The First Princess of Wales (28 page)

“My mistake, alas, but you had best realize I seldom allow mistakes to see the light of day, so listen well and take all this to heart.

“At the age of seventeen, I forcibly seized my own rightful throne from the regency of my poor, misguided mother Queen Isabella and her—her favorite, Roger Mortimer,” he began with a steady voice as if reciting a litany. “Those two often made great decisions without my knowledge, and the royal seal to certify their deeds was often in their possession. I knew naught of the charges Mortimer raised against your father, nor of your mother’s evident attempts to see me to have the treasonous charges laid aside. The just punishment for treason is and has been beheading for a noble such as Edmund of Kent, you see.”

“How could you not have known?” she threw at him. “The people knew, Parliament had passed on it with Mortimer and de Maltravers ramming it through. The lowest fieldhand in my lord father’s home shire of Kent knew and brought the news to my poor mother at Liddell!”

“Lower your voice, Jeannette, or I shall have you locked away until you will listen rationally. I can, of course, understand how this shattered your mother. She broke under the grief and her mind never recovered. Such a pity you had to be reared in a home like that all those years. My dear queen had sent to rear you at court long ago but the poor Lady Margaret would not hear of it.”

“Aye. She could not bear for me to be among those who let—some said arranged for—my father to die most despicably while he stood all day at the axeman’s block praying his young king would help his uncle, hoping on hope you would not allow him to die!”

The king’s hand smacked down flat on the oaken table, and both heavy candlesticks jumped and shuddered. “Enough of it, I say! I grieved for him too when I heard! I saw to it Edmund of Kent had a fine funeral and sent the body home to his parish church for burial. I paid seven Benedictine monks coin to pray seven years for his soul. And I executed Mortimer and banished de Maltravers, who was only, as you say, a lackey, anyway. I will not be accused of such vile deeds by a woman who owes the Plantagenets her very fortunate place in this kingdom and who finds herself even now decked in royal trappings.”

She reached behind her neck to unclasp the heavy necklace while he glowered at her. The metal and stones rattled noisily into a little pile on the polished table. The king clasped his fists together to hide his mouth, as if he had to keep control of himself to keep from striking her.

“What a grand show, little Jeannette,” he goaded. “Why not peel off the
surcote
and kirtle too and all those garters from my bowmaker at the Tower you and Isabella praised so highly? Why not the stockings and that flimsy chemise underneath I was allowed a taunting little glimpse of? You really must learn, little one, not to bite the royal hand that feeds you. I believe I could even forgive your rash and foolish words tonight if we merely trade sureties here in that little bed that no other words of like claim shall be heard again.”

Her mouth dropped open despite her attempt at steely aplomb. “You—you still desire to—but I do not want you, I do not love you.”

He chuckled low, but his mouth now showed amusement in its grim line. He leaned back in his chair, the tension that gripped him obviously uncoiling. He crossed his slippered feet very near her own as if to taunt her. “Want? Love? Whoever told you such frivolities existed beyond the melodious minstrel’s
chansons
you yourself so sweetly sing? It is time you grew up, Jeannette—you are already married to one man, son of one of the greatest earls of the realm, God rest his soul. And now betrothed to yet another.”

“But the queen arranged—”

“I know. She meddled. But it is entirely her right. And that brings us to the last poor betrodden male, other than this king himself, of course, eh?”

“I do not know what you mean, Your Grace. I will be going now. I wanted you to know why I cannot care for you—beyond my loyalty to you as our king—because of my father which—”

“Now you are frightened, eh? The little dove scents the hawk’s shadow in the sky. I speak, as you no doubt know, of my son, my heir, Prince Edward. I realize your brother and the queen caught your skirts up on his lap when you first came to court, but that was mere child’s play, I told the queen. And has there been more of such of late and perhaps child’s play no more?”

The king’s eyes narrowed to blue ice as he assessed her. She remained seated, posed tensely as if to run for the door. Her mind darted here and there for an answer to give, a way out—not to lie, not to anger—any way out of this new and looming trap.

“I do not love the Prince of Wales, Your Grace. The day my father died, you had ridden away from Windsor to be with him, you see, when you should have been there to help my poor father.”

“By the gates of hell, woman, you try a man’s patience!” His face livid, he leapt forward at her, his hands gripping the arms of her chair to pin her in. “I went to Woodstock the day he was born—that is where I was the day Mortimer had him beheaded—that is God’s truth! And I swear to you, if you haul any of these claims and half-corrupted accusations out into public domain around here, you shall rue the day you did! All the whisperings over Edmund of Kent’s death led directly to the wretched nightmare of my father’s brutal, tortured murder at Mortimer’s hands so I could have the throne. Aye, go ahead and look at me all terrified and stupid, then. Did your mother not spit that out with her lies when she died? I did not know they would slay your sire and sanction it with the king’s seal! Nor did I ever plot or rejoice that they slew my own sire at Berkeley Castle so that I could assume his throne. I buried both dead Plantagenets most royally and I am guiltless of their blood.”

His eyes looked blank; his mouth moved close to her own as he continued. “I vow to you, if whispers of any of this begin again after all these years when I have earned the right to have them buried under my victories, my glories, my good and Christian deeds, I swear to you, Jeannette, you shall be the first to pay. Ah, by the rood, I could design some delicious fate for you—all tied down awaiting my whims in some tower room like this or, aye, across my dining table!”

Apparently surprised by his own tirade, he straightened almost wearily, stood, and moved away. Instantly, she rose and darted behind her chair. “You woke a sleeping leopard, Jeannette,” he said softly and shook his head. “I swear to you, if anyone else had broached me with such treasonous claims, however dear, that person would be cooling shackled heels in a dungeon tonight and worse in the days to come.”

“Another beheading of kin at Windsor?” she brazened before she could snatch her words back.

“Exile at the least, like your villain de Maltravers, Jeannette,” he said, “but then, that will be your fate with Holland soon enough. Aye, Holland, I have decided just now. You need a firm hand like his and that little moated place in Normandy would suit your sense of adventure well. It is quite surrounded by hostile French, you know.”

“I am used to such, Your Grace, only the hostile ones have been English of late.”

“Spitfire!” he said only, but when he motioned her to leave, his eyes swept over her disheveled appearance in obvious reluctance. “Wait,” he said and moved to place his heavy hand against the door even as she lifted the latch.

“I warn you not to overstep again, Jeannette. I grieve for the loss of your father, my uncle, and of his dear wife, the Lady Margaret. I had not thought on them for some time but the hidden wounds are raw and painful. Keep your tongue—and your head—and thus avoid my wrath again.”

He paused, his eyes studying her stony face before continuing. “And I tell you, little Jeannette, you either lie about your feelings for my son or are greatly misguided. He plays a good game and even sports a mistress and a child at Sonning, so ’tis said, and he at last admitted such to me, but he does desire you, Jeannette.”

She tried the door again but he held it firm. “Your face fell just then, sweet, to hear of his mistress and child, so never lie to me you do not love him in return. But many young knaves have a woman, bastards here or there—mere playful indiscretions and ones that will have utterly no effect when he marries well for England, as indeed he must. You, too, shall have utterly no effect on his future either. Now I agree with my Philippa, though for new reasons she cannot know, that you are very dangerous for the prince. Morcar’s astrological charts on the prince suggested such a disturbance and I did not believe it could be merely a woman. Now, perhaps I do.”

He stepped back from the door and removed his hand. “You may go. I told my falconer Adam not to wait but there is a guard outside you may have accompany you back if you wish. Best straighten your coif and hold together that neckline where it is torn. We shall never speak again of this night, but I tell you, Jeannette, if I decide there is to be another such and my summons comes, see that you are sweet-faced and willing wherever you are bidden.”

He even opened the door for her, and she swept past him ignoring the loutish-looking guard who jumped to attention. She wanted to turn and scream her denial at that last order, to shout her continued contempt and hatred, but she was suddenly exhausted beyond anger. She motioned the guard to stay where he was, and at the first turn of tower steps, she lifted a low-burning torch from its wall sconce. Holding her skirts carefully in her other hand, she descended the curving, uneven stairs of the York Tower.

Her shoulder brushed the rough stone of the wall, dirtying the white material, but she did not care. One of the wretched, crazy garters which had helped to cause all this mess snagged, but she just yanked her skirt free and went on. Her arm quivered from holding the pine torch aloft and ghostly lights and cavorting shadows grinned from each turn of the stairwell. Twice she thought she heard someone down below her on the stairs, but when she froze to listen, there was nothing but her own pounding pulse and breathless rasp.

The door of the Tower grated open on the hall running toward her room. How long and lonely it looked stretching out into darkness before her; many of the gay dance torches placed along the walls had burned down and gutted out. Her own light flickered so low she could feel the heat on her fingers; the pitchy smell of resin bit deep into her empty stomach. Had she been so long with the king that everyone had gone to bed? An hour, mayhap two. Saints, she hoped Marta slept fast so she would not have to explain the ruined gown and missing headdress she had left in the king’s tower room.

As she neared her door, something stirred in the deep-set stone window well in the side hall leading toward Isabella’s rooms. Joan jumped; her stomach cartwheeled over. A tall form, a black-cloaked demon materialized from the void of the window beyond. She darted back as he came at her. Her sputtering torch revealed Prince Edward’s grim face, a mask of fury and contempt. He knocked the torch from her hand. It smacked to the stone floor and gutted out in a flurry of sparks to plunge the hall into violet gloom. His hands were hard as he lifted her in a crushing embrace and strode away without a word.

For the first time this evening, in all she had dared and undergone, she knew the icy hand of numbing fear. She tried to master the feeling, desperate to regain control. But where this powerful man was concerned, she had never yet managed to stem the sweeping tide of her terrible passion for him. The king, the ghosts of the past, the whole realm of England come to watch her death would be mere whisperings next to her fathomless desire for this one man.

His footsteps, swift along the stones were nearly silent. Her ear pressed to his velvet chest reverberated with the racing thud of his heart. Cradled in his iron arms like this, she welcomed the rush into dark oblivion, whatever befell was of a making outside herself. Old Morcar had said it—what will be, will be.

Somewhere down an endless small maze of twisting corridors, he lifted a leg to kick a door inward. She almost laughed at the ludicrous fate of it: all royal Edwards of Plantagenet blood must have rooms about the labyrinth of Windsor in which to devour little maidens. His arms hurt her at the last moment; she could barely draw a breath. Behind him, he shoved the door shut in the hunched-ceilinged, dimly lighted room, then moved to drop her hard on a clump of soft sacks piled deep on the stone floor. She bounced once as, in little puffs about her, feathers flew.

She scrambled to right herself on the sacks when he strode away to slide a heavy coffer across the door. She knelt on her haunches, her hair tumbled wildly loose. Her eyes luminous in the low lamplight, she waited.

Now that he had her to himself, even cornered in this deserted wing of rooms where her cries could avail her nothing, he hesitated. Whatever he did to her she remained somehow, awesomely, just barely out of his control. That elusive spirit, that wildness, at moments like this quite tamed him when he wished only to do that very thing to her.

The curse was that other women bored him with their willingness, their properness, even the ravishing, available Constantia Bourchier or the sweet maid Katharine who had recently borne his child. He did not love the woman, but for the innocent life of an illegitimate son, he had established her at Sonning for the time being. But if only he could ever really possess this exquisite one, this Jeannette he so adored, even poor Katharine could leave the boy and be sent to live in some distant manor house he never saw.

When he spoke low at last, his voice was not his own. He meant not for it to be so fierce, biting like a whip, but she had obviously been with Holland or Salisbury while he’d waited over an hour for her in that chill, dark hall, and she looked tousled enough to have come from a passionate lovers’ clinch.

“Only sacks of feathers here, Jeannette. No straw, but it will do for what I intend. I ought to break your proud little neck for this trick, but I shall settle for a sweet taste of your body. Is there no end to this—Holland, Salisbury, even the king? I swear to you, little vixen, you will know for a certain the one who beds you is Edward, the conqueror, who is not any conquest of yours.”