The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  She laughed up at Richard. “Did you enjoy playing king?”

  “You little maggot, you know I hated every minute of it. I’ll be so bloody glad to get back to work sounding out the barons about war with France.”

  Eleanor groaned. “Bugger war, ’tis all men think of.”

  “Then I wish to God Henry would spare it a thought. With what he’s spent today, we could have mounted a full-scale assault to regain Normandy. He’s handing out gold marks, tracts of priceless land, castles, and even pensions to these grasping Provençals. Christ, with my own ears I heard him promise Thomas of Savoy a groat for every sack of English wool that will pass through his territory. Her relatives are legion and I think he’s determined to reward every last one with a royal post. There’s one been named King’s Special Harper and another he’s going to put on the roles as King’s Versificator. I swear if Henry had any brains he’d be dangerous.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. He’s in love. You can’t blame him for trying to impress her … she’s very lovely,” said Eleanor.

  “That’s generous of you, sweeting; most women dislike each other,” Richard said.

  “There shall be no rivalry between us whatsoever. Look, here she is dancing with Henry; don’t they make a magnificent pair?”

  The two couples faced each other. The queen looked at the exquisite purple gown and amethysts. Henry spoke. “Eleanor.”

  Both beautiful young women replied, “Yes?”

  The queen gave Eleanor a look that should have felled her. Then she turned her face to the king and said, “We cannot both be called Eleanor. I have decided only the queen shall be Eleanor. You will have to be called something else. What is it your brothers call you—Maggot?” she asked sweetly.

  Richard was shocked and almost jumped to his sister’s defense. Then he hid a smile as he realized the maggot was perfectly capable of looking after herself.

  Eleanor drew herself up to her full height, less than five feet and said regally, “I am the Countess of Pembroke and you may address me as such. I have always loathed the name Eleanor … it is hideous. You are most welcome to it.” She took Richard’s arm and swept off.

  He bent low to whisper in her ear, “I’m so relieved there is no rivalry between you.”

  “Bloody foreigners … I’m up to my gorge in them. Too bad we’ll have to put up with them a whole wretched month before Henry sends them packing.”

  But Henry did not send them packing. He allowed the hangers-on to stay. Not only that, but more flocked over every day like a skein of geese honking into England. Henry listened to William of Valence as if every word were a pearl of wisdom. He immediately created Peter of Savoy the Earl of Richmond and gave him a valuable piece of land along the Thames in exchange for three symbolic feathers. He gave Amadeus land that he promptly sold.

  They all sang homesick songs for their beautiful sunny Provence, but they didn’t go back. Though King Midas was heaping gold upon his wife’s relatives, he never had anything left over for his English subjects who paid the bills, not even kind words.

  The English conceived a hatred for the Provençals that grew daily. After only three weeks a great council was called, and the barons most emphatically affirmed that no changes were to be made in the laws or methods of government.

  The subject of Princess Eleanor came up again and again in conversations between the king and queen. “Each time your sister puts in an appearance, she is wearing different jewels.”

  “Darling, those jewels didn’t come from royal coffers, I can assure you. They are gifts from her husband. The Marshals are probably the wealthiest family in England,” he explained.

  “Henry, I am the Queen of England. It is ridiculous that your little sister be allowed to outshine me. Why don’t you give me the gold and silver cups stored in the Tower? I have goldsmiths and jewelers showing me their designs every day, begging me for my custom.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, actually, I’ve had an offer for some of them. I really do need the money, Eleanor.”

  “Those clowns! If they are rich enough to buy our possessions, they can afford to give you the money you need!”

  His voluptuous young wife always managed to make her demands at the end of the day preparatory to their going to bed. She gave him a sidewise glance from beneath her golden lashes. “Henry, why don’t you help me remove my stockings? I feel in a most giving mood tonight.” She reclined upon the bed and ran the stockinged sole of one foot up her other leg. Her skirt fell back to display the golden treasure between her legs.

  As Henry’s fingers strayed from her garter to a more tempting object, she stroked his swollen groin with her toes. “If I can be generous,” she said throatily, “why can’t you? You are the king, for God’s sake, and I am your queen. If we put our minds together as well as we put our bodies together, we should be able to come up with some arrangement that will satisfy me.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “You know that when I am satisfied, all my attention can be concentrated upon satisfying you.”

  He had already learned she was capable of teasing him, holding out against him until his part of the bargain was accomplished. “There is an honored custom known as Queen’s Gold, It’s a percentage of the fines levied on the Londoners. I see no reason why we cannot reactivate this custom, which has been out of use for many years.”

  His words worked like magic to open her legs wide and allow him to indulge his fantasies to the full. As he moved vigorously back and forth upon her, she gave vent to her own fantasies of luxurious excess. Surely fines could be levied on these Londoners with the thinnest pretext; if the Queen’s Gold hadn’t been paid for years, she was probably due a fortune in back payments of the tribute. She would look into it immediately. If the sheriffs of London balked, she would have them imprisoned. She was the Queen of England and she would be obeyed.

  It was not enough, however, to have as many jewels and gowns as Eleanor Plantagenet. Secretly she wanted the regal beauty brought low. She thought it ridiculous that the young princess lived in a wing of Windsor Castle that was off-limits to men. She would have ousted her immediately if she had not learned that William Marshal’s money was used for the upkeep of her apartment and servants.

  It rankled her that Eleanor’s virtue had been guarded so jealously and that the young woman was reported to be still virgin. Because of her own experiences she had some doubts about the girl’s innocence. An entertaining plot was hatching in her prurient mind that would put an end to speculation.

  She recalled vividly the look on Peter of Savoy’s face the first time he beheld Eleanor. It told her clearly that he thought the girl breathtaking and worth the great risk involved for a little dalliance. One afternoon when the newly created Earl of Richmond was lounging about her apartment indulging himself in her most expensive wine, she appealed to him in a way she knew he would not resist. “Peter darling, I have a wager for you.”

  He raised a lazy brow, not too interested. He’d just been created an earl, he was having plans drawn up to build a lavish dwelling he’d call The Savoy along the Thames. He had the use of any of the women at court, even her if he took the trouble to insist, so what did she have to offer?

  “’tis said the prim little Countess of Pembroke is still virgin, but I don’t believe she still has a cherry!”

  Peter’s attention had been engaged. “There is only one way to find out … pluck the cherry!” He laughed.

  “Precisely, then I shall be right about her and the others wrong,” the queen said smugly.

  Peter applied himself diligently. He managed to be present whenever the dark beauty left her female sanctuary. In the stables he managed to shoulder her groom aside and assist her into the saddle. She thanked him coolly, politely, but he received no sidelong glances inviting him to dalliance. His little game of seduction had begun to excite him. He was beginning to believe she really was innocent. She seemed unawakened, unaware of innuendo or suggestive conversation that made more
experienced young females blush or giggle.

  The queen discovered that the princess, Lady Isabella, and her younger companions were going into the woods of Windsor to pick wild blackberries. She ordered her Court of Love, as she called her beautiful young male and female attendants, on an impromptu blackberry-picking expedition, and when she met up with her sister-in-law insisted they make a family affair of the outing.

  The leafy glades were conducive to titillating games where couples eventually drifted off to secluded bowers. Peter of Savoy garbed in forest green never took his eyes from the Countess of Pembroke. She wore a pale-green summery gown that made her seemingly disappear among the trees, and he realized how well camouflaged they would both be.

  He bided his time patiently and eventually his patience was rewarded. With a basket over her arm Eleanor gradually moved off from the others. He stalked her silently, taking time to carefully select a lovely place to corner his prey. “May I help you fill your basket, demoiselle?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  She glanced up quickly like a startled young doe, but when she saw who it was no hint of fear showed in her eyes. “It is madame, sir, as you well know,” she rebuked him lightly with a smile.

  “Ah yes, chérie, but though you are married you are still … how do you say … a maiden.”

  “Would you prefer we converse in French, sir?” Though she knew Henry had created him Earl of Richmond, she could not bear to give him his title.

  “Ah no, chérie, I must learn your native tongue. Perhaps you will be kind enough to instruct me? In return there are perhaps things I could teach you.”

  “I can do better than that; I can provide you with a tutor,” she offered, deftly sidestepping his invitation.

  He threw her such a hungry look she feared for her blackberries. His eyes were on her mouth. “Do you think your fruit is ripe enough for the plucking?” he asked playfully.

  “Of course it is.” She reached into the basket and held her hand out to him. “Taste it,” she invited.

  Peter took her hand, raised it to his mouth, took the berries with his lips, then very suggestively bit her fingers. She snatched her hand away from him, thinking What strange customs these foreigners have. She held his eyes with her sapphire gaze trying to fathom what he was up to.

  He inched closer to her. Then very deliberately he reached into her basket and lifted a luscious blackberry to her lips. If she licked his fingers it would be the signal he was looking for, longing for.

  She studied his face for a moment then very deliberately bit her teeth down into his hand.

  “Peste!” he swore. “What the hell was that for?”

  “The queen sent you to spy on me,” she told him quite openly.

  For a moment he thought she knew exactly what he had been sent to find out, then it dawned on him she had no inkling of the sexual connotation implicit in biting, licking, or sucking fingers. His eyes darkened with desire as he realized she was untouched after all.

  “Why does she hate me?” Eleanor asked bluntly.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “’tis not hatred she feels, but jealousy.”

  “But why?” Eleanor asked, baffled.

  He shook his head regretfully. How could he explain to her that she was more delectable than any blackberry; that a man would give his soul to taste her innocence and awaken her senses so that she would suck the black juice from his fingers seductively?

  A hunting horn sounded and through the trees came a party of young knights on horseback. The carcasses of two stags with great antlers were slung on poles carried by their squires. When the queen saw that the hunting party was headed by Rickard de Burgh, she hailed him.

  Rickard dismounted. The rest of his men followed suit and graciously bent their knee to their sovereign queen. “I shall ride back to the castle with you, Sir Rickard, I’ve had enough of this boring, bucolic pastime. You may help me mount,” she said, her hot eyes devouring him.

  “Your Highness, forgive me, but I am bloodied from the hunt.”

  Queen Eleanor licked her lips and stepped close. “I don’t mind a little blood … or sweat on a man. Labors that are sweated over give most satisfaction,” she said suggestively.

  As he lifted the queen into her saddle, he saw the Countess of Pembroke approaching with Peter of Savoy. The man had a possessive hand at the small of her back that made the muscle of Rickard’s jaw clamp painfully. He would never have dreamed to take such a liberty himself even though he considered himself her personal guard. He searched Eleanor’s face to see if the hated Savoy had distressed her in any way. Though she was neither flushed nor covered with blushes, her stiff little back and grave demeanor told him the man’s attentions were odious to her.

  The newly appointed Earl of Richmond threw him such a smug look of satisfaction as he helped himself to the fruit in Eleanor’s basket that de Burgh knew he was attempting seduction.

  Sir Rickard was on the horns of a dilemma. If he went to William Marshal with his knowledge, it would create more bad blood. There were already hostilities between the English and the Provençals, especially the favored Savoys. This could result in open hatred flaring out of control. If he went to the princess with a warning, it could rob her of some of her innocence. Somehow he could not bear the idea of Savoy tainting even her thoughts. He would handle the matter himself and take a subtle revenge.

  He allowed two days to pass, then he sought out Peter of Savoy. “My lord earl,” he said with a sober countenance as if he disapproved of the mission he had been sent upon. “A lady, who must remain nameless, wishes to become more intimately acquainted.”

  “Can this be true?” said the Earl of Richmond, taken by surprise.

  “She is most interested in your offer of friendship, my lord, but her position demands the utmost discretion, if you understand me.”

  “I understand perfectly. You must reassure her on that point. I will make myself available at any time or place the lady will name.”

  De Burgh bowed with grimly compressed lips. At their next encounter de Burgh looked more grim than ever. He uttered few words, as if more would surely choke him. “Tomorrow night at the hour of eleven. I will come for you.”

  Peter of Savoy nodded eagerly, his mind already selecting an expensive jewel with which to charm the lady. At the appointed hour the two figures moved silently through the shadows of Windsor Castle. Just inside the women’s wing, which Eleanor occupied, Rickard de Burgh paused outside a heavily studded door and held his finger to his lips. The arrogant Earl of Richmond nodded his thanks and entered.

  “Poor Peter,” said Rickard, half to himself, “you’ll have your night’s work cut out for you with Brenda.” He had to wait until he was outside the bachelor knights’ quarters before he could let out the laughter that almost choked him.

  10

  Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, who had been the king’s guardian until Henry had tired of the leading strings and turned to Hubert de Burgh, returned to London. Henry welcomed him like a long-lost father. Winchester had a score to settle—or two scores, to be precise.

  Hubert de Burgh and William Marshal had made the mistake of a lifetime when they had schemed to rid King Henry of Winchester’s influence. He had worked hard to gain ascendency over the youthful king. He had placed his toadies in key positions and was ready to rule England when the two military leaders had seduced an impressionable Henry away from him. He had withdrawn to Rome to save face, but during his years of absence his ambition and his need for revenge had become an obsession, until there was no deed too foul for the ungodly bishop to contemplate.

  The timing of his return was brilliant. His wealth and his hospitality would be extended to these greedy Provençals. The queen and her uncles would rule Henry, and the Bishop of Winchester would own and rule the Provençals.

  He immediately invited King Henry and his court to spend Easter and later Christmas at Winchester. Henry had spent his boyhood Christmases there, joyous holid
ays filled with snowball fights, presents, and feasting, with only lip service paid to religion.

  Henry immediately accepted because Winchester was a wealthy diocese and would bear all the festive expenses. He could not see that behind Peter des Roches’s learning and charm was venality. He picked up the expenses now, so that he could reap a king’s ransom down the road. There was not a shred of generosity or inner grace in the man.

  Winchester had a bastard son, Peter des Rivaux, under his wing, and he was determined to secure a position of power for the young man. At the end of each day’s celebrations for the new queen, the two Peters met to discuss their strategy.

  “I think I have found the means by which you can bring Hubert de Burgh to his knees,” Peter des Rivaux said.

  Winchester’s sausagelike fingers stroked his beard and his eyes gleamed with his lust for revenge. “Hubert has friends in high places because he appointed them to those places. He chose the chancellor as well as the treasurer of the royal household. Don’t tell me they would be disloyal to him,” Winchester said doubtfully.

  “No, but his right-hand man is ambitious without being too scrupulous. I have paved the way for you to recruit him. I have informed him that, unlike de Burgh, you wish to remain in the background, but if he can bring us proofs of Hubert’s maladministration and diversion of funds, those proofs would be worth their weight in gold.”

  Peter des Roches studied the jewel in his great thumbstall ring. “I’ll speak with him. A promise of gold is enough to whet his appetite, but I have found there is nothing like the promise of a title to enslave a man. Hubert de Burgh is justiciar … I think it only fitting we hold out the carrot of ‘justiciar’ to this Segrave if he can help us depose our enemy.”