The Falcon and the Flower (2 page)

“He’s nocturnal, Jasmine. A leopard can’t change his spots, you know. Why didn’t you leave him up in the tower room?” asked Estelle.

Jasmine confessed, “Feather got dead drunk again and I was afraid Quill might forage for him.”

“Mmm,” said Estelle, pursing her lips. “Typical male behavior.”

Winwood Keep’s gardens were a riot of color as the two women stepped out into the warm sunshine. Jasmine saw a honeybee drowning and dipped her finger into the stone birdbath to pick it up. It clung on, holding perfectly still for a couple of seconds, then immediately set about wiping its face and antennae with its front legs. Since their first stop was the beehives anyway, to gather the honey, Jasmine let the furry creature stay on her finger until they reached the hives. Everything in this first garden had been planted to attract bees and butterflies. Beneath the hawthorne, cherry, and crabapple trees bloomed borders of phlox, pinks, lemon verbena, primroses, and hyacinths. The lawn was dotted with buttercups, clover, and daisies, all swarming with honeybees.

Estelle wrapped the honeycombs in cheesecloth, put them into her basket, and the women moved through the hedge into the herb garden. There they gathered sage, mint, angelica, poppy, and alkanet, then left the garden for the nearby woods where they gathered hemlock and arrach.

That night they dispensed to the women of the village most of the materials they had gathered. Arrach was given to the few who were barren and wished to be fruitful, poppy was dispensed for toothaches, alkanet for burns, angelica for black-and-blue bruises, but most of the peasant women had come for electuaries to feed their husbands. One was of hemlock to stop a man’s lust; the other was mint to provoke a man’s lust and stir up venery! The rest had come to the high tower room for magic spells. As she had the previous night, Estelle adorned Jasmine with the finely spun silken robe and the girl glided into the circle of thirteen green candles. Again she
began the ritual by crushing the herbs in the alabaster bowl and smoldering them to a heady, spiraling fragrance. Then she sipped the blood-red wine from the jewel-encrusted chalice and chanted each wish, calling upon the Powers of the Universe. She gazed into the crystal orb and told each woman exactly what she wished to hear. Yes, the love of a certain youth would be revealed before the next full moon; yes, the child that was on the way would be male rather than female; yes, the husband would stray no more; yes, the hunting would be bountiful this season.

The women were totally bedazzled by the maiden’s sheer physical perfection. Her cloak of silvery gold hair fell about her delicately boned body giving her an ethereal, other-world quality. The candles’ glow formed a nimbus around her, and not one soul doubted that she was a fairy princess who could foresee the future and cast magic spells.

It was almost midnight before the last guest left and they were alone. Jasmine spoke worriedly to her grandmother. “Estelle, I didn’t have one single vision, I ’saw’ nothing!”

“My dearest child, true visions are few and far between, but you acted like an adept and carried on as if you were a high priestess of the Universe.”

“But I feel like such a fraud,” she explained.

“Never, ever think you have perpetrated a hoax. As I’ve told you before many times, we are not really dealing in magic and miracles. What we are dealing in is belief, faith. If they believe strongly enough, then it will happen for them. People of every walk of life, not just peasants, but the highborn too, are infinitely better off and happier if they have something they believe in. Well, I’m off to bed; I find there is nothing quite so exhausting as the hoi polloi.”

Jasmine watched her grandmother affectionately as she
walked to the tower room door. Though she must be near sixty years old, her back was straight as a poker and her mind as keenly convoluted as it had been at twenty; perhaps even more so.

Jasmine experienced a mild disappointment because of her power, or more to the point her lack of power. She slipped off the silvery robe and reached for a warm velvet bedgown, but suddenly stayed her hand. Something compelled her to try one last time. Perhaps alone she would command more concentration. She bent and carefully relighted the green candles, then stepped naked within the magic circle. Patiently she observed the rules of the ritual and gazed intensely into the crystal orb. Suddenly from inside the globe came a flash of lightning. She was paralyzed; the one thing that had always struck unreasoning fear in her was thunder and lightning. As she stood momentarily transfixed, a dark figurehead appeared in the crystal. It was the face of a man, so darkly forbidding she fell back with a cry. The vision disappeared instantly yet as she hurried from the tower room to the sanctuary of her warm bedchamber, it persisted in her mind. The face had been partially obscured by a helmet with a metal noseguard, but the eyes had burned with a fierce, cruel brilliance, and she shivered from head to toe, convinced that she had glimpsed the Devil.

William, the marshal of all England, was in residence at his great castle of Chepstow on the border between England and Wales, yet he hadn’t enjoyed the comforts of sleeping in his own bed for over a week. A hundred tents
had been set up in one of his meadows along the Severn River to accommodate the barons who had any holdings in Wales. Lord Llewelyn, self-styled King of Wales, had agitated an uprising, and once again the land was aflame with rebellion.

William Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, was the greatest landholder in Wales and held the county of Pembroke, which stretched from Saint Bride’s Bay to Carmarthen. But he was by no means the only one with vast interests in Wales. William Longsword, the Earl of Salisbury, had brought his knights and men-at-arms to the war conference, and his tents were set up next to those of Hubert de Burgh, Keeper of the Welsh Marches.

One of the scouts they had sent out had just returned, and the leaders hurried to the large war tent they were using as headquarters. The scout, disguised as a Welshman with long mustaches, leather tunic, and bare arms with gold bracelets clasped above his biceps, threw off his sodden, mud-spattered, scarlet cloak and gratefully quaffed a tankard of ale that a quick-witted young squire had poured for him. “My lords,” he said, gasping, as he set the empty vessel down on the large map table, “the army Llewelyn has amassed is larger than we suspected. They have several castles under siege in the southwest.” He looked at William Marshal as he said this, for the southwest was his. “Others dotted throughout the southeast have already fallen. One at Bridgend and one at Mountain Ash, and one—”

“By the breath of God, Mountain Ash is mine!” thundered Falcon de Burgh, his fierce eyes burning holes into the tired messenger. “De Burgh, to me!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The family name was used as a rallying battle cry and his knights responded immediately, running to attend their commander’s call for aid. He quit the tent instantly, waiting to hear no more. He had earned the nickname Prince of Darkness, for when
seen in the madness of battle this dark young man resembled the devil himself.

At the sudden departure William Longsword raised his brows and William Marshal answered his unasked question. Chuckling, he said, “By the bones of Christ, our enemy picked on the wrong man to steal from this time. De Burgh has only one castle, and if I know aught he will hold what is his.”

Hubert de Burgh spoke up. “Horses sink exhausted beneath him; when his men beg leave to rest he leaves them in his dust with a snort of contempt. He is a truly stark Norman lord with fire in his belly.”

The Earl of Salisbury, who had only daughters, said to Hubert, “You must be exceeding proud of such a son.”

Hubert shook his head regretfully. “I am not his sire, milord, merely his uncle.”

The war council dragged on until late into the night. One plan of action after another was examined and discarded because of its flaws. The next day saw some agreement among the barons and a plan of action was decided upon. The third day saw the order to strike camp, but not until day four did the large assembly of soldiers put out their last campfires.

The Earl of Salisbury was just about to mount his great destrier when he saw a young knight he thought he recognized. “Aren’t you one of Falcon de Burgh’s men?” he asked, puzzled.

Normand Gervase was amazed that the king’s half brother had just spoken to him. “Aye, milord earl,” he answered guardedly, wondering why he had been singled out.

“Did you not accompany him to Mountain Ash? He rode out of here like the Angel of Death to retake his castle.”

“We are back, milord earl,” Gervase said simply.

“But what of Mountain Ash?” he probed.

“He retook the castle. Discovered treachery from within. The castellan’s head now decorates the portcullis.”

“But there was no time for a siege! How did he retake it?”

“He scaled the walls, milord earl,” Gervase replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The Earl of Salisbury was stunned. “Ask de Burgh if he would speak with me,” he requested.

It was some hours later when Falcon de Burgh, astride his great black destrier, Lightning, rode up beside William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, The earl’s squire dropped behind respectfully to allow the fierce knight access to his lord. William scrutinized de Burgh thoroughly, noting the powerful thighs, the great length of his sword arm, and the ferocity of his dark countenance. Then his eyes narrowed and he came straight to the point without wasting any time on greetings. “Is it true you scaled the walls?”

“They underestimated my anger. They will never make that mistake again,” he said quietly.

“How can you be sure it won’t happen again?” Salisbury asked reasonably.

Falcon de Burgh’s wolf grin flashed and was gone. “I took the new castellan’s son as hostage. He knows if he betrays me I will not hesitate to take the lad’s life.”

William nodded, satisfied. He had taken the measure of the man and liked what he saw. Falcon was a member of the powerful de Burgh family. His great-grandfather had come over with William of Normandy and had conquered Ireland alongside of him. His father had met an untimely death, but his father’s brother was Hubert de Burgh, Marcher Lord of Wales and sheriff of Hereford, Dorset, Somerset, and Berkshire. Falcon’s other uncle, William de Burgh, was the Lord of Connaught and Lord
of the Limerick Region, which covered almost a fifth of Ireland.

Finally Salisbury put his thoughts into words. “Is either of your de Burgh uncles your overlord?”

Falcon shook his head. “Nay, milord. I own only one castle yet, but control of this land is absolute. I owe only fealty to the crown.”

“Then I would be honored if you would fight beside me, under my banner.”

Falcon de Burgh answered him without hesitation. “The honor is mine, milord. I will fight beside you, but I will fight under my own banner.”

The Earl of Salisbury took no offense. Young de Burgh was his own man and made no bones about it! Over the next two days and nights Salisbury was able to observe the young knight at close hand. He always wore full armor; it almost made one tired watching him carry all that steel upon his body. Salisbury never saw him sleep. He knew his men by name, not only his knights but his vassals and castellans also. Whenever they made camp he moved about, stopping to speak to his men, to answer their questions, to look at their horses. He even took time to speak to the common men-at-arms so that he knew how much he could count on each man when it came to fighting. He handled his men with total authority, yet with such seeming ease that Salisbury was greatly impressed.

That night while other leaders drank, gambled, and whored, Salisbury joined de Burgh at his campfire. “I think you’ll do a better job than my own captains. If I give you fifty of my knights and a hundred men-at-arms to command, could you handle them as well as your own men?”

“You know I could, milord, or you wouldn’t offer,” Falcon de Burgh said with amusement glittering in his eyes.

“We reach Bridgend tomorrow. They are yours for this first skirmish.”

“I would meet them tonight so I can get to know them and they can learn what to expect from me.”

William groaned. “Tonight? God’s bones, boy, don’t you ever sleep?”

The wolf’s grin appeared. “I can sleep when I’m dead!”

The Anglo-Norman army on the march moved slowly through the April rains that dampened every article of clothing the men wore until their woolens chafed and their chain mail rusted. Their supply wagons and siege engines, brought to batter down walls with large stones shot from mangonels or trenchbuts, bogged down at the most inconvenient times, rubbing the men’s tempers as raw as their arses.

Falcon de Burgh kept his knights so busy they had no time to whine or complain. He took full advantage of the slow-moving army, knowing he could withdraw his men for a couple of days at a time then rejoin the mass. It was early in the morn, the mists still not cleared, when Falcon de Burgh, intent upon taking a castle before the sun set that day, was taken by surprise. The Welsh band hidden in a small copse loosed their arrows upon the enemy. Retreat and cover were not in de Burgh’s vocabulary. His men were under orders to wear their armor and chain mail at all times, so any who disobeyed and were foolish enough to be vulnerable to Welsh bowmen, the best in the world, received no sympathy.

He led the way full gallop into the woods to rout and trample the enemy. The sounds and smells of battle assailed him: arrows whistling through the air then thunking into soft flesh or pinging against metal shields; the hot metallic smell of blood and sweat and vomit and panic. The moans and sobs and screams faded away as the
pounding of his own heart in his ears obliterated all else. This early in the day he wielded his sword without effort, for he had been trained to fight from dawn to dusk long after the muscled sword arm was numbed.

He had annihilated a dozen Welshmen, some going beneath his destrier’s hooves to make the ground slick with brains and guts. Lightning, his war-horse, had been trained to be fierce and savage and attack strangers. Falcon glimpsed a leather-tunicked youth fall back from the snarling teeth and rolling wild eyes of his destrier. As the youth hit the hard earth, the impact dislodged his helm and long, black, silken tresses came tumbling down. Falcon was stunned to realize it was a female who was almost beneath Lightning’s hooves. He was off the horse in a flash. He removed a heavy gauntlet and ran his calloused hand over the girl’s strong limbs. She spat into his face. Without hesitation he brought his fist up and rendered her unconscious with the blow. He slung her limp form across his saddle and rejoined the melee.