His seventh sense was still developing. Only occasionally had he reached this perfect state. It required that he go inside, deeper and deeper to the core where the supreme power known as Godhead could be tapped into.
Christian knew he was about to experience one of his “visions.” There was a bright flash behind his eyes, then vivid scenes crowded one upon another. He was on a coast among a fleet of ships. When he realized the place would best be viewed from above, he elevated high above the masts of the sailing vessels so he could see the activities of the men below him. Knowledge came to him immediately that what he saw was the French fleet. Before his vision faded, he knew the exact number of ships and the location where the fleet was gathering.
Hawksblood let go of his control and slept. His mind now freed of its rigid constraints raced like an untethered stallion across the desert sand. His mind envisioned the elusive object of his deepest desire, yet whimsically allowed him the use of only one of his senses. Maddeningly he could not smell, taste, or touch. And so Christian set about looking.
Really looking. And found her.
Her skin was translucent as if it had been dusted with powdered pearls. Her lashes were dark, tipped with gold, over hazel eyes that changed color from brown to gold to green. Her nose was small, yet the nostrils flared sensually. Her lips were not fashionably pursed or pouting, but full, lusty, and colored deepest rose. Her chin displayed a dimple, nowhere near as marked as the cleft in his own, but nevertheless it was a sign of willfulness.
Her throat curved beautifully, drawing the eye to lush breasts of alabaster. He could see tiny blue veins beneath the fine skin. Her breasts were crowned by buds of deepest rose, the color of her mouth. If he could touch her, he knew his hands could span her waist, and he longed to brush the backs of his fingers across the fine down upon her belly and soft thighs. From between those thighs her mons rose high, crowned by red-gold ringlets so tempting he would have sold his soul to part them and explore the secret path that led to the treasure within.
Her hair, like a golden mantle, shimmered with light and fire. He knew a need to bind himself in it, to breathe its fragrance and taste its texture. In his dream she turned from him and he glimpsed a witch-mark upon her buttock that matched the tiny black dot on her cheekbone.
He strained against the forces that prevented him from touching her. The barrier could not be breached. Then suddenly a madness gripped him. No force on earth could keep him from possessing her. A blinding, bursting explosion of willpower swept away all impediment.
He was transformed into the black stallion, relentlessly pursuing a cream-colored Arabian mare. Her eyes were large, almond-shaped, and liquid with fear. Her neck arched high, proudly displaying the long, silken mane that the wind swept back across her shapely flanks as she tried to flee.
He ran her to earth. She trembled before her savage captor. His teeth bit cruelly into her neck, then he ruthlessly mounted her and mated her. When she screamed with his wild thrusts, his seed gushed into her.
Christian’s eyes flew open just in time to see a fountain of pearly drops arc from his body to fall upon the sheet. He flushed in the darkness and cursed. He hadn’t disgraced himself in a nocturnal dream since he was a boy of ten. His vision was to blame. So much for control, he thought ruefully.
Brianna had a restless night. When she awoke she could not recall the dark shadows that had prevailed in her dreams and was thankful for it. Before she broke her fast, there was a page at the door informing her that Princess Isabel had decided to go hawking today. Brianna was relieved there would be no time to attend chapel.
“Yer bath’s ready, my lamb.”
“Adele, you are so very good to me, but I must hurry or Isabel will be in the devil’s own temper,” Brianna said, stepping into the tub. “Just grab a riding tunic from my wardrobe, any will do.”
“She’s still a child. ’Tis shameful she’s allowed to tyrannize her elders,” Adele sympathized.
“Jesu, don’t call her a child within her hearing. She’s fourteen and never tires of pointing out her mother wed King Edward when she was her age.”
A young chambermaid came in with a tray of food. There were little varlet rolls, a pot of honey, and a jug of mead. When a timid knock came upon the door, Adele ushered in an imp-faced page with a note. He looked like he wanted to flee, but Adele bade him wait for an answer.
The note from Joan of Kent read: “B. Please forgive me. I hope your punishment was not severe. Wear something ravishing. I have plans! J.”
Brianna closed her eyes. Joan was plotting another escapade before the consequences of yesterday’s antics were over and done with. As she glanced at the page she saw him look guiltily toward her worktable. She pounced on him, grabbing his ear. His cry of exaggerated pain was pitiful. “You little imp of Satan. Why did you ruin my parchment?”
He babbled denials and lies. Wisely she knew she would get nothing from him this way. The life of a royal page was one of survival. Up at four, running and fetching until their little legs almost dropped off, with naught but cuffs and curses for reward. Then at ten years when they became squires, the real misery began.
Brianna let go of his ear and popped a sugared almond into his mouth. “Did someone else tell you to do this?”
The snub-nosed child nodded.
“Then I cannot hold you to blame, can I?” she asked sweetly.
He shook his head.
“What’s your name?”
“Randal,” he replied.
The name and the red curls were vaguely familiar. “Are you Elizabeth Grey’s brother?”
He nodded warily.
“If anyone tells you to ruin my parchments again, you won’t do it, will you?”
“It was Princess Isabel,” he blurted, confirming her suspicions.
The minutes were galloping by and she knew she must finish dressing. Brianna shoved a bread roll into his hand and pushed him out the door. Adele selected taupe velvet, but Brianna quickly shook her head and pulled a pale lavender underdress and dark violet tunic from the wardrobe. Adele plaited the right side of her hair while Brianna did the left. She pulled on her stockings, anchored them with lace garters, then dragged on soft chamois riding boots. She scooped up a pair of violet gauntlets embroidered with gold thread, drained her cup of mead, kissed Adele on the cheek, and breathlessly ran along the corridor to Joan of Kent’s chambers.
Joan’s waiting lady, Glynis, was Welsh and her dark hair and swarthy skin contrasted sharply with Joan’s coloring. She was a font of information about what went on at Windsor and she was so superstitious she was also a source of amusement.
Brianna was surprised that Joan’s hair was unbound. “You cannot hunt like that.”
“I’m hunting a different quarry,” Joan said, laughing, but she snatched up a silver-mesh snood and Brianna helped her tuck her tresses inside it. Once again the two girls picked up their skirts and ran like hoydens to the State Apartments overlooking the terrace.
Princess Isabel’s bedchamber and dressing room were strewn with clothes she had tossed aside with displeasure. When she set eyes on Brianna’s dark violet and Joan’s blush pink, she seethed with envy. Her bedchamber maids and ladies-in-waiting were almost in tears. One held up an azure blue while another proffered a smart black velvet. Isabel was the only dark Plantagenet, with her mother’s Flemish coloring. She was an attractive young woman whose sullen mouth marred her looks.
Joan winked at Brianna. “You will look lovely in the azure, Your Highness.”
Brianna let her anger toward the young princess slip away. She agreed with Joan’s choice with all her heart. “The color is so vivid, it will contrast with your dark hair, Your Highness.”
Isabel immediately chose the black velvet. Joan suppressed a bubble of pleasure; the black would turn her complexion to mud. With studied innocence, Joan said, “ ’Tis a pity the king forbids you to ride far afield. The morning sunshine cries out for a long gallop.”
Isabel rounded o
n Joan. “Whatever do you mean? I go wherever I wish to go.”
“Oh certes, Your Highness, I didn’t mean to imply His Majesty has you on a leading string. All I meant was your brother, Prince Lionel, is allowed to ride all the way to Berkhamsted. It seems unfair when he’s younger than you.”
“Lionel is mad to become as proficient at bearing arms as the Prince of Wales. That’s the reason he’s forever riding to our brother’s castle of Berkhamsted.”
Lady Elizabeth Grey sighed. “All men believe success in arms is the one thing worth living for. My brother trained with a blunted sword when he turned seven.”
Isabel said proudly, “My brother Edward started lessons with real weapons before he was ten.”
Brianna pointed out, “Ah, but Prince Edward at ten was as physically mature as any sixteen-year-old.”
“Yes,” agreed Isabel, “that’s the Plantagenet blood. My father is the most spectacular warrior in Christendom and Edward is champion of all tournaments at only sixteen.”
“Men think of nothing but honing their fighting skills,” lamented Elizabeth.
“Then it’s up to us to give them something else to think about,” Joan suggested.
Isabel’s mouth went sulky. “Now that Edward has his own army, all the attractive young men are at Berkhamsted. Your brother Edmund is there, I believe.”
Joan jumped on her words immediately. She suspected Isabel had a fancy for her disreputable young brother, the Earl of Kent. “Yes, my brother is with yours. Did you know he is secretly enamored of you, Your Highness? What a pity we cannot visit them.” She sighed with exaggerated resignation.
May God forgive you for the lie, thought Brianna.
Isabel’s ladies plaited her hair and fashioned a coronet of braids held in place by jeweled hairpins. She eyed Brianna’s embroidered hunting gauntlets and selected an impractical pair for herself that was encrusted with pearls and moonstones.
By the time the ladies arrived in the courtyard, the grooms were standing patiently with their saddled horses. The falconers stood outside the mews, holding the ladies’ birds of prey. Each hawk had jesses attached to its legs with two bells engraved with the owner’s name. Falconry had its own rigid rules of etiquette. Only royalty was permitted to fly falcons, which were considered noble and ranked higher even than eagles.
Brianna owned a merlin, most of the other young ladies flew sparrow hawks, but Joan preferred a tiny kestrel because of her small size. Isabel carried a male falcon, called a tercel, on her wrist only as a status symbol. She was not skilled at the sport.
As the grooms mounted to accompany the princess and her ladies, Isabel said imperiously, “We ride to Berkhamsted!”
The grooms exchanged looks of alarm.
Brianna and Joan exchanged looks of triumph.
Before they had ridden two miles, the princess became angry because her falcon’s talons had torn some of the pearls from her gauntlet. She handed her bird over to a groom and ordered the others do likewise. They would never cover the distance with hawks perched on their wrists.
When the party of ladies arrived at Berkhamsted, the guard on the watchtower signaled the man on the portcullis to raise it immediately. Ten females accompanied by their grooms were no threat to a castle of three hundred men. As they rode across the inner drawbridge into the bailey, the servants, squires, and soldiers around the barracks gaped openly at the fashionable young women.
The Prince of Wales’ castellan approached with an insincere welcome. He wondered what the devil the young princess was thinking of to intrude upon this stronghold of men.
“I’ve come to surprise my brother. Where is he?”
The castellan, being one himself, knew how much men loved surprises. “Prince Edward is training with his men-at-arms, Your Highness. I beg you come to the hall and refresh yourself.”
Isabel looked him up and down. “Yes, we shall certainly avail ourselves of Berkhamsted’s hospitality after we’ve surprised Edward.”
As they rode the length of the bailey, Brianna saw that it was almost like a village with hens and dogs. A vast smithy producing lance heads and arrowpoints stood next to a shed where the armorers were repairing weapons and armor. An outdoor cookhouse was roasting ten sheep on its spits. Isabel pinched her nose at the smell of mutton fat. Brianna licked her lips over the delicious aroma.
The ladies rode through the quintain yard, drawing every eye. They laughed with amusement as a young warrior was knocked senseless by the heavy sandbag that swung round relentlessly because he had looked at the ladies, forgetting to duck. Scores of young men were training in the tilt yard. It was a dangerous place to be amidst splintering lances and flying chargers’ hooves.
A blond demi-god in chain mail, carrying a broadsword, descended purposefully upon them. Elizabeth Grey screamed. Joan sighed.
“There you are, Edward,” cried Isabel.
“Bella, what the hellfire are you playing at?”
“We’ve ridden all the way from Windsor to surprise you.”
“Well, you can turn around and ride back again,” Edward said bluntly.
The heir to the throne had a lightning temper, but his sister was merely a nuisance. The young men with whom he’d been practicing swordplay gathered behind him, grinning openly at Brianna, Joan, and the other delectable females who had suddenly emerged through a sea of males.
Isabel’s cheeks flamed. “How dare you welcome Lionel and send me packing? When Father learns of your shabby treatment he’ll call you to task.” She looked with distaste at the sweat and blood on him.
“When Father learns you’ve ridden farther than Windsor’s forests he’ll warm your arse!”
A trill of laughter escaped from Joan’s lips. Edward’s brow cleared. “I’d know that laugh anywhere.” He came to stand by Joan of Kent’s palfrey. They were cousins and had played together as children. “Little Jeanette, how are you?”
Though Joan was a year older than Prince Edward, his great height and physical maturity made him seem at least ten years her senior. From beneath her lashes she saw the beads of sweat glistening on his face, saw the blood-streaked dirt along the muscles of his bare arms. Suddenly all she could think of was what it would feel like to trace a finger over those muscles. She forgot to breathe. He was her golden god, always had been, always would be. With a dizzying effort she regained her composure and raised her lashes. Her eyes sparkled as they looked down into his. “Is it not part of a knight’s training to learn respect for women? Think of us as an opportunity to teach chivalry,”
“Little minx,” he murmured. He strode back to Isabel and said grudgingly, “Well, I suppose we have to eat anyway. Allow me to extend the hospitality of Berkhamsted. You may stay for the midday meal.”
Princess Isabel was all smiles now she’d achieved her objective. She would have thrown a tantrum had she realized it was Joan of Kent who had wooed him into a giving mood.
The castle chamberlain showed the princess to a private chamber. At the door she said, “I’ll only need Elizabeth,” and shut it in the other girls’ faces.
Brianna, refusing to blush, asked the chamberlain to show them to a garderobe. There was no scented water, no facilities at all for gently bred ladies in this male stronghold.
Joan pulled on Brianna’s sleeve. “Come or we’ll miss all the fun of passing the towel.”
In the hall their birds of prey sat on the perch provided for visitors’ hawks. The grooms who had accompanied them had already gone into the dining hall, which was filling up quickly with the young men who made up the heir to the throne’s army.
Joan pulled Brianna to the lavatory close to the entrance of the hall, which contained washstands with pitchers and basins. The men surrounding the two females immediately began to tease and flirt with them. Brianna of Bedford had many would-be suitors who took this opportunity to vie for her attention. She laughed with them all, taking care not to single out anyone.
Joan slipped in beside Edward. “May I have the s
oap, Your Highness?”
He looked down in horror. “Didn’t my bloody chamberlain show you to a private room?”
“Yes, but Isabel wouldn’t share it with us.” She laughed up into his handsome face, unable to hide her admiration from him.
“She’s such a spoiled little bitch,” he complained.
“Perhaps she’s paying us back for the wretched things we did to her when we were children. Do you remember?” she asked breathlessly.
His blue eyes crinkled. “We were true conspirators.” He had always been so fond of Joan, or little Jeanette, as he called her. In proximity to her he suddenly recalled she had been responsible for his first erection at twelve.
Suddenly she touched his face. “You have a smear of blood, just here.”
He lathered his face, rinsed it, then reached for the towel. Joan whisked it away with a whoop of laughter and tossed it to Brianna. He grabbed Joan, lifting her high in the air, digging his fingers into her ribs to tickle her as if she were a child. Suddenly her hair net fell off and her silvery-gilt hair came tumbling down over his hands. He set her feet to the ground and their laughter fled as they stood looking at each other with heightened awareness.
“Sweet,” he murmured for her ears alone.
At table a tall salt cellar divided the diners by rank. Field churls, servants, squires, and the visiting grooms sat below the salt, while high officers of the household, prominent guests, and members of the nobility joined the Plantagenets above the salt. Five young nobles jostled for seats that would place them directly across from Brianna of Bedford and Joan of Kent.
The castle seneschal presided over the meal and its servers. Today he had to do more than keep track of the silver spoons and knives, he had to see that the ladies were served first, that the drinking cups were kept filled, that the food was served while it was still hot, while at the same time keeping the squires from impropriety. His fierce glare promised retribution to any who spat, wiped their nose, or picked their teeth. To their credit some of them even remembered not to gobble down everything in sight and saved something for the poor basket.
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