The Dragon and the Jewel (28 page)

Flights of swans and herons were leaving for their winter
feeding grounds and the earl remarked, “The hunting will be excellent for the next few days.”

She remembered how much William had loved to hunt in Wales and how he’d insisted she hunt at his side. “Mayhap I will join you tomorrow,” she said, like a true-born member of royalty bestowing her favors.

He grimaced. “Women are not much use in the hunt.”

She flared. “Damn your eyes, de Montfort, you think women are only of use in bed!”

He gave her a level look. “Very few actually, unless they have been schooled by a connoisseur.”

“Oh!” she cried. Her mare misstepped and she bade him, “Watch where we are going. I swear you are the poorest lackey I’ve ever had.”

No woman had ever spoken to him so before. “Lackey?” He raised a lazy brow. Her insolence matched her pride. He knew he would rather have a fiery woman to subdue than one who obeyed his every command, but this was going to be his woman, his wife, and he intended to start out as he meant to carry on. This exquisite creature had been called the King’s Precious Jewel all her life, and he intended to give her a little taste of what it would be like if she were insolent to him.

“I am afraid we overestimated the stamina of your little mare, Eleanor. You will have to walk if you don’t want to lame her.”

She swiftly examined his features to see if this was a deliberate taunt. He called her Eleanor whenever he was annoyed with her. When she saw no teasing light in his eyes, she was immediately contrite for burdening her mare. He made no offer to lift her down, for he knew she would use such an opportunity to disdain his help.

She slid from the saddle and sank ankle-deep in mud. His long strides urged the horse to keep up with him, but Eleanor had to struggle and very shortly the hem of her gown and cloak were bedraggled with mud and the slush splashed up her legs to soak and befoul her stockings. She almost called out to him to ease the pace, but just then her foot slipped upon the slate rock and she sprawled headlong into the mire. She picked herself up
quickly before his eyes could sweep over her with amusement, but she was too late.

“Hunting with you would be a slice of heaven,” he said blandly, and moved off again.

She trudged on uncomplaining until at last the massive stronghold of Chepstowe loomed ahead. She bit her hp. He’d succeeded in shredding her pride before his, but she could not bear to walk into Chepstowe like a subdued captive. “De Montfort, do not make me walk in.”

He turned and bestowed a look of admiration upon her. Then he carried her to the mare and lifted her into the saddle. By way of explanation he said quietly, “If you attempt to control me, Eleanor, you will be in for a battle royale.”

She lifted her pretty chin. “I’ll fight, if only for my amusement. I’ll test my mettle and sharpen my skills upon you.”

w
hen the men of Chepstowe’s garrison and the stablemen and grooms saw the tall Earl of Leicester leading the countess into the bailey, they could not hide their admiration for his courage in completing what he had set out to do. Here was a man indeed. In their eyes his worth went up a hundredfold. His destrier had returned two days since with the hounds, one of them wounded. They had thought never to see him again.

The heavy front door opened and Bette rushed out, crying “God be praised. I’d given you up for dead after all this time.”

Eleanor waved her hand as if her woman was making a mountain from a molehill. “I was perfectly all right. De Montfort found me at the hunting lodge, where I told you I would shelter if the blizzard returned.”

Simon did not contradict her, but he followed Bette out to the kitchens where she went to order a meal be prepared. He held his hands out to the blazing fire and said, “Cosset her a little. She’s had a hard time of it.”

They went their separate ways to bathe, change, and eat. Then Eleanor rested and Simon tended the horses and talked with the men of Chepstowe. They tested his ability with the
longbow, and when he proved his skill were delighted when he organized a hunt for the morrow. He ate the evening meal with the Welshmen then joined Eleanor and Bette in the hall where the women sat before the roaring fire listening to a minstrel. He pulled up a chair and stretched his long legs to the flames, content to watch the firelight flicker over Eleanor’s beautiful features.

They began to banter with each other, striking sparks in verbal challenge. Bette soon realized there was sexual tension between the couple and excused herself to brew Eleanor some herb tea.

“Surely your palate prefers something stronger than tea,” he challenged.

“I am unused to wine,” she said repressively.

“Order us some, or are you afraid it will put fire and passion in your blood?”

“Your demeanor is ever assertive and swaggering. You speak as if you expect to be obeyed,” she pointed out.

“I do,” he asserted.

“In any case, I have always had fire and passion in my blood without wine. You forget I am a Plantagenet.”

“If I forget, you will remind me, Princess,” he said, slanting a mocking black brow.

“You can convey lust with the lift of an eyebrow,” she accused.

“I intend to lift more than an eyebrow,” he said with a leer.

“You are disgusting,” she said, glancing about to see if the servants overheard.

“You put a man’s mind on bed,” he told her.

“Hush! Have you no discretion? Your tongue will brand me wanton with such loose talk.”

Her words inflamed him. He stood to tower over her, not knowing if he could keep his hands from her. “My tongue
will
brand you. It will scald you when I make love to you,” he promised. Blood of God, the fire was snaking through his loins.

With alarm she saw a servitor approach with wine, and Bette was returning with her tea. “How dare you stand so close to me?” she hissed.

“I dare anything, English. Do you want me to carry you up
to bed? Have a care, lady, lest I brand you my woman before the whole of Chepstowe.”

She was breathing deeply to calm herself as she took the herb tea Bette handed her.

The last thing he wanted at this moment was to fight with her. She was ravishing and he wanted her desperately. She saw him reach for her and in desperation she deliberately let the steaming tea slip from her hands. He didn’t even flinch as the scalding liquid splashed over his hand and thigh, but she saw the need in his eyes turn to rage and it filled her with satisfaction.

“I came all the way to Wales to avoid you, my lord,” she said, not caring that Bette heard. “Now you are forcing me to retire to bed to avoid you.”

“Rest assured, lady, that if I willed it, I would share your bed”—his eyes flicked over Bette—“as I’ve shared it twice before.” It was his turn to feel satisfaction.

Eleanor fled the hall. Later Bette kept a wise silence as Eleanor paced about her chamber, calling de Montfort twelve different kinds of villain. “He has a bronze fist inside a velvet glove. He needs to exert control over even the primal forces around him,” she muttered as she remembered his triumph over the wolf and the blizzard. “He enjoys command so much, he would like to control the universe. Well, he won’t control me. I won’t buckle under to his lechery. The wretched man will not leave me alone. He pursued me to Odiham, then he pursued me all the way to Chepstowe. He’s like a thorn in my side, ever pricking me to remind me of his presence.”

“Hush, my lady. Do not fret so. There are only my eyes to see, and you know my lips are sealed.”

“Thank you, Bette. I wish I could rid myself of the brute.”

But in the morning when she discovered the Earl of Leicester had gone off hunting for the day and taken the entire garrison of Chepstowe with him, she was livid.

“This is damnable, beyond all!” she cried. “He knew I wished to join the hunt. I hate being cooped up when the herons are on the wing and the roe deer are running.”

Bette rolled her eyes. How could she call herself cooped up when she had not been back from the dangerous wild mountains
a full day? “I don’t think the earls intent was cruel, my lady. I think it was kind. He told me you had had a hard time of it. He left you at the castle today so you could rest and regain your full strength.”

Eleanor knew a restlessness she could not explain. She talked to the Welsh women of Chepstowe who showed an open curiosity about her beautiful clothes, and she admired the cloth they wove, especially the scarlet wool they made into skirts and warm capes. She inspected the kitchens, watching the baking and cooking of the strange dishes and tasting everything that went into them. She talked with the steward and the scribes, and they showed her the books William had collected from different parts of Wales. She spoke to the minstrel and asked him if he would come back to Windsor with her to be part of her court.

When the first shadows of the afternoon began to gather, she retired to her chamber to bathe and choose a gown for the evening meal. There was no mistaking the sounds of a returned hunt. Horses, dogs, and men tended to be noisy whenever they were grouped together, and whether the men were French, English, or Welsh they shouted, they laughed, and they cursed.

The hall was busy when she came down the stairs dressed in the striking deep-blue velvet with her sapphires blazing about her throat. Every male eye admired her beauty, every man of Chepstowe envied de Montfort for whatever was between him and their countess, yet none would have wanted her for his woman. There was too much fire in her, too much passion. Eleanor Plantagenet was too willful, too beautiful, too extravagantly expensive for their tastes.

As Simon watched her descend the stairs, he knew he wanted her exactly as she was. She looked down at the powerful man. He had a masterful stance. His strong presence marked him as a leader. She thought, He does not really want me to buckle under to his will, he just wants a challenge.

She held up her hands for silence. “I have no doubt the hunt was successful, so I would like all of you to dine in the hall tonight. We will celebrate.”

On cue the servitors hurried in to set up the trestle tables,
throw logs onto the fires, and hand the men leather horns filled with October ale.

Simon’s eyes kindled as he smelled the delicious roasting meats. “Thank you for the warm welcome.”

With exquisite sarcasm she said, “We are playing our roles to perfection. The lord and master returns with his bounty; the subservient woman stays behind tending the kitchens.”

His eyes swept down her body taking in the velvet and sapphires, “You make a magnificent chatelaine.”

Her eyes blazed. “I would have much preferred to go hunting.”

His black eyes held hers. “I don’t believe it is the hunt you enjoy. Even now you recoil from the blood on my clothes. I shall go and change immediately. I believe you love being astride a good horse with the wind whipping your cheeks and hair. I believe you are a nature lover, enjoying the seasons to the full, watching birds take flight rather than watching them fall to the hunter. That is why you are such a poor falconer.”

“A poor falconer?” She gasped.

He shrugged. “You always manage to let your bird of prey escape into freedom.” When she opened her mouth for a scathing retort, he held out his hand. “A truce, Eleanor. Tomorrow promises to be a glorious autumn day. Will you ride out with me?”

She stood on the third step from the bottom of the staircase, their eyes on a level. He was actually asking her rather than telling her. Finally she placed her hand in his and said, “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

He raised her hand to his mouth and playfully bit her fingers. She snatched her hand back immediately. He threw back his head to laugh and exposed white teeth and a powerful corded neck.

When he joined her at the table he was garbed in black, his linen immaculate. No trace of leather or horse clung to him, only the clean, fresh smell of his shaving soap. In spite of herself she enjoyed watching him eat. He had a true man’s appetite, large and healthy. He began with fish, followed by a brace of partridge, then helped himself to a platter of succulent venison. His eyes told her how attractive he found her. “You look
as fashionable as if you were attending a royal banquet rather than a plain meal with your people. These Welshmen have never before beheld the likes of you.”

“Some of their clothing is quite beautiful. I admit to lusting for one of their scarlet wool cloaks.”

“The color would suit you to perfection. So rich, so proud, so bold, so incautious. ’tis the color of blood.”

“Then it should suit you better than 1, sir. As a war lord your whole life has been blood. You revere battle and bloodshed. It is your passion. It is what makes you so vibrantly alive. If you had been born in Rome, you would have been a gladiator.”

He stared at her in disbelief, then he said quietly, “Eleanor, if you believe that, you do not understand anything about me. War is hell. Battle is a living nightmare.” He hesitated, wondering if he should reveal the horrific details or keep her in ignorance. He decided she was woman enough to hear the truth.

“The smells are obscene—the hot, metallic scent of blood, the discharged excrement, the smell of vomit caused by panic. But the smells are as nothing compared to the sounds. The deafening crash of weapons, the thunk of arrows sinking into flesh, the sobs of the frightened, the moans of the maimed, the screams of the berserk sicken your very soul. Worse than the smells and the sounds are the pain and discomfort. Your own sweat runs into your eyes to blind you. Death attracts clouds of flies, which stick to your skin and feed on your wounds. Your garments, wet with sweat and blood, rub your skin raw. After a few hours the weight of your weapons is bearable only because your mind is numb with exhaustion as your feet slide in brains and guts from dawn to dark.”

Her eyes had widened, her nostrils flared.

“You’ve heard the word ‘bloodlust’—do you know what it means? A good leader of men must not allow them the spoils of war. He must control them so they do not rape women until they die or cut off their breasts or use a head for a football.”

Her face had gone white, her hand had gone to her throat.

“Eleanor, that is why there is nowhere in this world I would rather be than with you. You are the one who will bring joy to my life. You will be my salvation.”

“Are you trying to tell me you are a warrior who does not believe in war?”

His features were as hard as granite. “Sometimes war is a necessary evil. But if a land is ruled firmly by a strong hand, if the laws are just and fair for peasant as well as noble, then the realm prospers and there is no need for dissension.”

“What if that realm is attacked by another who covets such prosperity?”

“That is precisely when it becomes a necessary evil. But every man is willing to take up arms to protect what is his, and it usually ends in a quick victory.”

She knew he spoke of countries and wars in the abstract, yet his words pointed up exactly what was wrong with England. King Henry was weak and feckless. He ignored the laws of the Great Charter and squandered fortunes on his favorites. There was always dissent in the land and the barons refused to fight for their king and country.

“The strong leaders are gone and your brother is listening to false council that could destroy the realm. Already the Irish shout Too many kings in England’ when they speak of Henry’s and his wife’s relatives.”

Eleanor pushed back her chair. “I think I shall retire now, my lord. You have given me much food for thought.”

He sighed dramatically. “What good is a woman with her mind on politics when mine is on bed?”

She almost slapped him, then suddenly her laughter rang out as she realized he was teasing the life out of her.