The Falcon and the Flower (32 page)

Falcon made a swift decision. They would ride south along the river to see if they could cross at Ely, if not they would go on to Cambridge, where the river joined itself to the Cam and there was more than one bridge across.

When Gervase reached Northampton it was past midnight and his horse was floundering. He knew it needed food and rest or it would be unable to carry him the rest of the way. He stopped at an inn called The Hole in the Wall and paid the hostler for a stall in the stable and a feed of oats. He rubbed down his animal with dry straw and took himself off to the common room to fill his own growling belly. He could not spare more than a few hours and knew he must be on the road again by four o’clock.

A traveler who had come from the east told him with graphic descriptions how the River Ouse was impassable. It was swelling wider by the hour and taking out the bridges as if they were made from matchsticks. At four in the morning Gervase stirred and stretched. His bones ached from the damp and from sleeping in wet clothes. He wondered briefly if he would be plagued by rheumatics now he was getting older. Then he laughed at himself,
for he was only twenty-one. He swung into the saddle, encouraging his mount to take heart as they once more headed out into the rain. It was a deluge no longer, but had settled down to a steady drizzle that he knew would last all day.

He pondered which route to take. The fastest was straight east to Cambridge, but that would mean he would have to cross the River Ouse twice because it twisted back on itself. If he rode as far north as Huntingdon he would only have to cross the river once. Should he toss a coin? No, he thought, I will choose Huntingdon because Robin Hood was Lord Robert of Huntingdon and perhaps that was an omen.

He circled around Huntingdon before he saw the river, then he thought perhaps he had made a mistake. The river was angry and swollen and dangerous. He followed its east banks, which had overflowed, and wondered where the closest bridge was. His mind seemed numbed with the cold and the wet. It seemed to have penetrated to his very brain. Was there a bridge at Ely? He couldn’t remember. He knew there was a town and a cathedral, therefore he reasoned there must be a bridge. He pressed on but he was filled with doubts. By the feel of his hungry gut, the hour must be midday. Even if he met up with de Burgh now there would not be enough time for Falcon to reach Gloucester and stop the wedding.

He stopped his horse to look across the raging river. Surely he must be at Ely or very close. He thought he had begun to hallucinate, for there across the angry torrent, fifty feet away across the river, was a group of riders. The men and mounts were familiar and their leader sat his horse like no other man in England. He shouted, “De Burgh!” He did not know if they would hear him above the roar of the raging River Ouse but his voice carried clearly across the water, as sound always does, and the
men waved to him. He shouted the bad news across to de Burgh. “Chester weds your lady!”

Falcon looked at Hubert. “I’m swimming.”

“You’re mad! Keep yourself safe, lad.”

“Keep myself safe? You’re making noises like an old woman again.” He dismounted and removed his doublet, boots, and chain-mail vest and shoved them into his saddlebags.

Hubert shivered as he watched his nephew bare his flesh to the freezing elements. Falcon half turned to his men and shouted, “Mountain Ash!” They understood. Then he wrapped the leather reins of his war-horse about his forearm and went into the river.

Hubert looked at Falcon’s men and shook his head. “The young stallion is hotheaded and impatient, but his steady nerve has no equal in England!”

De Burgh was a very strong swimmer, but even so the current took man and horse and swept them into a swirling maelstrom neither could control. Both man and beast thrashed with powerful legs and with a supreme effort managed to keep their heads above the muddy, debris-strewn waters. They pitted their full strength against the current and slowly began to gain on the far bank.

Filled with dread, Gervase watched in agony as de Burgh went under and surfaced at least half a dozen times. Then he held his breath as unbelievably Falcon regained control. The horse was the first to strike the shallow bottom, and it scrabbled up the bank with a surge of power, spurred on by fear.

De Burgh had the presence of mind to unwind the leather reins from his arm before he was dragged beneath the flailing hooves. Then he grabbed onto a tree root and slowly hauled himself from the torrent.

The great black destrier snorted and sprayed water
from his nostrils then stood quivering, waiting impatiently for his master’s next move.

“Did you say Chester weds my lady?” Falcon demanded incredulously.

“Aye, tonight at Gloucester. She planned to get away disguised as a boy and ride to her father at Chepstow, but I wouldn’t underestimate Chester and that bastard John. They won’t let their quarry slip through their fingers.”

“Ride to Cambridge and take rooms at the Crusader Inn by the stone Bridge of Sighs. Hubert is with the men and that’s where they’ll cross the river. We’ll meet again at Mountain Ash,” de Burgh ordered.

“Aren’t you coming to the inn to get dry clothes?” Gervase asked incredulously.

De Burgh shook his head impatiently. “No time, but you get there, you look like hell. You and your horse are about finished, man.”

Gervase nodded wearily. De Burgh didn’t need his squire to hold him back; his part in this drama was finished.

In midafternoon four female attendants went to Jasmine’s chamber to prepare the bride. They carried in a bathing tub and plenty of hot water and liberally poured in her own precious oil of jasmine Estelle always made for her. She protested as they began to remove the boy’s disheveled clothing she still wore. “Where is my grandmother? She is the only attendant I require.”

They shook their heads, claiming no knowledge of Dame Winwood’s whereabouts. Jasmine had no choice but to submit to their ministrations as they washed her hair and bathed her. They placed soft pads of linen soaked in witch hazel upon her eyelids to erase the tear-swollen puffiness. They murmured amazement at the silkiness of her white skin and lavished praise upon her for
the way her newly washed hair formed a cloud of pale silvery gold about her shoulders.

A wedding gown had been provided by the earl, and while the women were in transports over its loveliness, Jasmine sat tight-lipped, consumed with loathing. A white lace underdress with long, delicately trailing sleeves went on first with no shift beneath it. It was fine-spun and almost transparent. Her round breasts with their pink thrusting nipples could clearly be seen through it. Over this came a white satin tunic, slit up each side and with a low-cut square neckline edged with white ermine fur. A silver girdle encrusted with pale mauve amethysts was fastened about her hips and a simple wreath of tiny white rosebuds was pinned to her hair.

It had just struck the hour of five, time to leave for the chapel, when the door opened to admit Chester. The women cried out that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, but he quickly dismissed them and came toward Jasmine holding a luxurious white ermine mantle. His eyes swept over her with lascivious appreciation; he knew there had never been a more beautiful bride.

She faced him defiantly. “I’ll never wed you. When it is time to make my responses I shall not take the vow. I shall appeal to the bishop to stop the wedding!”

One powerful hand closed into a fist, crushing the fur he held. “I wouldn’t advise it,” he said ominously. “I have Dame Winwood locked safely away. She has had no food or drink since yesterday. Her guards are instructed to give her water only after we are safely wed,” he said with satisfaction.

Jasmine felt the blood drain from her face as she struggled to make sense of the earth-shattering knowledge that she must go through with it. Dimly, through mists of horror, she began to comprehend the enormity of it all. She realized how much he had in common with John.
They were bullies to the core, and there was nothing they enjoyed more than exploiting weakness.

He wrapped her in the ermine and called for the guards. Like a sleepwalker she allowed herself to be ushered from her chamber, down the long hallway past his apartments, and down the winding staircase of Gloucester Castle. Although the cathedral was adjacent, it still required a long walk in the cold evening air. Darkness had arrived early on this late autumn night. The wind ruffled her furs, yet she felt nothing.

She was taken past the magnificent arched entrance to Gloucester Cathedral and taken by a side entrance into the smaller chapel. There were perhaps two dozen people present. John and Isabella occupied the front-row private pew. Only high-ranking nobles and their ladies had been invited to the secret wedding.

Jasmine lifted her downcast eyes only once as she was escorted to the front of the chapel. Her eyes met Isabella’s neat smile of spiteful malice, and she quickly lowered them again until her lashes swept her cheeks. She heard the Bishop of Gloucester chanting in Latin, she smelled the nauseating incense that covered the acrid smell of the burning candlewax, and she felt the lace of the hated underdress chafe cruelly against her tender nipples. She could smell, see, hear, and feel, but she could not think.

She dared not think of Estelle, she dared not think of the night to come, and so her mind had withdrawn and gone blank. She did not make her responses until she was prompted to do so, then she parroted the unctuous tones of the Bishop of Gloucester.

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

Jasmine was startled to hear the king say “I do,” and knew she was lost. All hope was gone. She felt dead inside. Then Ranulf was kissing her, and she was his in the eyes of God and man.

There was a great blank space after that. She could not
remember going from the chapel, the cheering outside, the showers of rice and rose petals, entering a private dining hall in the royal wing of the castle, or eating the wedding supper. She became aware of her surroundings amid uproarious laughter.

The king was on his feet giving a speech. “And now at great expense to the royal exchequer I have had our wise wizard Orion prepare an aphrodisiac to ensure a night of wedded bliss.”

Chester good-naturedly went along with the ribbing but protested, “I need nothing to speed me up, rather I need something to slow my ardor.”

There was a great fanfare of trumpets then Orion appeared through an arras in a cloud of green smoke. He held aloft a great foot-high silver chalice and bore it to the new bridegroom. “Drink this magic elixir made from powdered pearls, rubies, sapphires, and amethysts. It also contains emerald dust and finely ground gold.”

The guests sent up an “Ahh” of wonder at the costliness of such a rare brew.

Orion chanted, “Sip the sorcerer’s philter from a silver chalice of ecstasy and your virility will gain in strength like unto a magnificent stag.”

Jasmine’s face was whiter than her gown. Ranulf took her hand and dragged her to her feet. Then he picked up the chalice in both hands and quaffed deeply.

“The bride, let the bride drink,” came the shouts.

Ranulf handed the tall goblet back to Orion. “Nay, I will do the awakening. I possess a more tried and true weapon to arouse her lust than any aphrodisiac.”

The laughter and ribald shouts increased as they imbibed drink upon drink. The toasts descended from risqué to ribald, then degenerated from bawdy to obscene.

Jasmine yawned. It was not a sign of boredom, it was a sign of extreme nervous tension.

Chester swayed on his feet as he announced, “My bride longs for her bed, I think it is time to bid you good night.”

“A bedding! A bedding!” went up the demand, and the king, urged on by Isabella, lurched to his feet and cried, laughing,

“You don’t think you’re getting off that easily do you, you randy old goat!”

The men surged forward and lifted the couple aloft. They were all quite drunk and fumbled and staggered so that they all but dropped the bridegroom, but undeterred they hoisted him high again and carried them to the other side of Gloucester Castle where Chester’s apartments lay ready to receive the newly joined couple.

At the heavy oaken door studded with brass, the terrible reality of Jasmine’s situation swept over her. She did not know how she would get through the next few minutes, never mind the rest of the night. She glanced across at Chester and the look in his eyes terrified her. Her knowledge of men was limited, but she knew that lust brought out the most unpleasant characteristics a man had and very shortly she would be forced to submit to whatever it was men did with women.

They set her on her feet and began to strip off her wedding gown. She gasped to the nearest female. “I cannot bear all these leering men to see me naked.”

Joan of Devon’s heart went out to her. She had endured it when she was married the first time and would have to do so again tomorrow to a much larger audience than this. She was to be married in the cathedral proper, with hundreds of guests.

Isabella’s spiteful voice came at her clear as a bell. “You ought to be proud to prove that you go unblemished to your bridegroom. Are you marked in some way?”

Jasmine stood completely naked as eager hands pulled
off the lace wedding gown. She held her hands in a way that covered the two tiny beauty spots that made a triangle with her golden mound of Venus. Jasmine trembled visibly as they turned her about before the men, lifting her silvery tresses to reveal her satin-perfect back and legs.

She stood naked with downcast eyes, yet she was acutely aware of the greedy eyes that fed from her. Chester had been stripped almost naked before he insisted enough was enough and urged the drink-sodden guests to quit the room so he could get down to work. Only the king remained. He leered at his friend, “Ranulf, I believe I will claim the
droit du seigneur.”

Chester’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How long do you think you could keep such a tale from her father?” he pointed out. “Be patient, John. The marriage is not legal until it is consummated. Then she is
my
property to do with as I wish, not her father’s.”