Heather Graham (9 page)

Amused, the king had given him his promise. Now, as he was about to face Edward again, he wondered at the king’s intent this time. He had been knighted on the field. Given expensive horses.

What was the king about now?

Edward had been at some business with the Earl of Oxford, but he dismissed the earl, who nodded in acknowledgment to Adrien as he passed him by. They had both been fighting with the Prince of Wales. Adrien was startled to realize that his English peers seemed to believe that he had saved the life of the prince on his own.

“Ah, Adrien!” the king greeted him. “I was most impressed, most impressed. That wily old father of yours promised me I had the makings of a fine warrior at hand. It was a good alliance I made with him that day. He’d be a proud man today, as I am. I wanted to tell you again what a fine service you performed in the fighting—and that I’m heartily glad you did not choose to go and serve David II, but remained with me.”

Adrien cleared his throat. “Thank you, sire. But the prince outdid himself as well. And the men were deeply pleased with you as well, sire, for it was known that you set each of us out there, including your own son, to fight, and that you numbered us all as worthy to hold your lines.”

The king waved a hand in the air. “I am deeply proud of my son. Proud, indeed. But at the moment, we’re discussing you.”

“You have commended me, sire.”

“Ah, yes! But that was a splendid moment I came upon! Men fallen all around you and a host about to storm you again, demanding that you beg quarter! And what was that you said in return to them all?”

Adrien, puzzled by the king’s good humor and something akin to glee over the matter, frowned. “What I said, sire?”

“Aye, lad, tell me again what you cried out to the enemy! It was glorious!”

Adrien didn’t remember what he might have cried out in the midst of battle. He shrugged, and then he remembered. He had cried out words his father had taught him. “I refuse to surrender—I was foolish perhaps, but I’d not have begged mercy of those wretches, not when we’d fought so long and hard.”

The king sat back, smiling from ear to ear, blue eyes alight as if he’d just been told the most humorous joke.

“Let me hear it again, I command it!” the king said excitedly.

“Sire, I—”

“Tell me again, Adrien! These words, today, are sweet music to my ears. Again. I insist.”

“I refused to surrender or beg mercy—”

“Ha! Never to beg mercy!” the king exclaimed.

“My lord, I must admit, I was quite immersed in the battle and—”

“Never mind, never mind!” the king said, and he waved a dismissing hand, turning back to his camp table and the parchments strewn across it. But he looked up at Adrien again, still smiling with the greatest pleasure and amusement. “You may go now.”

Still puzzled, Adrien turned to leave. But the king summoned him back once again.

“Adrien!”

“Aye, sire?”

“Be aware, my good man, be most aware! Your future from this day forward is assured, and all the rewards that you might imagine will be yours—simply for the taking.”

The king started to smile again, a strange smile as if he were harboring a secret joke close to his heart—and taking much more pleasure from it than Adrien’s prowess in battle. Edward waved his hand in the air again. Adrien was to go.

Yet as he departed from the king, Adrien felt a slight chill of unease snake down his back.

Just what did Edward have in mind?

He didn’t have long to ponder the question, for when he left the king, he was met by the prince, who cast a palm hard against his back as they walked together.

“So what great prize is my father giving you for your service today?” the prince asked, in good humor himself. “Even the old knights who still like to call you the Scot were talking about you today, my friend, extolling your virtues to the heavens. So tell me, what did Father give you? Were I king, I might well have created an earldom for you! You surely saved my life.”

Adrien arched a brow to his friend. “I stepped into a gap where I was needed, and I was knighted on the field. That in itself—”

“Oh, come!”

Adrien shrugged. “Your father was a little strange. He didn’t give me anything. He seemed—I don’t know, as I said—strange. He was excited, and amused. And at the end of our conversation, he did assure me that my future was well secured.”

“Ah, well, then, to the future! He must have something exceptionally fine in store for you. But for the present—we’re young, we’re great warriors—victors! And to the victors, my friend, belong the spoils!”

“Meaning?” Adrien inquired.

“Meaning we’ve a case of some of the finest French wine—and a bevy of defeated French beauties awaiting us who are quite willing to entertain victorious Englishmen.”

“Defeated French beauties?”

“Ah, my friend, young, French, feminine—merchants, if you will. An exceptional class of—”

“Ah. Whores!” Adrien said wryly.

“The best, the brightest, the prettiest to be found. And the Lady Joanna will never know,” Edward teased.

Adrien paused and looked at Edward, surprised that the prince was aware of his growing relationship with Joanna, daughter of the Earl of Warwick. What Edward didn’t seem to realize was that it was not a deep, desperate passion that lay between them, but a fine friendship. If he gave thought to his emotions, he did love Joanna, but because they thought so much alike, they could laugh easily together and hide away to read—something that was not considered a great activity within the Plantagenet realm of action and vigor. Joanna sympathized with his past; he rued with her the iron hand her father kept upon her. They talked sometimes of marriage, because their friendship might well make it a very good one, and since Joanna was one of three daughters, her father might find Adrien, one of the king’s favorites, a suitable son-in-law. But as yet, they had not asked leave to marry, and the future of their dreams remained vague, even to them.

“I am not yet affianced,” Adrien said. “And Joanna is a lady, while I assume your fine French women are not. Lead on, my prince, to whatever diversion we, as warriors, require!”

Edward laughed. “My father’s reward comes later—what I would give you for my life comes now!”

The prince and his friends strayed from their battle camp to a house deep in the woods. There they were entertained with music, dancing, roast boar, fine wine. One of the women had a sweet, gentle voice and played the lute well; her face was an angel’s, her voice like silk, her words as bawdy as a warrior’s might be, and her eyes as devilish as Satan’s own. When her last song was finished, Adrien walked into the woods with her. That night, he was young and victorious; the fires of youth soared quick and high.

But when he had bid the pretty whore good night, he discovered that he did not want to remain with his companions, carousing away the night. He was still brooding over the day—not so much over the battle that might well have claimed his life, but rather over his conversation with the king.

He found Matt, one of his trained war stallions. He had four, named from books in the bible, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—and he rode into the night, steering away from the main camp, and riding by the water.

Once again, the question plagued him.

What did the king have in his mind?

B
EING A WARD OF
the King of England did not mean that Danielle would soon set foot on English soil.

Month after month went by with Edward intent upon taking the impregnable town of Calais.

Danielle spent most of her time with the queen, who, despite another pregnancy and her cumbersome size, seemed not to notice the difficulties of day-to-day life while residing with her husband and his army. Functions went on in the king’s hall outside the walled town while men battered at Calais daily. Edward had begun his siege in September, right after the battle of Crécy, and he had done so with the determination to remain for the duration of a long struggle. The king had built up a town of wooden buildings outside Calais to house his army for the winter and even as the inhabitants inside the walled city were slowly starved, life went on outside it in a close to normal way. The little English town was built around a central marketplace, and enterprising Flemish merchants came twice a week to hawk their wares. Smiths and coopers set up shops; barbers and surgeons opened their doors. Since the siege was such a long affair, the knights amused themselves by raiding the countryside, yet while they were not raiding and ravaging, they determined upon a more chivalric code of action, challenging one another to contests and even challenging the French knights within the walls. By chivalric code, the Frenchmen could leave their walls for the tournaments, then return to them.

Danielle attended the tournaments as a lady to the queen. They were quite bearable in a world that otherwise bewildered and grieved her, for she watched daily as the French people were battered. The tournaments were different, for often enough, the French knights won, and no one found it amiss that she clapped and cheered the valiant young men in their contests.

It was during one of these tournaments that she was first to see Adrien MacLachlan. He was to become a thorn in her side from that day forth.

The afternoon had begun with a great sound of trumpeting. There was no snow upon the ground, but the day was crisp and cool. Only a strong sun overhead kept it from being too cold to venture out. Danielle, seated just to the right of Philippa and the royal brood, was deeply intrigued to see the coming contest. Jean d’Elletente, reputed to be one of the finest knights ever to fight in the Christian world, a Frenchman by birth and loyalty, was ready to joust with a young English knight. Danielle didn’t know his name.

She was shortly to learn it … and never forget it.

Sir Jean d’Elletente was introduced with tremendous fanfare; his victories and exploits were expounded. He appeared on a massive silver horse with fringed feet, tail, and mane, a tunic atop his coat of plate and mail, his bascinet secured over his head. His visor, one that gave the impression of a snarling boar, was down over his eyes. He carried his lance high, bearing it even higher as he rode dramatically before the king, bringing his horse to a halt that threw up great clumps of mud and earth. He was cheered, more fully from behind the walls of Calais than before them, but the code of chivalry was strict, and even the English gave homage to a knight of his reputation.

“A token for a French knight!” cried Sir Terrell Henley, master of the tournament.

No one rose immediately—they were, after all, an English audience in the stands. Someone would have stood soon, however—the queen herself, if need be—for there were definite courtesies to be observed, among the women as well as the men.

Danielle found herself leaping to her feet, tearing the silk fall from her headdress, and coming forward to stand just center of the box where the onlookers sat.

Cheers went up for her—for the courteous and polite behavior of King Edward’s ward. Danielle was little aware of them as she tied her silken banner to the lance lowered her way. The French knight raised it high, winking at her, and she smiled. Once again cheers went up, and then Danielle turned to take her seat.

D’Elletente’s joust combatant was then introduced, and Danielle gave little heed to the name.

“Sir Adrien MacLachlan, Laird of Reggar, Count of Meadenlay!”

Trumpets sounded again, and Edward’s knight rode forward from the lists.

A cobalt tunic covered the plates and mail of his armor, and his horse’s saddle was adorned alike in the deep blue with edgings in gold and silver. His shield was decorated with his coat of arms, a design with three roaring lions set atop a field of three running leopards. His helmet, bascinet, and visor were simply fashioned, with no elaborate pretension to any animal. Steel covered the man’s face, shaped in human form. Only his eyes were visible, and though Danielle couldn’t discern their color, she thought that they glittered beneath the sun just as brightly as the steel of his armor. Atop his horse, he seemed very tall indeed, as if he might be even taller than the King of England himself.

Danielle decided that the man had simply chosen to ride a very big horse, and so gain stature himself.

“A token for an English knight!” called the master of the tournament.

The queen rose swiftly to her feet. At her side, the king smiled as his lady tied her own silk scarf about the lance of the Englishman, who inclined his steel-clad head to her in thanks.

“God go with you, Adrien!” she called to him.

“God is my right, my lady!” he called in return.

Pompous fool! Danielle determined.

The combatants were called back to take their places. Trumpets sounded again. With earth flying from the mighty hooves of the horses, the men rode to their opposite sides before the royal box, and the master of the tournament commanded them to prepare to joust.

Then it began. The very earth itself seemed to thunder as the huge war horses ran with all their strength, seeming to run straight for one another.

Each man carried his lance, the point covered, ready to strike his opponent. Closer and closer, dirt flying, earth trembling …

The men came together. Clashed. The sound of it was shattering.

But neither man went down.

They returned to their sides where each man’s squire rushed forward to supply him afresh as he threw his broken lance to the ground.

Once again, the horses charged.

Running harder, harder …

The clash again, shattering, near deafening. A horse screamed. And a man was down.

Danielle leapt to her feet with the other onlookers.

The great Frenchman was down!

Down, but not defeated. The Frenchman’s squire ran to him with his sword while MacLachlan remained astride his mount. Then MacLachlan raced to his side and dismounted, took his sword from his squire, and strode swiftly back into the fray to meet his opponent on foot.

The crowd seemed to cry out simultaneously as the mighty swords first clashed. Then, to Danielle’s pleasure, it seemed that the Englishman gave way, falling back under the power of the Frenchman. The Englishman might be tall, Danielle thought, but she had seen a number of these tournaments now, and she was quite confident that the Frenchman’s maturity would serve him well, for he was the heavier of the two.