Desired (5 page)

Princess Isabel was all smiles now she’d achieved her objective. She would have thrown a tantrum had she realized it was Joan of Kent who had wooed him into a giving mood.

The castle chamberlain showed the princess to a private chamber. At the door she said, “I’ll only need Elizabeth,” and shut it in the other girls’ faces.

Brianna, refusing to blush, asked the chamberlain to show them to a garderobe. There was no scented water, no facilities at all for gently bred ladies in this male stronghold.

Joan pulled on Brianna’s sleeve. “Come or we’ll miss all the fun of passing the towel.”

In the hall their birds of prey sat on the perch provided for visitors’ hawks. The grooms who had accompanied them had already gone into the dining hall, which was filling up quickly with the young men who made up the heir to the throne’s army.

Joan pulled Brianna to the lavatory close to the entrance of the hall, which contained washstands with pitchers and basins. The men surrounding the two females immediately began to tease and flirt with them. Brianna of Bedford had many would-be suitors who took this opportunity to vie for her attention. She laughed with them all, taking care not to single out anyone.

Joan slipped in beside Edward. “May I have the soap, Your Highness?”

He looked down in horror. “Didn’t my bloody chamberlain show you to a private room?”

“Yes, but Isabel wouldn’t share it with us.” She laughed up into his handsome face, unable to hide her admiration from him.

“She’s such a spoiled little bitch,” he complained.

“Perhaps she’s paying us back for the wretched things we did to her when we were children. Do you remember?” she asked breathlessly.

His blue eyes crinkled. “We were true conspirators.” He had always been so fond of Joan, or little Jeanette, as he called her. In proximity to her he suddenly recalled she had been responsible for his first erection at twelve.

Suddenly she touched his face. “You have a smear of blood, just here.”

He lathered his face, rinsed it, then reached for the towel. Joan whisked it away with a whoop of laughter and tossed it to Brianna. He grabbed Joan, lifting her high in the air, digging his fingers into her ribs to tickle her as if she were a child. Suddenly her hair net fell off and her silvery-gilt hair came tumbling down over his hands. He set her
feet to the ground and their laughter fled as they stood looking at each other with heightened awareness.

“Sweet,” he murmured for her ears alone.

At table a tall salt cellar divided the diners by rank. Field churls, servants, squires, and the visiting grooms sat below the salt, while high officers of the household, prominent guests, and members of the nobility joined the Plantagenets above the salt. Five young nobles jostled for seats that would place them directly across from Brianna of Bedford and Joan of Kent.

The castle seneschal presided over the meal and its servers. Today he had to do more than keep track of the silver spoons and knives, he had to see that the ladies were served first, that the drinking cups were kept filled, that the food was served while it was still hot, while at the same time keeping the squires from impropriety. His fierce glare promised retribution to any who spat, wiped their nose, or picked their teeth. To their credit some of them even remembered not to gobble down everything in sight and saved something for the poor basket.

Princess Isabel sat between her brothers, Prince Edward and Prince Lionel, which Brianna thought was a pity. It made her look like a crow among peacocks. Her younger brother, Lionel, was a blond giant with a ruddy complexion. He was no scholar, could neither read nor write, but he had an easygoing personality. He was good-natured even when drunk, which was every night according to gossip.

From her seat, which flanked the head table, Brianna studied the heir to the throne. He was already kinglike in appearance and manner. As well as being the Prince of Wales, he was Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, and when his father was abroad, he was Guardian of the Kingdom. Edward was very tall with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, a little blunted at the tip like his father’s, and he had the same all-seeing blue eyes. His vitality and golden hair lent him a brilliant aura and all seeing him knew he was marked by destiny to be a great leader of men.

Brianna bent toward Joan so she could whisper. “You were flirting with Edward. Have you set your cap for him?”

“Of course not. We are cousins. Flirting comes naturally to me.”

The corners of Brianna’s mouth went up. Joan was such a mixture of honesty and deception, there was never a dull moment with such an amusing friend. “Then why did you maneuver Isabel into riding to Berkhamsted?”

Joan ate with gusto. She licked her fingers daintily. “Open your eyes. The flower of England’s nobility sits across from us. Surely you are not blind to the hot, hungry looks cast your way?”

Brianna glanced at the table opposite. Her eyes widened as she saw Sir John Chandos, William de Montecute, Robert de Beauchamp, Roger de Cheyne, and Michael de la Pole, all heirs to great earldoms, watching her with avid interest. She smiled shyly, unable to keep a blush from her cheeks. Any one of them looked ready to woo and win her. Her glance moved down the trestle table identifying sons of Neville and Percy, the two great Lords of the North. Sir John Holland was staring at Joan with open lust. “It will do no good to allow your fancy to fall where your heart leads. The king will choose our husbands.”

Joan sighed. “You are so practical, Brianna. You are right, of course, but even the king cannot deprive us of our fantasies.”

The young men across the hall were indulging a few fantasies of their own. The highborn royal wards were off-limits for dalliance, although their maids and serving women were fair game for bedding. Still, virgins who invaded a male bastion of three hundred strong might be ripe for plucking … or fucking!

Princess Isabel turned up her nose at the mutton and bade her serving squire fetch her venison. She refused the ale and demanded wine.

Lionel said, laughing, “Good girl, that leaves more for me.”

Edward said bluntly, “Wine is reserved for the evening meal.”

“Have you no minstrels or jongleurs? Whatever do you do for entertainment?”

“We prefer whores, Isabel,” Lionel said, emptying his fourth tankard.

Edward kicked him in the shins. “Bella, my men are here to learn warfare. I myself am here to learn how to train and
lead armies. We are striving for knighthood, not dalliance with fair demoiselles.”

“Speak for yourself, brother,” Lionel said, dropping his great paw onto Lady Elizabeth Grey’s knee.

Edward fixed him with an ice-blue stare. “You and your men will escort Isabel back to Windsor this afternoon.”

“Shit!” Lionel cursed, giving Isabel a look of disgust. Then he shrugged good-naturedly and turned all his attention to a giggling Lady Grey.

Prince Edward excused himself, then sent a page running to summon Robert de Beauchamp, who was the highest-ranking officer in his young brother’s service. As Robert walked toward him, the Prince of Wales noted the similarity between Lionel and his lieutenant. Although Beauchamp was older, he was another exceedingly attractive blond giant with a laughing, open countenance.

“The Duke of Clarence will be escorting Princess Isabel and her ladies back to Windsor this afternoon. He looks up to you, Beauchamp. Try to set an example and for God’s sake keep him from lifting the ladies’ tunics. If he wants to come back to Berkhamsted next week, discourage him.”

“Has he offended you, Your Highness?”

“Nay.” Edward shook his head. “I can’t help liking the young devil, but his drunkenness and lechery are demoralizing for the men. His appetites are insatiable. His mind is never off his gut or his dangling gut.”

“He came to manhood early,” Beauchamp excused, smiling.

Prince Edward gave him a scathing look. “There is more to manhood than drinking and fucking. In any case, I’ll be moving the men to Windsor soon. They would benefit from some of your father’s harsh training.” He clapped him on the back, wondering why the great Earl of Warrick’s son had chosen to be in his brother’s service rather than his. Warrick, marshal of all the king’s armies, was nicknamed the Mad Hound because of his fierce temper and fighting skills. Warrick’s son obviously had a milder nature.

When Edward bade his siblings good-bye, he thawed somewhat toward his young sister. “Sweeting, don’t look so down in the mouth. I’ll be back at Windsor in a fortnight.” His eyes were drawn to Joan of Kent. William de
Montecute and John Holland were both hovering to lift her into her saddle. Edward was not surprised. To him, she was the most deliciously feminine creature in all of England.

He helped Isabel to mount, then raised his voice so that little Jeanette could hear. “When I return, I promise to take you hawking. We’ll make a merry day of it.”

Lionel lifted Elizabeth Grey onto her palfrey, managing to touch her in several intimate places with his big hands.

Brianna jumped as she heard a man’s voice close behind her. She spun about and had to look up.

“May I assist you to mount, demoiselle?” He dipped one knee and held his hands together so she could place her booted foot in them. Brianna stood mesmerized for a moment, held in thrall by the unusual color of his eyes. He stood patiently in what must have been an awkward position.

“Sorry,” she murmured with a smile of thanks, noticing the other young nobles casting envious glances at the man who was aiding her to mount. For the next five miles she argued with herself whether Robert de Beauchamp’s eyes were turquoise or aquamarine.

W
hen the fingers of dawn spread up the sky, it revealed to the French that the foreign dog and his squires had folded their tent and vanished like thieves in the night. As they made their way to the coast, Hawksblood informed his companions of his decision to go to England. There had never been the slightest doubt in Ali’s mind where Drakkar was heading. He had known he was on the path of Destiny just as surely as his lord knew, if he but looked deep enough to acknowledge it.

Paddy was less philosophical, but infinitely more practical. Transportation across the Channel would be a bit of a problem with six valuable horses and a mountain of baggage.

“I don’t suppose there’ll be any excursion boats,” he said dryly. “Will I commandeer a vessel at sword point?”

Hawksblood replied, “The simple expedient of bribery should suffice from what I’ve learned of the French.”

Paddy grinned at Ali. “That’s your forte, boyo.”

“You have learned a new word. Your mental powers never cease to amaze me,” Ali mocked.

The Irishman, always needing the last word, quoted a Bedouin maxim: “The beauty of man lies in the eloquence of his tongue.” Even Hawksblood was impressed with that one.

They rode into an inn yard, then Ali slipped away to the wharfs. He chose a vessel that regularly transported men and horses between Cherbourg and Calais. The amount of the bribe easily covered the risk of the extra twenty miles to Dover. They departed on the evening tide before darkness fell, but the big Norman and his squires aroused no curiosity in a port the size of Cherbourg.

Ali remained in the hold to watch over their precious mounts. Warhorses were bred with vicious tempers, but the singsong cadence of his voice could calm them instantly if they became restive. Paddy paced the deck, trying not to show his excitement at returning to Britain for the first time in fifteen years. He’d been aboard a ship that was wrecked near Greece. It seemed a lovely warm place to live until the Turks overran the place. That’s where he’d learned his warrior skills, fighting the mad Turks. Eventually, he’d been captured and rotted in a Turkish prison until the Islamic warriors called Ottomans conquered all of Byzantium.

Christian, or Drakkar as he called himself then, was a Janissary in the corps d’elite of the Ottoman armies. When he freed Paddy from the Turkish prison, he owned him. Paddy’s life or death depended on the young Janissary with the face of a fierce hawk and the body of a Norman warrior. Paddy suspected he had been kept alive because he amused his new master. He still did.

Christian stood frowning at a small animal in a cage so cramped it couldn’t turn around. It had the brightest eyes he’d ever seen.

“What the hell is it?” he asked Paddy.

“Looks like a black-footed ferret to me. Shall I set it free?”

“If you don’t, I will,” Christian agreed.

“
Mon Dieu! Tenez-vous-en!
Cease!” bellowed the captain.

Paddy never took orders from anyone except Hawksblood. The instant he sprang the door of the cage, the ferret shot out, flashed across the deck, ran up the captain’s thigh, and bit him on the balls. Paddy and Christian whooped with laughter.

Not so the Frenchman. Screaming a filthy oath, he grabbed the creature by the throat and flung it overboard. Christian stopped laughing and went to the rail to peer down into the pewter water. The black-footed, bright-eyed creature treaded water frantically, then disappeared beneath a swell. In a moment it surfaced, but its distance from the ship increased steadily.