“Shoot!” she ordered. They looked down into the dark face of Simon de Montfort and did not dare to obey Eleanor Plantagenet.
Lord God, de Montfort thought, if that other Eleanor, her grandmother, so infuriated Henry II, ’tis no bloody wonder he imprisoned her.
Eleanor turned from the guards, determined to have her way. She ran to the guards of the inner ward and commanded, “Arrest those men, they refuse to obey me.” As her guards rushed past her to the gatehouse, she went down to the hall. She passed a dripping haunch of venison that always stood roasting by the fire as a symbol of Kenilworth’s hospitality. The people of the castle were gathering for the evening meal, and the tables were filling up both above and below the salt.
She walked proudly to the dais and sat down regally, keeping her eyes upon the entrance. Her blood was high, devils danced in her eyes, turning them a deep sapphire. She forced herself to breathe slowly to calm herself. She had seldom admitted defeat even when it stared her in the face. She had no doubt but that he would come. No castle had ever held out against him, so there was no chance his own would do so. But she would hold out against him. “My will is as strong as yours,” she said aloud, and every head turned in her direction. She had bravery enough to flaunt every convention—he had taught her well.
There was safety in numbers. Simon would not dare lay hands upon her here in the great hall. He paused at the vaulted entrance as if for dramatic effect, filling the doorway. He came in his leathers, dusted and begrimed from the hard ride. He strode a direct path down the center of the hall and stood towering before her. Though she sat upon the raised dais, their eyes were on a level.
“Explain yourself, woman!” he ground out.
Her eyes traveled slowly and insolently up and down his huge frame. “I don’t explain myself to any man, least of all you!” she said with contempt.
No one had ever dared speak to him in such an insulting manner before. He put one great hand upon the table and vaulted across it. She rose quickly to flee, but he had her by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. She knew she was driving him to violence, yet she could not prevent herself from retaliating. The moment his hands stopped shaking her, she pursed her lips and spat upon him.
For one moment his black eyes stared at her in disbelief, then he threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried her up to their bedchamber. He said not one word, and his grim silence told her she could expect the beating he had always promised. Struggling was futile with his cast-iron arm about her, so she cast about in her mind for words to throw at him that would wound and bring pain. As he ascended the stairs she fancied that her heart and his kept time with each other.
Simon’s mind was also busy. This is what I get for loving her too much. When a man marries for love his woman thinks to lead him about by his member. His brain cast about for a reason for her behavior. It could only be because he had forced her brother Henry to his will. She had such a keen intelligence, she knew where it would all end, as did he, and blood was ever thicker than water. By the time he reached their great bed, he had already jumped to the conclusion that she had chosen sides between him and the king. The hurt in his heart demanded an outlet. His reasoning was on a much broader plain than hers. He did not realize that her motives were on a much more personal and intimate level.
He threw her across his knee, intending to administer half a dozen ringing slaps to her bottom, but after one slap, she screamed and he could not bear to mar her lovely flesh. He held her facedown while he hesitated about what punishment he should dole out. Though he was furious with her, he could not allow his violence to inflict pain upon her.
She wriggled angrily in his lap fully intending to bite him and sink her teeth into him, but his leathers prevented her. “Faugh! You stink of horse and sweat.”
He ignored her insult. He shoved her roughly from his knee. “You will now explain to me why you closed the gates upon the lord and master of this demesne.”
She threw up her chin, with tears glittering in her jeweled eyes, more defiant than ever. “Kenilworth is mine; every stone. You gave it to me.”
“Aye, more fool me. You might own Kenilworth’s stones and mortar, but I am lord and master of every man and woman who dwells here, down to the lowliest pot-boy,” he ground out.
She drew herself up proudly. “You might be my lord, but you are not my master. In fact, you won’t even be my lord much longer. I am going to ask Henry to declare my marriage invalid. The king and the Archbishop of Canterbury will take my part in this.”
“You willful little bitch! I paid dearly for this marriage, and neither God nor the devil will take it from me. I bribed your brother, even bribed the bloody Pope, faced down a whole nation set against my having you, even endured exile for you. I coerced the king into giving me Kenilworth, then gifted you with the only thing I ever had of any great value. So rest assured, Eleanor, I consider you bought and paid for.”
She wanted to feel her power over him. She knew a need to provoke his lust. She wanted him to take her then and there begrimed from his travels. She wanted to blot out forever his memory of other women. “I shall never share that bed with you again!” she taunted.
His eyes narrowed, his brows were blacker than she ever remembered. A feeling of panic assailed her. By now he should have swept her into his arms and branded her as his woman. “So be it!” he said coldly. “But know this, wench. You will adorn yourself as befits the Countess of Leicester and will dine with me in the hall before all our people. Your words to me will be sweeter than honey. Your lashes will be downcast to cover the challenging light in your eyes, and you will demonstrate before all that you know your woman’s place.” He picked up her riding whip and tucked it into his belt. Quietly he added, “I will have obedience from you, Eleanor.”
“Dream on, Frenchman,” she hissed, but she waited until he had departed to bathe. She was too impatient to summon her tiring women. She decided she would astound him with her beauty, which must be offset by an exquisite gown. Impatiently she flung the garments about in her wardrobe until she drew forth the one she wanted. It was made from material she had brought from the East. When the light struck it one way it glittered green, then when she moved and the light changed it glowed a deep peacock blue. The neckline formed a vee low enough to display her breasts, which thrust forward as impudently as they dared. She fastened a gold girdle about her waist, crisscrossed it in the back, brought it to the front across her hips, and fastened the tassels so they rested provocatively upon her mons. It was a whore’s trick she had picked up at court, but an effective one for luring a man’s eyes.
She opened her jewel case and took out the Persian sapphire necklace William Marshal had given her. If it pricked de Montfort’s pride that he had given her no jewels, so much the better. Instead of fastening the necklace about her throat, she wore it on her forehead, anchoring the ends into her black silken hair.
The moment she was dressed she left their bedchamber in the Caesar Tower and awaited him in the nursery. There was no way she was going to remain alone with him when he came to dress after his bath. Her eyes upon his body would reveal to him her weakness.
When he joined her in the nursery, his face was set so that it was impossible for her to read his thoughts. How magnificent she was and what sons she had given him, he thought with satisfaction.
Her heart turned over in her breast when she saw again how like his father her firstborn son was. He was talking a mile a minute, and Kate just managed to scoop him from his mother’s arms before he grabbed the jewels that adorned her forehead.
“I see he has some of your grasping qualities,” Simon said mockingly.
A scathing reply sprang to her lips, but de Montfort’s look prevented her from uttering it. She swept her lashes to her cheeks in mock subjugation and moved past him out of the nursery. With quick steps she walked just ahead of him and could feel his eyes riveted upon her pretty, undulating bottom.
For a man who usuall
y dressed in black or some other somber shade, he looked unusually elegant tonight in a blue velvet doublet and hose. No lingering trace of horse or sweat remained; he smelled distinctly of sandalwood. Before they entered the hall he placed her hand upon his arm and she submitted meekly.
By now the room was filled to overflowing, and its occupants openly cheered the return of their lord. Eleanor bristled. No cheers had rung about the room when she had returned, but then de Montfort had the common touch, even knowing the names of the servitors. When they arrived at their places he courteously held her chair for her to be seated. With deliberation she stepped down upon his foot, making sure the high heel of her slipper came sharply down upon his soft suede boot. Her lashes fluttered up prettily. “Ah, forgive me, my lord,” she breathed softly.
He pretended he had not felt a thing and took his place at her side. When the first few dishes were presented, he politely waited for her, then when she took nothing he helped himself. When the meat came and she made no move, he said, “You will eat.”
She looked helplessly from the venison to the kid to the beef. “You will have to chose for me, my lord, the decision is too great for my woman’s mind,” she said sweetly.
Simon held his temper easily, recognizing the male/female game she was initiating. He piled her plate with a variety of succulent meat and watched as she picked up an elegant, two-pronged Italian fork and lifted a piece to her lovely pink mouth. “Tell me why the decision to return to England without my knowledge or permission was not too great for your woman’s mind.”
“You swine! I thought you’d returned to Palestine.”
His hand shot out and squeezed hers painfully. “Softly, wench, I am warning you.”
Her lashes swept to her cheeks and she said in a sweet whisper, “When I learned you had returned home to England, my lord, I thought my woman’s place should be beside you … as a dutiful wife.”
Simon held up his cup for ale. “Thank you, Thomas. Will you be good enough to serve the countess with wine?”
“Oh, thank you, my lord, you are too kind,” she said prettily.
He drank off his ale quickly, then watched as Eleanor took a small sip of wine. Suddenly her goblet slipped through her fingers and its contents splashed across de Montfort’s blue velvet. The dark-red wine looked for all the world like bloodstains. Simon’s control slipped a notch.
“My dearest lord, do forgive me,” she beseeched contritely. Her eyes flicked over the red stain. “I trust you were not wounded in the late disastrous war that you lost?” she inquired solicitously.
Simon gritted his teeth. “I pledged myself to the untrustworthy Plantagenets. I should have known better”
She smiled cruelly.
“The next war will see me on the other side,” he vowed, and had the satisfaction of seeing the smile wiped from her face.
She took a deep breath and said sarcastically, yet in honeyed tones, “Ah, please, milord, do not involve me in decisions of import, it taxes my woman’s brain too much.” Her small hand came to rest upon his thigh. “My woman’s place is in the kitchen.”
“The bedchamber,” he corrected lustfully.
The corners of her mouth went up in a secret smile of triumph, and she lifted her fork to her lips and provocatively nibbled a rare morsel of beef. “Ah, my dearest lord, I am indisposed tonight.” She smiled apologetically. “My woman’s time, you understand?”
He knew she deliberately goaded him. She played the game well, yet he was no slouch and decided that two could play. Though he did not need or want or had ever used a whore since he had been with Eleanor, he shrugged a huge, careless shoulder and lied, “I’ll take another for a few days.” “Whoreson!” She jabbed the Italian fork down to impale the back of his hand. He shot up from the table, sending his chair flying. “That’s it!” He did not trust himself to lay hands upon her. “Guard!” Two knights on duty in the hall came forward instantly, more than willing to do de Montfort’s bidding. Each knew if she had been his wife she would have had the insolence beaten out of her years since. “You have always said the name Eleanor cursed you. You are wrong—it cursed me. We will try the same medicine that was used on your grandmother.” He turned to his guards. “Imprison her in the North Tower. A week on bread and water should draw her sting.”
Eleanor was aghast. This wasn’t supposed to be his reaction. He was supposed to carry her from the hall to their oversized bed to play out the game of domination and submission to its natural conclusion. He must have his blond slave-whore close at hand. She would never forgive him for this humiliation.
46
Each day brought an earl or a baron to Kenilworth to show his support for Leicester. Gloucester came, then Bigod, the newly appointed Marshal and Earl of Norfolk. The next day brought de Lacy and the Earl of Lincoln, and close on their heels came the Bishop of Ely and John de Vescy of Alnwick Castle in Northumberland.
They laid their plans for the parliament they would attend and swore a pact to stand together in opposition to the king who had allowed his wife’s relatives and his own half brothers to divy up England among themselves. At the end of the week Rickard de Burgh rode in with signed bonds from his uncle Hubert, John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, and Roger de Leyburn, England’s steward.
Simon and Rickard were walking in the courtyard as dusk descended. De Montfort’s conscience was pricking him over the harsh treatment he had given his wife. Now he must confess his actions to de Burgh who was ever her champion.
Simon bit his lip. “Eleanor is here,” he said tentatively.
De Burgh looked at him keenly, knowing he had not sent for her in the face of the trouble that was sure to come. “She came without your permission,” said Rickard, knowing her so well.
“She’s lodged up yonder in the North Tower under lock and key,” Simon said grimly.
Rickard de Burgh stiffened. “You did not incarcerate her?” he asked with disbelief.
“By Christ, I’ll tame her yet! She’s got a maggot in her brain about dissolving the marriage.”
Eleanor looked down upon the two men. A week in the tower had only hardened her resolve. She scribbled a note, wrapped it about a brass paperweight, and hurled it down into the courtyard. Simon bent to retrieve it, hope filling his heart that she was contrite. The words he read smote him between the eyes. She punned:
Send me Rickard de Burgh to warm my bed and I shall be content to remain here indefinitely. Seven days without sex makes one weak.
“Blood of God,” de Montfort swore. He thrust the note at de Burgh. “Have you two been lovers?” he demanded. He felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart.
“Nay, Simon, surely you do not need to ask such a thing,” Rickard de Burgh said calmly. He shook his head and said half to himself, “I suppose a woman somehow knows when a man loves her.”
Simon de Montfort had always known that Sir Rickard loved Eleanor. Her conquests were legion. Half the men in England lusted for her, and he admitted he was among their number. “Excuse me, friend, there is a matter that needs my attention.” Simon had had the key to the North Tower about him for seven days in hope that she would yield. Suddenly he realized she would never yield, and that was why he worshipped her. He wanted no milk-and-water wench who would do his bidding without question. He needed a woman with the fire of passion in her blood. He valued her intelligence. ’Twas only a game of the sexes they played wherein he demanded she keep her woman’s place.
He ran up the cold stone steps of the North Tower and turned the iron key in the lock. She stood ready to fly at him. He laughed. She was no bigger than a piss-ant. “For shame, Eleanor, ’Twas a scurvy thing to do to the lad when you know he loves you.”
How dare he stand there laughing and chiding her after imprisoning her for a week! “You may have hysterics, de Montfort, but I am not amused,” she spat.
He had learned more this week than she had. Putting her under lock and key had only hardened her resolve against him. He laughed triumphan
tly, relishing the thought of winning her over with his touch, his nearness. He reached out strong arms and took what he wanted. He lifted her off the floor. “I am the luckiest man alive. Your anger not only makes you beautiful, it arouses your passion.” His arms tightened and he allowed her body to slide down his deliciously.
She had vowed to herself that this time she would make him beg and plead for her forgiveness, but damn him to hellfire, he was the great war lord, he would never beg. He would take what he wanted, whenever he wanted it. His bare-faced flattery about her passion was already having its effect upon her. He wanted a kiss, so he took one, turning it into the most blatant act of seduction with his demanding mouth and damnably attractive hands. Eleanor knew that at any moment he would melt her like molten lava, and her anger grew hotter because of his devastating effect upon her. Before he made love to her again she must have it out with him about the woman.
She pulled from his arms and ran away from him to put distance between them so she could think coherently. The bed loomed between them. “What about her?” she demanded angrily.
“Her?” he asked, at a total loss. “Your fair-haired whore!”
Simon never used whores. In fact, he had never been unfaithful to her, even in thought. After Eleanor’s explosive passion, any other would have been totally unsatisfactory. “Be plain with me, Eleanor. To whom do you refer?”
“Damn you, are there so many then?” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.
“My little love, there are none,” he swore.
“You lie! When you left me in Brindisi, with my own eyes I saw you ride out with the woman from Selim’s harem.”
Suddenly Simon threw back his head and his deep laughter rolled about the tower room. “Are you jealous? Is that what this has all been about, jealousy?”
“You need not look so inordinately pleased with yourself,” she said through gritted teeth.
The Dragon and the Jewel Page 48
