The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  Eleanor wasn’t the only Plantagenet to notice Isabella’s beauty. Richard, Duke of Cornwall, asked her to dance and refused to take no for an answer. As he twirled her about, he was mesmerized by the way her delicious chestnut ringlets bounced across her bared shoulders and by the sweet curve of her breasts through the fine fabric of her gown. The way Richard devoured her with his eyes made her quite breathless. He said hungrily, “I would like to see more of you,” and she blushed hotly at the double entendre.

  “Your Highness, I’m a married lady,” she murmured, lowering her lashes lest he see the excitement in her eyes.

  “What the devil does that have to do with us, Isabella?” he asked huskily.

  A little sigh escaped her lips, then she gasped loudly when his thumbs brushed across the swell of her breasts as his hands rested at her waist. He tried to lead her into an alcove of the hall.

  “We mustn’t!” she protested breathlessly.

  “Darling, we must,” he insisted boldly.

  Isabella found the king’s brother irresistible tonight. He was extremely young, but he was certainly proving himself to be all man, she thought as she saw the swollen bulge of him from beneath her lashes.

  He knew that she had seen. “Every inch of me responds to you,” he whispered hotly.

  A little moan escaped her lips and swiftly he bent his mouth to hers to take it into himself. At such an intimate gesture she melted against him for a moment, unable to help herself. “Your Highness, you mustn’t do this in public,” she protested, trying to restore a respectable distance between them.

  “In private then?” he urged.

  “It is impossible,” she said, low.

  “Difficult but not impossible,” he insisted, his eyes fixed on her soft pink mouth. “I know Westminster intimately,” he drawled huskily. “Trust me to find us a trysting couch.”

  She stiffened instantly and stepped back, shocked. The flirtation had been daring, even arousing, but fear flickered across her pretty face. “Your Highness, you mistake me. It is impossible because I am married … and a lady … not a scullery maid to ease your lust.”

  “Forgive me, Isabella, but I’m not sure what I feel for you is lust. Is what you feel lust?” he asked bluntly.

  “No, of course not!” she said indignantly.

  His thumb stroked her wrist. “Your tiny pulse is hammering, your cheek holds the blush of an early rose … you are panting, Isabella.”

  Her lashes swept to her cheeks at her own immodesty, and Richard quickly drew her into a deeply shadowed window embrasure. “Richard …”

  “Ah, you finally said my name.” He brought his lips to hers again.

  A tiny sob broke from her and her hands pushed against his broad shoulders. It was an agony to want something and not want it at the same time. His strong hands slipped behind her and firmly brought the lower part of her body to meet his. His swollen manhood pressed into her soft belly and he rubbed against her slowly, rhythmically.

  She dare not bring her hands down to his groin to push that part of him away, but braced them instead against his chest. He was building to a delicious peak against her and could tell by the way her lips fell open that she was beginning to respond.

  By virtue of the bride’s tender years there had been no innuendos, titillating remarks, or sly winks tossed about as there were at most wedding celebrations. Neither had the occasion degenerated into a drunken baccanalia. Promptly at nine o’clock Eleanor’s old nursemaid collected her for bed. She was surprised that the child made no protest for she knew from experience that bedtime could be a battle of wills.

  William lifted his bride’s fingers to his lips and said solemnly, “Good night, Countess.”

  She curtsied prettily. “Good night, my lord earl.” She was almost to the top of the staircase where two more maids stood waiting with candles to light her to bed, when she said to her nurse, “Will we be sleeping in my chamber, or has a special one been prepared for the bride and groom?”

  The shocked look on her nurse’s face puzzled her, but she didn’t expect the slap. “Such wanton words from a child!” the old servant said repressively. “The marshal is leaving for one of his own residences.”

  “No!” cried Eleanor, whirling about and running back down the marble steps. She saw with her own eyes that the marshal was preparing to depart. At the top of her voice she shouted, “My lord husband, don’t leave me!”

  All eyes swung up to her just as the nurse grabbed her most ungently. Eleanor’s little teeth swiftly bit down until the restraining hands were loosed. She ran headlong down the remaining steps, neatly eluding Henry’s outstretched arms, and began pushing her way through the startled guests toward her goal. “William! William!”

  Henry’s long legs caught up with her in three strides, and he scooped her up in firm arms. “Stop it, Maggot,” he hissed in her ear.

  She struggled frantically. “William, if you leave, I am going with you!”

  William was discomfited that the child was making a scene. Henry was handing her over to half a dozen servants, and he thought it best if he did not interfere. Eleanor was crying incoherently now. She was on the verge of hysterics as the numerous hands tried to restrain her.

  “William, you p-promised,” she screamed. “You promised to show me how to st-stick it in!”

  A shocked silence descended upon the hall and then a lone titter was heard. William Marshal was angry now. He strode down the hall toward the distraught Eleanor and her brother, the King of England. “Has no one had the decency to explain matters to the child?” he demanded.

  Henry shrugged and the old nursemaid looked at him blankly. William gave them quelling looks and extracted Eleanor from the grip of two servants. He set her feet to the floor, placed her small hand on his arm, and said, “Come, Countess, I shall escort you to your chamber.”

  Teardrops hung on her dark lashes like diamonds as she gazed up at William from the edge of the bed.

  “Sweeting, because of your age you cannot come to live with me. Not until you are older,” he explained gently.

  “You mean next month when I turn ten?” she asked hopefully.

  “No … not until you are a grown woman … at least sixteen.”

  She looked at him with wounded eyes. “You don’t love me. You don’t want me,” she whispered.

  “Eleanor, of course I want you. The time will pass very quickly. You are to live at Windsor and have your own household. You have so many things to learn before you can become a wife. Your days will be filled with lessons. You will be surrounded by teachers and tutors and nuns.”

  She looked horrified. “Like my grandmother Eleanor … her husband imprisoned her too. My name is a curse!”

  “Eleanor …”

  She recoiled. “Don’t call me that!”

  William bit his lip to summon patience. “Your grandparents, King Henry and Eleanor of Aquitaine, had a great love story. I shall instruct your tutors to teach you history accurately.” He went down on his knees before her to appeal to her. “You are the Countess of Pembroke … my countess. I want you to be the most accomplished countess England ever saw. I want you to sit a horse superbly, to be able to converse in fluent French, to entertain the crowned heads of Europe. I want you to learn law so that you may sit beside me when I hold courts of dispute. I want you to learn Gaelic so that when we go to Wales and Ireland, the people will love and respect you.” He paused to search her face, to see if his suggestions were being comprehended.

  They were. “Oh, my lord earl, I shall strive to become perfect so that I shall be worthy of you. First I will polish my reading and writing so that we may correspond and you may judge for yourself the progress I shall make,” she promised fervently.

  Lord God, how impassioned the child was. “Your older sisters are both gone to be queens and I don’t want them to outshine you. You mustn’t think of Windsor as a prison. It is a beautiful castle with walled gardens and a great forested park for hunting. Henry is doing m
uch building there so that when he marries it will be a great king’s residence. You won’t be isolated and lonely there.”

  “But I shall be surrounded by adults all telling me what to do from the moment I open my eyes in the morning until they order me to bed at nine o’clock.”

  He thought for a moment, then told her, “I am going to ask my young sister Isabella to come and stay with you until her husband returns.”

  Eleanor sniffed and wiped her sleeve across her nose. “She’s pretty, but she’s quite old.”

  “She’s only twenty.” Lord God, if she thought Isabella old, she must think him in his dotage. A man of forty wedding a child not yet ten! The whole thing was a farce. Decisively he said, “You shall have some companions your own age. Some little maids of good family.”

  “May I choose them myself?” she begged.

  “Well …” He hesitated. “I will select six or eight suitable families and you may choose the three you like best.”

  “Oh, a mutual decision! See how well we shall deal together, William?”

  He let out a relieved sigh. Eleanor Plantagenet could be handled if one used a velvet glove. His eyes crinkled in an indulgent smile. He unfastened his black doublet to bare his chest. Then he lifted her to stand on the bed so that they were the same height. He took her fingers in his big hand and traced his well-muscled ribs. “Right here between the third and fourth rib is a very good place to stick in your sword. It goes straight in to puncture the lung.” He raised her fingers to beneath his arm. “Feel that soft fleshy part in the armpit? A downward plunge almost always produces a mortal wound.”

  He saw the tip of her tongue between her little white teeth as she concentrated on the lesson. He drew her hand to the center of his wide chest until she felt the heavy beat of his heart. “If you drive your sword home here, it is always fatal,” he promised solemnly.

  “Oh, my lord earl, I do love you!”

  3

  William Marshal couldn’t quite rid himself of a sense of —what was it, guilt, betrayal, unease over his marriage? He had kept the same mistress for some years now until they had become like an old married couple, unremarkable in any way, yet comfortable. The disloyalty he felt, however, was not for his leman, but for the exquisite girl with whom he had fallen in love in his youth at King John’s court. Jasmine de Burgh’s delicate beauty and innocence had captured his heart, and if he was being truthful she was probably the reason he had never married. He laughed at his own folly. He had been but a youth and stood no chance whatsoever against the bold warrior, Falcon de Burgh, who plucked the flower the moment he had laid his lusty eyes upon her.

  In his heart Will had been faithful to her all these years. Whenever he went to Ireland he visited the de Burghs, glad of the deep bond of friendship that had developed. He sighed. Falcon de Burgh had made her completely happy and given her strapping twin sons whose strong sword arms he could depend on whenever there was trouble in that fair isle.

  He felt the irresistible pull of Jasmine now and knew he would not be at peace with himself until he had confessed this marriage to her and explained that his motive was due to royal pressure and politics rather than love. Before he left for Ireland, however, he paid a visit to his favorite sister, Isabella, Countess of Gloucester and Hertford.

  “It seems you made a very favorable impression yesterday, Isabella,” William began tentatively, knowing the sacrifice he was about to ask of her.

  Isabella blushed and her lashes fluttered down to her pink cheeks. Her behavior had been disgraceful, and here was the head of the family to rebuke her. “Please, William, let me explain. I intend to return home. We’ll never see each other again.”

  William could not hide his disappointment. “Ah, my dear, that is a pity. Eleanor took such a liking to you that I promised you’d stay at Windsor with her until Gilbert returns from Ireland, but if you wish to return home, you shall do so.”

  Isabella lifted her lashes. “Windsor?” she asked breathlessly. “Oh, I should like it above all things!”

  Will cocked a puzzled brow at the usually sensible young matron who’d just done an about-face. What contrary creatures women were. “Eleanor insists upon having some companions of her own age so I thought you could round up some of the Marshal children and let her make her own selection. She has a mind of her own, to put it mildly, I’m afraid.”

  “A Plantagenet trait,” Isabella said, a secret smile touching her lips.

  “Well, I thought that since they are all in London at the moment you could gather together a flock of our little nieces before the Bigods leave for Norfolk and the de Ferrars leave for Derby,” Will suggested.

  “I’ll dash off messages immediately. Eve de Braose and Margery de Lacy are the right age, but then we must not forget Matilda, Sybil, or little Joan.”

  “You are a wonder. I can’t keep them all straight,” he confessed, “but I see I can leave it all in your capable hands. What message shall I give your husband?”

  “My husband?” she repeated, blushing again. “You are off to Ireland then?” She tossed her chestnut curls. “He spends so much time there I’ve forgotten what he looks like.”

  “Poor Isabella. Shall I send him home to you then?”

  “No, no,” she said quickly, for her husband had been her family’s choice, not hers. “De Clare would not be pleased to be sent home to his wife, and I’m looking forward to my sojourn at Windsor.”

  Eleanor stood in her beautifully appointed reception room at Windsor Castle surrounded by a group of young girls garbed in their finest gowns and jeweled caps. She stared quite rudely at each in her turn, quickly eliminating the only one who was darkly pretty and two others who looked younger than herself. Joan de Munchensi burst into tears. Eleanor knew she did the right thing in eliminating her for she wanted no babies to spoil the little bit of fun she would be allowed.

  She sweetly thanked Lady Isabella and said without a trace of guile, “Wouldn’t you like to see the new additions Henry and Richard have designed? I think I saw my brother ride in a short while ago. Take your time while I make my choice.” Eleanor knew she wouldn’t be alone long; a servant, a tutor, or a bloody nun spied on her every waking moment.

  She stared at the Marshal nieces. “Do you know how to swear?” she demanded of them.

  The little girls all shook their heads in instant denial.

  “Well, that’s too bad … I shan’t pick anyone who can’t swear,” she announced firmly.

  Two of them laughed nervously; two others looked as if they were about to burst into tears.

  Eleanor looked at the golden-haired one who had laughed. “What’s your name?”

  The girl curtsied beautifully. “Eve de Braose.”

  “Swear,” ordered Eleanor.

  “Damn,” said Eve, taking her courage in both hands.

  Eleanor’s eyes traveled to another pale-haired contender. “And you are?” she asked.

  “Matilda Bigod,” she answered without a curtsy.

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “The Earl of Norfolk’s daughter? Don’t you know any swearwords?”

  The girl shook her head firmly.

  “Then you must be witless. Your name is a swearword. Matilda B’God,” she punned.

  Sybil de Ferrars, the Earl of Derby’s child, giggled.

  Eleanor swung on her expectantly and she blurted, “H-hell.”

  What a sorry lot, Eleanor thought. Her eyes swept up and down the tallest girl in the room who had coppery red hair and a cheeky face. She knew instinctively this one could swear. “I choose you,” Eleanor said without hesitation.

  “You can’t,” said a little mousy creature. “I’m Margery de Lacy. She’s only my maid, Brenda.”

  Eleanor took a threatening step toward Margery. “I am the Countess of Pembroke. I believe I outrank you, even though the de Lacys are noted for their arrogance.” She turned a shoulder upon Margery and said to the maid, “Swear.”

  The girl, who looked at least twelve, said,
“Fuck!”

  Eleanor gasped with shock, then she turned back to Margery de Lacy. “I suppose I shall have to pick you in order to get her.” She made her selection swiftly then. “I’ll also take Sybil and Eve,” she said, not really thinking much of any of them save the precocious copper-haired maid.

  Matilda Bigod looked relieved that she had not been chosen to serve the tyrant. When the doors to the reception room were opened to admit a gaggle of chaperons and nuns, she decided to put the ladies wise as to what kind of wickedness seethed in the breast of the youngest Plantagenet.

  Lady Isabella did not return for over an hour, but the fresh air must have been most beneficial because when she came to gather up Eleanor’s rejects her color was high and her eyes sparkled like stars.

  Will Marshal had dined sumptuously at Portumna Castle, the main stronghold of the de Burghs of Connaught. They ruled everything west of the River Shannon while William owned most of Leinster and was justiciar of the whole country. Conditions were relatively peaceful now in Ireland. Of course there would always be clan wars and large pockets of resistance to be put down, but at least the whole country was not in flaming rebellion. That was amazing, considering the untamed nature of the Irish.

  Will Marshal gazed across the table at Jasmine, mesmerized as always by her delicate features, lavender eyes, and hair the color of moonbeams. She looked not one day older than the first time he had glimpsed her and lost his heart. Perhaps it was because she was a witch and had the power; now that her grandmother, Dame Estelle Winwood, had passed on to the next world, her power was probably even stronger.

  The glow from the candles made a nimbus about her, enhancing her ethereal beauty. Will remembered how irrationally angry he had felt when he learned she had given birth to twin sons, thinking the fragile flower could never survive such an ordeal, but now all he felt for those splendid young men was envy that they were not his sons. They were made in the mold of Falcon de Burgh, dark and strong-limbed, yet their laughing faces were handsomer, not having the darkly forbidding features of their father. It was almost impossible to tell them apart, save that Michael had lavender eyes, while Rickard’s blazed with the same green fire as his father’s.