The Lion and the Leopard

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  The Lion and The Leopard

  The Knights of England Series

  Book One

  by

  Mary Ellen Johnson

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-910-8

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2013; 2016 by Mary Ellen Johnson All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Foreword

  Beginnings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Meet the Author

  Foreword

  I've loved the medieval time period since I first picked up Thomas Costain's books as a child. I was also influenced by Anya Seton's Katherine, and thought, If only I could write something so passionate, so romantic, and yet with such historical accuracy! (I've re-read Katherine periodically, and it's only this last time—perhaps due to my advancing age and cynicism—that I found myself rolling my eyes all too often.)

  I decided to write my series, Knights of England, beginning with the tragic reign of Edward II and ending with the equally tragic reign of his grandson, Richard II, because these two kings seem the perfect bookends to an important century. There is an almost perfect symmetry in the lives of these unfortunate monarchs. If not in actuality, I, as a novelist can make it so!

  Much has been written about the Plantagenets, which is one of the reasons my main characters are fictional. I have nothing new to add to the personalities of Edward II, his queen or their lovers. I feel very protective toward some of these historical figures, such as Edward II, and in later books that most magnificently medieval of kings, Edward III, his son, the Black Prince, and the much maligned Johns—John of Gaunt and John Ball. Reading others' portrayals, I sometimes think, No, that's not what they were like at all.

  As if I actually knew these people!

  Fiction allows me to take my characters in various directions and have them think and act in ways that are not constrained by actual historical or personal markers. (He fought in this battle, she died childless, he was maimed in this fashion...) Furthermore, I feel presumptuous, even somehow disrespectful, putting my thoughts into the heads of actual people. So, I read and research and fashion Edward II, Queen Isabella and Roger Mortimer in admittedly simplistic ways. I hope I do better with my fictional characters. My goal is to give at least a glimmering of the thinking prevalent in fourteenth century England—toward class, duty, religion, relationships, and the surrounding world. Though these people are our ancestors and superficially similar, they are different. I find those differences fascinating and hope I convey at least a flavor.

  A couple of observations. I have much sympathy for Edward II, sandwiched as he was between two great kings and who might have been happier living an ordinary life as a farmer or carpenter or some such. A crown can indeed be a heavy burden. While "conventional" thinking is that Edward II did have sexual relationships with his favorites, others argue that was not the case. I came down on the conventional side, though that may only be because very close friendships in contemporary times seem so often to involve something sexual. (Or may be portrayed as sexual or speculated upon in lascivious fashion.) Which probably says more about us than it does about our ancestors.

  Also, the manner of Edward's death/murder is contested. I chose the most sensational and horrific possibility. Ian Mortimer, whose works are both wondrously fun to read and well researched—thank you, Mr. Mortimer—has presented compelling evidence that Edward II did not die at Berkeley Castle, but lived quietly overseas for many more years. I hope that is so. My lone caveat is it seems that so many storied figures, whether of Arthurian origin or of more modern vintage—I'm thinking of you, John Kennedy, Elvis, and Jim Morrison—who are taken too young have similar legends attached to them. The yearning for a savior who will return in time of trouble (or an immortal bard who has cast off fame and is living quietly as... whatever) seems to run deep in our psyches.

  As do castles, kings, knights, damsels, chivalry, and courtly love!

  I hope you enjoy The Lion and the Leopard, which is a rewrite of an original novel by that name and is the first in my five part series, Knights of England.

  Beginnings

  "Did you dream of him again, the golden knight?" Maria d'Arderne whispered to her twin. "Tell me about him. Does he truly shine like the sun?"

  Eleanora sighed. "Go to sleep."

  Maria shifted on her pillow, causing the tallow candle on her side of the bed to flicker and create sinister shadows upon the chamber walls. "I wish I had the sight," she said. "Then I would not have to ask you about my future."

  "I am not a soothsayer." Eleanora turned toward her sister in the dark. "Who knows whether such dreams are real or simply fancies?"

  "Will I meet him soon? Might we someday wed?"

  Eleanora reached out to touch her twin's cheek. "If my sight is true in this instance, then I wish happiness for you and your knight."

  "Thank you," Maria said fervently. "But would you tell me exactly—"

  "If you do not let me sleep, how can I ever hope to dream of him?"

  "Aye, aye. I'll not say another word."

  "Good night, sister." Eleanora settled back upon the feather mattresses and folded her hands atop their fur coverlet.

  "Good night."

  Maria lay silently, willing her body to be still as a statue's, her breathing to slow. After a time, she whispered, "Eleanora?"

  A gentle snore was her twin's reply.

  Chapter 1

&nbs
p; Cheshire, 1314

  Above the jagged line of Cheshire's Wirral Forest the morning sky showed red as a hart's blood. Richard Plantagenet, Earl of Sussex, reined in his gray stallion at the edge of the trees. The other members of his hunting party followed suit. When Richard dismounted, Rolf the Huntsman plunged deeper into the forest, still dark-shadowed and cold with the lingering breath of night. Handlers followed, skillfully controlling the lymers, brachets, and greyhounds straining on their leashes.

  "A perfect spot to break fast." Lady Constance Warenne smiled at Richard. After motioning her servants to spread cloths and lay forth meat, wine, and bread, Lady Constance moved toward Richard. The earl turned his back.

  More pleasant to face a screaming battalion of Scots than Constance Warenne so early of a summer morn.

  A triumphant baying emerged from the Wirral's interior.

  "The hounds must have found the deer's spoor, m'lord." Phillip Rendell, the Herefordshire knight, moved toward Richard. The two men were similarly matched in physique though Phillip's hair was black, while Richard's was as golden as the royal lion gracing his tunic.

  "Sit with me, will you not, Sir Rendell?"

  Richard found the baron's unobtrusive manner pleasing. As one of Richard's vassals, Phillip was obligated to him, his liege lord, for the usual terms of military service, but Richard knew full well that many in his retinue sought his approval primarily for the hope of personal gain. As a second son, Phillip was most definitely in need of favors, but he gave no indication of seeking anything more than Richard's comradeship. They had fallen into such an easy camaraderie that Richard sometimes felt he'd known the older knight all his twenty-one years, rather than a scant fortnight.

  Besides, Phillip Rendell could provide relief from the constant Constance, who had attached herself to Richard's right.

  Saints protect me from that woman.

  Recently widowed and enjoying the freedom that came with great wealth, not to mention great ambition, Constance Warenne was too old to provide the comfortable number of heirs necessary to ensure the Sussex legacy, as well as too forward for his tastes. Not a suitable marriage match, even if Richard had been so inclined.

  As the meal proceeded, Phillip, at least, ate without unnecessary conversation. Constance, however, gossiped about the guests at yester eve's banquet and Richard's forthcoming meeting at Berwick Castle with his half-brother, King Edward. Her invasive laughter shattered the hour's softness. Who could hear the shy trill of a mockingbird, the forest stirrings over Constance's ear-wrenching voice? If one deer remained in all of Wirral Forest, it must be deaf as Margarite, the Queen Mother.

  Lady Constance leaned against Richard's shoulder. Her petite figure and bland countenance seemed at odds with her bold nature, but wasn't that the way with women?

  "I hope when you ride north to battle the heathen Scots, sire, you send their leader to the block. I can think of no finer sight than to see Robert the Bruce's head stuck atop a pike."

  Richard's eyes met Phillip's. The glimmer of a smile danced across the baron's full mouth.

  Constance licked heavily beringed fingers sticky with venison juice. "Aye, I hope to see Bruce brought as low as that grasping, greedy Piers Gaveston. 'Twas a great day for England when Thomas Lancaster divested the favorite's pretty head from his body."

  Richard's hand, which had been reaching for a cup of wine, froze. His brows met in an angry line. "You forget to whom you speak, lady. You would do well to keep your opinion of His Grace's friends to yourself."

  Fighting to control his temper, Richard turned away. He had not liked the avaricious Gaveston either, and had chafed at his cavalier use of England's Great Seal, as well as his arrogance and insatiable appetite for property. But Edward had loved Piers, and his grief over his favorite's death had been terrible to witness. Gaveston's sins might have been great, but so had been his fall.

  From the forest, Rolf the Huntsman emerged, strode to Richard and bowed.

  "What have you found, Rolf?" The earl stood and tossed the dregs of his wine onto the dew-damp grass. "Is the stag of a good size?"

  "I measured his tracks with me fingers, m'lord, and the velvet of his antlers that's left on the tree trunks. 'Tis my belief that he is a stout stag and worthy." Rolf thrust a hunting horn in Richard's face. "I gathered a bit of his fumes, m'lord, if ye would care to judge for yourself."

  Richard firmly pushed away the huntsman's hand. "That is unnecessary, Rolf. I'll trust your judgment." The earl had no desire to poke about deer droppings, no matter what their contents might reveal.

  "Then I might take the dogs, sire?"

  "Aye."

  Lady Constance stood and brushed grass from her skirt while casting a sidelong glance at Richard. "Oh, I canna wait for the hunt. There is nothing quite so exhilarating as seeing a fine stag brought to bay, is there, my lord?"

  Richard could think of all manner of unchivalrous replies. Instead, he ignored her. Undeterred, Constance slipped her arm through his. He firmly replaced it at her side.

  Perhaps I will leave for Berwick Castle earlier than planned, he thought. Say, immediately after the hunt.

  Constance's first husband had been far older, had died conveniently within a year of their nuptials, and left Constance with an abundance of properties. But Richard was in no hurry to marry and was sure, when duty so decreed, he could find a more pleasing match.

  As they remounted, Richard turned to Phillip. "When the time comes, would you care to kill the stag?"

  A smile lightened his vassal's dark features. "I would consider it a great honor, m'lord."

  Such a little thing to please Sir Rendell. Richard removed his ivory oliphant from its saddle strap. Would that all my vassals were so easily pleased.

  * * *

  The fallow stag careened toward Richard's hunting party. Its yellow coat, spotted with white, was wet and roughened with sweat. Behind it ran a howling pack of dogs.

  After raising the oliphant to his lips, Richard hesitated. His signal would bring the deer to bay and end its life. It was a magnificent stag, one of the largest he'd ever seen—graceful, dignified, even in panicked flight. Richard blew a series of harsh monotonic notes, alerting the pursuing hounds. As the dogs closed the distance to the rapidly tiring stag, Constance loudly thanked St. Martin and a plethora of hunters' saints. How could one so slight have a voice that could pierce even above the hounds' baying and the blast of the horn?

  The hounds drove their quarry past the party, toward a huge outcropping of sandstone, a silver sliver of stream. Spreading out across the buttercup-blanketed meadow, Richard and his troupe followed.

  The stag splashed across the stream; the hounds guided it toward the rock, trapped it. The stag tried to leap above the boulders; its hooves struck granite. Tumbling to the ground, it landed on its side. The dogs closed in. Struggling to its feet, the stag faced the hounds. Head lowered, antlers menacing, the deer's ribs bellowed in and out. Foam mixed with blood dripped from its nostrils and mouth.

  Misjudging the separating distance, a greyhound ran too close. The stag lunged, impaling the dog on its rack, then dipped its head, jerking upward. Flying through the air the hound slammed against the gravelly edge of the stream. A second dog fell victim to the stag's cloven hooves, but the deer was obviously exhausted, its movements floundering. If the huntsman gave the signal, the hounds would move in for the kill.

  Rolf turned to Richard, an excited grin splitting his coarse features.

  "A fine stag, is it not, m'lord? Just as I told you."

  Richard's gaze remained on the deer's frightened eyes, which showed a circle of white. Fine dark eyes, intelligent eyes. Richard's mouth tasted sour. Turning to Phillip, he nodded. Phillip flung his left leg over his saddle and, lance in hand, dismounted.

  Sunlight glinted off the tip of Phillip's spear. He circled to the stag's right, to the exposed shoulder that was dusted with white spots as well as sweat. Phillip raised the spear, tensed. The shaft hurtled through the air, abov
e the heads of the leaping dogs. Steel met muscle, penetrated. Blood spurted outward, staining the stag's coat, turning the white spots scarlet. The lance quivered with the force of impact, the sudden tremble of the stag's body. The animal's legs buckled. It fell forward, sinking on its forelegs, shook its great head—as if clearing death from its vision—and toppled onto its side. Racing forward, Phillip removed his dagger from its belt. Leaping upon the stag's shoulder, immediately above the lance, he grasped its antlers, curved its neck backward. His dagger hovered before the animal's jugular.

  Watching, Richard's hands tightened on the pommel. He forced himself to look into the stag's clouding eyes—no longer brimmed with pain or terror, but merely focused on a great distance. Phillip's knife jerked across the jugular. Blood spilled onto the blue wolf's head sewn on his tunic, sprayed his fingers. After gently placing the animal's head on the ground, Phillip stood and walked to the stream where he washed the blood from his knife and hands and forearms.

  Richard watched the entire procedure with an expression conveying no more than casual interest. From earliest childhood he had accompanied his father or half-brother on hunting expeditions, had brought a hundred stags to bay, personally braved the tusks of countless boars.

  And hated every moment.

  * * *

  Richard edged away from Constance, snoring softly on her side of the canopied bed. Pulling back the bed curtains, he carefully reached for his chausses.