“As you wish, my lady.”
* * *
Simon de Montfort had put the King’s Guard through their paces. Though they had practiced their swordplay stripped to the waist, the sweat ran off them in buckets. Most of the knights had received at least one nasty gash before their sloppy fighting was corrected. An exception had been Rickard de Burgh.
Simon de Montfort complimented him on his skills as the two men walked to the bathhouse. The female attendants laughed when Simon had to double up his legs to fit his great frame into a wooden tub. Simon and Rickard exchanged rueful glances for the women who tended them had faces like rusty buckets. “We will soak for a while,” de Montfort said, dismissing the servants. When they were alone he said, “Your brother did not come into the king’s service after the marshal’s death?”
Sir Rickard shook his head. “There was that bad business with our uncle Hubert. It was an insult to the de Burghs that Mick would not swallow.”
Simon nodded. “After serving with William Marshal I could hardly stomach service with the king, but now that I see you are here, it feels better.” Simon held Rickard’s eyes with his magnetic black stare. “I’ve heard the ridiculous rumors concerning William’s death. We both know he was fit enough to service ten women. How did he really die?” Simon asked bluntly.
“I suspect he was murdered, but I have no proof. It happened after the wedding banquet when Richard married William’s sister.”
“Poison.” Simon nodded grimly. “Is that why you took service with the king, to learn more?”
De Burgh shook his head. “Not really. As you can see for yourself Henry is a puppet of Winchester and Winchester is too powerful to pull down. Nay, I pledged to the Earl of Pembroke and I still feel pledged to Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke.”
Simon was surprised. “By all accounts she sounds like just another wanton Plantagenet.”
Rickard stiffened and de Montfort thought he resembled a dog with raised hackles. He put up a hand. “Easy, man, I did not mean to offend you.”
“The talk about the countess was vile. William must be spinning in his grave. She was no more than a child; an innocent child,” de Burgh emphasized. “The marshal saw to that. He paid for an all-female household from the time she was nine. He established the convent of St. Bride’s so the nuns could teach her. The day he died, I had this premonition of danger to Eleanor. I stayed close by. She and William were housed in one of the towers at Westminster. When I heard her screams in the night I ran into their chamber. William was dead when I arrived.” De Burgh hesitated, for he’d never before breathed a word of what he was about to divulge. “My lady was imprisoned beneath his body; she is very small. I lifted him off her and saw that he had taken her virginity.”
“Splendor of God,” de Montfort murmured.
“The physicians came in with their prurient questions and blamed her for William’s death.”
“You didn’t defend her?” de Burgh asked in a nonaccusatory tone.
“They were insinuating a female with her appetite must have a lover. If I had championed her, I would have condemned us both.”
De Montfort nodded his understanding. After stepping from the wooden tub, he vigorously toweled himself. Rickard reached for a towel. “When the Countess of Pembroke takes the veil, I will probably return to Connaught.”
“Henry said his sister was about to enter the convent. I’ve never seen her,” Simon said.
Rickard gave him an odd look. “That was the Countess of Pembroke you stared at this morning—the lady in white with the Mother Superior of St. Bride’s.”
21
Eleanor walked through the cool halls of St. Bride’s, past the cloistered, windowless cells where the nuns slept until she came to the chapel where she knew she would find Mother Superior. The head of the order had been watching for her and took her into a small classroom she used for teaching. She had rehearsed what she would say and spoke up quickly before Eleanor could take the offensive.
“What you did this morning was commendable. Though it is our prevailing belief that all affliction comes from God and must be borne, I think you may have much to teach us. There is much to be said, I think, for exhausting every avenue before we give one up to God.”
She had taken the wind from Eleanor’s sails. Eleanor said, “Well, I am relieved that we have come to an understanding about my beliefs because they are strong. I could never reconcile myself to closing my eyes and praying while there was yet a breath of life. I believe that even when the mother dies, the life of the child should be saved.”
“My dear countess, that is one of our firmest beliefs. If there is any hint of danger to a newborn life, we believe in putting that life before the mother’s.”
“Well, again I must disagree with you. A man can try for another child each year, but I hope he would not try for another wife.”
Mother Superior was not about to argue Catholicism with her or she would certainly lose. “My dear, your hands have special healing powers. They are so small and delicate. I know that if the Earl of Pembroke could have seen you save that mother and child this morning, he would have been very proud of you.”
Eleanor lowered her lashes to hide her pain and Mother Superior pressed home her advantage. “I know how deeply you mourn and I also know the panacea for that pain lies with the order. It was instinctive for you to swear the oath of chastity and take the vow of perpetual widowhood. I think you are ready to move forward. I think you are ready to wear Christ’s wedding ring.”
Eleanor looked alarmed. “Oh, no, William’s ring is quite enough, thank you.”
Mother Superior bit her lip and murmured, “The ring is merely a symbol. I think you are ready for the vows of obedience and poverty.”
Eleanor shook her head. “I have many doubts. I know I am not ready yet. I am only just recovering from the shock of my husband’s death. I loved him more than I loved my own life.”
“I believe you are ready, my dear. You have come such a long way in the years I have known you. You are not the same child, not the same young woman you were.”
Eleanor looked deeply into her eyes. “Inside I am exactly as I was in the nursery. I feel everything passionately. Inside I still swear and curse. I am probably the most vain woman you will ever meet, and I have an insatiable thirst for beautiful clothes and jewels.”
Mother Superior grew alarmed but hid it behind a calm mask. “All that will change when you take the veil.”
“Inside I will not change, because I do not really want to,” Eleanor confessed.
“I want you to come next week and stay in a private cell in the cloisters. I want you to experience the quiet, the peace and tranquility before you decide. Will you do that for me, Eleanor?”
“Yes, Mother Superior.”
The older woman dipped her fingers in the holy water and anointed Eleanor’s forehead with the sign of the cross. “Go with God, my dear.”
Eleanor took her book to the walled garden, but her eyes read not one line. She was lost in reverie over the decision she must make. She did not believe she would make a very good nun, but if William would have approved of her taking this step, she would do so without hesitation or regret.
Simon stood concealed where he had been awaiting her for hours. He stayed where he was to observe her. The splash and murmur of the fountain mingled with the piping birdsong as the willows nodded in the gentle wind. She sat frowning, musing, white chin resting upon white arm. She was dreamy-eyed and languid, and he gazed enraptured upon her beauty.
He saw how her black curls were kissed with red highlights from the sun. Then he saw her lift her eyes heavenward, brimful of dreams. He wanted to be part of those dreams. He did not fully understand why he was drawn to her so strongly, he hadn’t reasoned it out; he only knew a compulsion that his destiny beckoned. He stepped forward boldly now. “You are Eleanor Plantagenet.” It was a statement, not a question.
She gasped, startled at the intrusion upon her solitude. “
If you know I am the Countess of Pembroke, you also know I am inviolate. I must never be seen alone in a man’s company.”
He grinned. “That’s why the walled garden is perfect for our meetings. None will ever see us; none will ever know.”
“I will know!” she cried. “We must never meet again.”
“Rubbish,” he said forcefully. “Why did you not tell me who you were? There must be no subterfuge between us.”
“There is no ‘us,’ I thought I made that plain the last time you intruded,” she cried.
“Quietly, sweetheart.” He put a finger to his lips. “If you rave and shout we might be overheard and our secret discovered.” He made the words “our secret” sound so illicit, she blushed. His heart skipped a beat for he knew the blush was the result of his nearness.
The crowding sensations and racing thoughts made her quite breathless. Simon looked at her speculating exactly how long this wooing would take him. She lowered her lashes as he stretched out upon the grass beside her. She could not see his face but she was acutely aware of his hands as they grasped his knees. They were large, strong, and brown, and for some inexplicable reason she found them unbearably attractive.
She glanced away from them, but she found again and again her eyes returned, gauging the length of the fingers, the breadth of the square palms, and noticing how the crisp black hairs curled on the backs below his thick wrists.
He was content for the moment to just look at her. She was exquisite. The curve of her cheek, the stubborn dimpled chin seemed to make a heart-shaped frame for the full lips that he longed to mold against his own hot mouth. The delicate curve of her black eyebrows would arch above eyes like deep-blue pools, if she ever got the courage to look at him. “Why did you tell me your name was Kathe?” he demanded savagely, and he was rewarded by her startled glance.
“Katherine is my middle name. I hate the name Eleanor, it is cursed!”
He went on his knees before her, capturing her hands between his, scattering her parchment across the grass. “Eleanor is a magnificent name, a queen’s name!”
She stared mesmerized at the attractive hands that had seized hers. Her heart beat so loudly, surely he would hear it.
“Your grandfather, Henry II, was England’s greatest king, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, whom you were named after, was her greatest queen. It is a magnificent legacy, not a curse!”
“I loathe and detest the name,” she said defiantly.
“Rubbish,” he said. “I shall call you Eleanor until you learn to like it.” His bold, black eyes taunted her. “Perhaps I’ll call you Kathe when I make love to you.”
She snatched her hands from him and struck him in the face.
He was pleased to get such a hot reaction from her. “I am only teasing you.” His eyes were alight. “Does no one ever plague you to make you laugh?”
“Not for years,” she answered sadly. “My brothers teased me unmercifully, calling me a cockroach and piss-ant, because I was so little,” she explained.
“You informed me that you were not little, I was a giant, remember?”
The corners of her mouth went up. “And so you are a bloody giant.”
“Well,” he bargained, “I’ll admit to being oversized if you’ll admit to being undersized.” His thoughts were so lustful he had to fight the urge to lay her back in the grass and ravish her. He retrieved her pages. “What do you study here, day after day?”
“Gaelic. William taught me the beauty of the Celtic languages. I became quite good at them.”
“I’d like to learn,” he told her. “Say something in Gaelic.”
She lowered her black lashes. “Sim,” she said softly.
His black brows drew together then he suddenly smiled. “Sim … that’s Gaelic for Simon, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Lend me the book and I’ll learn Gaelic for you.” “It takes years of application; ’tis a very difficult language.” “A wager. Next time we meet I’ll converse with you in Gaelic.”
“Impossible,” she said.
“Then you won’t mind wagering a kiss,” he answered. “There will be no next time, there will be no kiss,” she said primly.
He towered above her. “Now you have challenged me, Eleanor, and I have never lost a joust in my life. A kiss is the forfeit I shall demand.”
“Not on the lips,” she said quickly.
Simon threw back his head and laughed. “Not on the lips,” he agreed. “How long is it since you laughed?” he asked, his eyes on her mouth.
“You must know how long,” she said sadly, filled with memories of William. “Simon, I think you should know that I am contemplating entering a nunnery. This has just been a game of make-believe. We must not see each other again.”
Her words made him furious. “I won’t allow you to do any such ridiculous thing. Splendor of God, William must be spinning in his grave!”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“In France I fought side by side with the marshal. At night in our tents we shared our thoughts. The great difference in your ages appalled him. He feared he was sacrificing your youth. Splendor of God, Eleanor, his soul will never rest in peace if you lay the reason for entering a convent at his door. You are not yet eighteen years old; don’t sacrifice your life to the church!”
“I have such doubts,” she admitted gravely.
“You are likely being coerced to go against your nature.”
She shook her head at her great dilemma. “I loved William so very much. My life is over anyway.”
“Rubbish! Your life hasn’t yet begun. I have no doubt you loved him. He was a fine man, but he would run mad if he knew you walked here with his ghost. He would want you to be vibrant, passionate, have children. If you want to do something for William’s memory, stop sleepwalking. Come out of your trance and find his murderer—avenge him!”
“I killed him!” she cried.
“I shall have to prove to you that making love does not kill a man.”
“No one would murder the Marshal of England. My brother the king wouldn’t allow such an evil thing to happen,” she said indignantly.
“If Henry ruled England, I agree with you that he would not let such things happen, but Henry does not rule England. He bends to whichever will is stronger than his own at any given moment.”
Eleanor was angry. “Be damned to you, that’s treason.”
“Well, probably politics are beyond a woman’s grasp.”
“You arrogant French swine. I’ve had the finest of educations. My grasp of politics is comprehensive.”
He said savagely, “Swine I may be, but I object to being continually referred to as French. I am descended from the same Norman nobility as the Plantagenets. I am the Earl of Leicester.”
He looked so threatening she felt afraid and had to take her courage in her hands to continue the game of parry and thrust. “You say the name Plantagenet as if you hold it in contempt.”
“Your grandfather was my idol. The name has fallen from grace since his time. It is within your brother’s power to restore England to glory. While he has his youth and health he should strive to bring peace and prosperity to his kingdom, instead of setting his barons at each other’s throats. His policies of advancing foreigners over Englishmen breed only jealousy, greed, and discontent. A man has it in him to become what he beholds. You have to do your very best on good days knowing there will be bad days on which you’ll do your worst. The king fritters away his birthright, toadying to his wife’s relatives. Henry spends money he doesn’t have to get things he doesn’t need, to impress people he doesn’t like.”
“Are you quite finished, de Montfort?” she said icily.
“I’ve only just begun,” he threatened, allowing his eyes to wander down to her impudent breasts and back up to her mouth. “I much prefer it when you call me Sim.”
“Please leave, de Montfort,” she requested.
He sighed. “Ah, well, we shall call each other
Kathe and Sim when we make love.”
She stood and raised her hand to strike him. He encircled her wrist with ease to stay the blow.
“Never strike me again,” he said in such a quiet, menacing voice, she feared for one awful moment he would snap her wrist like a twig. In reality he was astounded at her courage. She actually had enough daring to attack a six-and-a-half-foot man. Such a passionate female was a treasure beyond compare.
“If your grasp of politics is as comprehensive as you claim, you will know I speak the truth, if you will but pause in your headlong sacrificial dash to the convent.” He swept up her book, rustled the pages to taunt her, then winked at her audaciously.
She sat a long time after he had taken himself over the wall, her mind going over and over the things he had said. Splendor of God, had she been in such a deep slumber she’d never suspected irregularities in William’s death?
* * *
Two nights later Eleanor bade her serving women good night and entered her private chamber atop the King John Tower. She removed her gown and bathed her arms and face with rosewater, then pulled aside her bedcurtains to reach for her nightgown. Simon de Montfort lay stretched out on her bed with his arms behind his head.
“Oh, bugger.” She gasped.
“Very pretty language for a nun,” he whispered.
“I’ll scream,” she hissed.
“You won’t,” he whispered. “You are too big a coward to be caught with a man in your bedchamber.” “How on earth did you get in here?” she hissed. He pointed to the tower window and grinned. She groaned. “What do you want?”
He rolled his eyes, just thinking of what he wanted. Her petticoat revealed much more of her high-thrusting breasts than he’d seen before, and he was enjoying her predicament immensely.
He eased a hand into his doublet and carefully brought forth a handful of ruffled feathers. “I brought you these orphaned creatures,” he said, holding out his hand. On his big palm sat two tiny screech owls. “I know you love birds. Perhaps you could keep them in your garden where they’ll be safe from weasels and foxes.”
The Dragon and the Jewel Page 22
