Desired

by Virginia Henley

  At that moment, Prince Lionel engaged Robert in conversation and Brianna signaled to Adele so they could make good their escape.

  The next morning, all the bells began to peel as a sign that Queen Philippa had been safely delivered of another daughter. Brianna and Adele visited the queen and were allowed to peek into the magnificently carved royal cradle for a glimpse of the newest princess. Isabel, diverting attention from the baby, gathered all the ladies in the room and insisted they accompany her to the lists. The fields and meadows for miles around Windsor were crowded with competitors and spectators. Champions had arrived from all over Europe to compete in the tournament. Princess Isabel insisted they go to the lists so they could all watch Bernard Ezi practice his jousting. Brianna didn’t really mind; she knew she would be safe in a crowd.

  The morning before St. George’s Day, the list was posted naming England’s most valiant knights who were to be inducted into the Order of the Garter the following day. It was headed by King Edward III and Edward, Prince of Wales. Next came Sir Walter Manny, Queen Philippa’s personal knight, who had accompanied her from Hainault. Then came the king’s uncle, Henry, Earl of Lancaster, the Earl of Warrick, and William de Montecute, Earl of Salisbury. Also included were nineteen barons and knights who had fought at the Battle of Crécy, including the two men who had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Black Prince: Sir John Chandos and Sir Christian de Beauchamp.

  Men of lower rank had been preferred to such powerful members of the aristocracy as the earls of Hereford, Pembroke, and Northampton. The younger princes and their cousin Edmund, Earl of Kent, were not included.

  That day the Court almost turned into a viper’s nest. Some said it was a list of favorites, others applauded that only heroes of the great Battle of Crécy were being honored. Most were consoled by the knowledge that the vast round table in the new tower would hold two hundred, so there was plenty of room for men who showed valor in the future.

  The knights’ costumes were put on display in the Banqueting Hall. Every garment was new. Each knight inducted into the order would wear spotless white chausses and tunic for purity, an ermine-trimmed crimson robe to show their willingness to shed blood, and spurs of gold. Twenty-five golden medallions stamped with St. George and the Dragon had been forged for the occasion, and twenty-five dark blue velvet garters emblazoned with the motto: Honi soit qui mal y pense.

  On the eve of St. George’s Day, the king led the other inductees into Windsor’s chapel where each man’s armor stood against the walls and his sword lay upon the altar. They sat a vigil all night long, spending hours on their knees in prayer. At dawn, their squires came in to bathe them, to wash away their sins, then dressed them in their new garments and finally their armor.

  King Edward inducted them with the great Sword of State, beginning with his own son. “Rise, Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales. Be thou a knight of the Order of the Garter.” He placed the medallion about his son’s neck and the garter about his knee. Then the king gave him the kiss of peace. Prince Edward took his sword from the altar, then stepped aside for the next man.

  When the religious ceremony was finished, the twenty-five celebrants mounted and rode to the new Edward III Tower. They climbed the one hundred steps and took their honored places at the round table, where they were served breakfast with all pomp and ceremony.

  “Fucking whoreson bastards!” Robert de Beauchamp spat. He picked up a stool and hurled it into the wall, smashing it to splinters. It was only a momentary outlet, bringing no satisfaction. “How could they choose that stinking Arabian ahead of me?” he asked the air.

  When his rage abated enough to allow him to think straight, his hatred transferred to the Prince of Wales. “It was that son of a bitch who picked his friends for the order!” That’s what power did for you. It gave you the freedom to do anything you wished, Robert decided.

  He made his way to Prince Lionel’s apartments and found the heavy door locked. He used his key to gain entrance and saw that Lionel was consuming a liquid breakfast. “That is not the answer, Your Highness,” Robert growled.

  “There is no answer, Robbie,” Lionel said hopelessly. “My brother is a god; I a mere mortal.”

  “You are a prince of the realm! You have power! You just don’t exercise it!” Robert cried.

  “My father is blinded by his love for his firstborn. He has raised him so high, I shall never be able to scale the heights.” Lionel’s voice broke on a sob. His wine cup fell from his hand and he threw himself into Robert’s arms and wept like a child. As Lionel’s weakness grew, so Robert’s strength doubled.

  “Don’t get drunk, Lionel, get even!” he urged.

  “How?” Lionel blubbered.

  Robert seized the moment. This prince of the blood would never be more vulnerable than he was at this moment. Now was his opportunity to turn the tables. He would no longer be Prince Lionel’s man; Lionel would become Robert de Beauchamp’s man!

  “Your brother is no god. He is mere flesh and blood and bone, just like you, just like me. If wounded, he bleeds. If mortally wounded, he dies!”

  Lionel raised his head and wiped his face on his sleeve.

  “Power, Lionel; power is the only thing that counts. Without it you are nothing. The hastilude that follows the jousting where everyone fights with spears is a heaven-sent opportunity to seize your destiny and make it happen!”

  Lionel stared at Robert with glazed eyes. “I … I cannot.”

  “I can! Just give me the word.”

  Lionel’s throat closed so that he could not speak.

  “Give me a sign!” Robert urged.

  Lionel nodded his head.

  At last Robert had him in the palm of his hand. Prince Lionel would become heir to the throne, and then King of England, and because he had assented, Lionel would be able to refuse him nothing for the rest of their lives. Robert kept his plan to rid himself of his own brother to himself. He felt as if fate were beginning to smile upon him at last.

  All those participating in the jousting spent the night in their pavilions so they could arise at dawn to begin preparations. Again, Prince Edward and Christian de Beau-champ had set up their tents next to each other. This time, however, Hawksblood had received more challenges than he could accept. Because of the number of contestants, the grand marshal had declared a limit of three jousts for each.

  The melee at day’s end in which all the contestants took part, was officially declared a hastilude, which meant that spears could be used. It was the king’s idea because his men had tasted victory in real battle and a run-of-the-mill free-for-all would lack the thrill of dangerous anticipation.

  Randal Grey came into Prince Edward’s tent breathless from running. His red hair was on end and the freckles across the bridge of his nose stood out darkly against the pallor of his skin. “Your Highness, you are in grave danger!”

  John Chandos picked him up bodily and deposited him outside the pavilion. “Prince Edward has no time for your games, lad.”

  Randal swore foully. “Let me speak with him!”

  “He’s halfway into his armor. You’ll make him late.”

  Randal didn’t have time to argue. He rushed into Hawksblood’s tent, where he ran into Paddy, who was about to give him the same treatment as Chandos. Randal ducked under Paddy’s arm and began shouting at Hawksblood. Christian removed his helm so he could hear what the page was trying to tell him.

  “It’s Prince Edward! They are going to kill him!”

  “Who is going to kill him?” Hawksblood demanded.

  “I don’t know. Some men over in yon meadow. I heard them plotting!”

  “Come on.” Hawksblood entered Edward’s tent with Randal in tow. “The boy here had heard some men talking about killing someone. He thinks it involves you, Sire.”

  Randal cried, “It does! I wouldn’t lie to you, Your Highness!”

  “I hope not, Randal,” the prince said quizzically. “Tell us just what you heard.”

  �
��I was over in the east meadow … it was still dark. I was crawling between the tents looking for a sword or a weapon that nobody would miss, when I heard men talking.”

  “You were stealing,” Chandos accused.

  “No … yes,” Randal admitted, knowing he must tell the truth if he was to be believed.

  “How many men?” Edward asked.

  “I don’t know … I heard three different voices.”

  “Did you recognize any of them?”

  “I’m not sure, I don’t think so. I couldn’t see them … I couldn’t let them see me.”

  “What did you overhear?” Edward asked.

  “They said it would be easy. No one would ever suspect foul play. They said accidents always happened in a melee. They said the one who wears sable armor must die.”

  Hawksblood and Edward exchanged glances. “Thanks for the warning, Randal. We’ll take care of it. Don’t repeat this to anyone else.”

  “Do we believe him?” Paddy asked skeptically when Randal left.

  “We cannot ignore it,” Hawksblood warned.

  “Well, the melee isn’t until late afternoon, we have a day of jousting to enjoy first,” Edward said with a grin.

  The lodges where the noble ladies sat had been covered with costly red carpet. People jostled for seats because of the great number of spectators attending. The ladies of the Court vied with each other to show off their costly gowns trimmed with marten, ermine, or vair. Rich materials of sendal and samite were embroidered with gold thread and pearls. Most of the ladies carried flowers so they could toss them into the lists when a particular favorite won a joust.

  The spring sunshine reflected off the trumpets of the heralds and the helms and polished breastplates of the contestants. Flags and pennons mounted all along the palisades dazzled the eye with their colorful and diverse coats of arms.

  Princess Isabel presided as Queen of the Tourney because her mother was resting from childbirth. Isabel was in her element today. She would present the prizes to the champions and occupy the seat of honor in the lodges where all the spectators could feast their eyes upon her. She wore red and silver and Brianna thought she looked truly lovely.

  Brianna tossed her hair back over her shoulder, thinking this was probably the last time she would wear it loose in public. After she was wed tomorrow, she would wear a scarf or headdress. A feeling was building inside her that she could not put a name to. It was a mixture of excitement and dread and uncertainty. It was the end of girlhood and the beginning of womanhood. What did her future hold? If a wizard with a crystal ball had offered her a glimpse, she would have refused to look.

  To Brianna it seemed the sands of time were running through the hourglass with frightening speed. Before she knew it, she would be standing in the chapel tomorrow, pledging her sacred vows. She knew of at least two other couples who were being wed and, of course, after the wedding ceremonies there was to be the christening of the new baby princess.

  The audience surged to its feet cheering as the contestants rode onto the field, singing a rousing battle song. The ladies threw flowers and the cheering rose higher and higher in a tribute to their bravery for defeating the French. Before the first three bouts pursuivants came forward to announce the knights and revile the opponents as had been done in ancient times. “Here is the Baron de Bures, a brave knight of a valorous house. Watch closely all who love brave deeds. His challenger had better find his ransom money. All his friends will feel shame this day!”

  From the opposite end of the field the challenger’s pursuivant answered: “Silence your boasts. The baron will have his spurs struck from his heels as an unworthy knight if he survives the impact of the lances.” And so the tournament progressed.

  As the Black Prince in his sable armor defeated the last of his challengers, Brianna said to Adele, “I wish Joan were here to see him.”

  “Paddy says they’ll be returning to France soon. This time, we too will go.”

  Brianna wondered. Christian Hawksblood had done something desperate to prevent her marriage once and she still half-expected him to do something this time. She prayed that he would not. She hoped that he had accepted the fact that her marriage to Robert de Beauchamp was inevitable.

  She clasped her hands together tightly when Hawksblood jousted. She knew he would defeat all his challengers. He was the most skilled knight at Windsor.

  She grabbed Adele’s hand when Robert rode his jousts, hoping he would make a brave show, and he did not disappoint her. She blushed when the ladies about her offered her congratulations and she saw them sigh over Robert’s fair countenance and tall physique.

  When the elimination rounds were over, those undefeated tilted against each other. The king went down in defeat to his friend William de Montecute, Earl of Salisbury, then the crowd went wild as he in turn was beaten by their chosen champion, the Black Prince.

  As time for the hastilude approached, Brianna knew the last thing she wanted to see was a re-creation of a bloody battle fought with spears. “Let’s stretch our legs,” she suggested to Adele.

  “Yes. Let’s see if we can get a cool drink. My throat is parched.”

  In the Black Prince’s tent, Edward and Christian sat talking as their squires handed them clean dry linen tunics to wear beneath their armor. “We will exchange armor, Sire. I have an ominous feeling of foreboding about this hastilude.” Hawksblood expected Prince Edward to refuse and was contemplating conspiring with John Chandos to physically restrain him from participating in the melee.

  Edward nodded. “Yes. I have a plan. If I don your brass armor, I will be able to observe any who go after the man wearing sable armor. Have no fear, Christian, I am prepared to slay any who plot my death.”

  Christian let out a relieved breath. He had total confidence in his own ability to defend himself against any man breathing.

  The roar of the crowd was so deafening that in spite of her abhorrence for violence, Brianna rushed back to her seat in the lodges, clutching a cup of cool mead. The clash of weapons and the battle cries of the knights were mesmerizing. Her hands on the metal cup turned icy and her breath caught and held as the good-natured blows became reckless and turned desperate, smiting with sword and thrusting with spear until the dust rose up to mingle with the blood and sweat of the combatants.

  “Mary and Joseph, they are killing one another!”

  “No, no, my lamb. ’Tis only a mock battle. You know what men are. They cannot enjoy themselves unless they break a few bones.”

  Brianna’s eyes were drawn to the warrior in brass armor. He stood out from the rest like a beacon. She did not have the advantage of her mother’s second sight today and had no idea the man in brass was not Christian.

  Prince Edward could not believe his eyes. The moment Hawksblood in his sable armor stepped upon the field, three men moved purposefully toward him with clear intent. Edward slashed his way toward Hawksblood and smote down the first man with a brutal crack to the head with his broadsword. As he fell, his helm came off and Edward saw that it was one of his brother’s men from the House of Clarence.

  Anger almost choked him! He cried out a warning to Hawksblood but saw with deep satisfaction that he was easily besting the second man who attacked him. Then with horror, Edward saw an enormous combatant dart behind Hawksblood, wielding both spear and sword. Bloodlust gripped the Black Prince. He would slay this treasonable swine who had murder in his heart!

  Edward raised his spear, drew back his powerful arm, then sent his weapon hurtling through the air on its path of destruction. It pierced clean through the man’s breastplate and the point of the spear protruded from his back. A clearing formed about the dead man, and gradually the fighting came to a halt.

  The mail-clad figure was carried from the field to one of the infirmary tents. The two combatants wearing sable armor and brass armor followed. The King of England and Mad Hound Warrick disappeared into the tent and the flaps were closed.

  Warrick bent over the body of his son
and he knew immediately that it was too late to save him.

  The king demanded, “Why in the name of Christ are you two wearing each other’s armor?”

  Prince Edward explained, “We were tipped off there would be an attempt on my life.”

  Blood drained from the king’s face.

  Hawksblood helped his father remove the spear from Robert’s body. Warrick’s face was like granite.

  The Black Prince was still gripped by fury. “There were three of them—all Lionel’s men!”

  The king lifted the tent flap and summoned a squire. “Find Prince Lionel immediately.” Master John Bray, the king’s physician, rushed up and the king shook his head. “Use another tent for those wounded.” Bray dropped the flap and returned to the others.

  The acrid smell of sweat mingled with the metallic smell of blood and the unmistakable scent of death. Emotions hung palpably in the air … anger, shame, pity, sorrow. The implications were horrendous.

  Lionel had to stoop before he could enter. In his chain mail he dwarfed everyone in the tent. When he saw the body, he took a clumsy step forward. “Rob? Robbie?” His face was running with tears. “Who killed him?”

  Prince Edward sprang forward with upraised fist. “You did, you son of a bitch! You had to have given him the order!”

  The king stepped between his two sons. “Cease! There was a plot to take Edward’s life. Were you involved?” the king thundered.

  “No! No, Father, I swear to you.”

  “You fucking liar! All three men belonged to the House of Clarence,” Prince Edward shouted. “One was Fitzroy … I don’t recall the other’s name, but I’d know the swine anywhere!”

  The king was incensed. “This is a black mark against the name of Plantagenet! We will be perceived as wolves, turning on each other, tearing each other’s throats out for cursed ambition!”

  “Father, I swear I am innocent!” Lionel cried.