The Dragon and the Jewel (39 page)

She thrust her tongue into his mouth and heard his deep, masculine groan. “Take me to London, Sim,” she whispered.

“That’s a whore’s trick,” he said hoarsely, “using sex to get what you want.”

She outlined his lips with the tip of her tongue. “How dare you brag of your use of whores while making love to me,” she said, biting his neck passionately.

“You are smaller and hotter than any whore,” he confided.

“You do everything in your power to prolong our mating. A whore uses tricks to get it over with quickly.”

“Such as?” she coaxed, thrusting her breasts at him so that her swollen nipples brushed across his lips.

His hands separated her bottom cheeks and he placed a fingertip upon her sphincter. “If a man is taking too long they’ll slip in their finger to make him ejaculate.”

She whispered, “Take me to bed. You make me feel like a whore when you take me standing up.” Simon was only too happy to oblige. Anger turned to lust had a heightened quality about it that aroused lovers to fever pitch. He knew his back would bear deep scratches from her nails and that his neck and shoulders would be covered with teeth marks from her biting, but it was worth it to know he could bring her to the peak of rapture.

The beast within him crouched above her, then leapt upon her fiercely. He incited her to such wildness that she screamed with excitement as he filled her with his pulsing manhood. Almost immediately she began to climax. She knew he was not yet ready to spend, so she looked directly into his eyes as their hearts beat against each other. Then she deliberately slipped a finger into the shallow cleft of his buttocks.

A cry rose up in his throat as he ejaculated inside her, unable to hold himself in check. She held him clasped to her tightly to experience the pleasure of his shudder. “Sapphire-eyed witch,” he whispered, too spent to be angry with her.

“Black-eyed devil,” she whispered back, more contented than she’d felt in ages.

When the missive arrived proclaiming Simon de Montfort one of nine godfathers to the new prince, Eleanor was elated. She still had not been able to cajole a promise from her husband to take her to London, but now that he was being honored there could be no refusing.

Simon still had doubts. He felt uneasy that all eight of the other godfathers named were his enemies. He wished he could converse with Rickard de Burgh. Not that he put credence in the knight’s visions, he was far too practical and down-to-earth
for such nonsense, but the young knight was sensitive to the mood of the court and was adept at sniffing out intrigue.

Finally, grudgingly, he gave Eleanor permission to write to her brother Henry accepting the invitation. When King Henry’s personal reply arrived at Kenilworth, he told them that the Bishop of Winchester had graciously put his London town house at Simon and Eleanor’s disposal for the duration of their stay.

Brenda was styling Eleanor’s hair in a new fashion, braiding it into a crown, when Simon said, “I don’t think we should stay at Winchester House. It sticks in my craw to accept anything from him.”

Brenda dropped the brush in alarm and, excusing herself, fled from the chamber.

“Now see what you’ve done,” accused Eleanor. “The servants know when you are about to create a scene and flee in fear.”

“That one afraid?” Simon said in disbelief. “She eats men alive.”

“There is no need to be lewd,” she said repressively, pinning up her long braids.

“Me, lewd? I abhor lewdness,” he said innocently.

She brought the subject back to London. “I much prefer a town house close by the abbey to staying at Windsor with the queen and her tribe.”

“Then I’ll ask our friend Robert, Bishop of Lincoln, if we can share his town house.”

“What in the world do you have against the Bishop of Winchester? He is the most generous, hospitable man in the world. I remember the Christmases of my childhood were always spent in the ancient capital of Winchester. He footed the bill for everything.”

Simon knew he could not vilify Winchester without heaping shit upon Henry’s head and the moment he did that, she would fly at him in defense of her brother. Simon shrugged and remembered the Bible: “Even a fool is considered wise when he does not speak.”

The days seemed to speed up as they raced toward August as there was much to do before they departed Kenilworth. Eleanor
spent painstaking hours with her steward, showing him her method of bookkeeping. She ordered all the supplies in advance for the weeks they would be away and wrote out lists of instructions for all, from the chaplains to the washerwomen. She appointed a Franciscan, Brother Vincent, to be in charge of compiling the library she had begun and spent days going over instructions with Bette, Emma, and Kate regarding her baby son’s feeding, clothing, bedtime, and fresh-air outings.

She was going over the entries in her personal journal, which was for her eyes alone, when suddenly her eyes came to rest upon a date two months before. She scanned the pages frantically for another entry since then and when she found none, she angrily slammed the journal closed. “I’ll kill him!” she fumed. “He has done it a purpose!” The possibility was strong that she was breeding again, and she felt the blush turn her cheeks pink.

She looked down from the Caesar Tower and saw him in the bailey. God rot the lusty Frenchman, why did he have to flaunt his great virility at her expense? Suddenly she saw that he conversed with her red-haired maid, Brenda. The girl was touching his chest in a most appealing manner, looking so small and helpless next to the towering giant. She saw Simon put his arm about the girl and take her inside the weapons room. So! Not content to plant his seed in his wife’s belly, he was planting a crop of bastards by fucking the maids!

Simon had never seen the saucy wench Brenda reduced to tears before.

“My lord, I beg of you, do not make me go to Winchester’s town house.”

Simon had so many things to do before he left Kenilworth that he was annoyed with the maid. Surely this was Eleanor’s territory. Why was she bothering him with her silly whims? As he gave his full attention to her, however, he realized how distressed she was, and his conscience pricked him that he always championed the common man but could not give a woman the time of day. “I recall you spoke the name Winchester to me once before,” Simon said, remembering that this was the girl who had run away and hidden herself once for over a year. Here was a puzzle indeed, and there was a piece missing.

“You had better unburden your secrets to me if you want me to protect you.”

Simon’s black eyes were so shrewd, Brenda feared he might already know everything. There were few men she would ever trust, but Simon de Montfort was an exception. She choked back a sob and whispered, “It all began when I made my confession to the bishop. He used me to get information about William Marshal. A new squire was taken into the household, but he was Winchester’s man. The night the marshal died, the squire tried to push me off the roof of Westminster. He fell to his death.”

Simon’s eyes were like black obsidian. “You have conveniently skipped over the nub of the matter. Why did he have instructions to silence you?”

Whatever she said would implicate her in the poisoning. De Montfort could kill her with one blow, and yet, and yet, if the Marshal had lived this man could never have had Eleanor. The words came slowly. “I knew he had a powder to put in the marshal’s food and drink.”

Simon’s fists clenched into balls of iron. This little whore had been involved in a successful plot to murder one of England’s finest men. He tried to focus his anger where it belonged, on Winchester and on the weak king for allowing evil men to control England’s destiny. This little slut was only a pawn. He experienced Eleanor’s pain. How long she had carried her guilt because William died in bed with her. “I will tell the countess to choose another maid for London. If you remain at Kenilworth you need not fear. No one connected with Winchester will ever be admitted here.” Unless they come in chains, he added silently.

Strangely enough, the knowledge he had gained about Winchester whetted his appetite to have dealings with the bishop. The unease about lodging at Winchester’s town house vanished. Simon de Montfort relished challenge. He was whistling when he climbed the stairs of the Caesar Tower, but the tune died on his lips when he saw that his beautiful wife had been sharpening her claws all afternoon. Here was another sort of challenge. He would tease her into a loving mood. He winked at her. “When you want me to make love to you, you always
wear that sexy red gown. But do you mind if we eat first? I’m starving.”

Her chin went up and her eyes flashed. “If you think I’d let you touch me after you have been with her—”

“Her? Who?” Simon asked, puzzled. Then he knew she had spied him talking to Brenda. A great whoop of laughter rolled about the room. “By God, you are jealous.”

“Jealous?” she cried. “Jealous of a cheeky-faced wench who spreads her legs for every man in Kenilworth? I am not in the least jealous, but next time your prick swells don’t take her into the weapons room where all the castle may know of your lechery.”

Amusement danced in his eyes. “You silly child, she asked to be excused from going to London. I told her you would choose another maid. So you see, you guessed the wrong one if you were trying to discover my latest whore!”

Eleanor felt so relieved, her knees buckled. Simon hadn’t finished with her yet, however. His eyes ran over her with speculation. “You know, next time you are trying to lure me to bed, don’t wear that red gown, it makes you look fat.”

Eleanor burst into tears. He was immediately contrite. “Sweetheart, whatever is amiss?”

“I think I’m breeding again. How could you, just when I am going to London?”

Her news filled him with joy. He picked her up and swung her about. Laughing down into her woebegone face, he whooped. “You are afraid everyone will know you’ve been fucking with me again.”

She blushed and hid her hot cheeks against his shoulder. “Sim, we have only been wed six months and I am already swelling with your second son. I swear you have done it on purpose.”

“Me?” he teased. “You are responsible for this one. Remember the night you slipped your finger into my—” “Sim!” she cried. “Stop!”

He kissed her heartily. “Why aren’t you happy? Are my sons not beautiful enough for you?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied softly, her heart skipping a beat at the mere thought of her fine baby in the adjoining chamber.

“And you only said you
think
you are breeding,” he reminded her as he handed her a cup of warm spiced wine. He gathered her onto his knee and watched her sip prettily. Then he put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Finish the dragonsblood. I want to take you to bed and make a
surety
of it.”

S
imon gave last-minute instructions to the captain of the guard at Kenilworth. Though it was impregnable, he wanted no laxity in his absence. Guards must still walk the walls twenty-four hours a day. He conversed with the master-of-arms of the weapons room, ordering him to see that the arms and armor were always kept clean and sharp and a strict tally maintained. His knights and squires were so rigidly trained they needed no reminders of their duties, and Simon had no doubt that by example the newcomers would behave accordingly.

The grooms had curried all the horses and the stableboys had cleaned and washed every stall so that Simon could inspect them before he left. The wagons were gathered in the bailey to transport the servants they were taking to London. The baggage was stacked in the courtyard ready to be loaded, and the knights and squires who were to ride with Simon and Eleanor were assembling at the portcullis gate.

Eleanor, looking most fetching in a sapphire-blue riding dress with little gray kid gloves and boots, hailed Simon and his squire. “Darling, these two crates hold my personal things. Would you be good enough to put them on one of the wagons for me where they will be safest?”

Simon thought she had never looked prettier. His squire blushed to the roots of his hair as he quickly dismounted to do her bidding. She pointed to the crate and gave him a dazzling smile as he hoisted it in strong arms and headed for the wagons.

Simon dismounted more slowly. Honey wouldn’t melt in her mouth when she wanted something, and he knew he would always be her willing slave. He leered after her as she reentered the castle, then bent to his task. A frown came between his eyes. Splendor of God, the crate was heavy. He struggled with it, but it took him a minute or two to lift it chest high. How in the name of God had his squire managed so easily? He carried the crate for about fifty yards and was forced to set it down to rest. He actually flushed as he imagined his knights were observing his difficulty. What could Eleanor possibly own that was heavier than lead? He knelt and unfastened the crate. It was filled with boulders! She was playing a dangerous game, wanting to see him ridiculed and humiliated in front of his squire and his knights. It was a game, in fact, that two could play.

He had given in to her demands that he take her to London, and this was the thanks he got. He eyed his knights suspiciously. Someone must have helped her in her devious little plot. He laughed to himself. God’s death, it could have been any one of them. She was an expert at twisting a man about her little finger. He was the prime example. He tipped the boulders behind the horse trough and piled the empty crate on the cart.

Eleanor now had her own guards who always rode at her side, and the four young knights came out of the stables leading her mare. In a few minutes she stepped out into the courtyard, wiping a last tear away as she waved good-bye to Bette and the baby. Simon took her mare’s bridle from the knight who held it and fastened it just outside the stable doors. He smiled down into his wife’s eyes as he effortlessly lifted her into the saddle. However, at that precise moment his foot slipped and he grabbed at her skirts to save himself. Down tumbled Eleanor right into the fresh pile of horse manure that the stableboys had just gathered.

“Oh,” she cried, outraged. “You did it on purpose!”

His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I knew you would say that. You are becoming so predictable, my princess. We will wait while you change your clothes, if you hurry.”

“I will never forgive you!” she blazed.

He grinned. “You will be laughing about it before the day is out. When I discovered the crate of boulders I felt just as you do. Now, however, I find it quite amusing.”

Eleanor felt the excitement rising within her as the towers and spires of London came into view. However, once they had ridden through the gates of the city proper, she saw it through different eyes. The streets were filthy and oh so narrow. The houses looked like rows of rotten teeth. Its citizens were ignorant and uncouth and the whole place stank. How could it have changed so quickly? she wondered. Then she realized it had always been as it now was. The change was in herself. Kenilworth was like a city, but it was clean and orderly and its inhabitants were civilized and mannerly.

She was greatly surprised that Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, was recognized everywhere. Men hailed him familiarly, women threw him kisses, and children ran alongside his horse, begging pennies. As they slowly made their way past the Hoop and Grapes Inn at Aldgate, the landlord rushed out with pints of ale for everyone wearing the distinctive de Montfort badge upon his shoulder. When Eleanor reached for one to clear the dust from her throat, a loud cheer went up. She smiled her pleasure and drank to the health of everyone watching.

Winchester House was a luxurious place indeed. Its immaculate cobbled courtyard, spotless flagstoned kitchen, luxurious salon, and carpeted bedchambers pointed out to all eyes that no expense had been spared on its upkeep. Winchester’s personal servants were not in residence, only a skeleton staff for security, and so the Leicesters’ servants took over immediately. Before the sun set they had every crate unpacked, the countess’s personal linen on all the beds, and her favorite dishes upon the table.

Robert, Bishop of Lincoln, accepted Simon’s invitation to dine with them, since his town house was only across the street. It always amused Eleanor that Lincoln looked nothing like a
man of the cloth. He was tall and powerfully muscled, and she reasoned that was likely why Simon and Robert enjoyed each other’s company. She played at keeping her woman’s place, and by keeping her mouth closed and her ears open she learned much.

The two men spoke in very unflattering terms about both of her brothers. She was surprised to learn that Richard would not be in London for the queen’s churching or the prince’s christening. According to the bishop, Richard’s god was money. He was likened to King Midas, everything he touched turned to gold, and she learned that it was apparently common knowledge that he was so avaricious and tight-fisted, he still had the first crown he’d ever made. At the moment he had no interest in England. As the Count of Poitou he lived entirely on the continent and was now busy currying favor to be elected King of the Romans. Rumors abounded that he was planning a Crusade because the Holy Land and the territories surrounding it was where the real wealth, riches, and treasures of the world could be found.

She was on the point of hotly defending Richard when Simon said, “The money you so generously donated to me for my trip to Rome went straight into Richard’s pocket. You tore the veil from my eyes the day you told me the church was based on a system of bribery, but it’s a bit of a bastard when you are obliged to grease your brother-in-law’s palm. Especially when he took control of Marshal lands that should have rightfully gone to my wife. It must have plagued hell out of his conscience, because he finally gave the money back.”

Eleanor was startled. Simon had never mentioned these things to her, although she did recall him saying he had always protected her from her brothers’ character flaws. She’d presumed he’d been alluding to Henry, of course. When the men’s conversation switched to the king. Eleanor thought, more than a little shocked, They are both guilty of treason.

“I have it on the best authority that Henry has been negotiating to have the crown of Sicily conferred upon his infant son’s head.”

Eleanor could keep quiet no longer. Her sister Isabella was married to Emperor Frederick of Germany who was also King
of Sicily. “Negotiating with Frederick because he has no heir of his own?” she asked.

Robert coughed rather delicately for such a big man. “No, my dear. Negotiating with the Pope,” the bishop answered.

Eleanor was perplexed. She looked from Robert to Simon. “Frederick is King of Sicily. What does the crown have to do with the Pope?”

“Consensus is that Henry may have agreed to finance a papal war,” the Bishop of Lincoln said solemnly.

Eleanor recoiled. Either her brother was dabbling in vile, sickening intrigue or these men were malignant gossipmongers. Both alternatives were abhorrent to her.

Simon laughed and Eleanor heard bitterness in it. “Henry never financed anything in his life. He’ll squeeze the Jews and the barons dry.”

Just at that moment Rickard de Burgh arrived, and Eleanor was never so relieved to see anyone in her life. He was such a gentle, perfect knight that he would not sit and listen to them malign their monarch. Eleanor rose from the table. She would order the minstrels to bring their lutes. How had she allowed the conversation at her table to sink to such a low level? She rushed from the dining hall so quickly a wave of dizziness swept over her and she put out a hand to steady herself. Then she went cold as she heard Sir Rickard’s voice.

“Winchester has set a trap for you. I hoped you would remain at Kenilworth out of their reach.”

“I suspected as much when we received the generous offer of Winchester House,” Simon said quietly.

“Your enemies have poisoned the king against you. Henry went straight to Winchester with your suggestions of restoring power to Hubert and making Richard Marshal the justiciar. Richard Marshal was sent to Ireland and murdered. Winchester is terrified of your growing power in England. Now that you are here in London, I believe he will get the king to exile you.”

Eleanor was on the point of rushing back to the men to tell them they were fools and liars. Henry was her dearest brother, her friend. How could Simon listen to such lies? Simon knew better than any man alive how the king had arranged for their
secret marriage in his own chapel. Henry would allow no man to poison his mind about Simon de Montfort.

“How was Henry persuaded against me?” Simon asked quietly.

Eleanor held her breath so she could hear the answer to the question she herself asked.

“Winchester simply pointed out to Henry that you patterned yourself upon Henry II. ’tis no secret you uphold the cause of English liberty as he did and are constantly calling attention to the genius of the laws he passed. Winchester accused you of ambition for the throne. Pointed out how you purposely got a royal princess with child so that you could marry into the Plantagenet line.”

Eleanor’s hand went to her throat. No denial issued forth from Simon de Montfort’s lips. Eleanor climbed slowly to the bedchamber and stood at the window with unseeing eyes. The tale of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine came flooding back to her. Henry, a mere count, had been so ambitious that he snatched the crown of England for himself. He needed a royal mate so he deliberately impregnated the King of France’s queen, which enabled her to get a dispensation for a divorce and marry Henry.

How blind she had been! The circumstances were so similiar she could not believe she had never before thought of them. Simon de Montfort had always been so sure of himself. He had pursued her relentlessly. He had not chosen her for love. He had chosen her for ambition! Her hand went protectively to her belly. She was just the vessel he had used to attain his goal.

She must go to Henry at once. No, it was dark; London was unsafe. She would not be permitted to leave the house tonight. Tomorrow … she would go in the morning. No, the queen’s churching was to take place in the morning. She would have to wait until she was inside the abbey before she sought out the protection of the king. She undressed and crept into bed. She would feign sleep tonight to buy her time until tomorrow.

When she rose she kept her maids in attendance so she would not be alone with de Montfort. The clothes she had brought to London for the festive occasion personified her innate good taste. She knew the court would be awash in cloth-of-gold,
royal purple, and Henry’s inevitable green. She had had her husband’s new clothes coordinated with her own, keeping in mind his very masculine dislike for ostentation and “peacocking” in bright colors. For the christening of the prince where Simon was one of nine godfathers she had chosen deep, rich wine with matching cloak, its only ornamentation a ruby clasp. She would wear rose trimmed with silver. Today, for the queen’s churching, her gown was pale peach silk, while her husband’s garments were deep amber.

When he entered the chamber she busied herself putting her jet-black curls into place, her eyes not daring to meet his. He thought the pale peach made her look like an exotic flower, and he stood entranced. Before her maids and his own squire he said, “You are the most exotic, breathstopping creature I have ever known.” He
dipped
his head to kiss her. She managed to turn her face so that his lips found only her cheek.

“We must hurry. If we want a seat in the abbey we must be there two hours before the king and queen arrive. Remember they are in residence at Westminster and will walk in a procession from there to the abbey.”

“Yes, I know. The streets will be crowded. I know how much you dislike orders, Eleanor, but it is my express wish that you remain with your mounted guards until I lift you from the saddle. I don’t want you in jeopardy.”