgh saw the baggage he couldn’t believe his eyes. He was determined not to be hindered by a wagon, however, and instead used half a dozen pack horses.

  On the ride to Odiham he approached her about his own plans for the future.

  “My lady, may I assume that you have no plans to enter the convent of St Bride’s?”

  She smiled at him. “Spoiled princesses make poor nuns, I warrant. Were you waiting until I was safely in the convent before you returned t
o Ireland, Sir Rickard?”

  He flushed. “Aye, I suppose I was, though I’d a thousand times rather have seen you wed again,” he added quickly.

  “I took vows to remain the Countess of Pembroke for the rest of my life,” she said quietly.

  He hesitated to speak his mind, but there were no secrets between them. He had been the one to free her from her husband’s dead body. “My lady, in my opinion those vows should never have been taken seriously by the bishops. You were far too young and far too distraught at the time to know what you were doing.”

  Her lashes swept down to her cheeks. She had had the same irreverent thoughts lately, wicked though they were. She changed the subject slightly. “So, will you return to Ireland?”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “But once I see you safely settled at Odiham, I thought I would ride into Wales to see to the de Burgh castles.”

  She lifted her dark lashes and her sapphire eyes widened. Had he read her thoughts? She knew he had the gift of second sight. “I might as well confess to you I’m only going to Odiham as a diversionary tactic, then I’m going to Chepstowe.”

  “Then I shall see you safely to Chepstowe before I go on to see how Hubert fares.”

  “Oh, Rickard, I was so immersed in my own troubles, I spared no thought for your poor uncle.”

  De Burgh could not bring himself to tell her how base her brother Henry had been to his old favorite. What good would it do to tell her he had ordered Hubert dragged from sanctuary and shackled to the dungeon walls? Then when the bishops had raised a hue and cry, he had returned him to sanctuary without food or water. Rickard de Burgh changed the subject. He raised an eyebrow. “Who necessitates your using diversionary tactics, my lady?”

  Her laughter floated out upon the crisp autumn air. “You are the one with the second sight.”

  It was good to hear her laugh, but the thought that she must flee to Wales to avoid unwanted advances greatly disturbed him. The leering face of Peter of Savoy flashed into his mind. “If one of those damned Savoys has the temerity to pursue you, lady, I will consider it my duty to kill him.”