Heather Graham (5 page)

He picked her up—she hadn’t the strength left to fight him—and brought her to the master’s chamber. He kept her there throughout the night, made love to her more gently, and let the wildfires within his blood run free.

But she never did surrender. Or beg mercy.

When morning came, he left her to go campaigning once again, the castle held secure by Robert of Oxford.

Philip VI of France gave word that he would meet Edward in battle. The King of England waited, ready, eager to fight.

But word came then that Philip had made a hasty retreat back to Paris. Edward’s advisors all warned him that he had been left with nothing but barren earth, and that he should take his troops back to Hainault, and there spend the winter.

He determined that he would do so, yet some of what he had taken and conquered, he was loath to let go. As he made his preparations to travel in the great hall of the castle at Aville, and in the midst of other matters, he sent Robert to bring Lenore before him once again.

He had spent each night with her since he had come to the castle, held her, savored her youth and beauty and pride. Indeed, she was something of a witch, for even now, he realized that he cared too deeply for her.

He determined not to meet her gaze, and looked back down at the document he was about to seal and sign. “Lenore d’Aville, it is my intention that you will be brought to England. From there, negotiations with your kinsman, the King of France, may begin for your release.”

“This is my castle, and you cannot hold it! And you mustn’t bring me to England!” she cried out. She moved toward him angrily, but he caught her hard, determined to remind her of his power. He smiled slowly. “Beg mercy?” he suggested.

“And would it be forthcoming?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “Lady you will come to England, and there be housed within the great tower of London.”

The king had one night remaining in the castle at Aville before he had to travel on. He conducted business late into the night, then came to the master’s chambers. It was late, but still, she remained before the fire, bathed and naked except for a soft fur about her, her long hair streaming down her back, one bare shoulder catching the bronze of the firelight.

She said nothing when he swept her up, nothing when his desire for her soared and peaked. She lay beside him, and he thought that she slept. But she spoke to him then.

“Let me go!” she pleaded.

But he shook his head. “I cannot.”

When morning came, she slept, and he looked down upon her, and knew that he was bewitched. She had touched him as no one ever had. But indeed, he was king.

And he had to ride out that morning.

That winter, Edward III became closely allied with the Flemings, who would pay him homage if he would take on the title and arms of France. He had the fleur-de-lis of France quartered with his own leopards for his banner, which aggravated King Philip. Philip told messengers that he was not displeased that Edward, who was his cousin, might take on the French arms—he was merely displeased that Edward would quarter the leopards first, as if the island of England might be as great as the nation of France.

Edward returned to England. Queen Philippa bore him another child, a boy, and he was named John. Yet as Edward celebrated this fine news, he received a message that it was urgent Robert of Oxford see him. Edward felt a tug at his heart, for he had sent Robert on to London with Lenore.

Good Robert, loyal Robert! He was nearly as tall as Edward himself, a strong and valiant knight, more than sixty years old now and still as straight as an arrow, a gentle man despite his prowess at warfare—the best of men.

Robert congratulated the king on the birth of his son, then said, “Though I am certain I am the only one aware of the lady’s condition, there are many very aware of your special interest in the Countess d’Aville. With the queen so recently delivered of such a fine boy, I’m certain that the news of a royal bastard would not be welcome to her. Also, there is the lady herself, and I must tell you that I have come to care very greatly for her.”

Edward stared at Robert for several long moments. Even thinking of the girl could stir his blood, and despite the circumstances, he was ridiculously pleased that she was, indeed, going to bear him a child. He told himself that it would make her pay for her initial defiance of him—she would be reminded of the English king every day of her life once she bore his child.

He leaned back in his chair. “I will see that the Countess d’Aville is married to a proper lord immediately.”

“To someone kind as well as discreet, I implore you!” Robert urged him.

The king smiled. “The kindest and most discreet man. I am now preparing to go to battle once again with my dear cousin, Philip. A naval battle, and I will need you, too, old friend. But first, we will settle this matter here and now, by proxy. Lenore will be married within the week.”

“But to whom—”

“You, my old friend. You will wed the lady. The Count of Gariston has recently died, and left no heirs—therefore, I grant you the land and the titles, and a new bride to bring to them. The castle at Gariston is exceptionally fine, one of the most ancient in the country, yet the old count was a crafty—rich!—fellow, and it is a fine, warm place to abide.”

Robert nodded. “Sire, I am exceedingly grateful for the holdings. I am too old for such a young bride.”

“Older men have married younger women,” Edward said.

But indeed, Edward was glad of Robert’s age. He did not care to imagine the raven-haired beauty with any man other than himself, and thus it seemed an older man the best choice for Lenore. He could not keep the two from being together, but still, Lenore would remember him while lying in her husband’s arms.

Three days later, the Countess d’Aville was married by proxy without her knowledge or consent.

In the tower, she heard only that she had been married to an English baron. She kept her peace, waiting, until Robert of Oxford returned to her, awkward and silent.

“Dear God, what has he done to me now?” she demanded, pleading for an answer.

He cleared his throat. “He has wed you to me.”

Robert was deeply dismayed to see the tears that rose in her eyes. He came to her upon one knee, taking her hand in both of his, offering his most profuse apologies. “Dear lady, I am heartfully sorry that you are pained to be saddled with such an old warrior. I love you beyond words, and am happy to act as husband or father, however you would have me.”

Lenore set her free hand atop his silvering hair. “Robert, I cry for the land that I will never see again, the people I loved, the ancient castle walls that were my home for so long. With all my heart, I assure you this: of all the men that Edward might have chosen in his kingdom, there is none I might have been more pleased to wed.”

He rose from his knees. “I will get you from this place before the child is born. I swear, Lenore, I will love and protect the babe, and from this moment, the child will be mine. I will see you safe, then I must make haste to attend the king again, for he is ready to go to battle once more.”

“He will spend his life ready to go to battle,” Lenore said quietly.

“You mustn’t hate him too much. I will strive all of my life to make up to you what he has done.”

“I don’t hate him!” she whispered softly.

It was all that she said, yet, looking into her beautiful eyes, Robert realized that she was very much like the king herself. She would fight unto the very end for her own rights. But though she might have defied King Edward, she cared for him in her own way, just as the king had fallen as deeply in love with her as he had dared.

“I will do all that I can—”

“Dear Robert! Nay, I will do all that
I
can to bring happiness to you! There is only one wish that I have, and you cannot grant it.”

“And it is?” Robert demanded.

“I wish to go home!” she said softly. “To Aville. I do not hate the king, but …” She touched her swollen abdomen. “I would like the three of us to have a chance as a family.”

“Ah, lady! I serve the king!” Robert whispered miserably. “And yet, perhaps, if his campaigns prove successful, he will allow me to take you home.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, and smiled tenderly.

Edward prepared to battle the French fleet. When the enemy ships began to move, he determined that it was time to attack.

The English pitched into the fray with cogs, broad-beamed merchantmen, while the French were better equipped with proper war galleys.

Though it was fought at sea, the battle was fought with every weapon imaginable—arrows, swords at close range, even stones thrown from ship to ship to rain down death.

Robert of Oxford fought bravely through the long hours of the first day.

That night, while the English king’s troops celebrated their first day’s victory, a messenger arrived and quickly sought out Robert of Oxford. The count was the father of a baby girl, healthy and fine in every way. His countess, Lenore, begged that Robert take the greatest care of himself, and come home to care for her and their child.

Happiness enveloped Robert. He’d been alone all these years. In his old age, he had a family.

But the next afternoon, when an outstanding victory was all but achieved by the English, a French ship seeking escape sent a rain of arrows hurtling down upon the English vessels.

One found its mark deep within Robert’s chest. His men gave chase to the ship, still following his orders. After she was caught, run aground, boarded, and taken, Robert allowed the surgeon to study the arrow in his chest, but he didn’t need the sorrowful man to tell him what he already knew.

The wound was mortal.

“Send for the king,” he entreated his men. He was in no pain, but he felt a numbness that promised death.

“A priest, man, summon a priest!” called his second in command. “And for the love of God, someone find the king!”

Men rushed in around Robert, tears in their eyes, for he had always been a gallant and courageous man.

A priest arrived; the last rites were given.

Near death, Robert at last saw the golden head of his king above him. “Sweet God, but I cannot go on without you, old friend!” Edward said.

Robert whispered. Edward leaned closer.

“Grant me this, on my deathbed!” Robert pleaded. “Grant Lenore freedom to take—to take the babe home to Aville. Before God, Edward, I beg this of you!”

His voice had grown louder. He found the strength to grip the king’s arm. “Protect the babe. Stand as godfather to her—send her home with her mother.”

He leaned back, exhausted.

“Robert, save your strength—”

“Edward, give me your promise.”

“Aye, man, you’ve my promise!” the king cried harshly. “Now fight the shadows of death, Robert, as you have fought my enemies. Dear God, my good old friend! Fight now—!”

But Robert’s eyes closed. He lay at peace. The valiant warrior had lost this battle. Robert of Oxford was dead.

“Sire, do we send the body with word to Lord Robert’s lady in London?”

Startled, the king looked up. It was Adrien, grave and sorrowful, who had asked the question. Adrien, who had often fought by Robert’s side, admiring the man’s patience, wisdom, and loyalty. Adrien, reminding him of his duty.

“Aye,” the king said sadly.

“Sire, shall we arrange to give the Lady Lenore escort back to Aville?” Adrien asked.

The king looked at the boy. At eleven, he was tall and gangly. His eyes were bright with a golden wisdom that went well beyond his years. He expected the king to keep his promise, and Edward was well aware that he must do so, if only to keep this remarkable young lad’s loyalty.

“Aye,” the king said. Ah, Robert! he thought of his old friend. Noble even unto death, he had forced Edward to grant the lady freedom. “Nay” Edward said then, “I will see Robert’s child first. We will send for the countess. I will stand godfather to the babe as I vowed. Then … then Lenore may return to Aville,” he said wearily at last. “With advisors from my own court, she will surely hold it well for me.”

Lenore arrived in the Low Countries when her babe was but a few months old. She stood with the king in an ancient cathedral by the shore, she in mourning, the babe in her arms, the king stiff and cold as he watched her. Jeannette d’Este, the French widow of an English knight, was godmother, and would journey back to Aville with Lenore.

The ceremony was elaborate, as befitted that for a child who would have a king for a guardian. During it, the king held his infant daughter in his arms. She was endowed with a headful of raven-dark hair. Her tiny cheeks were round and rose-tinted, but her features were already fine and delicate and beautiful. She had a little rosebud of a mouth, a small, straight nose, fine, high bones, skin soft as silk.

Her eyes were emerald.

She lay perfectly still in his arms, staring up at him as if she challenged him, and if she were only a bit older, she would have fought his hold, and demanded she be set down.

Lenore would not look at the king during the ceremony. When she talked to others, he saw that she deeply mourned Robert. She was pale, slim, and beautiful still.

That night she was to stay in a Dover manor, held by Lord Huntington. The king had meant to keep his distance, but as he brooded through the evening, he realized that he could not.

That night, a servant summoned Lenore to come alone to another guest wing within the manor. She was ushered into a bedchamber with a large hearth and a table before it. Seated at that table, features drawn and brooding, was the king.

Fear pricked at her heart. She kept her distance from him. “Milord King of England!” she said softly. “I know you gave my husband a promise that I should return home. Surely, sire, you could not fail to fulfill such a vow.”

Edward sighed deeply and stood, running his fingers through his hair. “Aye, lady, I will honor my vow.”

“Then—?”

“I have summoned you because I had to see you. Had to hear your voice.”

“Indeed,” Lenore said, for he walked toward her then, and she felt a buckling in her knees. “Perhaps it is well, for I have not had the chance to congratulate you on the birth of your new son.”