Hawksblood came out of his trance to find Prince Edward standing over him. “Where is the king?”
“He has called a strategy meeting. I came to fetch you.” The Black Prince’s eyes were filled with questions, but he and Hawksblood were close friends who did not question each other. Before they entered the tent they heard contention in the raised voices. Their dangerous position strained the leaders’ tempers to breaking point.
Hawksblood spoke. “Your Majesty, I have learned that the French cavalry has already reached Amiens and is on its way to Abbeville. Philip’s army marches parallel to us. It is no exaggeration that they outnumber us at least four to one.”
A babble of voices broke out. Fear could be detected in most of them. Pointing at the map, King Edward shouted, “God damn Philip! He shoves us into a triangle formed by his army, the impassable Somme, and the waters of the Channel.”
Robert de Beauchamp pointed out what he thought was obvious. “We must escape across the Channel.”
Prince Edward gave him such a look of contempt Robert wanted to run his sword through him.
Warrick said, “We arranged to have our fleet land in our own province of Ponthieu across the Somme. It will not have arrived yet.”
Harcourt stood by helplessly. He felt he had led the English army into this trap.
Robert de Beauchamp, standing with two of Lionel’s knights, gritted out, “Where does the Arabian get his information?” Immediately one of the knights shouted, “How do we know he isn’t in league with the French?”
It was a terrible accusation for one knight to hurl at another, but all eyes turned upon Hawksblood now that the seeds of suspicion had been sown. Hawksblood looked straight at his father. “The information came from an informant we captured,” he lied. “A little torture loosened his tongue enough to reveal a navigable ford close to the mouth of the Somme.”
The King and Warrick looked vastly relieved. Robert de Beauchamp fought rising panic. “What if it’s a trap? Did any other hear this Frenchman’s confession?”
“I did,” Prince Edward said calmly.
The king invited, “Show us on the map.”
Hawksblood stepped forward, tracing the line of the river Somme with his finger. “The place is called Blanche Taque. It is possible to ford it at low tide.”
“Blanche Taque means ‘white stone,’ ” Harcourt said thoughtfully. “Perhaps Blanche Taque is a landmark of some kind.”
King Edward held up his hands for silence. “You must realize it is no longer possible to join forces with our allies from Flanders. Our only hope is to get across the river Somme into our own province of Ponthieu.”
The earls of Northumberland and Lancaster added their voices. “We must maintain ourselves in Ponthieu until our ships arrive and get us back on English soil.”
King Edward’s eyes met those of the Black Prince; Warrick’s eyes met Hawksblood’s. They knew the king would not leave France before he had done battle with Philip. Prince Edward stepped to his father’s side. “Hawksblood and I will lead the vanguard across the Somme.”
The king looked upon his son with pride. Though darkness had already fallen, he gave orders to march. By midnight the vanguard reached Blanche Taque. The tide was high and it was impossible to cross the Somme. As Hawksblood waited for the tide to ebb, he spoke with the prince. “Thank you for your confidence, Your Highness.”
“You had a vision. It is a power given to only a few.” He looked out over the raging black water. “You’ve had them before.” It was not a question.
“Yes. My knowledge of the French fleet at Sluys came to me in a vision. I was never there,” he admitted.
“Did Warrick know this?”
Hawksblood replied, “I told no one. Who would believe me?”
“I believe you, friend.”
They knew they had formed a bond that would last them all their lives until the day they died.
Eventually all of King Edward’s army reached the banks of the Somme. Not only was it impossibly wide and impossibly deep, two thousand Picards awaited them on the far side. The troops were tense, some had given up all hope. Many raised their voices in anger at being led to a place where they would drown or be sucked into the surrounding bogs. They were tired and footweary and after seeing Blanche Taque, they felt hopeless.
As dawn began to break, the tidal waters started to recede. Hope mingled with fear showed upon every face. It was like the parting of the biblical Red Sea, but the waters were still waist-deep and the weight of the horses and war wagons would surely cause them to be sucked beneath the water by the quicksand.
The king and Warrick watched in amazement as Hawksblood and the Prince of Wales rode without hesitation into the water. Their horses’ hooves struck the solid white stones of Blanche Taque.
The king immediately ordered his longbowmen into the water. They drove the men of Picardy back with a storm of arrows. Warrick ordered the rest of the army into the water and they tramped waist-deep over the solid white stones.
The French were close behind them, but just as it came to pass in the Bible tale, the tide flooded back in before they could cross. The only losses to the English were a few wagons that fell into French hands.
Every man present thought he had been part of a miracle. The king and his marshals marched their army to the village of Crécy, close by the coast. It was August 25, and knowing the French could not cross for another day, they welcomed the respite gratefully.
Now King Edward did what he did best. He rallied his troops! The Plantagenet king was nothing if not ostentatious. He did everything splendidly. He ordered that his massive azure and gold silk pavilion be erected and he raised his leopard standard quartered with the lilies of France.
He had chosen the battle site well, on gently rolling downs, upon a low ridge that could be defended against attack from the plain below. The wagons and camp were located behind his pavilion. By midday the campfires were lit and pits dug for roasting meat.
Harcourt’s scouts spread out and Hawksblood’s Cornishmen, with their long knives, also went reconnoitering. The information they brought back was both good and bad. The French had crossed the Somme by the bridge at Abbeville. Between the two armies stretched the forest of Crécy, a thick and impenetrable barrier that would necessitate a march around it of eighteen miles for the French. Behind the English camp, a narrow path through the heart of the forest led to the sea. It was confirmed that the French army was one hundred thousand strong and King Philip had hoisted the bloodred oriflamme above his headquarters, indicating they would neither give nor accept quarter.
The French occupied St. Peter’s Monastery in Abbeville and Philip had all his allies with him, including the King of Bohemia with his German knights and mercenaries. Also he had Charles of Luxembourg, King Jayme of Majorca, the Duke of Lorraine, and the Count of Flanders. King Edward, surrounded by his noble leaders, listened to this information without any hint of fear.
Marshal Godfrey de Harcourt eyed the forest path leading to the sea. He spoke up, recommending the army retreat to the coast, where they could make a last stand. Most of the nobles concurred with this plan. Warrick and Hawksblood exchanged knowing glances.
King Edward, without a hint of uncertainty, motioned about him. “This is the land of my lady mother’s. We will wait for them here.”
Silence fell over those crowded about him. Incredulously, Edward was laughing. “Can you imagine the impossible task of providing food and beds for one hundred thousand? Can you envision the discord of so many proud and jealous leaders, all from different countries? Can you conceive the altercations in French, German, Wendish, and Genoese when this rain that threatens comes pouring down and they have no way to keep the strings of their intricate crossbows from getting wet?”
King Edward diffused the strain of uncertainty and fear with humor. “I venture to guess Philip will spend a sleepless night in a monastery. He has too many violent sins on his conscience to face mortal conflict with equan
imity!”
Warrick ordered a barricade of tree trunks be raised behind the wagons and the squires hurried off to sort out their masters’ armor. Privately, most men feared they were trapped like rats. When the relentless rain began to fall, they amended that to “drowned rats.”
Windsor 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.”