The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  He knelt above her, loath to hurt her, but he was too far gone for further loveplay.

  Eleanor was in a passion of conflicting emotions. She had never wanted anything more in her life; she had never wanted anything less in her life!

  He whispered, “Forgive me, Eleanor,” then it was done. She closed her eyes and a little scream escaped her lips as the pain and fullness spread inside her like a burning sunburst. It took her a moment to gather her scattered thoughts. Truly it had been more pain than pleasure, but she loved the closeness of their bodies and knew he still impaled her. William lay fully upon her, his great weight engulfing her. She remembered screaming, yet he too had cried out as if in pain. He lay motionless now. So this was “the little death” Isabella had spoken of. It was indeed a mystical experience.

  William’s weight became too much for her and she tried to ease her position slightly. She found that she could not move, however, and said softly, “William, you are hurting me.”

  He made no reply, no sign whatsoever that he even heard her. He had fallen asleep. She must rouse him. His ear was not too far distant from her lips and she cried his name, “William! William!” A small wisp of fear curled in her body. He was not asleep, he was unconscious. Tears of God, if only she weren’t so ignorant. Could the hymenal rite cause a man to faint?

  His crushing weight prevented her from breathing properly. She took quick shallow breaths as a feeling of dread penetrated her brain. Her mind screamed its denial of what she feared, telling herself over and over that if she just endured it a moment longer, all would be well.

  She did not know how long she lay imprisoned beneath him before she lost control and began to scream, but the next thing she knew Rickard de Burgh had entered the tower chamber from the ramparts and was lifting William’s body off her.

  De Burgh stared in horror at the naked princess, her virgin’s blood staining the snowy sheets and the dead body of the Earl of Pembroke, Marshal of England. He groped blindly for Eleanor’s bedrobe. “My lady, my poor sweet lady,” he whispered.

  “No, Rickard, no. Help me, sweet Jesus, help me! He cannot die; I won’t let him die!” She enfolded William’s naked body in her arms, sobbing wildly.

  “Eleanor, he is gone, we cannot bring him back.”

  She recoiled from his words. “Don’t call me that, the name is cursed!”

  Firmly he pried her from the body of her husband and forced her arms into the velvet bedgown.

  “Fetch a physician—fetch the king,” she cried hysterically.

  “If I fetched the angel of death, my lady, he could not give him back to you. Quickly, Eleanor, before these rooms are overrun—what happened? Was William ill? Did he drink wine left in this chamber?” Rickard demanded suspiciously.

  She shook her head, her face paler than death. Rickard had sensed danger to Eleanor, not William. If only he could have done something to prevent this tragedy. He had no option but to break the news of the sudden death, but prayed that no blame would touch this innocent lady. He drew the bedcovers over the blood-spotted sheet and murmured, “You should have a lady to attend you.” He didn’t think she even heard him. He left her desperately clutching William’s cold hand.

  Soon the tower bedchamber was filled with shocked relatives, clergy, and physicians, while more spectators gathered in the chamber below. The king’s face was tinged with gray and he was indelicately sick in a corner. Two physicians had examined the body and were interrogating Eleanor.

  “Tell us exactly what took place when you retired,” the king’s personal physician ordered accusingly.

  Eleanor pressed the back of her hand to her mouth in an effort to speak coherently. She managed to whisper, “William carried me up to bed and we …” Her voice failed her.

  “He carried you up that steep staircase?” the physician asked in disbelief. Then he turned to his fellow. “How old was the marshal?”

  “Forty-six years old,” he supplied. They both looked at Eleanor. “And you are?”

  “Six-sixteen,” she answered, “Almost seventeen,” she amended.

  “It has been less than a year since the marshal took you to live with him?” the accusing voice persisted. Eleanor could only nod.

  “Tell us honestly, Countess, do you have a young lover?”

  Her eyes sought out Rickard de Burgh, but he knew he must not jump to her defense or they would be condemned as lovers. She shook her head mutely, misery washing over her in waves.

  “How many times did you insist he perform his marital duties tonight?”

  What were these men raving about? she wondered as her grief threatened to overwhelm her. She pressed her hands over her ears and cried, “Henry, make them stop!” But the king had gone to pieces over the loss of the man who had been like a father to him. He cried openly and the queen and the Savoys were lavishing their sympathy upon him.

  The king’s physician announced to the room at large, “It is obvious that marriage to a sixteen-year-old proved too much for the aging marshal. His heart burst trying to satisfy the demands of his young wife. If I had only known the Earl of Pembroke suffered heart trouble, I would have supplied him with a piece of coral to hold in his mouth at all times.”

  Eleanor heard a rushing in her ears and for a moment everything went black. She stretched out a hand of supplication to her brother Richard, but he was entirely taken up with his bride’s grief over losing her brother.

  The physician’s verdict was avidly repeated among the guests who had been present at the wedding, none of whom would have missed being present at this fatal drama for the world.

  Brenda stared across the room at Allan. Everyone was in shock save the squire. His face registered no surprise whatsoever. In fact, he wore a look of smug satisfaction as if he was inordinately proud of some great accomplishment. All through the wedding feast she recalled how he had hovered at the marshal’s elbow, serving him food, refilling his goblet, and now the marshal lay dead.

  As Allan caught sight of Brenda, he read the suspicious thoughts plainly writ upon her face. The girl knew too much. His instructions were clear. He must leave no untidy thread dangling that could connect him with Winchester. At his last encounter with the bishop, it had been brought forcibly home to him that if he did not swiftly carry out his end of the bargain, his own life would be forfeit. He motioned with his head for Brenda to follow him out onto the battlements. It was easy to slip out unnoticed, for just at that moment they tried to remove the marshal’s body from the tower chamber.

  Suddenly Eleanor sprang to life. “Don’t touch him—don’t anyone dare to touch him!” She looked like a wild woman as she blocked their approach to the bed. “Get out!” she screamed. “Every last one of you, out!”

  The king and queen led the exodus, followed by the Savoys, the bishops, and Richard and Isabella. The two physicians remained, condemning her with looks of outrage. She stood her ground like an avenging angel. “Out!” she screamed.

  They knew they had little choice. She was suffering from a bout of Plantagenet madness. They had seen it happen to her father many a time.

  She threw the bolt upon the door, then went back to the bed. This was all a nightmare. Presently she would awaken and all would be well. Guilt engulfed her. She sank to her knees, took his hand between hers, and pressed her cheek to it. “My God, William, what have I done to you?” she asked. The last words he had said to her were “Forgive me, Eleanor.” Lord God, who would forgive her? She bathed his cold hand with her tears. Over and over inside her head the words repeated, Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.

  Out upon the high walls of the palace Brenda confronted Allan like a terrier with a rat. His deadly fingers snaked about her throat before she could utter her accusation. Instantly she joined the dance of death. She brought up her knee sharply to jab him viciously in the testicles. The moment his hands released her throat, she butted him in the chest with her head, sending him backward over the parapet. She drew in a labored breath to ea
se her bruised throat, and before she released it she heard a sickening thud on the flagstones below.

  She slunk back into the shadows, fear almost immobilizing her. Never would she breathe a word of what she suspected. Allan had tried to murder her on orders from Winchester. She must get away.

  When the gray dawn arrived, the body of the insignificant squire had been spirited away by unknown hands. The disappearance of the lowly servant and maid was overshadowed by the grave tragedy that had touched the lives of the highest in the land.

  18

  The Marshal of England lay in state at Westminster. His young widow, looking like a wraith, was in deep shock. She had not let his body out of her sight, but had polished his armor herself and placed his favorite sword in his hands. When she had brushed his hair, she wondered when it had turned from chestnut to gray.

  Now she stood vigil beside the catafalque draped with the Red Lion Rampant as the nobility came to pay its respects. Later the people of London would be allowed in, but at the moment the royal family, the Marshals, and every member of the clergy within a fifty-mile radius were crowded into the abbey.

  Henry came, supported by his gentlemen, but he could not bring himself to draw close. Eleanor watched numbly as her brother’s eyes filled with tears and he turned away. Silently she spoke to William, feeling that he could still hear every word that was uttered and know every thought that entered her head. She knew she would be able to bear it so long as they were together. She firmly closed her mind and refused to think about the burial.

  The aging Archbishop of Canterbury intoned a prayer for William’s soul, and the Bishop of Chichester tried to comfort her with some trite religious twaddle. Her heart hurt. With every beat she felt its aching soreness. She hugged the pain to herself, loving the exquisite torture. She needed to suffer.

  Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, made the sign of the cross upon William’s brow, and Eleanor flinched when his sausagelike fingers touched her husband’s cold flesh. As the Marshal brothers and sisters and cousins filed past, they looked at her coldly. She fancied the members of the wealthiest family in England were thinking that he would still be alive if he had not married her. Eleanor burned with guilt, for it was what she herself believed.

  The queen came next with her inevitable entourage of Savoys in tow. She bestowed a pitying look upon Eleanor and said, “Never fear, my dear, we will find you another husband.”

  Eleanor stiffened and said quietly, “I shall never marry again.”

  The queen laughed and the sound offended Eleanor’s ears— offended her very soul. She was outraged that she would say such things within William’s hearing.

  “Next time you shall have a younger husband.” She bent close. “Peter of Savoy has already spoken for you,” the queen said with a coy glance at her old lover.

  Eleanor cried out, “I shall never marry again! I swear an oath of chastity! I take the vow of perpetual widowhood!”

  The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishops of Chichester and Winchester immediately stepped forward to sanctify the vows that the Countess of Pembroke swore so fervently. They had her hand upon the Bible before the echo of her cries had stopped reverberating through the arched sanctuary. She took the vows gladly, wholeheartedly, but wondered why she felt such a disgust for bishops. Then she remembered Ireland and the curse of the Bishop of Ferns. “The Almighty Marshal family will end. In one generation the name shall be destroyed. You will die without issue and your inheritance will be scattered.” Eleanor’s hands stroked her abdomen. “Please God, let me be carrying William’s child,” she begged.

  The Countess of Pembroke collapsed after a thirty-hour vigil. The Mother Superior of the Holy Order of St. Bride’s was called upon to nurse the grief-stricken young widow. Eleanor was taken by barge the short distance to Durham House. It housed a vast number of servants, each and every one devastated by the sudden loss of their beloved Earl of Pembroke.

  She was nursed around the clock by the Mother Superior and the two nuns who had lived in her household since she was a child. At one point she became delirious and they feared for both her life and her sanity. The house was kept silent, each room draped in black; the entire staff was in mourning. It seemed to rain for weeks. When Londoners looked up to observe the darkened windows from the Thames, it seemed the very stones of the stronghold wept with sorrow.

  Eventually she could no longer escape with the excuse of illness and reluctantly left the sanctuary of her sickbed. No one called her Eleanor now, they called her the Countess of Pembroke, which comforted her. The ghost of William haunted every room. The tasteful furnishings of Durham House evoked poignant memories.

  She was always chilled until she found William’s mole-colored velvet doublet and put it on. She wore it often, stroking the soft fabric absently, lost in thought. When the pain became too great to bear, she slept in it.

  Within three weeks she was ousted from her haven when Richard Marshal came from Normandy where he had administered the family estates. Now that William was dead he had come to take over the estates and offices of the wealthy Marshal family. This younger brother was a stern and resolute man who harbored a suspicious resentment against all Plantagenets.

  The Countess of Pembroke had no option but to appeal to the king. Henry was shocked at his beautiful sister’s appearance. He feared her outrageous wrath at the prospect of losing Durham House, but none came. She was so subdued it worried him. “Henry, it doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “I am heart-sore to live there without William.”

  Richard Marshal had already confronted the king. Henry had been rubbing his hands together at the thought of acquiring the Marshal holdings, for when a man of large possessions died without male heir, his estates passed to the Courts of Chancery and the king benefited. Richard Marshal, however, pointed out that since William had no son, he was the heir and had the legal papers to prove it.

  “I have no liking for these young Marshals,” the king said petulantly, yet he knew he could not afford to offend so wealthy a family. Money was power. He would willingly sacrifice Eleanor’s portion of Marshal holdings to keep the peace, since she did not even seem to be aware that she was entitled to one fifth of everything, not only in England, but also in Normandy, Wales, and Ireland.

  “You shall come back to Windsor,” he said firmly, wondering how he would tell her that Thomas of Savoy now occupied her old apartments.

  She smiled sadly and murmured, “There is room for only one Eleanor at your court. I ask only peace and quiet and privacy.”

  Henry saw a solution to his problem. He took her hand in his. “You shall have your own court. You can have Father’s old residence way back in the Upper Ward where you can enjoy complete privacy. Our grandfather built those apartments with stone brought all the way from Bedfordshire. The King John Tower is rectangular and behind all, I believe there is a walled garden with only one key.”

  She squeezed his hand gratefully and murmured, “Thank you, Henry. The entire staff of Durham House has begged me to keep them in my service.” He was relieved that he did not have to pay for her servants. He stared after the small figure as it retreated. Gone was the girl whose eyes flashed like brilliant jewels. Gone was the sister who cuffed him over the ear to reprimand him. Gone was the princess who ruled the Plantagenet roost.

  On the same day that William Marshal was buried, the Bishop of Winchester, on the king’s behalf, commanded Hubert de Burgh to surrender all the royal castles in his possession to Stephen Segrave. To add insult to injury, Segrave was named the new justiciar. When Hubert could not account for all the funds that had passed through his hands, all his personal possessions were taken away. They caught him fleeing and put him in the lowest dungeon of the Tower of London, while upstairs his sumptuous apartments stood empty.

  Falcon de Burgh accompanied his son Michael back to England. He sailed up the Bristol Channel accompanied by two dozen of his finest fighting men. As they rode the hundred miles to London, de Burgh
hoped his journey from Ireland would prove unnecessary, but when they arrived in the capital and learned that Hubert was no longer Justiciar of England, that he had been arrested and that his greatest ally William Marshal was dead, Falcon de Burgh knew he had not a moment to waste. They took rooms at the Bag O’Nails Tavern in Wapping on the edge of the Thames. Under cover of dark, Falcon sent for his son Rickard.

  Rain pooled on the floor as Rickard de Burgh flung off his drenched cloak and strode toward the welcoming peat fire. “Father, Mick, thank God you are come.”

  Falcon de Burgh saw the green fire in his son’s eyes, exactly like his own, and knew his visions had foretold the disaster. “I brought men,” Falcon said, low. “We’ll use the back room to decide our plans, but if there’s any dirty work to be done, I’m the one who’ll do it—I know how.”

  “I suspect the marshal was poisoned,” Rickard said in a low, intense voice.

  “If he was, he must have been in the way of someone’s insatiable ambition. He must have opposed this persecution of Hubert. Neither of you must be seen to champion your uncle. In fact, I want both of you to go into the king’s service.”

  Mick grimaced. “That would rankle. His lack of character is pitiful. The way his loyalty swings about is like a bloody weathervane. Hubert and William were his favorites. They were both like the father he never had and look where they are now.”

  Falcon held up a scarred hand. “I don’t want you on the losing side. If someone had balls enough to poison William Marshal, the younger Marshals’ lives aren’t worth a pinch of pig shit. You will learn more if you are in the king’s service. Henry is weak, not evil. Someone is manipulating him.” The three men grinned for the first time. “All right, everyone is manipulating him.”

  Rickard said, “The king is inconstant as are all Londoners. They are whispering vile untruths about Hubert. I’ve already heard it rumored he poisoned the marshal and that he used black magic for his evil hold over Henry.”