Heather Graham

by The Kings Pleasure

  At last, Danielle felt aroused from her pain and lethargy. She slipped from her bed and ran in her nightdress to Monteine, throwing her arms around her. “We’ll disobey such an outrageous summons! We will not stay with him. We—”

  “Oh, Danielle!” Monteine said, and sank down before her, hugging her close. “You cannot disobey! There’s going to be a terrible battle, and if you were to try to run somewhere, it would all be the worse! Edward has great strength in Gascony. People would be up in arms, there would be more battles, more deaths. Forgive me! He is your guardian—he has the right of your life, of your future in his hands, and you must not anger him! I have been wrong to instill my feelings in you!”

  Monteine was not wrong—Edward was a wretched monster with illusions to the throne of France. Everyone, even little children, knew that.

  “You must honor him!” Monteine told her earnestly.

  “I will never honor him!”

  “Shh!” Monteine pressed her fingers to Danielle’s lips. “He has men here in the castle—you could cause us both grave harm!”

  “But the King of France just came here!”

  “To visit his lady cousin only, an act the English and the Gascons loyal to their duke could not rebuke, for though Edward is the superior here, by ancient rite, he holds these lands of the French king. And though he even claims that he is the French king, Philip rules in Paris, and it is doubtful that even such a warrior king as Edward of England will ever truly lay claim to all of France. He will never have the surrender of the French king and all of France.”

  “He will never have my surrender!” Danielle assured her. “And I am convinced that we could escape—”

  “To do what?” Monteine asked with dismay. “Starve in the streets? You don’t understand! Edward has prepared a great force against Philip once more. The English king has landed on French shores and begun to ravage the land again.”

  “If he fights Philip, we should go to Philip,” Danielle said with simple wisdom.

  “Trust me, my lady,” Monteine said softly, “Philip cannot help you now. He has no strength here, and he will be occupied with his coming battle with the English king.”

  Danielle stood stubbornly silent. She watched as Monteine packed her things, feeling frozen in place. She felt like crying, except that she had cried so much over her mother, she just didn’t have any tears left.

  I will never honor the Englishman! she vowed again to herself in silence.

  And she thought again how she had sworn to her mother as Lenore lay dying that she would honor another king.

  Someday, sometime, she would do so. She might be forced to go to the English king now, but she had given her mother a vow. A sacred vow. She would hold all the loyalty in her heart for the house of Valois—even if she was now being all but abducted by a foreign monster with illusions of grandeur.

  Edward had not seen his natural daughter since the day he granted Lenore her freedom from English shores. Nor had he seen Lenore, Countess d’Aville, since that time.

  Still, her death had grieved him more than he dared allow himself to show. It was natural that he should order numerous Masses said for her soul—she had been the widow of Robert of Oxford, his dearest friend and retainer. Yet there was no one he could tell that a small piece of him had perished as well, for the lady’s beauty and spirit had set a lock upon his heart. Even as life had gone on, as Philippa had continued to prove herself the best of queens, he had remembered the woman who encaptured him and defied him until the very end.

  His thoughts, however, by necessity were deeply occupied by the masses of troops he had brought to these shores, and with his plans for strategy and battle.

  He had almost forgotten that he had sent for Danielle when there came the sound of footsteps across the floor in the hall of the manor he had seized, and then the clearing of his steward’s throat to draw Edward’s attention from his intense study of the map before him.

  He looked up, words freezing upon his lips, all else forgotten as he stared at the child who had come before him, just ten feet in front of her ladies.

  He trembled suddenly. He had once thought that the child would force Lenore d’Aville to remember the King of England for all her days, rue her defiance of him, and remember well the nights they had shared. His pride had demanded that she do so.

  Alas, Edward was the one who would now rue his own temper.

  He would be the one who would never forget.

  Emerald-green eyes blazed out at him furiously from a delicate face of perfectly formed beauty as she surveyed the king, her godfather. Her hair, sweeping down her back, was lustrous and black, deeper than a raven’s wing. Her smile, when she offered it to Lady Jeanette, who had come beside her to urge her to go forward and bow down to the king, was like the burst of a sun’s ray, sweet and seductive.

  “Come to me, child!” the king commanded.

  Her chin inched high as her green eyes surveyed him with defiance and wariness.

  “Come, child,” Edward repeated, growing impatient. He had forgotten his war for a moment, but he never forgot that he was king. “Come closer!”

  “I am here already, milord!” she replied serenely.

  “Come closer.”

  Danielle d’Aville took one small step toward him.

  Indeed, the king thought, she was her mother’s daughter.

  He rose, and spun on the two ladies accompanying her, Jeanette and Monteine.

  “You have been entrusted with this young heiress, and you have been sorely lacking at your task, Lady Jeanette. By God, this is insufferable! I shall have you replaced—”

  “No!” the girl cried suddenly, rushing before him then and falling down quickly upon a knee. “Sire, I humbly greet you!” she cried out, just as she had been taught.

  Those emerald eyes touched him, but there was nothing humble whatsoever about her. She stood. “You mustn’t blame my ladies,” she said. “I have been properly schooled—they have taken great pains. But no one, King of England, can command another’s heart and what lies within the soul.”

  Edward stared at her incredulously. So the little vixen had a will about her. But she also had some compassion in her—along with her reckless pride and courage.

  But no child of his—acknowledged or no—was going to defy him for long.

  “You!” he warned, pointing a finger at her, “are my ward, young lady. And you will learn in the future to do as I command as your guardian and your king. I know that you understand my words full well.”

  “Indeed, I understand a great deal,” she replied. She stared at him with her blaming eyes, and he thought, by God, she is like Lenore, coming down from heaven for her revenge.

  “I will make you honor me, girl,” Edward told her. She didn’t reply then, but Monteine stepped forward, urging her to do so. “You must ask the king’s mercy—for us all!”

  But Danielle smiled, staring at the king. “If he is such a great king, he will be merciful. I do not beg mercy, my lady.”

  The king felt a soaring streak of anger.

  “You will now reside in my court, my little lady,” he informed her. “And if you give me too much difficulty, you will be beaten.”

  She was staring at him, her fury ill-concealed, when Philippa suddenly swept into the hall, his wife who had willingly followed him into so many battles. She gazed at him, a brow arching at his obvious temper. Then she smiled at the girl. “Ah, it is Robert’s daughter at last, is it?”

  With her motherly kindness, she did what Edward hadn’t dared, and embraced Danielle. “Oh, but you’re beautiful! Your mother must have been quite lovely, for you’re not a thing like your dear, departed father! You mustn’t fret—you will be with us until you are safely full grown and wed.”

  Philippa left the room with her, and Edward thought that Lenore had soundly bested him in the end. This child of theirs was destined to plague him until death.

  “Out!” Edward commanded Danielle’s ladies, and both departed the
chamber with haste.

  He stood and paced for several minutes, feeling the knotting tension of his anger like a cape around his shoulders. He didn’t like losing battles—especially to his own children.

  “You! Little witch!” he whispered to the air. “Lady daughter, you will learn to surrender to me.”

  He felt a shiver snake down his spine again, and though he would not admit it, he knew he might be wrong. In time, the little emerald-eyed vixen of his own creation would surely try to force him, the king, to beg mercy. No. He’d not have it. In time, there would surely be another man to deal with her. In fact …

  He realized that he now had another pawn in the political game of marriage. Hmmm …

  He would need a knight of impeccable courage—and indomitable strength. A will of steel as well as muscles of rock. A man to whom he could entrust vast lands in both England and France.

  He began to think as the king. Danielle was incredibly wealthy, what with her Gariston holdings and the fine castle of Aville. Both commanded powerful military positions, tremendous riches in manpower and agriculture. An army could be fed from the fields of Gariston alone; thousands of fighting men could be drawn from those who dwelt upon the lands of the little countess.

  Though she was just ten, infants were often betrothed upon the very day of their birth. In a few short years, she would be marriageable. Her husband might well need all of a knight’s prowess and strength. Edward had to take great care, for she could not be wed as his own child, but as a royal ward. She would need someone powerful in himself, and deserving of reward …

  Someone with a will of steel.

  Someone who did not know the meaning of the word surrender.

  Chapter 3

  August 25, 1346 Crécy

  “THE PRINCE IS DOWN! Dear God, Edward, Prince of Wales, is down!”

  Adrien had been fighting just feet from his friend and lord, Edward, eldest son of Edward III. He swung himself about and ran the distance that separated him from Edward upon the bloody field of battle.

  The battle here had been long in the coming.

  The English had landed eighteen miles southeast of Cherbourg at St. Vaast la Hogue after a fine, smooth crossing of the Channel. But there, it had taken them six days to regroup and begin their march toward Paris through the Cherbourg peninsula. When they came to the mainland, the king’s army split into groups of three. Edward, Prince of Wales—who had been knighted by his father upon their landing—was given command of the vanguard while his father led the central line and the rear guard was commanded by the experienced warrior, the Earl of Northampton.

  The three groups marched through the countryside, laying waste, seizing prizes, booty, and noble prisoners to be held for ransom. Caen was taken. There the king plotted and planned, and on July 31, they spread out again in a broad column. Philip of France had taken the Oriflamme, the majestic battle flag of the country of France, from its place of honor at the Abbey of Saint-Denis, and he had ridden about himself, demanding his feudal service from knights and men-at-arms, letting out a cry that the French must defend their country from the pillaging English. Philip’s first defense was at well-defended Rouen, and the bridges over the Seine had been destroyed.

  The French and the English troops kept pace with one another, the stretch of the river all that separated them. Philip slipped into Paris. The English rode north, for Edward was determined to meet up with his Flemish allies.

  The march had been grueling; they had moved sixteen miles a day with all the wagons and accoutrements for battle, keeping up the pace despite the harrying attacks of French patriots. They neared their Flemish allies, but paused there, separated by the River Somme. The ever-growing army of the French began to press their ranks.

  The English king searched high and low for a crossing, and at last discovered a tidal causeway across the mouth of the river where the waters were shallow. Across the river, they confronted the enemy and defeated the forces sent to attack them on their crossing. The French retreated with heavy losses.

  Philip’s army moved off. The English spent tense hours awaiting another attack, but it didn’t come. Philip rallied his forces back toward Abbeville, and stayed there the night of August 25.

  At dawn, the English army surveyed the countryside. Adrien, at Prince Edward’s side, listened to the initial plan. The forest of Crécy would secure the rear of their line. The three divisions of the English army would draw up along the hill that led to it. The village of Wadicourt would provide protection for the left flank of the army. The cavalry, the knights and the men-at-arms, would fight on foot.

  They were drastically outnumbered by the French and the French allies, but they were exceptionally well led and disciplined. There were perhaps twelve thousand English fighting men that day, and some estimated that there might have been as many as sixty thousand men beneath Philip and his French commanders.

  The English had brought with them some tactics learned through English defeats. Deep holes had been dug before the front line, trenches ready to entrap the unwary. The English had learned their usage when they were soundly defeated at Bannockburn by the Scottish king, Robert the Bruce. A tremendous dependence was being put upon the English archers—the plan being that the attacking troops could be riddled with the arrows, and would mire in the trenches in confusion before moving on to hand-to-hand combat, where the English numbers were so poor in comparison to the French.

  The strategy, the discipline, had served them well. Philip’s contingent of highly respected Genoese crossbowmen were first into the fray, just as the sky let loose and it began to rain. They were experienced fighting men, but they broke ranks when the English longbowmen began to return their hail of deadly arrows. Other French troops rushed in even as the Genoese tried to retreat, or reload their heavy weapons.

  French horses crunched upon the skulls of their own allies in the confusion and bedlam.

  Some forces did get through, fighting their way up the rise. There Adrien fought hard and savagely, battling the enemy with all the skill and power learned and earned through years of constant war and training. His armor was heavy; he had learned to carry the burden to protect his flesh and blood. His suit, however, had been crafted in one of the finest German armories—the king had seen to it that he had been fitted for it, and refitted. Mail and leather for movement at the joints, attached plates of steel designed to ward blows away from the vital points. Steel points on his gauntlets gave him added weapons if his sword should be lost. His helm, or bascinet, protected his skull while his visor guarded his face—and somewhat obscured his vision. Today, his strength and training stood him well, even against men far older, thicker in the shoulders and chest.

  The fighting was fierce, and he prayed his strength would not fail. Again and again he met new opponents, lifting his sword, slashing hard, seeking enemy weak points, just as the enemy sought his. He raised his sword high against a Frenchman with a visor formed like a boar’s head.

  The man fell.

  It was then that he heard the cry that Prince Edward was down. He moved with lightning speed to the side of his prince.

  Enemy knights, seeing that the English prince was in danger, rushed forward, seeking to use the advantage against the young prince. Edward’s standard bearers were helping him to his feet in the casement of his heavy armor. Adrien quickly moved into the breach to stave off the French knights swarming in like flies.

  He knew his own strength and power. He was perhaps half an inch taller than the Plantagenet prince, and though constant training had given him a heavily muscled torso and massive shoulders, he had been taught that he must learn to move with swift grace despite his size and the bulk and weight of his armor. He raised his sword again and again, watching all the while as more men came to join in the attack. He felt to a knee, bracing against a blow that came from a mounted knight, then rose as swiftly as lightning, swinging with such speed that he caught his opponent in the vulnerable crevice at his side. The man fell, his
horse screamed and floundered in the mud and blood that had become the floor of the hilltop.

  In the frenzy of combat that followed, Adrien found himself cut off from his fellows. He had meant to shift the fighting from where the prince had sought to regain his balance; he had succeeded all too well. Man after man came after him. His strength waned and he knew that he must use his wits, watching every opponent, weighing each man’s measure. He could afford to make no wasted strikes, for his strength could not last forever. He took one charging horseman with the dirk at his calf, ducked low to avoid the charge of another, and watched as the horse sent its rider crashing against a tree. Two more men he battled by hand, seeing the one from the corner of his eye, swinging his sword arm to fell the one before completing the movement which allowed him to catch the other straight in the groin.

  Both men fell.

  But there were more to replace those he had taken. When he looked before him then, he saw that a good dozen heavily armored Frenchmen stood before him, ready to rush in to attack. As he faced them, they began to call out.

  “Surrender, man!”

  “Throw down your sword!”

  “Do so with honor now, and we’ll take you whole!”

  “Keep fighting, and we’ll slice you gullet to groin!”

  “Surrender, by God or by Satan!”

  By God or Satan, it could not be so.

  He remembered his father’s words. Never surrender!

  Death would be his surrender.

  He smiled beneath the steel of his visor. Shook his head slowly. And faced the enemy. Madly, perhaps, yet he was certain that whether he did or didn’t fight, they meant to slice him—gullet to groin. He had taken down too many of their number to seek mercy.

  “Milords, I do not surrender!” he returned, and with a wild Scot’s battle cry, he raced forward, startling them by attacking rather than seeking to make a defensive stand.