The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  Eleanor’s hand flew to her throat. When Simon learned of this he would want to kill William of Valence. Oh, God, why must there always be trouble?

  The steward knew what he must do. “I shall have to take this news to my lord. I would be derelict in my duty if I did not.”

  Eleanor drew a deep breath. “I shall go with you.” As soon as the words were out she knew she had been searching for a reason to join Simon, but why in the name of God did it have to be something that would cause more bad blood between her family and de Montfort?

  When Eleanor rode into Oxford she couldn’t believe her eyes. It was like an armed camp before a battle. The streets were patrolled by knights in chain mail, the inns overflowed with men-at-arms carrying longbows. Men were camped from Oxford Castle all the way out to Banbury Road.

  In his blind arrogance, Henry had actually come to Parliament to ask for a tallage of one-third of all the belongings in the kingdom, but he gasped when he saw his barons sitting in Parliament in full armor. On one side was the king, his three half brothers, John Mansel, and the Savoys who were now leading peers. On the other side were the barons led by Simon de Montfort and Roger Bigod, the Marshal of England.

  De Montfort wasted no time in making plain the barons’ demands. They must have more than sworn promises that the king would break the moment he left Oxford. They were no longer willing to have their nation involved in madly expensive wars. The administration must be reformed from top to bottom. The offices of justiciar, treasurer, and chancellor must be filled by English nobles of integrity. The challenge was fierce as a swordthrust, and thus ended the first day of Parliament.

  Eleanor had taken the precaution of riding with an escort to prevent Simon’s wrath, but when he saw her arrive at the Beaumont Palace where he had made his headquarters, he could not hide the fact that he was furious. White-faced, he took her firmly by the arm and led her to his chamber where they could be private from all eyes if not all ears. “Splendor of God, Eleanor, for once in your lifetime could you not stay put where I left you?”

  She took offense. “I love Kenilworth so much, do you think I would have troubled to leave it and journey all this way if it wasn’t important? Damn you, I have only your interests at heart!”

  A flicker of apprehension clouded his brow. “What has happened?”

  “Your steward from Leicester came with terrible news. It seems William of Valence out with a hunting party stopped at Leicester. When he received no hospitality, hostility broke out and two of your people were killed.”

  “The little cocksucker sat in Parliament today sneering at the barons.”

  “Simon!” she reproved stiffly.

  He looked to her with an apology upon his lips when a thought came to him. His eyes narrowed. “The steward came here to bring me this news, but why did you come, Eleanor?” he demanded. Before she could reply he said, “You have only my interests at heart, you claim, but we both know better than that, don’t we, Eleanor? You feared for your brother, admit it!”

  She angrily turned her back upon him. She went to the table and poured herself a drink from the jug. It was not wine, it was ale, and she pushed the goblet aside and turned back to him. “I-I just don’t want trouble between you.”

  “Trouble? There will be more than trouble! You sure as hell didn’t come to protect my interests. You know damn well I need no protection!” he roared. He was angry because she was the only one in the world who could make him feel defensive. Why in the name of God had she come to place herself smack in the middle of this conflict? Alone he was so resolute, so sure of purpose, but when she was close, his heart ruled his head and he was ever afraid of losing her. She had an elusive quality. He told himself that anyone who could be wholly owned was not worth wholly owning, but it didn’t help.

  How many times had he begged her to trust him? She was a Plantagenet and from a Plantagenet’s view, was he not about to betray that trust? Everything was black and white so long as she was in a safe haven, looking to her babes, knowing nothing of the dirty business of politics. But when she was in the forefront, his thoughts turned an indecisive gray.

  Eleanor’s shoulders drooped. She had known he’d be angry but she had counted on seeing the eager welcome leap into his eyes once he had scolded her. She knew she would get no welcome. On the contrary, what she saw was total rejection. “I’m tired … I need a bath,” she said unhappily.

  “I will summon the palace steward to prepare a chamber for you.”

  Eleanor bit her hp. He wanted separate chambers. For one blinding instant she thought of rushing to Oxford Castle and asking the king to dissolve her marriage, but after a moment’s consideration she knew her marriage to Simon de Montfort was the most precious thing in her life. “I’ll return home on the morrow,” she said softly. She went from him and he did not try to stop her.

  At Oxford Castle, Henry was being besieged by the queen, by the Savoys, and by his half brothers. They insisted that he take a high hand with the barons and with the traitorous de Montfort, but Henry was deeply in debt, mainly due to these same relatives who were urging him on to recklessness. He had put pressure on the monasteries and the Jews, bled them dry, and now the only place left was Parliament and direct taxation.

  On the second day of Parliament the barons presented the “provisions” they had drawn up for the king’s signature. They demanded a permanent council to advise him on all policy with the right of veto. As well, the crown was to resume control of all royal castles.

  William of Valence was on his feet before they got to the third provision. “I shall never give up my castles … I am uncle to the Queen of England!” he shouted arrogantly.

  William de Lusignan added his effeminate voice. “My brother the King of England gave me Chepstowe and Pembroke. You are speaking to a member of the royal family, de Montfort!”

  Simon relished the confrontation. “Not one drop of royal blood runs in your veins. You may have had the same mother as the king, but may I remind you that not one drop of royal blood runs in her veins either.” Then he raised his black eyes to stare down William de Valence. “You and I have a more personal score to settle.”

  The two Williams were in a rage. “Traitor!” they cried, and drew their swords, but de Montfort’s steel was out first.

  The giant advanced upon Valence and Lusignan. “Hold this for sure: Either you give up your castles or you lose your heads!”

  Valence backed down, but William de Lusignan, purple in the face, turned to Henry.

  Roger Bigod, the marshal, coughed. “There is one more provision.” He paused, then plunged on. “Exile for the Lusignans.”

  A gasp arose from the king’s men and a great murmur of approval arose from the barons. Henry was too weak and feckless to stand against such fierce pressure. Reluctantly, bitterly, Henry yielded and signed the Provisions of Oxford, then turned accusing eyes upon Simon de Montfort. “I never thought I would see the day when I had to fear you more than any other man.”

  “You should not fear me, Henry. My sole desire is to preserve England from ruin and you from the destruction that your false counselors are preparing for you.”

  The barons were satisfied that their rights as peers of the realm would be upheld. Simon de Montfort wanted to take things one step further. He argued that the Magna Carta laid down that the rights of the peers be extended to their dependents. The common man must be protected. He argued that the king should be the servant of the people, not their master.

  Not all the barons agreed with him, so for the nonce de Montfort had to be satisfied. He had taken up the reins of power and allowed Henry to retain the semblance of kingship.

  Simon returned to Kenilworth knowing he had been reprieved. His marriage was still intact. Yet he knew this was just the lull before the storm. When the cataclysm came, would it tear them asunder?

  The barons, knowing that it was second nature for King Henry to dissemble and make lying promises, kept their knights and men-at-arms ready. Unde
r the leadership of Simon de Montfort they had assembled the largest army in England’s history.

  As Simon and his men thundered along the earthen causeway to Kenilworth’s portcullis, his eyes scanned the walls and gatehouse. He saw only guards and he experienced a small pang of disappointment that she had not run to meet him. Last time she had met him with whip and longbows, but at least she had met him.

  Once inside the impregnable stronghold, he was greeted so warmly by all including Eleanor that his mood lifted.

  As the days passed he had taken to watching her. To him she seemed more beautiful than ever. She laughed more often, her eyes sparkled brighter, her gowns were prettier, her movements more graceful, and yet it seemed to him she was the tiniest bit cool and distant. Oh, she was passionate enough whenever he initiated it, but a yearning, a longing had grown inside of him. He wanted more. He wondered if there was such a thing as a “soulmate” as the poets rhapsodized, or was he just lovesick? Was he actually jealous of the love she bore her brother? No, it wasn’t jealousy, he decided. Rather it was a need to have her commit to him totally, unconditionally, without question. If she would pledge her trust, he would be a happy man.

  That night, after a fierce loving, she lay upon him in slumber. He gazed at her in wonder. How small and silken were her limbs. The contrast with his own body was unbelievable. Where he was huge, she was tiny. Where he was hard, she was soft. Where he was dark, she was pale. Where he was hairy, she was silken. Where he was coarse, she was fine. His fingertips traced the down upon her cheek, the tiny blue veins in her eyelids. He brought her small hand to his lips and marveled at the perfection of her pink oval nails. Why had man and woman been created so differently? At this moment it seemed an impossibility that a great giant of a male could mate with such a petite female. How on earth had one so fragile borne him lusty sons?

  Desire for her flared in him hot and savage, yet at the same time his need to protect her was stronger than his lust. He loved this woman with all his heart and soul. He sighed. If one of them must love more than the other, thank God it was he.

  The calm lasted for many months, then on a blustery day of autumn, Rickard de Burgh rode in hard on a lathered destrier.

  Simon gave his lieutenant hot buttered ale and prepared himself to hear the worst.

  “Henry has drawn up a long list of charges against you. He has sent to the Pope for an absolution of his oath to observe the Provisions of Oxford and he has decreed that he has resumed royal power.”

  Simon’s eyes were fixed moodily on a far-off point. Finally he said, “And so it begins.”

  “Henry brought in a great body of mercenary troops and London became so incensed, he had to move into the Tower for safekeeping.”

  “He hasn’t the brains of a piss-stone,” Simon said sadly. “He acts like a child waving a tin sword.” He quaffed down his ale, wiped his mouth, and announced quietly, “I will call a Council of War.”

  He sent messages to Oxford, Gloucester, Norfolk, Chester, Derby, Surrey, Northumberland, the Marcher Lords, and the Cinque Ports. There was one other, however, whom he knew he must inform, and it was what he had dreaded and postponed for what seemed like years. He saddled one of his horses and rode out alone into the hills. He loved this countryside, loved all of England; he deeply regretted that it had come down to civil war. It would not only divide the country, it would divide families, possibly his own.

  De Montfort had come too far to compromise. Strict adherence to the terms of the Great Charter was the only acceptable course. There must be no more squandering of national wealth or land or heiresses upon foreigners or royal relatives from abroad. No more levying of illegal taxes.

  He did not turn his horse for home until the last of the light had faded from the chill afternoon. He never felt the cold, yet as he rode across the windswept causeway he gathered his red wool cloak more closely. Kenilworth’s welcoming lights beckoned him, yet the dread he felt in his heart prevented the warmth of his home from comforting him.

  Eleanor was in the solar surrounded by her women, but the moment she saw him she quickly reminded the nurses it was time to feed the children. Her other women tactfully withdrew to allow the countess privacy with the earl.

  He swallowed hard and indicated a chair by the fire. “Eleanor, we have to talk.”

  Her eyes never left his dark, serious face as she sat down. A small bubble of panic rose in her breast and her hair bristled on the nape of her neck. At every crisis in her life Rickard de Burgh had appeared.

  Simon found he could not wrap it up in a prettily disguised package. Here was his moment of truth. He tried to conquer his fear, for had he not always said you get what you fear in this life? “Eleanor, we are two very strong personalities, and God knows we have clashed over and over since the day we decided to scorn convention and marry. We are both expert at male/female games wherein you enjoy flouting my authority and I strive to keep you in your woman’s place. I think you are wise enough to know they are only games. Both of us know you are my equal.”

  Her eyes widened. She had known it and deep down she realized he too had always known it, but she had never thought to hear him admit it aloud.

  He took a step closer and impatiently threw back the scarlet cloak from his wide shoulders so it would not impede him. “Physically we are one. You have always submitted your body to me. Now I must have more. Today we will have it out one way or the other. I want full commitment. I demand the personal morality of loyalty, friendship, and honesty from you. I am asking for a pact of chivalry from you to me for what I am about to do.”

  His words almost overwhelmed her. They showed her with crystal clarity that though this magnificent man did not need permission from her to do what was right, he was asking for her approval, her commitment to him not only as a Plantagenet and a princess but also as a wife, a mate, an equal. Unless they stood together, attuned in body, mind, and soul, he could not go forward with anything but a heavy heart. But go forward he would.

  She arose from her chair to face him. How like him it was to ask her to commit to him without question, without full explanation of what it was he was about to do. She saw him for what he was and ambition was no small part of him. This past year she had not gone about blind, deaf, and dumb to what had been happening. She knew he led the barons in opposition to the crown. She knew he plotted against the Plantagenets.

  The time was at hand for her to look at her brother Henry honestly and see him for being weak and childish. Now she admitted he was at the core of everything that was wrong with England. Simon was asking her to choose, but in truth there was no choice. There never would be a choice between right and wrong, good and evil, justice and injustice. To England Simon de Montfort was a symbol, to the barons he was an instrument, but to her he was everything: breath, blood, strength, life, love … love eternal. He was the magnificent standard of manhood by which she hoped their sons would measure themselves. This man had taken her and taught her the meaning of love as a woman, not as a child, and now he was giving her free choice to pledge to him as every one of his fighting men had pledged to him. She felt honored. It would be her privilege to pledge her life to him and follow him to the ends of the earth.

  She stepped close and raised her hand. For one horrific moment he thought she would strike him, but then she sank to her knees before him and grasped his wrist for the pledge. “I am your woman, my lord of Leicester.”

  Tears stood in his black eyes as he lifted her from her knees. He embraced her tightly. “I am afraid it is war, my darling, but I swear to you no physical harm shall come to Henry. I have a signed pledge from all the barons that Prince Edward will be brought up to the kingship. We shall see to it that he is the best king that England has ever known. Eleanor, thank God you see my ambition is not a personal one for the crown; my ambition is for England.”

  She marveled that he never doubted the outcome. The idea of failure never entered his head. She smiled and touched his face. The rough shadow of his bea
rd pricked her fingertips. “You once told me, ‘Never look back, your past is gone. Always look ahead, embrace your future!’”

  He turned her palm toward his mouth and his lips traced her life line and heart line, which ran together. “You are the only Plantagenet fit to rule.”

  The haggard look had left his face and had been replaced by one of infinite tenderness. He held her lovely sapphire eyes with his. This woman meant more to him than life. She probably meant more to him than saving England, but thanks to her generosity he did not have to make the choice. “I pledge to you this newfound bond between us shall never be broken. You shall have equal say in all I do. I pledge you my protection, my love, my life.” He felt like a god. It was what he had always desired of her. Total commitment. This bond was deeper than anything physical. It was a deep, mystical experience that filled his senses to overflowing, yet strangely it humbled him. Quickly he sealed their vows with a gentle kiss and strode from the room with every ounce of his strength restored.

  Rickard de Burgh climbed to the solar. Eleanor stood by the window in the shadows. She said quietly, “There is no other way?”

  He shook his head. “War is inevitable. I don’t suppose he told you Henry has issued an endless list of charges against him and has asked Rome to absolve him from his oath?”

  She shook her head and lit the candles. “Oh, Rickard, he doesn’t know what fear is. He is so sure of himself.”

  “He is sure of himself, but he does know what fear is … he wasn’t sure of you.”

  She smiled at him hauntingly. “Justice is his passion … and he is mine.”

  “Do not be afraid, Eleanor. Youth predominates in the baronial ranks. Young men find him irresistible. He has a magnetic appeal to their sense of idealism.”

  Her eyes were filled with her love and understanding. “The choice between a knight in shining armor and a weak king is not a difficult one.”

  “Do you remember that day long ago when Henry’s bride arrived? I had a vision that day of the London mob stoning her barge and pelting her with filthy names. A few days ago it came to pass. She is hated more heartily than any other queen in history.”