The Dragon and the Jewel (10 page)

It was not enough, however, to have as many jewels and gowns as Eleanor Plantagenet. Secretly she wanted the regal beauty brought low. She thought it ridiculous that the young princess lived in a wing of Windsor Castle that was off-limits to men. She would have ousted her immediately if she had not learned that William Marshal’s money was used for the upkeep of her apartment and servants.

It rankled her that Eleanor’s virtue had been guarded so
jealously and that the young woman was reported to be still virgin. Because of her own experiences she had some doubts about the girl’s innocence. An entertaining plot was hatching in her prurient mind that would put an end to speculation.

She recalled vividly the look on Peter of Savoy’s face the first time he beheld Eleanor. It told her clearly that he thought the girl breathtaking and worth the great risk involved for a little dalliance. One afternoon when the newly created Earl of Richmond was lounging about her apartment indulging himself in her most expensive wine, she appealed to him in a way she knew he would not resist. “Peter darling, I have a wager for you.”

He raised a lazy brow, not too interested. He’d just been created an earl, he was having plans drawn up to build a lavish dwelling he’d call The Savoy along the Thames. He had the use of any of the women at court, even her if he took the trouble to insist, so what did she have to offer?

“’tis said the prim little Countess of Pembroke is still virgin, but I don’t believe she still has a cherry!”

Peter’s attention had been engaged. “There is only one way to find out … pluck the cherry!” He laughed.

“Precisely, then I shall be right about her and the others wrong,” the queen said smugly.

Peter applied himself diligently. He managed to be present whenever the dark beauty left her female sanctuary. In the stables he managed to shoulder her groom aside and assist her into the saddle. She thanked him coolly, politely, but he received no sidelong glances inviting him to dalliance. His little game of seduction had begun to excite him. He was beginning to believe she really was innocent. She seemed unawakened, unaware of innuendo or suggestive conversation that made more experienced young females blush or giggle.

The queen discovered that the princess, Lady Isabella, and her younger companions were going into the woods of Windsor to pick wild blackberries. She ordered her Court of Love, as she called her beautiful young male and female attendants, on an impromptu blackberry-picking expedition, and when she met up with her sister-in-law insisted they make a family affair of the outing.

The leafy glades were conducive to titillating games where couples eventually drifted off to secluded bowers. Peter of Savoy garbed in forest green never took his eyes from the Countess of Pembroke. She wore a pale-green summery gown that made her seemingly disappear among the trees, and he realized how well camouflaged they would both be.

He bided his time patiently and eventually his patience was rewarded. With a basket over her arm Eleanor gradually moved off from the others. He stalked her silently, taking time to carefully select a lovely place to corner his prey. “May I help you fill your basket, demoiselle?” he asked in heavily accented English.

She glanced up quickly like a startled young doe, but when she saw who it was no hint of fear showed in her eyes. “It is madame, sir, as you well know,” she rebuked him lightly with a smile.

“Ah yes,
chérie
, but though you are married you are still … how do you say … a maiden.”

“Would you prefer we converse in French, sir?” Though she knew Henry had created him Earl of Richmond, she could not bear to give him his title.

“Ah no,
chérie
, I must learn your native tongue. Perhaps you will be kind enough to instruct me? In return there are perhaps things I could teach you.”

“I can do better than that; I can provide you with a tutor,” she offered, deftly sidestepping his invitation.

He threw her such a hungry look she feared for her blackberries. His eyes were on her mouth. “Do you think your fruit is ripe enough for the plucking?” he asked playfully.

“Of course it is.” She reached into the basket and held her hand out to him. “Taste it,” she invited.

Peter took her hand, raised it to his mouth, took the berries with his lips, then very suggestively bit her fingers. She snatched her hand away from him, thinking What strange customs these foreigners have. She held his eyes with her sapphire gaze trying to fathom what he was up to.

He inched closer to her. Then very deliberately he reached into her basket and lifted a luscious blackberry to her lips. If
she licked his fingers it would be the signal he was looking for, longing for.

She studied his face for a moment then very deliberately bit her teeth down into his hand.

“Peste!”
he swore. “What the hell was that for?”

“The queen sent you to spy on me,” she told him quite openly.

For a moment he thought she knew exactly what he had been sent to find out, then it dawned on him she had no inkling of the sexual connotation implicit in biting, licking, or sucking fingers. His eyes darkened with desire as he realized she was untouched after all.

“Why does she hate me?” Eleanor asked bluntly.

He threw back his head and laughed. “’tis not hatred she feels, but jealousy.”

“But why?” Eleanor asked, baffled.

He shook his head regretfully. How could he explain to her that she was more delectable than any blackberry; that a man would give his soul to taste her innocence and awaken her senses so that she would suck the black juice from his fingers seductively?

A hunting horn sounded and through the trees came a party of young knights on horseback. The carcasses of two stags with great antlers were slung on poles carried by their squires. When the queen saw that the hunting party was headed by Rickard de Burgh, she hailed him.

Rickard dismounted. The rest of his men followed suit and graciously bent their knee to their sovereign queen. “I shall ride back to the castle with you, Sir Rickard, I’ve had enough of this boring, bucolic pastime. You may help me mount,” she said, her hot eyes devouring him.

“Your Highness, forgive me, but I am bloodied from the hunt.”

Queen Eleanor licked her lips and stepped close. “I don’t mind a little blood … or sweat on a man. Labors that are sweated over give most satisfaction,” she said suggestively.

As he lifted the queen into her saddle, he saw the Countess of Pembroke approaching with Peter of Savoy. The man had a possessive hand at the small of her back that made the muscle
of Rickard’s jaw clamp painfully. He would never have dreamed to take such a liberty himself even though he considered himself her personal guard. He searched Eleanor’s face to see if the hated Savoy had distressed her in any way. Though she was neither flushed nor covered with blushes, her stiff little back and grave demeanor told him the man’s attentions were odious to her.

The newly appointed Earl of Richmond threw him such a smug look of satisfaction as he helped himself to the fruit in Eleanor’s basket that de Burgh knew he was attempting seduction.

Sir Rickard was on the horns of a dilemma. If he went to William Marshal with his knowledge, it would create more bad blood. There were already hostilities between the English and the Provençals, especially the favored Savoys. This could result in open hatred flaring out of control. If he went to the princess with a warning, it could rob her of some of her innocence. Somehow he could not bear the idea of Savoy tainting even her thoughts. He would handle the matter himself and take a subtle revenge.

He allowed two days to pass, then he sought out Peter of Savoy. “My lord earl,” he said with a sober countenance as if he disapproved of the mission he had been sent upon. “A lady, who must remain nameless, wishes to become more intimately acquainted.”

“Can this be true?” said the Earl of Richmond, taken by surprise.

“She is most interested in your offer of friendship, my lord, but her position demands the utmost discretion, if you understand me.”

“I understand perfectly. You must reassure her on that point. I will make myself available at any time or place the lady will name.”

De Burgh bowed with grimly compressed lips. At their next encounter de Burgh looked more grim than ever. He uttered few words, as if more would surely choke him. “Tomorrow night at the hour of eleven. I will come for you.”

Peter of Savoy nodded eagerly, his mind already selecting an expensive jewel with which to charm the lady. At the appointed
hour the two figures moved silently through the shadows of Windsor Castle. Just inside the women’s wing, which Eleanor occupied, Rickard de Burgh paused outside a heavily studded door and held his finger to his lips. The arrogant Earl of Richmond nodded his thanks and entered.

“Poor Peter,” said Rickard, half to himself, “you’ll have your night’s work cut out for you with Brenda.” He had to wait until he was outside the bachelor knights’ quarters before he could let out the laughter that almost choked him.

P
eter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, who had been the king’s guardian until Henry had tired of the leading strings and turned to Hubert de Burgh, returned to London. Henry welcomed him like a long-lost father. Winchester had a score to settle—or two scores, to be precise.

Hubert de Burgh and William Marshal had made the mistake of a lifetime when they had schemed to rid King Henry of Winchester’s influence. He had worked hard to gain ascendency over the youthful king. He had placed his toadies in key positions and was ready to rule England when the two military leaders had seduced an impressionable Henry away from him. He had withdrawn to Rome to save face, but during his years of absence his ambition and his need for revenge had become an obsession, until there was no deed too foul for the ungodly bishop to contemplate.

The timing of his return was brilliant. His wealth and his hospitality would be extended to these greedy Provençals. The queen and her uncles would rule Henry, and the Bishop of Winchester would own and rule the Provençals.

He immediately invited King Henry and his court to spend Easter and later Christmas at Winchester. Henry had spent his
boyhood Christmases there, joyous holidays filled with snowball fights, presents, and feasting, with only lip service paid to religion.

Henry immediately accepted because Winchester was a wealthy diocese and would bear all the festive expenses. He could not see that behind Peter des Roches’s learning and charm was venality. He picked up the expenses now, so that he could reap a king’s ransom down the road. There was not a shred of generosity or inner grace in the man.

Winchester had a bastard son, Peter des Rivaux, under his wing, and he was determined to secure a position of power for the young man. At the end of each day’s celebrations for the new queen, the two Peters met to discuss their strategy.

“I think I have found the means by which you can bring Hubert de Burgh to his knees,” Peter des Rivaux said.

Winchester’s sausagelike fingers stroked his beard and his eyes gleamed with his lust for revenge. “Hubert has friends in high places because he appointed them to those places. He chose the chancellor as well as the treasurer of the royal household. Don’t tell me they would be disloyal to him,” Winchester said doubtfully.

“No, but his right-hand man is ambitious without being too scrupulous. I have paved the way for you to recruit him. I have informed him that, unlike de Burgh, you wish to remain in the background, but if he can bring us proofs of Hubert’s maladministration and diversion of funds, those proofs would be worth their weight in gold.”

Peter des Roches studied the jewel in his great thumbstall ring. “I’ll speak with him. A promise of gold is enough to whet his appetite, but I have found there is nothing like the promise of a title to enslave a man. Hubert de Burgh is justiciar … I think it only fitting we hold out the carrot of ‘justiciar’ to this Segrave if he can help us depose our enemy.”

“Your other enemy is another kettle of fish entirely. The Marshals have such old wealth, even their servants are loyal. The Earl of Pembroke is never ostentatious. The people love him, the barons respect him, and even the Plantagenets do his bidding.”

Peter des Roches ground his teeth. He had an aloof and
superior manner and knew the English hated him. “His wife, Princess Eleanor, is a Plantagenet. There has never breathed a Plantagenet who was not vain and ostentatious.”

“You are right, of course. She is vividly beautiful and the Earl of Pembroke keeps her in the lap of luxury, her every whim fulfilled. She has a maid called Brenda—a little slut who would make a perfect spy for us if only she could be placed in the marshal’s household.”

“Yes, it is overtime that he took Eleanor to wife. If the sanctimonious bastard had ever used the tender flesh of a young girl he’d know what he was missing. I’ll speak to the maid. She must urge Eleanor to put a stop to this separate-household nonsense.”

The grimace that passed for a smile made the Bishop of Winchester’s eyes disappear in little fatty folds. “When we find the Achilles’ heel of our enemies, their destruction will be inevitable.”

The following day Peter was able to point out Brenda to his father, who lost no time approaching her. When the Bishop of Winchester’s eyes looked deeply into hers and he suggested he would like to hear her confession, she was filled with dread. How did he know her shameful secrets? She had never felt shame that there was a well-worn path to her bed, but now suddenly the night of fornication with the de Burgh twins, which had led her to use multiple partners, caused bright spots to burn her cheeks and her conscience cried out for the balm of confession and absolution.

She curtsied low and kissed the bishop’s ring. “I shall make my confession in the chapel after compline if you will make time for a sinner like me, my lord bishop.”

“My child, I shall fill you with the Holy Spirit,” he promised silkily.

Brenda spent a wretched afternoon wrestling with her conscience until finally she wished only to be free of the whole sordid business. If her behavior became public knowledge she would be dismissed without recommendation, but if she confessed all and begged for absolution, surely a man of God, pledged to silence, would wash away her sin and cleanse her.

Inside the confessional the atmosphere was close and hot.

Brenda’s hands began to tremble and a trickle of sweat ran between her breasts. The Bishop of Winchester finally opened the upper half of the door, made the sign of the cross, and bade her confess her sins.

As her words came tumbling out, they had such an erotic effect upon the bishop that his nostrils began to quiver in an effort to pick up her woman’s scent. The close, warm confines of the confessional often afforded him the telltale musky odor, which stirred him to erection. The favorite part of his calling was the confessional booth where the deepest intimacies could be shared in the utmost privacy. The sex of the sinner mattered little to Winchester. Inside this little box he enjoyed total power and control over the penitent, and it was like an aphrodisiac.

In a tight-voiced little whisper Brenda explained, “You see, my lord bishop, it is almost impossible for me to get release … and that is why I am so guilty of the sin of overindulgence.”

Peter des Roches smiled into the perfumed darkness. “My child, I know exactly what you need. I am an instrument of God. Through me you shall receive fulfillment. I shall unlock the door between us and you will come into my cubicle.” When she heard the click of the latch, she moved through the opening quickly and quietly. His unorthodox instructions hinted at some dark but sinfully pleasurable secret practice that she could not resist.

His robes smelled of incense as he lifted them and began to handle himself. “I shall fill you with the Holy Ghost.” His plump hands lifted her skirts and underdress, and he began to stroke the cleft between her buttocks. In all her vast experience she had never felt anything that aroused her so swiftly.

His thumb ring, which boasted a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg, was hinged open to reveal a whitish powder. “Inhale some of this Holy Host and lick up the remainder,” he instructed. He handed her his purple sash. “Use this to muffle your cries when I mount you.”

She was reduced to a quivering mound of fecundity when he anointed her with Holy Oil and plunged his erection into her. Her need was so great that her low moans echoed about the confessional despite the silk sash. He used the thumb that
boasted the enormous oval ruby both uniquely and skillfully, and before he had completed a dozen strokes he felt her spasm so violently, he spilled hot and high into her chalice. Her release in such a holy place was so intense she almost fainted.

This holy man had indeed brought her a little piece of heaven. “And the beautiful part is, my child, it works every time,” he promised soothingly.

She could hardly speak. “Every time?” She gasped with disbelief.

He knew in that moment she was his, body and soul. She would do
anything
he asked of her.