Isabel tossed her dark hair back over her shoulder and said with malice, “It was Bedford, and her friend, Joan of Kent.” Isabel was jealous of the girl’s beauty.
Brianna’s mouth fell open.
Joan had been absorbed in poking the birch rod’s handle into the dog turd but as Isabel’s words reached her ears, she stood up to confess all. Brianna quickly took hold of Joan’s hand and squeezed hard to stop her friend’s words. “I did it, Dame Marjorie. Joan had naught to do with it.” Brianna was used to Joan’s mischievous, childlike behavior. Joan never gave a thought to the consequences of her irresponsible actions and Brianna always felt a need to protect her.
The Dame’s face went still. “Lady Bedford, you will follow me.” The words were like a sentence, dooming Brianna. She would be purged of her evil ways. The dragon bent dramatically to retrieve her stick. The thorn pierced her thumb, which immediately flew to her mouth so she could suck upon the injured digit. Joan of Kent was entranced at the look that came upon the dragon’s face when she realized she was sucking shit.
Brianna followed Dame Marjorie from the formal gardens of the East Terrace with reluctant steps. As she walked through the Upper Ward past the State Apartments, she glanced longingly across the Quadrangle to her own rooms in the York Tower. She had hoped to finish painting a page to illustrate the Legend of St. George and the Dragon she had laboriously scripted. She sighed with resignation and followed the rigid back of Dame Marjorie to her lodgings, located beyond the cloisters that housed the clergy.
Joan of Kent, racked with guilt, trailed after her friend. She watched Brianna enter the dragon’s lair and knew she must gather her courage to intervene. Joan drew herself up to her full five feet one inch and knocked resolutely. When the door was flung open she forced herself across the threshold. Not daring to look at Brianna, she blurted, “Dame Marjorie, I am to blame for the wicked prank—”
The older woman swung to Brianna immediately. “This is beyond the beyond. To drag Lady Joan of Kent into this is unconscionable.” She turned back to Joan. “My dear, you are to be commended for such a noble gesture. Royal blood will out, I suppose, but this time Lady Bedford will suffer the consequences of her depraved actions.”
Joan knew it was futile to argue. She was making things worse for Brianna. As she turned to depart she was rewarded by a smile of thanks from her friend that warmed her heart.
Brianna decided in that moment not to let Dame Marjorie victimize her. Before she held out her hands for the birching, she would challenge her woman to woman. “Dame Marjorie, we both know I wasn’t responsible for the mischief today. Princess Isabel wrongly accused me out of spite. But since you cannot punish the princess royal and are loathe to chastise Joan of Kent because of her royal blood, that leaves me.” Brianna’s eyes lit with mocking laughter. “If you really feel the need to vent your spleen, be my guest.” She held out her hands and the Dame knew immediately that Brianna of Bedford didn’t give a tinker’s damn about a few strokes from a birch rod. The Dame decided on a more subtle punishment. She looked with distaste at the pigment stains on Brianna’s hands.
“The devil makes work for idle hands. The stains upon your fingers lead me to believe you fritter your time away unwisely in useless endeavors. Your hands are intended to ply a needle. It is shameful to do otherwise when so many garments are needed in the royal household.”
In fact, the queen and her ladies had insisted just the opposite. They excused Lady Bedford from sewing duty so she might pursue her God-given talent. Brianna kept a wise silence.
The dried-up old spinster felt even more outrage at the girl’s upthrust breasts and long golden tresses. “I shall advise the queen to betroth you to an older man who will rule you with an iron hand.”
Brianna’s heart sank.
“You are dismissed, Bedford.”
Brianna’s heart lifted slightly.
“Go straight to the chapel and confess your sins to Brother Bartholomew.”
Brianna’s heart sank hopelessly. She would have to attend vespers and wait until he had finished the service before she could confess.
All the light had gone from the day before Brianna could seek the refuge of her chambers. With every step she plotted her revenge. She would paint her dragon with Dame Marjorie’s features!
Her mother’s sister, Adele, who had accompanied her from Bedford as her waiting-woman, opened her chamber door. She was Irish, but it had been Brianna’s mother who was the beauty of the family. Adele was covered with freckles and her hair was the color of straw. She had resigned herself to being an old maid though she was only twenty-nine. “Oh, my lamb, wherever have ye been? Someone’s been in here doing mischief while I was visiting the royal nursery to glimpse the new baby princess.”
Brianna flew to her worktable beneath the leaded window. Her parchment lay in ruins. Spilled paint obliterated the exquisite sketch of her dragon and the carefully scripted legend of St. George. She gazed through the darkened window with unseeing eyes, angry at the injustice of life. She had taken the blame for her friend and been rewarded by having her artwork ruined. In a moment of self-pity her eyes flooded and a lone tear rolled down her cheek. A minute later she dashed it away with impatient hands, her Irish sense of humor coming to her rescue. “No good deed shall go unpunished.” Her laughter bubbled out irrepressibly. “Remember that, Adele.”
Brianna often used laughter to mask her sensitivity and vulnerability. Laughter was a most alluring quality in a woman. Men were attracted to her because of her laugh, which gave them a delicious foretaste of her innate sensuality.
As she drifted off to sleep, a smile curved her lips as a tall figure stepped into her dream and beckoned. Desire overwhelmed her. This knight who came to her dreams was utterly irresistible. She went to him willingly, wanting him to touch her, to kiss her, to carry her off to a secret place. As the distance between them closed, she realized they were on the parapet of a strange castle. He reached out a powerful hand and lifted a tear from her cheek with the tip of his finger. Brianna laughed up into his face, and as she had hoped, he could not resist the sensual curve of her smiling lips.
His mouth on hers felt glorious. She had never experienced anything to equal the deep pleasure she received from the touch and the taste of him. When he enfolded her in his arms and pressed his hard body against hers, she thought she might die of joy. She sighed with longing as his image began to dissolve, then moved restlessly in her sleep. Her palm cupped her full breast where the hand of her phantom knight had touched her so possessively only a moment before. She sighed again. This time she had seen his eyes. They were a startling aquamarine!
At the castle of St. Lô, Christian Hawksblood kept his mouth closed and his ears and eyes open. The talk was all of war with England. Though there was a truce, it would be broken the moment that the King of France had assembled a large enough fleet.
He had been taught his fighting skills by Norman knights who had imparted history and hatred for the French in equal measure. Hawksblood was a mercenary at the moment, until now selling his sword to the highest bidder. Because he had ambivalent feelings toward France and England, two lands he’d never seen, he had decided to visit them before he pledged his sword in the inevitable war that had been threatening for years.
England had held all the western and southern provinces of France since Eleanor of Aquitaine wed Henry Secund, two centuries ago, and there had been fierce fighting along the borders ever since. Philip of France was Edward III’s grandfather, so when Philip died and his sons followed him to the grave without male issue, the King of England decided to claim the throne of France. Recently he had quartered his coat-of-arms with the French lilies along with the leopards of England. This did not endear him to Philip of Valois, who had inherited the French crown. He openly declared to help Scotland invade England and began to pirate English ships.
When in France the English Royal Court was headquartered in Bordeaux. Christian understood why the moment he had visi
ted the beautiful, sunny, flower-filled city on the curving river Garonne. He fancied living there himself and to that end purchased a white stone palatial villa next to the property owned by the infamous Earl of Warrick. The thought of confronting the father who had abandoned his mother before his birth was fleeting. Perhaps Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warrick, was not his sire after all. He had no proof. He was convinced, however, that he had Norman blood, yet now that he was in Normandy, he felt strangely alien.
At the castle of St. Lô, Hawksblood’s glance caressed each lady it fell upon, eliciting open invitations from a dozen willing women. When he was absolutely certain “she” was not of the company, he relaxed and sampled the rich wine Baron St. Lô proffered him.
“I will pay double what Philip will pay for your sword,” St. Lô said expansively. “All his money is going into ships at the moment, but you and I know it is land battles that are decisive.”
Hawksblood’s lids shielded his eyes as he listened without committing himself. He knew St. Lô had observed him in the lists—knew he was already counting the fortune Hawksblood could earn him ransoming the English nobles he would capture. “You seem very sure France will be victorious.”
St. Lô laughed as if Hawksblood was jesting. “Philip already has a hundred ships with over twenty thousand Normans, Bretons, and Picards. He even has Genoese bowmen. In the last few weeks he has mounted coastal forays against English ports and captured three of their best ships.”
“Have the English not retaliated?”
“They’ve tried.” St. Lô was still amused. “An English army at Lille was defeated only last month. The Earl of Salisbury, rumored to be a personal friend of King Edward, was taken prisoner.” St. Lô’s eyes gleamed. “Can you imagine the ransom he’ll fetch?”
A husky voice interrupted them. “Bernard, you must introduce me to the dark champion, chéri.”
Christian looked down into eyes heavy with sensuality.
“Behave yourself, Lisette, or your husband will snap that fine neck of yours one of these nights.”
The resemblance between the two proclaimed them brother and sister. Both were uncommonly attractive. Lisette cast Bernard a decadent glance from beneath her lashes. “Chéri, I know you will keep him occupied for me.”
Suddenly there were no other people in the hall for the dark champion and the voluptuous French girl. Her eyes traveled the length of him. “Does your lance always hit its mark?”
His eyes danced as he nodded solemnly. “Yes, it is an extension of my body.” He heard her swift intake of breath.
“You rode in more than one bout … did that not tire you?” Her voice grew huskier by the minute.
“I can ride six times in succession without spending my strength, chérie.”
Lisette licked her lips over him. “I admire endurance.” Her legs had gone so weak, she wondered how she would climb the stairs. “My chamber is the east turret,” she murmured, slipping away with unseemly haste.
Christian Hawksblood became Drakkar. With the alertness of a trained warrior, he allowed his senses to gauge the level of danger about him. He could read minds easily and knew Baron St. Lô had no objection to Lisette giving her body if it secured Hawksblood’s sword. There was a high degree of envy directed at him from his opponents in the tournament, but he allowed it to wash over him without reacting to it. Drakkar had more physical and supernatural powers at his command than any mortal should be allowed to possess.
Lisette opened the chamber door the moment he scratched. Just the sight of him aroused her without his lifting a finger. Her hands were already on the fastenings of her gown, which curiously were all at the front. Beneath the gown she was naked.
Though the chamber was shadowed, lit only by the square candle by the carved bed, he saw that her body was lush. As his hands removed his linen shirt, her deft fingers unfastened the laces of his codpiece. His marble phallus sprang out at her and she filled her hands with his cods and stones, marveling at the size of him.
His powerful hands stroked down her body from her breasts to her thighs and she shuddered at the callused roughness of them on her soft skin. She drew him toward the pool of candlelight, then drew in a sharp breath at the look of him. His powerful body was tempting as original sin. With a moan she lifted her arms about his neck, then wrapped her legs about his torso. The sight of his hard-muscled body had made her so wet she impaled herself upon him. She cried out her pleasure. It was the tightest fit she’d ever known.
He braced his legs and stood impassively as Lisette thudded her body onto his. He understood perfectly that she could wait no longer. When she shuddered her release and collapsed upon him, he carried her to the bed and spread her upon its silken covers. Then he proceeded to play her body like an angel plays a harp, plucking strings she never knew she had. She climaxed again and felt deliciously sated. Her pride was piqued, however, for she knew with a certainty he had not yet spent.
He rolled with her until her body was sprawled on top of his. She raised up onto her knees on either side of his thighs and looked down at him in wonder. His face was fiercely feral. He resembled a raptor. A curl of delicious fear spiraled inside her belly. How many men had he killed? He looked as if he had been trained since childhood to kill. She flushed. He still wore his chausses with the codpiece removed. She hadn’t been able to wait for him to fully undress.
His fingers touched her with fire as she sat gazing down into a face that looked carved from mahogany.
“What manner of man are you?” she breathed.
“A man with control,” he said simply.
“How did you learn to control your body so completely, mon amour?”
His lips twitched with amusement. “Controlling the body is child’s play. The emotions and the mind are slightly more difficult. Controlling others, however, took years of practice.”
“What are you?” she whispered, half afraid.
“Sometimes an Arab, sometimes a Norman.” His finger flew from her mons to her lips and his eyes slewed to the heavy door. A moment’s focused concentration told him St. Lô approached. The door latch moved, but the bar prevented it from swinging open. Then a low knock came. Lisette gasped. He had felt the presence long before there was any sound. She pointed to a door that led out onto the battlements and reached for a robe. “Whoever it is, I’ll get rid of him. Just give me a moment.”
The cool evening breeze dried the sheen of sweat that glistened upon his dark skin. He gazed toward the sea where England lay beyond. The French and the English hated each other with a vengeance. The English thought all French unmanly fops who cared more for clothes than war. The French thought the English uncouth, uncultured, ale-swilling louts.
In that moment Hawksblood experienced a revelation. His blood was half Anglo-Norman. He could not sell his sword to France. He would go to England to seek out the Earl of Warrick. Did not England’s laws of primogeniture award the eldest son the title and the whole of the estate?
Christian took a step toward Lisette’s turret chamber, then halted in his tracks. A picture of his “lady” shimmered so brightly before him, he felt he might reach out to touch her. He saw her eyes for the first time. They were liquid with tears. Green and gold flecks shone through the diamond-like drops that hovered on her lashes.
A fierce protectiveness rose up in him. He felt her pain, her sensitivity, her vulnerability. The experience was new to him. Though he had vowed as a knight to protect womanhood, he had never met a female who stirred any emotion beyond lust.
He reached out and a teardrop fell upon his brown hand. He had apported it from midair by magic power. He tasted it and all desire for another melted away like snow in summer. He gathered taut his muscles, swung lithely over the crenellated battlements, then climbed down the castle wall. Without rope or other device the feat was almost impossible, but Drakkar’s training made it as simple as climbing down a ladder.
Back in his pavilion, Christian lay supine upon his bed, his arms folded beneath
his head. He tested his senses.
All seven of them.
He saw the faint glow of moonlight through the silken ceiling, casting all into shadow. The shape of the unlit bronze lamp contrasted with a matching incense burner. The outline of Salome upon her perch was fiercely proud even in her sleep. His glance roamed the tent, seeing all, missing no finest detail.
He could smell almond and frankincense from his own body. He could also smell the sandalwood incense burning low. It did not mask the faint ammonia of the gerfalcon’s droppings. From outside he could smell the smoke of the campfires, the fat drippings from the roasted game, the odor of sour wine mingled with the cheap scent of the whores. He smelled the rich brown soil, the tethered horses, chestnut trees, and beyond all, the tang of the sea.
Christian could feel the cool night air upon his skin. Beneath his back and buttocks the linen sheet was rough-textured. His fingers felt the warmth of the amber in his silver amulets. His body heat made the metal almost hot.
He could faintly taste the saffron and fennel from the meal he’d taken at the castle. The bouquet of the rich red wine lingered upon his tongue. He could also taste the iodine and salt in the sea air. Most subtle of all was the taste of the teardrop, warm and softly scented. His body stirred. His mind controlled it immediately and moved on to his sense of hearing.
One by one he blocked out the raucous sounds of drunken laughter, music, barking dogs, restless horses and identified the sounds of nature. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, the fires crackled, a nearby stream gurgled, a night heron’s cry carried from miles away. Without strain, his acute hearing identified his own heartbeat, then that of his hunting hawk.
He moved on to his sixth sense. Intuition was acute awareness when all the other senses were heightened. It was developed easily enough through deprivation. When his mentors had blindfolded him for seven days, his other senses gradually heightened to compensate for his eyes, until finally he had learned to ride, then fight in combat, seeing with only his mind’s eye.
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