The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  William knew their attendants would make a brave show, but ever a practical man, he had charged the de Burghs with Eleanor’s safety. He would be busy with his duties as marshal to the king, and Canterbury was no fit place for a decent young lady unless she had the constant protection of two strong sword arms at her back.

  Inside Canterbury Cathedral she had been far too short to see over all the heads of the bishops and clergy, the choirboys and the incense swingers. She had not yet had a chance to get a good look at the beautiful princess who had just become her sister-in-law. The magnificent music still echoed inside her head as she rode forward behind her husband to greet the mounted cavalcade of King Henry and his new bride.

  Eleanor’s heart was bursting with love and pride for her brother. They had always been very close, and she fervently wished for him great joy in his chosen marriage partner. As she came face to face with the royal couple, her eyes first met and held those of Henry. Love poured from her to him as they held each other’s gaze for long moments. She thought he had never looked more handsome in his entire life, proudly holding up his golden head wearing his golden crown. He of course was inordinately proud of his beautiful young sister whose vivid loveliness took men’s breath away.

  They smiled at each other, their smiles widened to grins, then they laughed aloud with pure unadulterated joyousness. The splendor of the newlyweds was dazzling to the eyes. Each was clothed from head to foot in gold. Eleanor’s eyes reluctantly left her brother’s as she looked upon Eleanor of Provence for the first time and she thought, How lovely she is. No wonder they call her La Belle. Her hair is dark, burnished gold, and matches her cloth-of-gold gown exactly. Eleanor wanted to welcome her with love, but when she smiled into the bride’s eyes, the girl simply returned a haughty stare. Eleanor’s heart went out to her. Oh, dear, she is nervous of all the trappings of kingship and the very thought of becoming queen very shortly is probably frightening her to death. Poor lady, I shall have to offer her my friendship and encourage her to be brave. This country and all these people must be so overwhelming to a fifteen-year-old.

  Eleanor would have been astounded had she been able to read the thoughts of her brother’s bride. So this is the infamous little bitch who has ruled the royal roost since she was five years old. This is the King’s Precious Jewel. Her eyes swept William Marshal from head to foot and envy gnawed at her throat. Though his hair was graying and he was past forty, by God he was all man. The bride was not inexperienced in these matters. Her regal sister-in-law was flanked by two of the handsomest young studs she had ever seen, and she vowed in that moment to wean Henry from any love he felt for his sister. If she had anything to say in the matter, and she intended to have everything to say, she would reduce Princess Eleanor’s influence to nil.

  The sun came out upon the dazzling couple in gold, and for a brief moment Rickard de Burgh was blinded by the glittering spectacle. He closed his eyes and swayed slightly in the saddle. When he opened them the beautiful bride was transformed. He experienced a strange vision. The day was no longer sunny. The young queen was in a barge on the River Thames. She was being pelted by stones to drive her back to the Tower of London. The cheering throng had changed to an ugly mob that called her harridan and witch. Rickard de Burgh put a hand to his head, blinked rapidly, and once again golden royalty sat before him in glittering splendor, acknowledging the cheers of joy from the throng. Rickard shuddered for he knew at his heartroot he had been allowed a brief glimpse into the future.

  One of William Marshal’s duties was to see that the king and court, his new bride and her long train of attendants were delivered the fifty miles to London with all possible speed and safety. At the close of every year the pilgrims marched to Canterbury. This year, because of the royal wedding, there was such a crush of visitors, the town was literally bursting apart at the seams. They traveled into the town by three roads, from London, Dover, and Winchester, and these roads were thronged with humanity. They came on foot, by donkey, or on horseback. Great ladies traveled shoulder to shoulder with invalids, pilgrims, prostitutes, rich men, poor men, beggarmen, and thieves. Canterbury was a wall-to-wall religious bazaar where every citizen knew this was the season to make a killing, to fleece the visitor and live off the profits for a whole year.

  The clamor for food, drink, and bogus religious souvenirs was surpassed only by the jostling for a place to sleep. There was no longer room at any inn or private home or stable. People slept six to a bed or in spoon fashion on floors of taverns or churches. Many lay outdoors in churchyards or under hedgerows, and the whores, thick as fleas on a dog’s back, serviced their customers standing up in doorways or lying on tombstones.

  The court also had to cope with crowded conditions, for the gracious rooms of the priory at Christ Church were the only place fitting to house the nobility.

  Eleanor left Isabella Marshal and her maids to cope with the logistics of securing a chamber and plenishing it, while she rushed off to congratulate the bridegroom. Henry and his bride were the only ones lucky enough to have a private chamber, but even this room would remain crowded to the rafters with courtiers and servants until the groom rid himself of the wellwishers around midnight.

  When Eleanor arrived she flew into Henry’s open arms, and he swung her about, laughing. “Hello, Maggot, what do you think of my beautiful bride?”

  “Congratulations, love, she is wondrous fair. I hope you live happily ever after.” She had removed her white cape and her gown was spectacular. It was crimson velvet embroidered with the golden leopards of the House of Plantagenet. Her black cloud of hair was fastened back by two great golden leopards with jeweled emerald eyes.

  Henry set her feet to the carpet and she glanced about, seeking a familiar face. She encountered only Provençals, most not even bothering to speak English, but the men had seen her exquisite beauty and crowded about her with speculative eyes.

  “Let me introduce you. This is my wife’s uncle, William, Bishop of Valence.” Before William could kiss her hand, he had been shouldered aside by his brother, who was younger and handsomer. “This is my wife’s uncle, Peter of Savoy.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” she murmured, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks. Suddenly her eyes flew open again for Peter of Savoy had lifted her by the waist and kissed both her cheeks. Before her feet touched the rug again another uncle was admiring her openly, his eyes fixed upon her cherry-ripe lips.

  “Amadeus,” Henry said indicating Peter’s brother, and greatly impressed by these Provençals with their good looks and fabulous easy manners. “And this,” Henry said with great pride, as if he were producing a rabbit from a hat, “is their father, Thomas of Savoy.”

  Thomas assessed Eleanor’s breasts and raised his eyebrows to the king. “My sister Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke.”

  Henry’s bride suddenly appeared at his side and ran a possessive hand up his arm. She pouted her lips. They were so close that Henry could not resist kissing the tempting mouth. “Surely there is room in your heart for only one Eleanor?” she asked prettily.

  “Of course, my darling,” said Henry, slipping an intimate arm about her and hugging her to his side. She glanced at Peter of Savoy, the handsomest of her uncles and the one who knew her intimately. When she saw the look on his face, the dislike she had formed for her sister-in-law turned to instant hatred. Henry had a fatuous look on his face as he said, “Eleanor, may I present to you the Queen of England?”

  Though technically she would not become queen until she was crowned in a few days, Henry had made the introduction in a way that made it necessary for Eleanor to curtsy. She did so graciously, but she got the distinct impression that this impoverished young woman was looking down her long nose at her. “You may rise,” the bride said coldly, looking through narrowed eyes. Then her face transformed as she looked at her new husband adoringly. “Henry, at my coronation when we ride into London I want you to let me have the two men who guarded your sister today.”

  Eleanor
’s voice became crisp as she explained matters to the newest member of the family. “That is impossible. Henry cannot let you have the de Burghs. They are the Earl of Pembroke’s knights.”

  The bride drew herself up to her full height, which made her considerably taller than Eleanor. “Did you say impossible?” she said acidly. “Henry is the king. He can do anything he wishes.” She bestowed a dazzling smile upon him, bathing him in adoration. Her eyes promised rich rewards for his generosity.

  Her words echoed his own thoughts. He was the king. He was sick and tired of being told what he could and could not do. His hand slipped higher upon her waist until the back of his fingers brushed against the swell of her breast. “The de Burghs will be honored to flank you in the procession from the Tower of London to Westminster.”

  Eleanor bit her lip. With a few well-chosen words she could have cut her brother down to size, but she loved him too much to shame him before these arrogant Provençals. She glanced at the queen. Thou shall not covet thy sister’s knights, she thought irreverently.

  Later when she enjoyed a few moments with William before he rushed off upon his endless duties to the crown, she explained matters to him in a humorous way to avoid a breach between her brother and her husband. If the Earl of Pembroke thought Henry was ordering his men about and playing king again, he would soon explain the facts of life to him. “Lud, I was glad when the girl took her covetous eyes from my gown. I feared she would order me stripped before that litter of Savoys.”

  His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I met only three uncles, Eleanor,” he corrected.

  “Only three, you say? I could have sworn someone said Thomas of Savoy had sired a baker’s dozen of the damned foreign fellows.” She smiled at him. “Well, never mind. She may have my guards … she may even have my gown, but if she sets her eyes upon you, William, I shall scratch them out.”

  Splendor of God, when his beautiful young wife said things like that to him, desire snaked through his loins before he could control it. It was a moment before he could conjure up her mother’s image, which was the effective device he had learned to use to rid himself of a painful erection. He would have to use the services of a whore to rid his body of its demands. He had never had so many erections in his life, not even in his lusty youth. Then inevitably he felt shame for his lust.

  He deliberately turned his mind to his duties. The accommodations in Canterbury were totally inadequate. He would have to ride to Rochester tonight to see firsthand that the vast numbers of Provençals who had accompanied the queen would be better housed. The sooner he got them out of Canterbury the better, for at the moment it was trying to cope with a population twice the size of London’s and every thief, cutpurse, pickpocket, and penny-whore was trying to separate the visitors from their money before the religious charlatans did so with their fake saints’ bones and bottled martyrs’ blood.

  He left his men patrolling the streets, for he knew when this many people were crowded into one place, knifings, fights, and murders were inevitable.

  9

  The cavalcade rode to London for the crowning in easy stages where Richard of Cornwall had held supreme authority while his brother King Henry had traveled to Dover and Canterbury. He knew his brother trusted him totally with the crown of England because he had no ambitions whatsoever to steal it and wear it.

  He was secretly appalled at the lavish coronation that had been planned. The whole month of January had been set aside for spectacles and pageants, and anyone in England who had ever had a remote connection to the nobility had arrived for the crowning of the queen.

  Richard had discovered that the king had forced his rich nobles to lend him money to pay for this lavish spectacle and that the London guilds had been “persuaded” to open their purses to provide expensive wedding presents. Richard shook his head in disbelief. His brother and he were alike in being able to pluck gold coins from thin air, but his own acquisitive Norman fingers hoarded his wealth, while Henry’s hands scattered gold to the winds as if he were able to acquire it like King Midas.

  La Belle Eleanor sat her palfrey, flanked by Sir Michael and Sir Rickard de Burgh. They rode directly behind the king. Because of her insistence at having the twin brothers upon her right and left flank, they had already earned the hatred of her ambitious uncles and the rest of the arrogant Provençals.

  The Tower of London was the first stop on the long procession to Westminster. At the Tower she rode up beside the king and her guards fell back among the queen’s train. La Belle wore a glittering, tight-fitting gown; its sleeves lined with ermine. As she positioned her horse beside Henry’s, he smiled across at her. “You are very beautiful today. I hope you won’t find this too tiring … especially since we didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her mouth sensually full-lipped. In a throaty voice she said, “We can sleep when we’re dead.” She was so much more woman than he had expected. They had set sail on a sea of carnality where he would have willingly drowned to satisfy her.

  “Three hundred sixty men and women are to greet us on horseback and welcome you to the City of London. Each couple will present you with a cup of gold or silver.” The men wore cloth-of-gold tunics; their wives were adorned in fur-trimmed cloaks. Beginning with the Lord Mayor of London and his wife, the couples rode forward bearing their cups of precious metal. Hubert de Burgh, England’s justiciar and castellan of the Tower of London, had arranged for one hundred eighty young pages and squires to act as cupbearers. One by one they came forward to pipe their thanks on the queen’s behalf and carry the precious cups into the Tower for safekeeping. La Belle decided it was a waste of precious metal and wondered how soon she could have some of them melted down and fashioned into objects of adornment.

  When this ceremony was concluded, the glittering cavalcade moved slowly down The Strand toward Westminster. The entire route had been hung with silk banners, and at each and every corner trumpeters blew a fanfare as they approached.

  The Londoners’ cheered this dazzling young beauty who had come to their king so he might beget heirs upon her body. The crowds went mad in an excess of ecstacy, scattering colored confetti and dried flower petals.

  The highlight of the whole glorious day for the new bride was not being anointed by the archbishop, nor receiving the blessing of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. The thing that sent the blood rushing to her fingers and down to her very toes was that sanctified moment in the abbey when the crown was placed upon her burnished gold hair and she became Queen of England. She felt the incomparable rush of power. It was stronger and more potent than anything she had ever known before. It surpassed sexual gratification in its thrilling impact, making her breasts tingle and her abdomen ache intensely. To her great amazement she felt herself climax and she became wet and sticky between her legs.

  The banquet that followed was the greatest feast ever laid out in history. Henry had suffered the burn of humiliation at his own humble crowning, accompanied by the stringy joint of beef, and he had been determined that Merrie Olde England would make up for it now.

  During the long winter, or season of the devil, as it was known, everyone existed on salted meat and smoked fish, but the spring had arrived early this year, providing lambs, kids, and calves to add variety to the vast platters of roast oxen and venison. Strong-fleshed peacocks, swans, and herons filled the banquet tables. Thousands of eggs had gone into the puddings and pastries to tempt the nobility and provide lavishly for the thousands of Londoners who packed the gardens and roadways around Westminster.

  The consumption of fish was tremendous, the varieties too numerous to count. Sturgeon, conger, mullet, mackerel, flounder, salmon, and plaice vied with great piles of shellfish, oysters, shrimps, and crabs as well as crayfish, eels, and lampreys.

  Wine flowed freely and none of it was domestic, which Henry feared the Provençals would think inferior. The most expensive kinds imported from Guienne and Gascony and sweet Spanish muscatel
were served to the guests by none other than the Lord Mayor of London.

  The nobility performed their hereditary parts in the ritual, but the wedding train of the bride overflowed with so many foreigners who looked down their long, thin noses at the natives, totally ignoring the age-old precedence of rank with highhanded disregard for the long-established pecking order.

  The bride’s relatives filled the head tables as if it were their divine right to do so, and Henry was so flattered by the attention they lavished upon him, he realized happily he much preferred their noisy, laughing company to that of his staid English aristocracy. Tedious English ballads now gave way to more robust ones:

  “You say the moon is all aglow

  The nightingale is singing,

  I’d rather watch the red wine flow

  And hear the goblets ringing.”

  Henry thought the Provençals witty, clever, and sophisticated. Surely they were the most beautiful young people God had ever created. He couldn’t believe his own luck in attracting and attaching them to his court.

  William Marshal enjoyed showing off his beautiful wife. He was extremely proud of the accomplished, elegant young lady she had grown into and knew that perhaps only one more year would be necessary before she became a woman … his woman. She always managed to stand out from other females, and this coronation banquet was no exception. Everywhere was cloth-of-gold or gowns fashioned from material of threaded gold. Eleanor wore deep royal purple, her sleeves lined with heliotrope satin. A priceless chain of amethysts long enough to wrap about her neck twice and still encircle her waist made her blue eyes turn a mysterious shade of purple.

  When her brother Richard approached them, Eleanor watched the pink roses ever-present in Isabella Marshal’s cheeks blossom to dark red. She knew they had not seen one another for months, yet it was painfully obvious how they still felt about each other. She lifted her mouth to her husband’s ear. “William, dance with your sister and I shall dance with Richard.” William squeezed her hand. Already he loved her dearly. She was so quick to size up a potentially explosive situation and defuse it.