The Dragon and the Jewel (40 page)

She lowered her lashes and meekly acquiesced to his order. He looked at her askance, most suspicious of her demeanor. Then later, as she rode toward Westminster flanked by her guard, she could see the tall figure of the Earl of Leicester ahead of her. Mounted or standing he towered above his fellow men. She heard the cheers of the crowd but today, instead of pleasing her, it made her shiver. Many times she had heard him say “You can become whatever you behold.” Was his ambition of such magnitude it encompassed the crown of England?

She was glad she had chosen a light silk. The day was hot, almost sultry, and was sure to end with a storm. She wished she had never come to London. She wished she was home at Kenilworth with her baby and her ignorance. Ignorance was indeed bliss. She dreaded the thought of arriving at the abbey. How
could she choose between loyalty to a husband and loyalty to a brother and king?

Outside the church the crowds were heavy and the horses were skittish. She saw her husband dismount and hand his reins to his squire, then the crowds parted for him as he strode toward his wife. He raised his arms to her, and she lowered her lashes and allowed him to lift her to his side. Now she could see nothing. She was so small her head reached to most people’s shoulders. Suddenly she raised her eyes in alarm. Something was wrong. She heard her husband raise his voice and his tone was deadly. She glimpsed his face. It was carved in stone, black-browed, black-visaged. Then she realized what was happening. The royal guards at the abbey door blocked their entrance, refusing to admit them on orders of the king.
On orders of the king!
Henry must be mad, she thought. Insanity does not run in my family, it gallops!

The insult to a man like Simon de Montfort was catastrophic. Surely they knew his pride and his temper were unmatched. He grasped his wife’s arm in a steellike vise and propelled her back to their horse guards. His eyes were like black fire. “Eleanor, you will remain here with your guard,” he commanded, then he vaulted into the saddle of his destrier and scattered the crowd.

He stalked down the halls of Westminster so purposefully his silver spurs struck sparks upon the marble floor. With deadly accuracy he aimed for the long throne room. The Welsh guards on the outer door fell back automatically to allow access to the inner sanctum when they saw the war lord stride up. Running behind, trying to catch up to him, came Princess Eleanor Plantagenet. He was through one set of doors before he sensed someone following him. He turned furiously and when he saw her he raged, “Christ’s blood, don’t you know your life is in jeopardy?” He shoved her roughly behind the door to conceal her, then stalked down the long chamber.

All seemed to be confusion as the procession of courtiers tried to establish a pecking order. King’s Men always took precedence over Queen’s Men, except perhaps today for the event of the queen’s churching. The archbishops and bishops were all in line behind the old, failing Archbishop of Canterbury, but
the king’s half brothers were arguing the toss with Thomas of Savoy’s brood of arrogant offspring, while a large-bosomed wet nurse kept the heir to the throne quiet.

One by one the assembly fell silent as Simon de Montfort swept down the room resembling the angel of death. He challenged Henry directly, but he could not utter the word “Sire” to save his soul. “Why do you forbid my presence in Westminster Abbey?”

The Bishop of Winchester stepped forward to answer the challenge. “You have been excommunicated,” he said with a sneer.

“By whom?” roared de Montfort. “By me,” Winchester thundered.

“On what charge?” demanded Simon, keeping a rigid control over his sword arm.

“That you seduced the Princess Eleanor and extorted consent for the marriage.” Winchester’s face was smug. He lowered his voice slightly and said with relish, “Remember, de Montfort, there are two groups of people—the pitiful and the pitiless!”

Simon knew a murderous urge to cleave him into two pieces. His eyes swung to Henry and he pointed his finger. “You arranged our wedding yourself in your private chapel.”

“Liar!” cried the king, courageous as a lion with his den surrounding him.

Eleanor had heard enough. “Henry!” she cried, and all eyes swung to the beautiful young woman in vibrant peach. She was more regal than any other in the room as she came to stand beside her husband. For the first time in her life she admitted to herself what Henry was. His lack of backbone sickened her. “I was ever your greatest champion …
You have betrayed me.”

“Adulteress!” shrieked the queen.

Eleanor knew she must get Simon out of there before he drew his weapon and there was murder done. Simon tasted fear on his tongue … fear for his beloved wife who meant more to him than life. Her temper was so passionate she would end up in the Tower before the day was done. They clasped hands and withdrew in unison.

Outside Westminster Palace de Montfort’s men quickly surrounded
the earl and countess, and they galloped through the city at full speed to Winchester House. When they arrived they found their entire household had been turned out into the courtyard and the doors barred against them. Rickard de Burgh was there and had a hurried word with Simon. “There are soldiers at all the city’s gates waiting to arrest you. You are charged with unlawful seduction, my lady is charged with adultery,” he said bluntly.

Eleanor was already giving orders to the servants to ready the wagons. “We are returning to Kenilworth immediately,” she announced.

Simon took her hand and looked down into her eyes which were so like deep, blue sapphires. “Nay, love, ’tis too late for Kenilworth. Warrants are out for our arrest. I won’t ever see you in the Tower and they’ll never take me alive. We’ll take ship across the Channel.”

“But my baby …” she cried in alarm.

“Will be safe at Kenilworth,” he insisted.

“No, no, noooo,” she wailed, but he had already swung her up into his powerful arms.

“Damnit, cast out your fear. In this life you get what you are afraid of!” He directed de Burgh, “Place the servants with the Bishop of Lincoln across the road, he will get them safely home.”

They went downriver to Tower Wharfe where they took ship for the continent with only the clothes on their backs.

E
leanor swung gently in a hammock that had been strung between two laburnum trees. Her hand shaded her eyes as she looked out across the sparkling Adriatic Sea. She lived luxuriously, her every whim catered to by an abundance of servants. At a glance her world appeared perfect, yet she was pensive, almost melancholy. She missed her son unbearably.

They had sailed to Bordeaux where Simon learned that not only were Richard and Isabella in Italy, but Eleanor’s sister Isabella who had married the Emperor of Germany was residing there as well. They went overland from Bordeaux to Italy, where they were welcomed with open arms. It was a happy family reunion for the Plantagenet brother and sisters. Eleanor and Isabella had not seen each other since they were children, and they reminisced for days, recalling incidents that brought both smiles and tears to their faces.

Eleanor was shocked at how matronly her
sister
looked though she was only one year older. She had to keep reminding herself that her brother-in-law was not only Emperor of Germany but was also the ruler of southern Italy and Sicily. He insisted that she and Simon take up residence in a great echoing stone palace overlooking the sea at Brindisi. In return Simon de
Montfort willingly went off to northern Italy with Frederick to help him besiege the city of Brescia, leaving Eleanor to idle away her days with the two Isabellas.

Over and over Eleanor chided herself for being discontented. Here the sun always shone, the azure sea was ever warm, flowers bloomed in profusion while the sea breezes wafted their fragrance to perfume the air. Yet Eleanor was irritated by the excess. Too much food, fruit, good wine; too many servants, poetry and idleness. It was all very well for Simon. He was off doing what he did best, but she was left with too many empty hours on her hands—hours, days, and weeks in which she had nothing to do but think.

Her brother Richard and Isabella’s child was a boy named Henry of Almaine, and she delighted in helping Isabella care for him, in spite of the servants’ disapproval that royal ladies should so occupy themselves. She divulged that she was again with child and was amazed that they should envy her so much. She was homesick and longed for her baby son left behind at Kenilworth. She penned endless letters to Bette even though she could not read. The Franciscan brothers read them to Bette, Kate, and Emma and wrote replies back to the Countess of Leicester answering all her questions and reassuring her that, yes indeed, baby Henry was thriving in spite of his parents’ forced exile.

During her first weeks she could not shake off her feelings of betrayal. Henry, no doubt at Winchester’s instigation, had charged her with adultery. Surely none would ever believe she had carried on a sexual relationship with Simon de Montfort while William Marshal had been alive? In truth she had been a sixteen-year-old virgin, not an adulteress. Henry had falsely laid shame upon a sister who had been a lifetime favorite. Worse, if she was found guilty, her children would be branded bastards.

In London she had chosen exile with her husband, closing her eyes to the fact that things might never be the same between them again. Now in her long idle hours the relentless thoughts crept up upon her stealthily, insidiously, demanding that she reexamine and reevaluate their relationship.

She longed to keep the knowledge buried deep within her
heart and consciousness that he had married her because of ambition. But her thoughts were insistent, springing unbidden from her subconscious, forcing their ugly way to the surface so that there was no way she could ignore them any longer. Down through history men had used women as pawns to further their ambitions, but when she thought of Simon doing these things her throat tightened upon her unshed tears and her lips trembled uncontrollably. He had come into her life at a time when she had been so vulnerable, so lonely. His strength and love, his warmth and protection had attracted her, lured her. She had opened to him like a flower opens to the sun. That it had all been a carefully calculated seduction on his part made her feel as if a knife was twisting in her breast and her vitals. Her heart felt bruised and it ached with the poignancy of her newfound knowledge.

In her heart she always thought the name Eleanor had cursed her. How ironic that she had been named after her grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, then suffered the same fate of having an ambitious, powerful man impregnate her to gain a royal wife. No one had ever wanted her for herself. She was valuable because of who she was, a Plantagenet princess, daughter and sister of Kings of England. Pressure had been brought to bear upon the Marshal of England to go through a marriage ceremony with her, then even greater pressure had been brought to bear upon him before he had taken her to live with him. Her dark thoughts skipped over the consummation.

When Simon de Montfort pursued her so relentlessly, she had innocently, foolishly allowed herself to believe he had fallen in love with her and desired her for herself. Now all her illusions were shattered. A tiny sob escaped her and she bit down upon her lip to stop it from quivering. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth until she regained a small measure of control. A tiny flame of anger came to her rescue. To lowest hell with romance; she could and would survive without it. Love was a silly game for girls. From now on she would fulfill the roles of woman, wife, and mother without perpetuating this myth of love. She and Simon were well matched at least, more suited to each other than many other men and women. It would be up to her to see that they had a
good marriage. However, she could not help sighing and wishing and longing for what might have been.

Her quiet introspection was shattered with the return of her husband and his men. What was it in him that inspired such loyalty? Not a few of his knights and men-at-arms had followed him from Kenilworth, and the ranks swelled every day. She wondered if Frederick and her brother Richard knew how foolish it was to let de Montfort have command of their soldiers and retainers, for she knew with a certainty that when the Earl of Leicester moved on, over half their knights and men-at-arms would defect to Simon.

As the clatter and mayhem of mounted men assaulted her ears, she realized she was weak with relief. She had purposefully pushed to the back of her head any thought of danger to her war lord, but now she realized fear for his safety had been her companion day and night.

She remained where she was, but it was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. She wanted to run to him, to pay homage to the returning, conquering hero. She wanted him to open his arms to her and sweep her up to his powerful chest and see the hungry need in his magnetic, black eyes. However, she had resolved to be cool and distant, at least on the surface. It would take all her control to keep her real feelings hidden. She reasoned that in every relationship one partner probably loved more deeply than the other, but as she watched him approach her along the terrace that led to the garden, she realized it was pure hell to be the one who loved most.

Her heart turned over in her breast and her throat filled with heartbeats as he came closer. She hadn’t remembered him being such a colossus, and he was bronzed mahogany from his weeks under the blazing sun. Then he engulfed her. His male scent of leather and horse was like an aphrodisiac. His deep voice sent shivers running up and down her spine. His breath on her skin was so pleasurable it aroused her senses. His mouth so ravenously demanding, it drew all her strength so that she was frightened by her passionate response to him. From somewhere she found the strength to draw away and smile coolly.

Simon masked the hurt he felt. He had imagined this moment of reunion for weeks, living and reliving it over and over.

She was even lovelier than he’d remembered, and now that he’d touched her, the feel and taste of her made him dizzy. But she was keeping that private part of herself from him, the essence that was Eleanor which he craved. She was still angry with him. He knew it wasn’t for one single reason but many—the exile, the rift with Henry, the new baby she carried. His eyes traveled over her possessively and she felt shy as a bride. How would she bear the sexual tension that would build between them during the afternoon hours, through dinner, and on through the evening until bedtime?

She did not need to be concerned, for within the hour Frederick and her sister and Richard and Isabella descended upon them. Richard’s Crusade dominated the conversation. The men sequestered themselves, but the two Isabellas seemed to know every detail of the plans that the men were discussing in private.

Eleanor smiled to herself as she realized she held the lowest rank in the room. Her sister Isabella was an empress, her sister-in-law was a duchess, while she was a mere countess. The women’s talk of the Crusade centered upon the riches of the East: the silks, the jewels, the exquisite palaces with their indoor and outdoor bathing pools, the servants, slaves, and handmaidens.

Eleanor felt there was a gulf between herself and her sisters. She loved them, yet she could never be like them. She observed them and listened to their chatter, but she could not comprehend their materialistic attitude. Both were already so rich they need never concern themselves over money either for themselves or for any children they might have. She glanced about the lavish room. They already had more palaces than they could occupy, filled with more servants than they’d ever need. Even this stone palace on the edge of the sea had a household staff of over fifty women. Some were fair-skinned Germans while others were olive-skinned Italians. Suddenly Eleanor became aware that her sister was looking at her with pitying eyes, and she realized she had missed most of what had been said.

“It must be hell to be married to a man who is handsome as a god. Frederick has his pick of women, of course, but even he knows it is because of his power, so his peccadillos don’t disturb
me overmuch. De Montfort’s women must all fall in love with him. I really don’t know how you bear it, Eleanor.”

Eleanor said the first thing that came into her head. “De Montfort has no women.”

Her sister laughed. “Eleanor, you cannot be that naive. Though he only returned today I warrant he has already selected half a dozen of your prettier maids to receive his attentions.”

Eleanor laughed incredulously. “You had better be wrong. I take his fidelity for granted as I am sure Isabella does with our brother Richard.”

Isabella flushed darkly and Eleanor immediately realized that Richard was unfaithful to her. Damn all men to lowest hell! She would take him to task on the matter.

“Joan of Flanders is an intimate friend of mine,” Eleanor’s sister said confidentially.

“Joan of Flanders?” Eleanor repeated innocently.

“You know,” Isabella said, lowering her voice intimately, “Simon’s first wife.”

“You are mistaken, Bella, I am Simon’s first wife.”

“Not according to Joan!” Her sister giggled.

Eleanor glanced at her sister-in-law and saw that she was aware of what her sister alluded to, even though she herself was in the dark. Isabella Marshal thought Eleanor had had enough heartache in her life so she tried to downplay Simon’s involvement. “It all happened so long ago when he became Earl of Leicester and was so deeply in debt. I believe he offered for Joan but she owned so much land that the King of France forbade the union. That’s all there was to it, I’m sure.”

“Oh, no, no, Isabella, you don’t know the half of it,” insisted Eleanor’s sister, warming to the delicious subject. “Joan of Flanders is the richest widow on the entire continent. Simon de Montfort swept her off her feet. His suit was completely successful. She fell madly in love with him. They were wedded and bedded, according to Joan. The legal contracts had all been drawn up—de Montfort was to have control of everything: her castles, her land, her fortune. Highest stud fee ever paid!” Isabella laughed. “When Louis heard, he immediately sent a military escort to take her to Paris to explain herself. She told me
she burned the marriage certificate and the contracts to destroy evidence that might get her incarcerated, but she regrets her loss to this day. She is still madly in love with him.”

Eleanor wanted to scream. Something was building inside of her that needed venting. If she could have taken a knife and slashed open every silken cushion in the room, then saddled her mare and ridden through the pounding surf of the ocean she might feel better, but all she could do was murmer inanities and smile or they would know her heart was bleeding.

When the servants announced dinner, the women joined the men in the airy dining salon, but now that the veil had been lifted from Eleanor’s eyes she saw the inviting glances of the female servitors and she watched the men’s responses to those invitations. How attentive the serving women were, especially toward Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. His physical magnificence lured them to hover about him like pretty moths about a candleflame.

Eleanor could eat nothing. Lately she had developed a craving for dark, ripe olives but she knew if she put one in her mouth tonight, it would choke her. She sipped her wine instead of eating, then, realizing what a foolish thing she did, she diluted the contents of her Venetian goblet with rosewater.