The crowd’s boos changed to cheers. They knew their king’s deeds were invariably brave as well as honorable. The animal was covered with the glorious flag of England and dragged from the field.
Prince John of Gaunt’s voice carried to Joan and Brianna. “By the Cross, that was clumsily done! Lionel has covered us with shame!”
His sister Isabel turned upon him. “A little blood and gore enliven a tournament. Stanley can well afford the loss of a charger.”
Prince John gave her a look that would have withered someone more sensitive.
In his tent, pitched next to Prince Lionel’s, Robert de Beauchamp inwardly seethed. The great clumsy Ox had not only been easily defeated by his older brother this morning, but had also gone down to defeat in the joust with the Earl of Kent. Now, for Christ’s sake, he had killed a bloody horse! Robert ground his teeth in chagrin. How the hell could Lionel aspire to kingship? The brainless swine would ruin all Robert’s fine plans for the future if he didn’t have a care.
Robert tried to focus on his own impending joust with his foreign bastard of a brother. He had been waiting for this moment all day. He knew he needed to vent his spleen, and what better target than the Arabian? The two jousters presently in the lists had removed their thigh guards in emulation of the king. As Robert’s squire held his horse so that he could mount, he saw that none of the men had kept them on. In a vainglorious gesture, he ordered his squire to unstrap his guards. It would give him considerably more freedom, especially on the ground, so his main objective was to separate Hawksblood from his charger.
Robert couched his lance, moved his shield across his body, and allowed his hatred full rein.
Brianna wanted to leave. The last thing she wanted to witness was this encounter between the dissimilar brothers. But of course she could not; she was rooted to the spot. Turf flew from their chargers’ hooves as they began their inevitable head-on clash. In a blur she saw the yellow streaming from Robert’s helm and the crimson ribbon fluttering from Christian’s scabbard ring. It sounded as if the thud of the hooves beat upon her eardrums. She had no idea that it was her own heart that pounded.
Joan shouted encouragement. Brianna heard not the words, but knew which De Beauchamp Joan championed. The question was, which De Beauchamp did Brianna champion? She wanted neither to lose; she wanted both to win. She sucked in a breath, trying to distance herself from this contest. It was up to them; it had nothing to do with her! It had everything to do with her.
Christian Hawksblood’s arm became one with his lance. Through the slitted helm he saw every detail with crystal clarity, every movement in slow, fluid motion. Man and horse merged into one powerful entity. Hawksblood was a big man, but his half brother was both taller and heavier. Robert relied upon his brawn in all encounters. Hawksblood knew if he lured him off-balance, the sheer force of his weight would take him down. Christian shifted to his left so that Robert must overreach. ’Twas so subtly done, Robert expected his hated opponent to go down with the impact of the lance. Instead it slid harmlessly to the right, dragging him with it, while his brother’s lance hit him such a true and solid blow, it smote him from his saddle.
Hawksblood had couched, charged, and recovered as he had done thousands upon thousands of times. Robert was on his feet instantly, unable to check his fury. He did not expect Hawksblood to dismount; chivalry was the last thing he anticipated. Robert felt a surge of glee, for Hawksblood wore protective leg guards that would hamper him. Christian’s armor, however, was so well articulated, he could turn a somersault if the need arose. He unsheathed his broadsword, deftly blocking every slash and thrust Robert executed.
In Hawksblood’s experience it was the coolest head that prevailed, and he knew Robert was hotly mad. Christian saw the guard had come off the tip of Robert’s sword, if it had ever been there in the first place, and he knew his half brother was gripped by bloodlust. Robert plunged the sword with a mighty downward thrust. Hawksblood lowered his shield to protect his loins. Robert’s wide blade slid down the length of the teardrop shield and pierced his own ungirded thigh! He rolled to the ground, biting his lips so he would not cry out at the searing pain. Robert’s squires as well as Warrick’s rushed onto the field.
Randal, wanting to view the last two jousts of the day in which both Hawksblood and the Black Prince were scheduled to ride, stood at the barriers with the little ferret curled upon his shoulder. Since they were now the best of friends, he judged the silver leash unnecessary.
The crowd was in such an uproar, Gnasher decided to attack. He streaked across the lists, scented Christian, scented his enemy’s blood, flashed up De Beauchamp’s leg, and tried to sink in his teeth. Only the fact that Robert wore a protective codpiece saved his manhood. Gnasher, tenacious as a terrier, found the wound and bit down to the bone. Robert screamed in agony, the startled squires laughed in spite of themselves, and the Gnasher fled back to an abashed Randal.
Christian Hawksblood could not linger on the field. He had agreed to joust against the King of England in Edward’s place, and had to immediately change into sable armor. Amusement tugged at the corners of Christian’s mouth for the brother who had intended to draw blood and had succeeded, albeit his own.
Back in the pavilion, when he was ready, the two friends faced each other in their black helms and hauberks. “Don’t humiliate him too sorely,” Edward appealed.
“God’s teeth, I’ll be lucky if I can hold him to a draw. Your father has a passion for tournaments because his long arms and legs make him a champion!”
As he had expected to, Hawksblood hit the ground. In fifteen jousts it was the first time he had been unseated. However, King Edward had not been able to stay in the saddle either, and now the two men were enjoying the contest of wits and broadswords. The king was both thrilled and confounded that his son’s skills equaled his own.
Hawksblood was impressed by the king’s stamina as the fight went on and on. Finally the royal foot slipped on a patch of blood and he went down in defeat. Hawksblood wanted to protest that he had not won fairly, but speaking would have revealed his identity.
The crowd went wild. The Black Prince was their champion. More, he was their god at this moment. The throng along the palisades, the ladies in the loges, and the crowds who could not even get close enough for a glimpse, chanted his name in unison.
“Edward! Edward! Edward!”
The prince hurried to his pavilion to get Christian so they could share the glory, but Hawksblood had disappeared along with his squires. Edward took off his helm to run a frustrated hand through his flaxen hair. John Chandos handed him a note.
Today you became a legend. Never seek to destroy their faith in you.
The Black Prince stepped out onto the field to acknowledge the tumult.
Brianna was in a quandary. She made her way toward the pavilions to find out how Robert fared. Would it be unseemly for a lady to enter the infirmary tent? She heard a familiar laugh behind her and turned to find the king. “Your Majesty, I came to inquire about Robert’s wound, but I can see I’ll only be in the way.”
“Rubbish!” He took her arm. He could never resist charming a beautiful woman. “If you are with me, none will dare deny you. I’ve come to visit all the tournament casualties.”
The king’s physician, Master John Bray, was busy setting broken limbs. Warrick and Hawksblood stood beside Robert, who lay upon planks supported by sawhorses.
The king boomed, “Here’s a poor maiden fearing your demise.”
Brianna inwardly shrank as all eyes turned upon her. She could clearly see that Robert was seething, and the look he gave her would have consigned her to the devil, if he had his way.
“Have no fear, my lady, I myself will stitch him back together.” Hawksblood’s glance locked with hers for a moment. She knew he read her thoughts. The Arabian knew she was there for duty’s sake, not love’s.
The last thing Robert de Beauchamp wanted was his foreign bastard of a brother’s hands on him, yet
he did not have the guts to protest for fear of seeming a coward. “Get her out of here,” he said through stiff lips.
King Edward was enjoying himself. “You’re in no condition to travel to Bedford tomorrow. Hawksblood, will you go in your brother’s stead to fetch my stone for the tower?”
“It will be my pleasure, Sire.”
Brianna flushed. The bold devil was looking at her when he spoke of his pleasure. “I shan’t go now,” she said, swallowing her disappointment.
“Nonsense!” the king contradicted. “You’ve been looking forward to it. My tournament won’t be responsible for disappointing you. You’ll be safe enough in Sir Christian’s hands.”
Holy Mother, can he put thoughts into the king’s head, words into the king’s mouth? She flashed Hawksblood an accusing look, but he was busy scrubbing his hands while Ali threaded a needle. He was completely aware of her, however. “Perhaps Lady Bedford will feel more comfortable if Lady Joan of Kent accompanies her,” he suggested smoothly.
“Splendid idea,” concluded the king.
Mary and Joseph, did the dark devil have designs on both of them?
Her glance sought out Robert’s. “You won’t be attending the banquet—”
“I’ll be there!” Robert cut in, unable to hide his fury.
Warrick and the king exchanged amused glances. “We won’t have the betrothal ceremony tonight, but we’ll announce it. I’ve another to announce as well. The ceremony can take place when you are restored to full manhood.” Only the king could have gotten away with such an outrageous remark. Brianna picked up her skirts and fled.
King Edward sobered for a moment. “I’m going to need this man to fight in France shortly. See that the leg is good as new,” he bade Hawksblood before he moved on to the next casualty.
When Brianna arrived at her chamber, she found Adele about to unpack her traveling trunk. “Leave it. We are still to go to Bedford tomorrow.”
“Robert shouldn’t travel with a wounded leg! The king should get someone else to fetch his stone.”
“He has. Christian de Beauchamp has been ordered to escort us and see to the stone. Oh, Adele, I never should have gone to inquire about Robert’s wound. I should have sent Randal.”
“Things usually have a way of working themselves out for the best. I, for one, am delighted that we are still going home. Aren’t you, my lamb?”
“Well yes, no. That is, I’m longing to see Bedford, but I was supposed to go with Robert,” Brianna said lamely.
“Perhaps Fate has conspired to foil the intimacy of traveling together before the wedding. Personally, I think it was putting you both in the way of temptation. Now you’ll be safe.”
Brianna looked at her in disbelief. Did Adele truly think her safe in Hawksblood’s hands? “Robert is extremely angry with me.”
“Not with you, lamb. He’s angry that he accidentally wounded himself. What about the betrothal ceremony?”
“His Majesty said he would announce it tonight at the banquet, but we won’t have the actual ceremony until Robert is recovered.”
“Perhaps he and Warrick haven’t drawn up the papers yet. In any case, you must look your very best tonight. Let me help you off with your dress and I’ll pour you some rosewater.”
Two hours later when Brianna entered the Banqueting Hall, she did indeed look her very best. The pale amethyst sarcenet and purple velvet jacket made her hair look like spun gold. Warrick was at her side so quickly she realized he must have been watching for her. The old warrior gallantly took her fingertips, rested them upon his arm, and escorted her to her seat at the table.
He placed her between his two sons, then took his own seat beside Robert. Brianna knew Robert must have been half-carried into the hall and was thankful she had not been a witness to it. His fair skin had a pallor that made his eyes seem brilliant. Christian de Beauchamp was on his feet instantly in deference until she was seated. He too wore purple, but its shade was so dark, it looked almost black. Brianna felt like a bone between two dogs.
The atmosphere was highly charged tonight from the events that had taken place during the day. Tonight, the king had given up his carved chair to the Black Prince, who occupied the place of honor. Princess Isabel for once was content to bask in her brother’s glorious light. His black silk tunic made his flaxen hair appear to have a nimbus of light about it like a halo. And why not? Hadn’t the gods smiled upon him this day?
The Plantagenet court was a brilliant one when it celebrated, its courtiers extremely noisy and festive, sporting costly furs and sparkling jewels. The wine flowed rich and dark into goblets, while stewards staggered beneath platters created especially for the banquet.
Swans with gilded beaks, sitting upon blue silk, vied with herons and peacocks for the center of the table. Crisped and larded stags, cut into quarters and flavored with pepper sauce, were carried in, followed by boars’ heads stuffed with apples and herbs. Beef, mutton, and pork were among the meats served in the first course, while pages stood by with a second course of piping hot roast teal, mallard, and wood duck.
Brianna shared a silver porringer with Robert de Beauchamp, showing they were pledged. He sat beside her, making no effort at polite conversation. His eyes were stormy. A tempest also raged inside Brianna, battering her composure, scattering her thoughts like feathers in the wind. Was he in pain? Did he want her to talk or remain silent? Did he prefer beef to venison? Should she eat the game or leave it for Robert?
Brianna realized she was sitting with her future family. She had wanted to be part of a family for so long, she should be overjoyed. Instead, she felt bereft. Hawksblood’s dark presence overwhelmed her. His maleness was blatant, primal. His barely leashed energy was a tangible thing. He dominated the space about him. She imagined she could feel the heat from his powerful body and smell his man-scented skin.
“Each time I see you, you are more beautiful,” Christian murmured softly. The deep timbre of his voice did strange things to her composure. She did not dare look at him, but lowered her eyes to her lap. From the corner of her eye she saw with horror that a long tress of her hair fell across Hawksblood’s thigh. Against his dark purple, it shone like gold. She watched in dismay as his fingers threaded through it possessively.
“Your hair is glorious, Brianna. You put every other lady at Court in the shade.”
She wanted to snatch it away from him and slap his face, but such a tempestuous action would expose to Robert what he was doing and there was already contention between them, so she did her best to ignore him. The vexing devil knew she would not make a scene and she feared he would spend the entire evening whispering in her ear, wooing her with outrageous compliments.
“I am looking forward to escorting you to Bedford tomorrow. Unwittingly the king has given us the opportunity to be together.”
Brianna suspected Christian Hawksblood had contrived the whole thing, yet surely his powers could not have dominion over everything? Nay, it was as he had said, he simply had a stronger will than others.
Brianna lifted her goblet and drained the wine to prevent herself from screaming. She should have kept Adele at her side as a buffer between her and this dangerously dominant Arabian Knight. Her glance darted about until it found Adele. She was sitting next to Glynis, who was with Joan and Edmund of Kent. Joan caught her eye and waved. Brianna waved back, but to add to her chagrin, her hand trembled visibly. She took a deep breath to calm herself and felt the wine she had drunk blossom into a bloodred rose inside her chest.
Suddenly everything seemed ridiculously funny. Robert de Beauchamp was angry at the entire world when he had no one to blame but himself. Anyone who stabbed himself by mistake was a figure of fun akin to a buffoon. She glanced at Warrick. He lifted his goblet to salute her and gave her a conspiratorial wink. Brianna caught back a giggle. So, he too thought the situation amusing!
She turned so that she looked Robert full in the face. She did not laugh; instead she gave him a breath-stopping smile and was re
warded by a slight softening of his fierce glare.
The king and queen had invited a jongleur renowned for his great epics who could move his audience to tears or wild excitement. He took all the speaking parts of the drama, mingling prose and verse, breaking into arias without ever losing the meter. Tonight he was performing Tristan and Isolde, and from the first word he uttered, Brianna was entranced, totally caught up in the great romance.
As the bard finished his tragic tale, the audience gave a collective sigh. Brianna brushed away a tear, drank from her cup, and set it down on the board.
There were not many dry eyes among the ladies, and the men applauded with lusty enthusiasm. Brianna again reached out her hand, but she saw that Christian Hawksblood held her goblet to his lips. Then she realized it was not her goblet, but his. She drew in a quick breath. Realization washed over her like spring rain. Just as Isolde had done at the great feast, she had inadvertently drunk from the same loving cup as the dark warrior. She was utterly convinced he had lured her to it by placing his cup ready to her hand. She had drunk the magic potion and he had enchanted her! She could feel it flowing through her veins, warming her blood, stealing her senses. She cast him a look of horror. In reply, he lifted the goblet in salute and drained it. What could she do? she thought wildly.
Nothing. She could do naught.
The deed was done!
When the tumultuous applause died down, the king got to his feet and raised his arms. They hushed to hear his words.
“We have much to celebrate this day: our glorious naval victory over the French and our victorious battles that have yet to be fought! Yet there is more. The minstrel’s epic has filled the hall with an aura of romance, and justly so. Tonight it is our very great pleasure to announce two betrothals that will soon take place.
“I am bestowing the hand of Lady Brianna of Bedford upon Robert de Beauchamp. None stands higher in my esteem than the House of Warrick.” The king grinned. “It is said that love heals all wounds.” Good-natured laughter rolled about the hall at the reference to Robert’s injury.