The Falcon and the Flower

by Virginia Henley

  Just before dawn he slept. The change in his breathing pattern made Jasmine awake. She was covered with blushes as she untangled her hair from his possessive fingers and slipped from the furs.

  Mary-Ann FitzWalter’s eyes were misty as Jasmine slipped into the small room Mary-Ann had shared with Estelle. “Oh, Jasmine, you spent the night with your lover. I am so happy for you, but oh how I envy you.” She sighed.

  “Mary-Ann, Falcon de Burgh is not my lover! Our betrothal is a temporary arrangement I intend to get out of as soon as it is possible for me to do so.” Jasmine glanced quickly at Estelle, expecting an attitude of outrage that she had slept in de Burgh’s tent, but Dame Winwood’s attitude toward Jasmine marrying the strong knight was undergoing a change. She saw the malignancy of the royal court. King John’s evil was pervasive and would contaminate almost everyone it touched. Jasmine would be better served as the cherished and protected wife of the powerful de Burgh. She had been kept safe so far, but Estelle knew of John’s insatiable appetites. He thought sex was power and as well as indulging in corrupting practices with his child-bride every day and night, he needed the venal conquest of every female who crossed his path. It was common knowledge that the wives of his closest sycophants and his nobles were his for the asking, and now his eyes were falling on their daughters as well. At first the men were outraged, but John had no conscience. He bribed, he deceived, and he threatened. They soon discovered his threats were not empty—he was capable of any atrocity and gave proof every day of his reign.

  Berkhamsted Castle had made the Plantagenet king welcome not only because he owned it, but because they feared the rumors that were more numerous than whores on a Friday night in London. Since arriving seemingly exhausted, the shrewd Dame Winwood had gathered in the rumors from the lowest servant to the highest-ranking duchess in residence at Northampton as she had at Berkhamsted where they had lunched.

  The clergy were absolutely outraged at King John’s sexual excesses, but the thing that really stuck in their ecclesiastic craws was that he was a law unto himself, reducing the power of the clergy to naught in church and in legal matters. Sin of sins, he was helping himself to their vast wealth.

  They asked Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to issue King John an ultimatum and bring him back under the church’s thumb, but the archbishop was old and ailing and nothing official was done. Various churchmen spoke out against him, namely Geoffrey, the Archdeacon of Norwich and the Bishop of Worcester. Only John’s personal friend the Bishop of Lincoln stayed loyal to him. However, the weight of these churchmen was not as significant as Canterbury’s would have been, and John thumbed his nose at their condemnation and marked their names well for retribution.

  The baronage was also on the verge of revolt. Their lives and possessions could be forfeit on a whim. John demanded money, he insisted that they ready themselves for war on a moment’s notice, and he demanded their sons as hostages for their good behavior. His strongholds of Corfe, Carisbrooke, and Windsor and Dover castles held the sons of England’s wealthy and powerful aristocracy as a safeguard that they would not revolt. It was an ancient custom and up until now an honorable one, but Hubert de Burgh had confided to his adored Avisa that John had gone too bloody far when he had asked him to blind his young nephew Arthur, so that he could never be brought to the throne.

  Avisa, who hated John with a passion, now had her weapon. She opened her mouth to tell the tale to everyone who would listen. She added fuel to the fire by embroidering and exaggerating the things her lover told her in confidence. She said that Arthur, the rightful heir to the throne, was mysteriously missing and that some people even went so far as to accuse King John of disposing of his own nephew.

  She filled the ears of her very good friend Matilda de Braose, the Lady of Hay, who, scandalized, passed the stories on to her husband William, a baron who owned much land in Wales and Ireland. The de Braose family was related to the powerful Lacys through marriage, and King John had asked for sons and grandsons from both families. Because of the rumors of John’s vile character, his barons began to plot secretly.

  Falcon de Burgh had the royal court and his three hundred escort on the road headed for Nottingham before eight bells. The previous night he had dispatched riders to Leicester Castle, to notify them to be prepared to feed four hundred people and five hundred horses. Everything seemed to be going along well, thanks to de Burgh’s total command, until the unwieldy party was readied for the last leg of the journey from Leicester to Nottingham.

  With a smirk marring his darkly handsome features, King John summoned de Burgh and drawled, “Escort Jasmine of Salisbury to me, de Burgh. I fancy her company on this long ride. My beautiful young niece and I share many common interests.” He paused for emphasis and added, “She would do anything to please her uncle the king, I am sure.”

  De Burgh saluted him smartly with a totally impassive face, then wheeled his great destrier to search out his sweetheart who had lain against his heart all night.

  She blushed hotly at his approach and her lashes brushed her cheeks as she lowered her eyes from the intense greenness of his.

  “Lady Jasmine, King John asks that you ride at his side.”

  Her eyes flew to his in anger. “You are jesting, sir. I would not have believed such cruelty even from you!” she snapped.

  “I wish with all my heart that it was a jest, my lady. But I beg you have no fear. Put your trust in me as you did last night and you will come out of this unscathed.” He grinned wickedly and she remembered the warm scent of his body beneath the furs. He had smelled of sun, horse, and sandalwood all mingled together, and a shiver of excitement rippled along her spine. More likely it was fear that once again the king had singled her out, only this time there was no escape. She rode forward beside de Burgh with her head held high. A cool remoteness came over her as he led her to the left side of King John. Her stirrup grazed the king’s and she glanced down, realizing his legs were as short as hex own. Her mind, unbidden, immediately began making odious comparisons. De Burgh’s legs were long and strong, almost like tree trunks. His iron-thewed thighs were as high as her waist. Her mind snapped back instantly as John said, “Tell me the secret thought that just crossed your mind, lady fair.”

  She lied blatantly and added, “It is kind of your majesty to take a fatherly interest in me.”

  “Mmm, a father-daughter relationship is a pleasure I have yet to experience. Daddy’s little girl … mmm … most tempting.” His conversation was leading down a path Jasmine did not wish to explore further, and it was with an enormous sigh of relief she saw de Burgh ride up escorting Queen Isabella.

  “I’m sick of eating your dust. I have decided to ride on your right-hand side. Is it not fitting that a queen should ride with a king?” she bantered. If Isabella was angered by her husband’s interest in Jasmine, she was not in the business of showing it.

  John threw a malevolent look at de Burgh, who had outmaneuvered him for the moment. He said, “Do you not envy me such a wanton little bedpartner? She cannot get enough of me, day or night.”

  De Burgh bowed formally to the vividly lovely child-queen and said, “She is a jewel in the crown of womanhood, sire.”

  “Ha!” John said lewdly, “She could suck the brass off a doorknob!”

  Isabella’s eyes glittered and she licked her lips as she raked her eyes down across de Burgh’s loins.

  Falcon glanced at Jasmine and was relieved to see that the crude sexual comments had gone completely over her head. Not a hint of a blush showed, proving she had not understood the king’s words. Her eyes held Falcon’s for a moment, however, as she gave him silent thanks for bringing the wretched little queen to her rescue.

  “Tomorrow night, John, before you go running off to Scotland, we must have a great feast,” Isabella said. “I’m dying to meet your wizard or astrologer or whatever he is, who resides at Nottingham. You know, the man named for the great star, Orion.” Her eyes flashed a challenge at Jasmine. �
��I will give you until tomorrow night to finish painting my tarot cards so we can all have our fortunes told.”

  John’s smile, which always resembled a leer, licked over Jasmine. “What other specialties do you perform? Perhaps something in private, one on one?”

  Jasmine answered in a cool, detached voice. “I can read palms, sire, but my time belongs to the queen and I’m sure she would never spare me for private consultations with another, not even the king.”

  “Ha! John, so do not try to lure her behind my back as you were doing when I came upon the scene. I forbid it!”

  “Forbidden fruit is always sweeter,” he said, laughing.

  “So you showed me this morning. ’T is a good thing I’m mounted today for I could hardly walk when you left my bed, you brute!”

  Jasmine had quickly learned how to block unpleasant words. It was a trick of the mind. Quite simple really. Her ears heard nothing, her mind freed itself to wander in a far-off place. She was present only in a physical sense. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually she had withdrawn to a private place of her own. A secure and protected place where nothing and no one could touch her. She heard, saw, smelled, and felt nothing in her immediate environment.

  A light drizzle began in the late afternoon, turning the landscape to a dreary gray-green. It made the travelers irritable and nasty-tempered, which quickly sapped the energy of master and servant alike. It seemed the day would have no end when at last the weary party sighted the high turrets of Nottingham Castle and man, woman, and horse dragged in wet to the bone.

  It was well past midnight by the time all were fed and bedded down in exhausted, dreamless sleep. Dame Winwood’s services had been imperative to control one of King John’s bouts of temper or “madness,” as Estelle called them, and she hurried off to the king’s bedchamber —The Lunatic Asylum, as she dubbed it.

  Falcon de Burgh had bribed the castellan of Nottingham to make sure Mary-Ann FitzWalter and Jasmine shared a chamber. He bit off a foul oath, however, when his betrothed was nowhere to be found. The weather had had no effect on a hard-bitten soldier like de Burgh, but it doubled his burden of seeing that dry tents were set up for his men and that their mounts and the packhorses were well rubbed down before being bedded for the night. The last of the wagons were being unloaded in the bailey when, incredibly, he caught sight of Jasmine.

  “Splendor of God!” he exploded. “What in Christ’s name are you doing scrabbling about the wagons in the middle of the night?” Sometimes he had the urge to put his hands about her beautiful little neck and throttle her, so maddening could she be.

  “Oh, milord, please don’t be fierce with me,” she begged. Her lashes were spikey with rain and tears and her voice was husky with emotion.

  He wanted to carry her to bed and warm her with his body before she caught her death of cold. His hard eyes raked her, noticing how the wet material of her gown molded her thighs, belly, and breasts, and the hard little nipples were erect with cold. Her physical impact on him was immediate and pronounced as his shaft lengthened to a solid nine inches.

  “I can’t find my hedgehog!” she explained.

  “Is that what this is all about? That damned vermin-ridden bit of trash you call Prick?”

  “His name is Quill,” she corrected with a sob in her voice.

  He took her shoulders in hard hands and pulled her to him. “I’ve paid good gold coins to keep you safe this night and here you are like a common camp follower where any man could rape you.” He shook her roughly until he noticed her teeth were chattering from the cold dampness. He bent his head to cover her cold lips with his hot mouth. For a moment she melted against his warmth, then tried to push him away with her pitiful last ounce of energy. As usual the aching tenderness began in his heart and spread throughout his chest and he began to question the thing he had denied for so long. Was he beginning to fall in love with her? Nonsense, he told himself firmly. He was in passion, in desire, in lust all right, but in love? Never! He reached down between his quilted tunic and hauberk and pulled out a warm, dry, prickly ball. “Here!” he said, thrusting it into her hand.

  “Oh, milord, thank you from the bottom of my heart. ’T is the most precious gift you could ever give me,” she said softly. Though he knew he could allot not one more minute of the fast-disappearing night to her, he swept her into his arms and carried her up four flights of stone steps to the chamber he had secured for her.

  Chapter 16

  Nottingham Castle. The centerpiece of England. It seemed the world and its mistress were gathered there. It was a vivid, swirling crush of humanity … very much like Hell must be.

  Earls were more plentiful than fleas on a dog’s belly. Either there already or expected at any moment were the earls of Nottingham, Derby, Leicester, Warenne, and Chester. Each was accompanied by his countess, except of course Chester, who was divorced from King John’s sister-in-law.

  Mere lords and their ladies were as commonplace as caterpillars on cabbages, and abbots, friars, and prelates rubbed elbows with sheriffs, bailiffs, justices, and knights. Wandering minstrels, jongleurs, and entertainers for miles around had been drawn to Nottingham as if it were a lodestone, and each meal was eaten while watching acrobats, rope dancers, wrestlers, or trained dogs. Mingling among the crowds were those who lived by their wits and whiles alone, such as beggars, pickpockets, and prostitutes. Many pretended to be what they were not: prostitutes who pretended to be fine ladies and, paradoxically, ladies who tried not to show that they were whores.

  Dame Winwood’s lips twitched with amusement as she overheard a snippet of conversation between one couple. “You can’t introduce yourself as a count,” protested the man’s wife, to which he replied quite truthfully, “This lot couldn’t tell a count from a bucket of shit!”

  Jasmine was busy in the chamber up on the fourth floor of the castle painting the last of her royal tarot cards. Suddenly a man on a rope swung into the room and landed on his feet, lithe as a panther. Jasmine, too surprised to even scream, blinked several times, utterly amazed that a man could climb through a window four stories from the ground.

  “Forgive me, demoiselle, I thought this was Mary-Ann’s chamber.” As he spoke he removed a hooded cowl from his head. He was easily the most attractive man Jasmine had ever beheld. He had thick curly brown hair, merry blue eyes, and the loveliest white, even teeth that flashed in a smile that made a maiden’s heart turn over. He was well muscled and his skin was as tanned as a rich brown nut. He wore boots, tight breeches, and a sleeveless vest all made from soft doeskin. Slung across his back was a longbow and a quiver of arrows.

  “You’re Robert—Lord Huntingdon!” exclaimed Jasmine, delighted to make the acquaintance of Mary-Ann’s beloved.

  “My lady, I am an outlaw now. There is a price on my head.”

  “Oh, my lord, you are in grave danger. King John is here and the place is bursting at the seams with lawmen and soldiers.”

  “I know,” he said, grinning. “I can smell them.”

  She giggled.

  “I have no right to put you in jeopardy, but if you would bring Mary-Ann to me, I will repay the debt someday.”

  “I will go and find her, but please, milord, conceal yourself before you are arrested.”

  Jasmine found Mary-Ann with her family. Her uncle Robert FitzWalter of Dunmow had just arrived with his wife and daughter. Mary-Ann introduced them all to Jasmine, saving her young cousin to the last. “Jasmine, this is Matilda. She’s twelve today. She wanted to celebrate her birthday by coming to see the king and queen.”

  Matilda was one of the most striking girls Jasmine had ever seen. Her hair was her crowning glory. It was red-gold and hung in natural ringlets to her waist. She was so small with such an abundance of curly hair she looked all hair and eyes. Her skin was like white porcelain, un-marred by the usual freckles that plagued most redheads. Jasmine looked over the child’s head into Mary-Ann’s eyes and formed one silent word with her lips, “Robert!”

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p; Mary-Ann bobbed a little curtsey to her aunt and said breathlessly, “I must run and see if I can find you a bedchamber. Nottingham Castle is very big, but before long I swear people will be standing on each other’s shoulders.”

  Mary-Ann literally ran up the four flights of stone steps and did not stop running until she was in the arms of her lover. Jasmine felt very shy to hear their exchanged words of love, and yet she knew she must hover at the door to warn of any approaching danger. She heard Robert say “Ralph Murdach, the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, has put a price on my head. I’m telling you this, sweetheart, so you won’t be upset when you hear about it. They don’t know my real identity. They haven’t connected me with Robert, Lord Huntingdon. I’m an outlaw they have dubbed Robin Hood because of the hooded cowl I and my men all wear.”

  Mary-Ann clung to him. “Please, please, Robert, go from this place. King John is rumored to be so cruel he likes to watch men tortured for the sport of it.”

  Robert laughed. “I’ll not forgo seeing you, my darling. The risk is slight in this crowd.”

  “No, no, love. Don’t come to me, I will come to you. Perhaps Jasmine will ride out with me early each morning. I know we would be safe in the forest … ’t is your kingdom and you rule all who go there.”

  “And very profitable it has been of late. Each traveler who comes to Nottingham must pass through one of the great forests—Ettrick, Derby, or Sherwood.” He put his arm about her and led her to the window embrasure.

  “Ride yonder toward the River Trent, then go north into Sherwood Forest and right into my arms.”

  “Godspeed, Robert,” Mary-Ann said with stars in her eyes.

  Jasmine was putting the finishing touches to the tarot card she had left until last, the wheel of fortune. Sitting on top of Ezekiel’s wheel was a sphinx, to the left a serpent, and to the right the Egyptian jackal-headed god. Each of the four corners depicted a living creature—an angel, an eagle, a lion, and a bull. Each had a set of wings, and it was these feathered wings that Jasmine found hardest to paint.