The Dragon and the Jewel (2 page)

Richard threw an affectionate arm about his shoulders. “Then you’ll have to do what every other intelligent man does, marry an heiress. Take a page from Hubert de Burgh’s book, I certainly intend to. Look at the wealth and lands Avisa brought him and the moment she was measured for a shroud, he was wooing little Princess Margaret of Scotland who was put in his safekeeping. And to make absolutely certain he got her, he fucked her until he got her with child.”

“Which royally screwed me! I was negotiating for her sister, Princess Marion, until my council objected on the grounds that Hubert de Burgh would be my brother-in-law. They’re just jealous
that he was acting regent through my minority and I chose to honor him by making him Earl of Kent. The people love Hubert and so do I.”

“And so does Hubert.” Richard laughed. When he saw Henry’s face twist with anger, he laughed again. “A joke, brother. You know how much I owe to Hubert. He took me under his wing and made a soldier of me. He and William Marshal made it possible for me and you to slip from the clerical leading strings of the Bishop of Winchester.”

Henry said, “Peter des Roches made a wonderful tutor. He is one of the most enlightened men of this or any other century.”

Richard made a rude noise. “Well, he certainly gained ascendancy over your mind while he installed his relatives and creatures in all the important posts of the household.”

“Well, he isn’t in control any longer. Hubert and the bishop are at each other’s throats. I think it’s a wise policy to split my ambitious ministers into two camps. And if either think they can keep me on a leash once I reach my majority, they are in for a rude awakening.” He drained his winecup. “Now all I need is money. As soon as negotiations are completed with the Count of Brittany for his lovely Austrian princess, I shall be rolling in it.”

Richard, firmly placing his tongue in his cheek, said, “Not when she gets my letter telling her you’re squint-eyed and impotent.”

Henry took off after Richard and his attendants hurried after him with the magnificent new crown he had just designed for himself.

A
s Princess Eleanor was led toward the altar in the chapel at Westminster, she was almost dizzy from happiness. She was gowned in pristine white velvet, her tiny train trimmed with ermine; upon her cloud of dark hair sat a coronet of snowdrops, and she held a small white Bible.

As she reached the marshal’s side, he looked down at her with a grave smile. Her dark-blue eyes sparkled like sapphires as she gazed up at him with adoration. He was the handsomest, bravest, strongest man in the realm. When he smiled his eyes crinkled boyishly and her heart turned over. She opened her mouth to speak his name, but he gave her a little frown of warning to remind her to keep silent until she repeated the vows. She obediently followed his lead and sank to her knees and bowed her head while the bishop droned a Latin prayer over their heads.

She couldn’t keep her eyes closed for longer than ten seconds, so she lifted her lashes and saw a black spider making its way across her white Bible. She watched in fascination as the insect walked delicately on its eight legs, then as it reached her thumb it very deliberately bit her. Without hesitation she slapped it into the next world. “You bugger!”

The bishop’s mouth fell open and William opened his eyes quickly to see what she was doing. He reached across firmly and took Eleanor’s small hand into his. It was freezing and his long, brown fingers wrapped about it to control her, to comfort her, to warm her. After that everything went smoothly. She gave her responses solemnly, from the heart.

William slipped the heavy gold band onto her finger and she clenched her fist tightly to prevent its slipping off. When the long-winded bishop finally pronounced them man and wife, she said ecstatically to William, “I’m the Countess of Pembroke.”

He smiled down at her and murmured, “Never have I seen anyone step down in rank so graciously.” At the compliment her heart almost burst with love.

The wedding presents were displayed on trestle tables along the entire length of the banqueting hall The large Marshal family, combining its fortunes in matrimony with the noblest in England, gifted them with magnificent silver plate engraved with the initial M, the finest Venetian crystal, one hundred solid-gold forks, and one hundred sets of Irish bed linen monogrammed with exquisite embroidery.

Since William was the Justiciar of Ireland and owned all of Leinster, a gift of twenty-five blooded stallions and twenty-five blooded brood mares had been shipped across the Irish Sea. The Earl of Chester had gifted them with ten Oriental silk carpets acquired on his last Crusade. Never to be outdone, Hubert de Burgh, Justiciar of England, had fitted out a luxurious barge, painted in the Marshal colors, which rode at anchor a few hundred feet away in the Thames.

The barons too had been generous. They may not have liked their young king, but their respect for the Marshal of England ran deep.

The Earl and Countess of Pembroke sat on carved and padded throne chairs on the dais at King Henry’s right hand. The miniature bride was the focus of all eyes as she sat between the two tall men and graciously thanked each couple who came forward. The people captured her interest far more than their costly gifts as she sorted out the Earl and Countess of Derby from the Earl and Countess of Norfolk. The Marshals were
certainly an attractive family with their chestnut curls and laughing brown eyes.

William Marshal marveled inwardly at the poise the child displayed as she gravely thanked their guests. There was hope yet that she would grow into a refined lady. He harbored such dread that she might become like her mother that before he agreed to the marriage he stipulated in the marriage contracts how she must be brought up from now on. Alarmingly neglected, she had been allowed the freedom of a wild young animal. First and foremost, her innocence must be guarded day and night. She was to reside at Windsor Castle in a wing that was to be kept separate for females. She was to have her own servants and ladies-in-waiting, and he had asked the Mother Superior of the Order of St. Bride’s to supply two nuns to live in her household on a permanent basis.

She was to have tutors to educate her fine mind; she was to be taught to read and write and to speak other languages, as well learn etiquette, deportment, and the womanly arts, which the chatelaine of the marshal’s vast estates would need to know.

William doubted that she would be able to hold up through the long, tiring day, even though the banquet was to end at ten o’clock in deference to her bedtime. However, once they were seated at the banquet table, her reserve and poise disappeared and were replaced by an inquisitive, talkative, bundle of energy.

The noisy clamor of the revelers receded for Eleanor as there became only one other person in the room, nay in the whole world.

“My lord earl, you have ridden in tournaments all over the world and never been defeated. May I please attend and watch you?”

Will’s eyebrows went up. “Sweeting, I’ve been defeated many times. Tournaments have been forbidden in England for some time now because of the danger. England needs all her men to fight real battles.”

“Then it is high time we had one. I shall command it.” Without taking a breath she said, “My lord earl, you are too modest. I know you are the undefeated champion. You know exactly where to thrust in the lance. Will you show me the spot where a
man is most vulnerable?” She placed her small hand upon his breast muscle. “Is it here?” she asked, wide-eyed.

William felt alarm rise within him. Surely the subject was unseemly for a child. Gently he removed her hand, murmuring “It’s more to the side.”

Her hand reached into his armpit. “Here?”

“I will show you the spot sometime when we are private.”

Her eyes lit with anticipation and he watched with amazement as she devoured almost as much food as he did. “My lord earl, you have more castles than any other man in the world.”

“Well, perhaps not the world, Eleanor,” he demurred.

“Well, in England and Ireland and Wales,” she said impatiently. “I want to see them all. Will you take me to Ireland and to Wales?”

He tried to discourage her. “I usually only go to these places when there is trouble. I go to fight.”

“Oh, yes!” she cried passionately. “Will you take me to the wars, my lord earl, so I may see you ride into battle? Will you show me exactly where you stick your sword in to kill a man?”

William opened his mouth and closed it again, fighting the alarm that rose up within him. “I cannot take you to war, little one. I will not lie to you.”

“Won’t you, my lord earl? Thank you,” she said from the bottom of her heart. “Everyone else does, you know. If I promise not to come to war with you, will you promise to show me how to use a sword and how to stick it in?”

“I-I suppose so,” he said faintly.

“Do you promise?” she demanded.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“My lord earl, do you have murder holes in your Welsh castles where you can pour boiling oil down upon the enemy? Is it true that the Welsh are so wild and wicked they fight naked?”

“That’s the Scots,” he said faintly, wondering what on earth he’d let himself in for. Lord God, it would take more than tutors and nuns to civilize Eleanor Plantagenet. He squirmed in his seat realizing to his great dismay that everything about him fascinated the child. Her great sapphire eyes were saucers of
adoration as she hung upon his every word. He cleared his throat and picked up his goblet. This was thirsty work.

Eleanor reached across the table to a tall jug of wine and poured a liberal drink for herself. The wine splashed crimson upon her pristine velvet and William couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh, balls!” she said, rubbing it and succeeding in making it much worse.

“Eleanor,” he began firmly.

She glanced up. “Oh, forgive me, my lord earl, I didn’t realize the dancing had started. Oh, ’tis my favorite, the Volta. You will allow me one dance, won’t you, my lord earl, please?” she implored.

He was at such a loss that suddenly he grinned. “I could never deny a lass with a yearning heart.”

When the assembly saw the good-natured groom was sport enough to dance with the little bride, a great cheer broke out and swept across the floor. William swung Eleanor back and forth in a wide circle, then lifted her high in the air and twirled her over his head until she was giddy with excitement. Everyone joined them on the floor, and each man took his turn partnering the little bride. She was whirled from arm to arm and lifted high by each new dancer, who tried to show off his superiority before the others. Then she was squealing with pure happiness when it was Marshal’s turn again.

He shook his head as her brother Richard reached for her. “Enough, you’ll have her in a state of collapse.”

Richard grinned. “You don’t know Eleanor. She’ll have
you
in a state of collapse.”

William carried her back to her chair and looked down at her flushed face and brilliantly sparkling eyes. The snowdrops had wilted and her coronet sat all askew, but truly she was the most beautiful child he had ever seen. “Shall we just watch?” he suggested.

“Yes,” she agreed happily, “I would rather be sitting here with you than anywhere else in the whole world.”

William saw her reach for more wine. Just in time he firmly removed the jug down the table and said, “Dancing is thirsty work. I shall go and fetch us some cider fresh from the
orchards of Cornwall. Or perhaps there is ambrosia, a honeyed fruit drink. I think you would like it excessively.”

“Thank you, my lord earl. I don’t wish to be a trouble to you,” she assured him solemnly.

William sighed. Trouble was most likely Eleanor Plantagenet’s middle name.

When William departed, Henry spotted her
sitting
alone and brought over a woman of indeterminate age. Though she looked old, her hair was very black and her brow was amazingly unwrinkled. “Dame Margot has been casting my royal horoscope. She predicts that I am to wed next and to a very beautiful princess from a land filled with sunshine. Would you like her to foretell your future, sweeting?”

Eleanor considered for a moment, holding her head on one side. Actually she hadn’t thought beyond her wedding. Marrying William Marshal had been an end in itself. The woman’s eyes were strange, with the subtle cloudiness of opals. Her voice when she spoke was deep and commanding. “You do not love lightly. Love will dominate your life. It will become a fine madness, an obsession. Love will drive you to take holy vows; love will force you to choose between it and living death. Your steps will lead you to the yawning abyss. On the other side stands a war lord, a warrior god. He is a
giant
who towers over other men in all ways. He will be England’s hero, godlike to the masses and barons alike. You will deny him again and again, but he will laugh at your protests. He will conspire with Fate itself to make you lovers. He shall always emerge victorious. He will be your strength and your weakness, your wisdom and your folly, your hero and your god! His hair will be black as a witch’s cat, his eyes like black obsidian.”

The soothsayer’s spell was broken when Eleanor began to giggle. “Dame Margot, you were right about everything save the color of my true love’s hair.” Eleanor swept her hand toward the man who approached carrying a large silver jug. “My lord earl, you are just in time to have your future told.”

William frowned, wondering what the devil Henry was up to, filling her head with nonsense.

Dame Margot looked at the marshal and fancied she saw the finger of Death reach out from the grave to mark him. Her
strange eyes became hooded, and she passed on to the next table where a group of expensively gowned dowagers were likely to treat her predictions with the respect they deserved.

William filled two goblets with the chilled fruit juice and offered a toast to his child bride. He smiled as his youngest sister Isabella danced past.

“Isabella is the Countess of Gloucester, but where is the earl?” she asked.

“Young de Clare is fighting in Ireland. I shall have to join him shortly.”

Eleanor watched William’s sister intently. “She’s the beauty of the family; I like her best.”

“Do you?” asked Will, an idea forming in his mind. What a perfectly wonderful example Isabella would set for Eleanor. His sisters had been brought up so strictly. Though she was barely twenty, Isabella was a mature young matron with all the virtues—sweet, pious, modest, meek, obedient, unworldly. He decided to ask her to join Eleanor’s household at Windsor until her husband returned.

Eleanor wasn’t the only Plantagenet to notice Isabella’s beauty. Richard, Duke of Cornwall, asked her to dance and refused to take no for an answer. As he twirled her about, he was mesmerized by the way her delicious chestnut ringlets bounced across her bared shoulders and by the sweet curve of her breasts through the fine fabric of her gown. The way Richard devoured her with his eyes made her quite breathless. He said hungrily, “I would like to see more of you,” and she blushed hotly at the double entendre.

“Your Highness, I’m a married lady,” she murmured, lowering her lashes lest he see the excitement in her eyes.