The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  33

  The king and queen and their silly, fun-loving courtiers did not return from Winchester until the middle of January had gone by. Each day after that Eleanor told herself she must return to Windsor to speak with Henry, but there always seemed to be something to keep her at Odiham. Finally she gathered her courage and returned to her old rooms in the King John Tower. She intended to speak with Henry each day, but there always seemed a plausible reason why she could not.

  Matilda Marshal Bigod and her husband, the Earl of Norfolk, descended to protest Henry’s giving Chepstowe to William de Lusignan. They insisted that if he got Pembroke, then they should have Chepstowe. Then the queen’s youngest uncle Boniface arrived and the queen was pressing Henry to make him the new Archbishop of Canterbury. That he was totally unsuited, grasping and violent, did not bother the king for his own half brother Aymer wanted to become Bishop of Durham and Henry himself went to bully the poor monks into making the appointment.

  By now Eleanor was almost five months into her pregnancy and she went abroad only after dusk, concealed in a flowing cloak. While the king was off in Durham she went to compline service in the chapel to pray for courage. She was thankful the place was deserted save for the young priest. The Provençals seldom attended church and never compline, the last service of the day.

  As she knelt she became aware of an enormous dark shadow that came and knelt beside her. Fear was etched upon her lovely face and he tried for a light note. He whispered, “I am an incurable romantic.”

  “I will work diligently on a cure,” she whispered repressively.

  “I doubt if I would respond to treatment.” “You respond … most pointedly.” “That response is for you alone.”

  She turned to reply but the shadow had withdrawn. She prayed for the strength to carry her guilty burden. She asked St. Jude to give her the courage to speak with Henry the moment he returned, and she asked the apostle and martyr to stay by her side while she gained her brother’s help.

  Simon de Montfort never relied on anyone, man or saint, save himself. He was appalled that no lands or castles had been settled on Eleanor and that it looked as if she would receive no dower rights whatsoever. He decided to do something about it. The moment the king returned from Durham, he asked him for a private meeting.

  The Earl of Leicester was almost as important to the king as the Bishop of Winchester. The two great military leaders of his reign, Hubert de Burgh and William Marshal, were now lost to him. Simon de Montfort filled the gap they left, and Henry would have done almost anything to keep him happy and firmly on his side. Leicester was his only bastion against France, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and his own English barons.

  Henry truly liked Simon de Montfort, and he clapped him on the back and said, “Simon, you should have come to Winchester with us for Christmas. We had so much fun. Winchester always shows us such a lavish time.”

  “Sire, I am too deep in debt to indulge in a lavish Christmas.”

  “I know, I know, Simon, and all on my behalf. The council controls the purse strings. I submitted your expenses for the army, but you know how it is. My barons and nobles are expected to shoulder the burden of the debts.”

  “I can hardly do that off Leicester. It had been run into the ground and squeezed of every groat before I got it back from the late Earl of Chester.”

  “Yes, I must find you a decent holding. Can’t have my best military leader going about like a beggar. You should have come to me sooner and reminded me, Simon. Although I admit there has been a bloody long lineup lately for land and castles. But hellfire, if you don’t ask, you don’t get in this world.”

  Henry consulted an enormous map that showed every fief and castle belonging to the crown. “Let me see now,” he said, scratching his head, not really knowing what would satisfy the war lord.

  “Kenilworth,” said Simon.

  “Eh? Kenilworth, did you say?” Henry asked in astonishment.

  “It’s south of Leicester. I go by it to reach my own lands.”

  “I know where Kenilworth is, for Christ’s sake, it is the jewel of England! Kenilworth isn’t just a castle—it is a total feudal state.”

  “Sire, I have asked a certain lady to marry me. I propose you make Kenilworth the hereditary seat of the Earl of Leicester.”

  A grin spread across Henry’s face. “Simon, you dog, you have found your heiress. Who is she?”

  “The lady has not yet given her formal consent. When she does so, you will be the first to know the lady’s name.”

  “Ah, I begin to see why you covet Kenilworth. But, Simon, it is such a wealthy estate, I hate to let it go out of my hands.” Henry sighed. “I will think on it. Give me a few days.”

  Simon bowed and left the king to his deliberations. Henry wanted to keep Kenilworth in Plantagenet hands, and yet he knew it would be safer in de Montfort’s hands than any but his own. The castle and outbuildings, manors and hunting grounds covered over twenty miles, then there were the towns attached to it. It was situated on the rich, rolling hills and valleys that bordered the River Avon, and was an impregnable fortress whose only entrance was a portcullis at the end of an earthen causeway whose outer ward was so vast it became a small city when war threatened.

  The last week of January was upon Eleanor and she dare not let the days slip into February without doing something. February would be her sixth month of pregnancy, and she would soon be unable to conceal it.

  She chose a loose tunic with a flowing underdress in Henry’s favorite green, slipped the sapphire ring he had given her into her pocket, and sought him out at an early hour. The habits of childhood were hard to break. They had been brought up to rise with the sun, and Eleanor knew that the queen and the Provençals were habitually late risers.

  She found him watching some knights practicing in the tilt-yard and listened patiently while he extolled the virtues of Simon de Montfort, who was keeping his fighting men in top physical condition. A light snow had fallen on the ground and Henry scooped up a handful, pressed it into a snowball, and aimed at one of the arched windows, laughing uproariously when it hit its mark and a worried face appeared at the window to see which youth was playing pranks.

  Eleanor solemnly held out his sapphire ring to him. He raised an eyebrow to look at her quizzically. “Henry, what I am about to ask of you will shock you terribly.”

  “Eleanor, I gave you my pledge, so the answer is yes.” He said it lightheartedly, as if it were in his power to grant her anything in the world.

  She shook her head to caution him. “Wait, wait, Henry, until you know what it is I ask. I want to marry again … my happiness depends upon it. I know it is impossible after swearing a vow of chastity, but perhaps … perhaps if it were kept secret?”

  “My little cockroach, you have fallen in love!” Henry laughed.

  Eleanor began to panic. My God, could he not treat anything seriously?

  “We will get around the vows … I am an expert at it,” he said, laughing, “providing, of course, I approve of your choice.”

  “What do you mean, you are an expert?” she asked.

  “Every time I want something from Parliament or my damned council they insist I repledge myself to the conditions of the Magna Carta. They write up some stupid paper that I must sign. I make the bloody promise, then I do exactly as I please. Now tell me who it is you fancy.”

  Her eyes were liquid with apprehension as she looked up at him and whispered the name. He looked down at her in amazement, then his face broke into a dazzling smile. “Bones of God, if that doesn’t beat all! I have wanted him in my pocket since the beginning. I have cudgeled my brains how to make him totally committed to the Plantagenet cause, and here you are offering him to me on a silver platter.”

  She searched his face, amazed that her words had brought joy rather than the anger she had expected.

  Henry laughed with delight as his brain began its devious plotting. “We will have a secret ceremony in the chapel in the middle
of the night, then the two of you must leave immediately. Once it is a fait accompli there isn’t anything they can do about it. I have been waiting for an opportunity to put one over on my bloody council and this is it! Eleanor, I am the King of England, and I give you my royal consent.”

  “Henry, I beg you not to tell the queen,” she implored.

  “Ha! Might as well stand atop the Tower of London and shout it to the mob. I shall tell no one, not even the priest until one minute before he is to say the words over you. Speak to no one,” he cautioned. “Two o’clock in the chapel vestry. I will speak with the Earl of Leicester.”

  Eleanor did exactly as her brother Henry bade her. She did not even breathe a word to Bette, lest the secret be revealed. The winter day seemed endless. She was restless as a cat. She could not eat, she could not rest. Though there was a good fire in her chamber, she could not even seem to get warm. She did not dare to pack anything, and in any case her mind would not let her plan beyond the actual secret ceremony that must be performed to keep her from the shame of bearing a bastard.

  Damn Simon de Montfort to hellfire. It was all his fault. He had pursued her relentlessly, seduced her shamefully, and like a little wanton she had responded to his enticements. Like a ripe peach hanging upon a sun-drenched wall she had fallen into his damnably attractive hands.

  The winter darkness drew in early and the hours crawled toward midnight. She retired at ten o’clock but instead of going to bed, she opened wide her wardrobe to select her garments. She donned lacy stockings, then drew on woolen chausses over them for she knew the chapel floor would be icy as a crypt in the middle of the night. She chose soft leather boots that came halfway up her legs since she knew she would be riding somewhere after the ceremony. Her gown would be velvet, but she was undecided upon the color to choose. It was a wedding, but white was only for a chaste bride and she was anything but. In any case she would need to choose a color that would blend into the darkness of the night. Her hand fell unerringly upon a deep jade-green riding dress. She would have to leave the back unfastened beneath her cloak, but she knew the shade flattered her vivid dark coloring and she needed to look beautiful to bolster her courage.

  She laid the scarlet woolen cloak from Wales across the foot of her bed, then she did the same thing with her sable cloak. She was shivering uncontrollably and decided when it was time to leave she would wear one over the other. Even though there would be very few eyes to see her, she did not want her pregnancy to be detected by anyone. Somehow the idea of two cloaks draped over her made her feel more secure.

  As the hour grew nigh suddenly time seemed to speed up and she wished she could slow it down. She gulped a cup of wine, took her courage in both hands, and cautiously made her way through the freezing night to the king’s private chapel. There was no movement, no sound, just dead stillness and silence about the place. Her heart beat rapidly and her knees turned to water. Something had gone wrong with the plans and no one was there save her. Why, why had she been foolish enough to put her trust in men? They were all so selfish and vile. She closed her eyes, feeling her courage ebb away and wondered what she should do. Suddenly a tall figure appeared at her side, the chapel door opened silently, and a strong hand guided her inside. Henry’s familiar face swam before her eyes as he spoke low with his priest, and then she raised her eyes to the face of the man whose powerful arm supported her back.

  He was the darkest man she had ever seen, and the tallest. He wore black, which added a sinister quality. Already the priest was intoning Latin phrases and she noticed how much Henry’s left eyelid drooped tonight. She did nothing but make her response, then when a document was produced for her signature, Bette stepped forward from the shadows to witness it. Eleanor opened her mouth in surprise. She had left her serving woman asleep. The king and de Montfort spoke with Bette as if Eleanor were not even present. “Take her back to bed now. At daybreak pack and depart for Odiham as usual.”

  Like a puppet she allowed Bette to lead her away, glad that all responsibility had been taken from her for once. She allowed her serving woman to remove her cloaks and put her to bed. It was all so much like a dark dream. So, she was being sent to Odiham. She had had some vague notion that her new husband would carry her far away, perhaps to Leicester, where they would be able to live together secretly. But it seemed that nothing would change. She would live at Odiham alone, where de Montfort would ride secretly at his convenience. The mumbled words of the priest had been a mere formality.

  She closed her eyes wearily, emotionally drained. She placed her hands protectively upon her swollen abdomen and tumbled into darkness. When she opened her eyes she saw that everything was packed in readiness for Odiham and Bette was urging her to rise and break her fast so they could be upon the road. As she swept aside the covers and rose from the bed, she blushed shamefully when she realized how obvious her pregnancy must be.

  Bette firmly pressed her lips together and said, “There is no shame in bearing the great Earl of Leicester an heir, especially when you are the Countess of Leicester.”

  Eleanor’s finger went to her lips. “Don’t call me that while we are still at Windsor,” she begged.

  “I’m not daft. I shall call you Countess of Pembroke as everyone else does.”

  Eleanor wore exactly the same things she had worn to the chapel. She was starting to feel a little better. Her energy was returning as she felt an urgency to be gone from this place. It was almost like leaving a prison. She had been captive here for longer than she cared to remember.

  The air was cold and clear and crisp and as she sat her horse with her sable fur wrapped snugly about her, she realized today was February, the start of a new month—the start of a new life. Before her household cavalcade had traveled two miles out into the countryside from Windsor, they were met by what looked like an army. Ah, God, they have come to arrest me, she thought. Then she realized that the giant in charge of the armed men was Simon de Montfort.

  His spirits were high as was his blood. He had no need for hat or cloak. “Good morning, Countess. There has been a last-minute change of plans. We ride north.” He dismounted and came to her side. His voice was low and intimate as he worshipped her with his eyes. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied, and suddenly it was true.

  “We will be in the saddle for two days,” he told her. “I shall take you up before me.” He held up his powerful arms. She looked down at his hands and she was lost. She came down to him all shyness and sable, and in that moment he felt invincible as a god. He had seized the moment and made it happen. For today at least he had vanquished the enemy.

  Snuggled against his broad chest, high up on his great destrier, the world seemed a safer place. “Where are we bound?” she asked.

  “Home,” he answered with conviction.

  She knew the need for secrecy and did not press him, save to ask “Will there be room for this vast company?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. The columns of his neck stood out and his strong white teeth flashed. Surely this boyish rogue could not be the same darkly forbidding man she had wed in the night?

  “I have sent Rickard de Burgh to fetch all your people from Odiham and still the place will be half empty,” he promised.

  Eleanor thought it sounded like heaven, but it could turn out to be hell, she thought with a slight shiver. His black eyes laughed down at her and suddenly she didn’t care which it was, so long as Sim was there with her.

  She clung to him all day, sometimes listening to his deep voice reassuring her, sometimes closing her eyes and resting against him. But in the late afternoon before full dusk descended, his fingers traced the faint shadows along her cheekbones and he knew he must find an inn. Miraculously they had traveled as far as Oxford. Simon bade his men to find their own shelter and be on the road again by six.

  He skirted the town itself and rode into an inn yard at the village of Woodstock. Oxford had become the seat of all learning since
the religious order of Franciscans settled there to teach and to serve. The great cultural center drew the noblest men of the realm, and Simon felt that either himself or the king’s sister might be recognized if they stayed there.

  In the small chamber beneath the rafters Simon insisted upon undressing her and putting her to bed. Then when the serving wench staggered up the stairs with a tray laden with hearty country fare, he carried the food to the bed and fed her with his fingers.

  “Will you feed me with your fingers every night, husband?” she purred.

  “Nay,” he teased, “you are fat as a piglet now.” They kissed between mouthfuls. Simon firmly decided that she needed her rest and her strength, and he would make no demands upon her this night. When he undressed, however, and she saw that he wore the black leather sheath to protect his shaft from the saddle, she seduced him into making love to her.

  At the end of the next day they arrived at Kenilworth just as the sun was setting. It reflected golden in the River Avon and touched every window, turret, and tower with a welcoming, shining brightness. The walls were crenellated and the outer wall was broken by five towers. They rode over an earthen causeway to a two-story gatehouse and through a portcullis.

  Eleanor looked up at her new husband. “This isn’t Leicester,” she said, a note of uncertainty and longing in her voice.

  “No,” said Simon, cantering into the outer ward, “this is Kenilworth.”

  “Oh, ’tis like a world of its own,” she breathed with admiration. The stone walls of the inner ward were over twenty feet thick with built-in rooms for guards and soldiers. “Whoever owns this Kenilworth?” she asked.

  The Earl of Leicester swung from his destrier and lifted her to the ground. She looked like a tiny doll against the vast structure whose main floor rose eighty-seven feet into the air. “You do, Eleanor,” he said quietly.