“The Thames fleet has twenty-five ships,” Warrick offered.
“Admiral Morley is sending a score from the Cinque Ports,” the king added. “That gives us a hundred and fifteen.”
“They’ve already taken three of our best, the Edward, the Rose, and the Katherine. Let’s make sure those are the last ships they ever take!” Prince Edward urged his father. He had never yet taken part in a campaign, though it seemed he had been training all his life to fight the French.
The king looked at Warrick. “Will you oversee this operation?”
Warrick’s eyes met those of his son. Hawksblood nodded. No words were needed. Each thought privately it would be an ideal test of the other’s courage, honor, ethics, and ability.
The king’s voice was rich, his laugh spontaneous. “We’ll do it! The tournament will have to wait until we get back. God damn Valois for inconveniencing us.”
“I heard a rumor that Philip has hired Genoese bowmen to sit in the watch turrets of the ships,” Hawksblood warned. “The Genoese are the best arbalests in the world. I’ve fought against them.”
Prince Edward, the king, and Warrick exchanged glances, then began to laugh.
A frown creased Hawksblood’s brow.
The king waved his arm. “Show him! Go on! Warrick and I will go to the map room and settle on a port of departure. We can’t use Dover or Sandwich. Word would get to Philip too fast. We need a port with a lot of estuaries that will hide most of the fleet as it gathers.”
Hawksblood assessed Edward III shrewdly. He was extravagant, ostentatious, and likely vainglorious, but he was brave and decisive. This was no puppet king. This was a conqueror!
Prince Edward led the way to a meadow where about two hundred men were taking target practice. At first glance, Christian thought the bows primitive. Did they hope to succeed against Genoese crossbows, engineered for accuracy?
“Do you have no crossbows?” he asked Edward.
“We do. But we believe longbows are superior.”
Christian picked one up. It was above six feet in length and lightweight. The arrows were steel-tipped; the feathers from the common gray goose of England.
The prince spoke with a couple of men who selected weapons from an arms wagon. One chose a longbow, the other a crossbow. “Watch this,” Edward said.
The men aligned themselves. The crossbowman went down on one knee to brace his heavy weapon. He fitted in his arrow, wound it taut, then released it. The man beside him stood tall and fired off three in the same space of time.
Edward and Christian loped down the field to examine the butt. All the arrows had accurately hit the target, but the missiles of death from the longbow had pierced clean through the butt, halfway up their shafts.
“Christus! These longbows propel a violent power. I want to master this skill.”
Edward grinned. “These are foot soldiers, common yeomen or Welsh. Noble knights wouldn’t be caught dead with a longbow.”
Aquamarine eyes met deep blue and held. “You are an expert with this weapon.”
“I am,” Prince Edward conceded. They were so much alike. Each had a burning desire to excel. At everything.
The next three hours melted away as Hawksblood was caught up in the challenge of mastering a new skill. Edward, equally enthusiastic, taught him the finer points. Soon, they had set up a target in another meadow on the far side of the Thames and were determined to hit their marks clear across the wide river.
By this time Ali and Paddy had tracked Hawksblood down. They had stabled the horses with the Beauchamp mounts and had found space for themselves in the barracks, but they were unsure about their lord. Would he reside in the Beauchamp wing or would he prefer they set up his campaign tent?
Prince Edward spoke up. “There are vacant rooms close by my apartments. My cousin, Edmund of Kent, has bought his own town house in London. Come, I’ll show you.”
At that moment a small figure climbing on the weapons wagon caught his eye. He swooped down on the intruder in five long strides. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded of an imp-faced page, clutching a longbow. He cuffed him across the head. “Don’t you realize you could be killed?”
The boy’s face lit up at the danger he was in. “Your Highness, I’ve a note from the princess.” He fished a filthy hand into his livery and produced a grubby note.
Edward groaned. He knew what it was about without reading it. “I promised to take my sister hawking, I can’t think why.” He looked down at the page boy. “Tell her too many pressing things need my attention at the moment.” Joan insinuated herself into his thoughts and suddenly he remembered why he had told Isabel he would take her hawking. “Hold a moment,” he told the page. He looked at Christian with speculation. “It will take a few days’ preparation for our … French lesson. Can we squeeze in a morning’s hawking?”
Christian was bemused. These Plantagenets were determined to mix pleasure with business.
“Inform Isabel I’ll take her tomorrow. Early. I won’t hang about. Now get the hell away from these archers and stay away.” The prince picked up a steel helmet with a missing nose-guard and tossed it to the lad. “And if you can’t stay away, wear this!”
The imp of Satan pulled off his cap, crammed the helmet over his red curls, and grinned like a lunatic. He was happy as a fart. Prince Edward was his idol.
The accommodation was far better than Hawksblood had expected in a castle that housed almost a thousand nobles, military men, clergy, and servants. He left his squires to unpack his belongings and plenish his two rooms while he and the prince rejoined the king and Warrick.
“We’ve decided on the Port of Ipswich. I’ve sent messengers off to Admiral Morley and Walter Manny informing them Warrick will direct this operation. All the vessels will have their own crews. How many fighting men do you reckon?”
“Say, fifty extra men on each ship for boarding parties,” Warrick decided.
“Don’t forget my Welsh bowmen,” Prince Edward interjected. “They have to pick off those Genoese.” The men all looked at Hawksblood.
He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t believe the Genoese arbalests will stand a chance.”
“You’d better swear fealty to me if you’re coming with us,” the king demanded.
Prince Edward laughed. “He’s already sworn fealty to me, Father. He’s my man, though I’ve no objection to his giving you his oath.”
For the second time in an hour, Christian placed his hands between those of a Plantagenet. His father’s name was of use sooner than expected. “I, Christian Hawksblood de Beauchamp, swear by my faith to obey, defend, and serve thee entirely as my sovereign against every man, without deception.” Though he did not give his oath lightly, he was jaded enough to believe few men acted without deception. There were three motives for everything: what a man told others, what he told himself, and the real motive.
“News spreads like wildfire. By the time we sit down in the hall tonight, all in the castle will be buzzing like hornets with a stick up their nest. Edward, you will be inundated with overeager youths anxious to win their spurs. Choose wisely.”
“News of my Arabian son here will cause a few eyebrows to raise and a few tongues to wag. I’d best find Robert and apprise him of the truth before the rumors start.”
It was too late, of course. Robert de Beauchamp had already learned his father’s bastard was at Windsor—and a foreign bastard to boot! A dozen friends had apprised him of the Arabian Knight, speaking of him with both awe and admiration. Apparently he was older, experienced in warfare and already knighted. Robert, fearing this paragon would cast him in the shadows, conceived a personal dislike before he ever met his unwanted half brother. If the foreign bastard coveted the title or one acre of Warrick land, he’d best watch his back!
There were two efficient networks to relay information at Windsor. One was male-dominated, the other female. The men’s grapevine began at the top with the king, and worked its way down through the
nobles, squires, servants, and finally to the pages at the bottom of the pecking order. The women’s grapevine grew vice versa, from the page boys to the maids, on to the married women, up to the ladies-in-waiting, then finally to the noble ladies themselves. The result of this was that the women received their information long after the men, and the results were highly embroidered distortions of the facts.
The maids’ tongues were busy with news of the new arrival, complete with all the juicy details. He was an Arabian Knight on a secret mission. He was a mercenary, a spy, or an assassin. Perhaps all three. Arabs were notorious whore-masters, allowed four wives and a harem filled with concubines. This particular Arab was so darkly handsome, he had more than his allotted share of women. He had left a trail of brokenhearted females across three continents. At this point in the telling, the servant girls’ voices dropped to a shocked whisper. The bathhouse maids had seen him naked. The weapon between his legs was a black, lethal obscenity! Most were repelled, a few were attracted; all were wildly curious.
In all fairness, Christian had the advantage when he came face-to-face with his half brother. He knew Warrick had another son; whereas Robert could not have known until today. Under the circumstances, the fair-headed young giant acknowledged him with considerable grace.
A granite-faced Warrick simply apprised him of the hard facts. “This is my son, Christian, conceived in Arabia before I married your mother.”
Robert held out his arm with a welcoming smile. Christian knew it was to test his strength. Robert was warm, good-natured, and easygoing.
On the surface.
Beneath were hidden depths with undercurrents. When the two clasped arms, Robert was shocked to learn the Arabian’s strength was greater than his own. The smile faded, but the mask stayed in place.
Christian knew his brother would be difficult to read, though not impossible. Robert de Beauchamp was opaque rather than transparent. Christian knew immediately Robert had already learned of him before this meeting, because all his thoughts, good or bad, were carefully concealed. Christian noted the badge on Robert’s sleeve. “You are the Duke of Clarence’s man. I’ve not met Prince Lionel yet.”
“He’ll be in the hall tonight. Lionel and I have much in common, our. size and a father with a warrior’s reputation that can be daunting. Now it seems we both have older brothers who outshine us.” He grinned to show he felt no bitterness.
“That remains to be seen,” Christian said, returning the grin.
“I suppose the brotherly thing to do is offer you one of my rooms.”
“I thank you, but that is not necessary. I have accommodation.” He nodded to both men. “I’ll see you in the hall.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed as he watched Christian depart. Now that he had come face-to-face with the usurper, seen the respect in his father’s eyes, learned the bastard’s strength was greater than his own, the seeds of hatred took root.
“Perhaps we’ll see him in the hall tonight,” Joan said to Brianna. “I wonder who he is? The name Hawksblood doesn’t sound familiar.”
“It sounds dangerous,” Brianna warned her friend, knowing that friend’s propensity for mischief.
“Oh Lord, yes.” Joan shivered.
Brianna shuddered. She had chosen to wear a turquoise tunic over a jade sarcenet with diaphanous sleeves. Again she wore the emerald-studded girdle. “You don’t think Robert will think these colors too bold?”
“You look stunning. I never dreamed those two colors would look so striking together. Has he kissed you yet?” Joan asked eagerly.
“Of course not!” Brianna said in a shocked voice.
“He will tonight. Your emeralds will be lucky for you.”
“Joan, you are so wicked,” said Brianna, but she laughed and her eyes sparkled brighter than her jewels.
In the hall, Princess Isabel beckoned them imperiously. “Edward is taking me hawking tomorrow. I will need you both an hour early.”
Joan had seen no trace of Edward all day, though she had watched for him. She was wise to Isabel’s tricks though, and knew she would exclude Joan and Brianna from the hawking if she could.
Queen Philippa had come to the Banqueting Hall tonight and the king gave her his undivided attention. They shared a silver porringer, laughing and talking throughout the entire meal.
Princess Isabel’s mouth was sulky because she wasn’t the center of attention tonight. Neither Prince Edward nor Prince Lionel was on the dais, both choosing instead to sit with their men.
Prince John of Gaunt coolly ignored his sister so that she would not engage him in conversation. Though he was only a boy, he was Isabel’s intellectual superior.
Joan felt a pang of disappointment at not being able to flirt with Edward, but was soon distracted when she spied Robert Beauchamp beside Prince Lionel. Joan nudged Brianna. “He’s looking at you.”
Brianna whispered, “I don’t think he is. He’s looking at someone behind us.”
Joan watched more closely, then her gaze traveled over the other diners. “As a matter of fact, everyone’s looking behind us. I wonder why? Oh, you don’t suppose it could be the Arabian?”
Brianna hardly heard her. She was watching Robert. His eyes were narrowed. He drank cup for cup with Prince Lionel. Robert nearly always laughed. Tonight he did not.
Queen Philippa had her own minstrel this evening who sang some lovely ballads in Flemish. Because she did not wish to sit too long, she retired early, taking the king with her.
When Joan and Brianna stood up, they looked down the hall behind them. There was a crowd of men gathered about the prince in deep conversation so they moved off into the gallery.
It wasn’t long before Robert de Beauchamp sought Brianna.
“Good even, my lord,” she managed shyly.
Joan decided to help the courtship along. “Brianna was just about to show me her parchments that the queen has put on display right here in the gallery.”
“Oh, please, no.” Brianna suddenly found her voice.
“Don’t be so modest. I’m sure Robert would love to see how talented you are.”
Brianna marveled at Joan’s easy manner. She had no difficulty calling him Robert. The leather-bound parchments had been placed on a reading stand beneath the gallery’s stained-glass oriel window. They told the legend of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. She had illuminated all the capital letters in gold and accompanying the script were delicately painted illustrations of his sword, Excalibur, Merlin the Wizard, and Queen Guinevere.
As Robert de Beauchamp looked at the parchments, a frown came between his brows. “You write?” he asked Brianna. His tone of voice was accusatory.
Joan immediately realized her mistake. “Ah, I take it you do not, my lord.”
He laughed derisively. “Writing is unmanly. ’Tis a task for clerks and priests.”
Brianna felt a sharp stab of disappointment that she could not conceal. When he saw the look of dismay on her lovely face, he said hurriedly, “I have no objection to your little pastime, if it amuses you.”
Brianna bit her tongue. She must not get off on the wrong foot with her future husband or she would have no husband at all. She glanced up at him and was alarmed at the look of purest black hatred, but it was so fleeting she thought she might have imagined it. She turned to see who or what had provoked such emotion. Suddenly a hush fell all about her. Time slowed down so that everything seemed to take on a dreamlike quality.
Two men approached, but she did not even glance at Prince Edward. Her eyes were drawn to the dark man at his side. Though she tried, Brianna found she could not take her eyes from him. He wore a crimson silk jupon with the spread wings of a black hawk rising in full flight. His dark face was exceedingly masculine, his compelling eyes were brilliant splinters of aquamarine.
All Brianna’s senses were heightened. She smelled her own freesia perfume mixing with the man’s body scent of sandalwood. Her own colors of jade, turquoise, and emerald were suddenly brilli
ant, as if she were bathed in sunlight.
Christian was stunned. It was she!
His eyes widened at the breath-stopping beauty of her. His nostrils flared at her provocative woman’s scent. His body quickened at the memory of her naked flesh cloaked in her golden, ankle-length hair. The impact upon all his senses was staggering and it slowly dawned upon him that this was all predestined.
The man and the woman stood transfixed, gazing at each other as if they were the only two people in the gallery. The pupils of his eyes dilated until they turned black.
Brianna felt strange. Her heartbeat slowed, her very blood seemed to thicken. She forgot to breathe. Her hand went to her throat in a fluttering gesture of supplication.
Robert de Beauchamp’s voice broke the spell. “This is my brother, Christian Hawksblood … Lady Brianna Bedford.”
“My lady,” the dark warrior said, his look so intense and possessive, she shrank back against De Beauchamp. He had clearly placed the emphasis on the word “my” rather than “lady.”
Now that she had broken her glance from his, Brianna did not dare look at him again. She glanced about nervously. Everyone seemed to be acting normally, in a perfectly ordinary manner. Yet she knew what had happened between herself and the dark stranger was extraordinary.
Prince Edward introduced Christian to his cousin, Joan of Kent, and only then did he take his fierce gaze from her.
Brianna breathed again.
Joan, never at a loss for words, said, “So, you are the Arabian Knight who has set Windsor all agog. I had no idea the Earl of Warrick had another son.”
“Neither did he, my lady,” came the amused rejoinder. Everyone laughed. His voice was rich, deep, faintly accented. Yet Brianna noticed he did not place the emphasis on “my” when he called Joan “my lady.”
Christian Hawksblood glanced down at the parchments on the reading stand. “These are very beautiful. They remind me of the treasured manuscripts I have seen in Baghdad.”
“Baghdad!” Robert scoffed.
Prince Edward said, “Baghdad was a great center of culture and learning when Europeans couldn’t even write their own names! Are these yours, Lady Bedford?”