Desired (10 page)

Reluctantly, he admitted Warrick could be speaking the truth. Though his mother had insisted Warrick did not know, he had never believed her. She made excuses for
Warrick’s desertion because she had lost her heart to the Norman.

“I decided not to investigate. If it was true, you were receiving the finest training in the world, and I knew you would come when you were ready. If it was false … my hope would have been destroyed.”

The words were private—from the heart. Hawksblood knew the gnarled warrior was not in the habit of sharing confidences.

“This is thirsty work.” He poured them ale and offered a leather jack to Hawksblood.

When he first entered the room, he would not have drunk with Warrick. Now he took the ale. Silence stretched between them. Hawksblood was a most private man. Secrecy had been an integral part of his life since birth. He had seldom spoken of himself. Finally, he broke the silence.

“I lived in the palace until I was almost seven. Though it was a closely guarded secret, I knew the princess was my mother. When her marriage was arranged, my life was in danger. She smuggled me to Jerusalem and gave me into the care of the Hospitaler Knights.” He paused, remembering, then continued. “She told me your name that night. I was initiated into a Mystic Order. When I was ten, I was trained as a warrior by Norman knights.”

That told him everything. And nothing.

“Was the Mystic Order the Golden Dawn, secret order of the Knights Templar?” Warrick asked, fascinated.

“The Mystic Order survives because of its secrecy,” he said flatly.

“How did you get the name Hawksblood?”

The man before him actually sounded as if he cared. “I had to go alone, without weapons, into the Rub ’al-Khali, the Empty Quarter.”

Warrick nodded, “The special haunt of djinns, demons, and other evil spirits.”

“I survived by killing and eating hawks.”

“How?” Warrick asked skeptically.

Christian showed him his hands. It was such a simple gesture, there was truth in it. Warrick knew he would always be able to survive with his bare hands. So this was his
firstborn. His
legitimate
son. His princess had agreed to a Christian marriage ceremony. Warrick felt no guilt that he had deceived his English lady into thinking herself a true wife. It had never harmed her in any way. But now he experienced a deep pang of guilt that Robert thought himself his heir when he was actually only his bastard.

“You are entitled to the name Hawksblood. You are also entitled to the name Beauchamp.” It was a statement. He did not ask if he would use it. Hawksblood was glad. He did not yet know. Probably he would use it, if it served his purpose.

“Did you never see your mother again?”

“When I was sixteen I became a Janissary so that I could see her upon occasion. Her father, Ottoman, and her husband were dead, so there was less danger. Her two brothers divided their father’s domains and founded the corps d’elite of the Ottoman armies. Most Janissaries are Christian.”

Even Warrick was impressed that his son had been selected as a Janissary. They had reputedly never lost a battle. They were the conquerors of all Byzantine. “Why did you leave?”

Again, silence stretched between them. If he told him, it would expose his Achilles’ heel.

So be it.

“Because we enslaved those we captured.”

Silence filled the chamber. This time it was Warrick who feared to reveal vulnerability.

“How is Princess Sharon?”
My Rose of Sharon
, his heart whispered.

“She was well. She was being courted again.”

“Courted?” Warrick bellowed like an enraged bull.

“She is exceptionally beautiful,” Hawksblood said with relish, rubbing salt into the wound now that he had discovered it.

“How long ago?”

“I left Arabia over three years ago, selling my sword to the highest bidder until I arrived in France. I had to choose sides in the coming war. I chose England.”

Warrick nodded with satisfaction. “You’re here in time for the tournament.”

Hawksblood raised his voice for the first time. “Tournament? Christ Almighty, is that all anyone can think of? Philip of Valois has gathered over a hundred and fifty ships!”

“Rumors … unconfirmed.”

“Confirmed! I’ve seen them,” Hawksblood said flatly.

Warrick’s face blanched. His aquamarine eyes glittered dangerously. “Come with me.”

They might not love each other, but the two warriors felt a healthy measure of respect.

Both the king’s Guard Chamber and Presence Chamber were empty.

“Where’s the king?” demanded Warrick of one of his squires.

“He has gone out to the park to inspect the lists for the tourney, my lord.”

“Tell him I have news. Tell him it’s urgent!”

The squire took off at a run, a healthy measure of fear of Warrick showing on his face.

Christian looked about the opulent chamber. “I expected it to be more Spartan. I heard the king is in debt to the Bardi for almost a million, and that for past campaigns.”

“He is.” Warrick grinned. “King Edward is an optimist. If a campaign fails, he doesn’t worry his guts to fiddle-strings, he just moves on to the next.”

“How can he live so lavishly?”

“He borrows. He could easily raise taxes, but he won’t. That’s why he’s so popular. He takes only the tenth he is entitled to, but it’s never enough, so he borrows large amounts from many sources. You’ll be able to judge him for yourself, when he gets here.”

Hawksblood wondered if the king would answer a summons from Warrick. Perhaps he was a puppet king. He didn’t have to wonder long. Two men strode into the chamber with purpose. The king was dressed in the latest French fashion of tight hose and short doublet that came only to the hips. The colors were brilliant azure and gold. Save for the golden beard, the second man was identical. Only when they drew close was a difference in age apparent. It was obvious the young man in black could only be the Prince of Wales.

The king’s all-seeing blue eyes raked over Christian, then his voice boomed out, “By the Rood, you can’t deny this one, Warrick, despite his dark visage.”

“Nay, Sire, I don’t deny him. This is my elder son, Christian Hawksblood de Beauchamp.”

The blue Plantagenet eyes scrutinized him keenly. “Beauchamp.” He nodded. “This is my eldest, Edward, Prince of Wales.”

Hawksblood bowed his head. “Your Majesty, Your Highness.”

The two young men measured each other openly, frankly assessing what they saw. They had almost identical builds: the same height, the same long limbs, the same athletic body in superb physical condition. Each liked what he saw.

“Your news?” the king asked Warrick.

“My son’s news. He’s just arrived from France.”

“Philip has amassed a fleet of perhaps a hundred and forty large ships. As well, there are numerous smaller vessels from Normandy and Breton.”

A fierce light of conquest came into the king’s eyes. “You saw this? You know where his fleet is anchored?”

Hawksblood nodded. “It is off the coast of Helvoetsluys.”

“God damn Valois! He is using the coastal waters of Flanders. Flanders is supposed to be my ally!”

“Let’s blow them out of the water,” Prince Edward urged. “You said Walter Manny was sending seventy ships.”

“The Thames fleet has twenty-five ships,” Warrick offered.

“Admiral Morley is sending a score from the Cinque Ports,” the king added. “That gives us a hundred and fifteen.”

“They’ve already taken three of our best, the
Edward
, the
Rose
, and the
Katherine
. Let’s make sure those are the last ships they ever take!” Prince Edward urged his father. He had never yet taken part in a campaign, though it seemed he had been training all his life to fight the French.

The king looked at Warrick. “Will you oversee this operation?”

Warrick’s eyes met those of his son. Hawksblood nodded. No words were needed. Each thought privately it
would be an ideal test of the other’s courage, honor, ethics, and ability.

The king’s voice was rich, his laugh spontaneous. “We’ll do it! The tournament will have to wait until we get back. God damn Valois for inconveniencing us.”

“I heard a rumor that Philip has hired Genoese bowmen to sit in the watch turrets of the ships,” Hawksblood warned. “The Genoese are the best arbalests in the world. I’ve fought against them.”

Prince Edward, the king, and Warrick exchanged glances, then began to laugh.

A frown creased Hawksblood’s brow.

The king waved his arm. “Show him! Go on! Warrick and I will go to the map room and settle on a port of departure. We can’t use Dover or Sandwich. Word would get to Philip too fast. We need a port with a lot of estuaries that will hide most of the fleet as it gathers.”

Hawksblood assessed Edward III shrewdly. He was extravagant, ostentatious, and likely vainglorious, but he was brave and decisive. This was no puppet king. This was a conqueror!

Prince Edward led the way to a meadow where about two hundred men were taking target practice. At first glance, Christian thought the bows primitive. Did they hope to succeed against Genoese crossbows, engineered for accuracy?

“Do you have no crossbows?” he asked Edward.

“We do. But we believe longbows are superior.”

Christian picked one up. It was above six feet in length and lightweight. The arrows were steel-tipped; the feathers from the common gray goose of England.

The prince spoke with a couple of men who selected weapons from an arms wagon. One chose a longbow, the other a crossbow. “Watch this,” Edward said.

The men aligned themselves. The crossbowman went down on one knee to brace his heavy weapon. He fitted in his arrow, wound it taut, then released it. The man beside him stood tall and fired off three in the same space of time.

Edward and Christian loped down the field to examine the butt. All the arrows had accurately hit the target, but
the missiles of death from the longbow had pierced clean through the butt, halfway up their shafts.

“Christus! These longbows propel a violent power. I want to master this skill.”

Edward grinned. “These are foot soldiers, common yeomen or Welsh. Noble knights wouldn’t be caught dead with a longbow.”

Aquamarine eyes met deep blue and held. “You are an expert with this weapon.”

“I am,” Prince Edward conceded. They were so much alike. Each had a burning desire to excel. At everything.

The next three hours melted away as Hawksblood was caught up in the challenge of mastering a new skill. Edward, equally enthusiastic, taught him the finer points. Soon, they had set up a target in another meadow on the far side of the Thames and were determined to hit their marks clear across the wide river.

By this time Ali and Paddy had tracked Hawksblood down. They had stabled the horses with the Beauchamp mounts and had found space for themselves in the barracks, but they were unsure about their lord. Would he reside in the Beauchamp wing or would he prefer they set up his campaign tent?

Prince Edward spoke up. “There are vacant rooms close by my apartments. My cousin, Edmund of Kent, has bought his own town house in London. Come, I’ll show you.”

At that moment a small figure climbing on the weapons wagon caught his eye. He swooped down on the intruder in five long strides. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded of an imp-faced page, clutching a longbow. He cuffed him across the head. “Don’t you realize you could be killed?”

The boy’s face lit up at the danger he was in. “Your Highness, I’ve a note from the princess.” He fished a filthy hand into his livery and produced a grubby note.

Edward groaned. He knew what it was about without reading it. “I promised to take my sister hawking, I can’t think why.” He looked down at the page boy. “Tell her too many pressing things need my attention at the moment.” Joan insinuated herself into his thoughts and suddenly he remembered why he had told Isabel he would take her
hawking. “Hold a moment,” he told the page. He looked at Christian with speculation. “It will take a few days’ preparation for our … French lesson. Can we squeeze in a morning’s hawking?”

Christian was bemused. These Plantagenets were determined to mix pleasure with business.

“Inform Isabel I’ll take her tomorrow. Early. I won’t hang about. Now get the hell away from these archers and stay away.” The prince picked up a steel helmet with a missing nose-guard and tossed it to the lad. “And if you can’t stay away, wear this!”

The imp of Satan pulled off his cap, crammed the helmet over his red curls, and grinned like a lunatic. He was happy as a fart. Prince Edward was his idol.

The accommodation was far better than Hawksblood had expected in a castle that housed almost a thousand nobles, military men, clergy, and servants. He left his squires to unpack his belongings and plenish his two rooms while he and the prince rejoined the king and Warrick.

“We’ve decided on the Port of Ipswich. I’ve sent messengers off to Admiral Morley and Walter Manny informing them Warrick will direct this operation. All the vessels will have their own crews. How many fighting men do you reckon?”

“Say, fifty extra men on each ship for boarding parties,” Warrick decided.

“Don’t forget my Welsh bowmen,” Prince Edward interjected. “They have to pick off those Genoese.” The men all looked at Hawksblood.

He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t believe the Genoese arbalests will stand a chance.”

“You’d better swear fealty to me if you’re coming with us,” the king demanded.

Prince Edward laughed. “He’s already sworn fealty to me, Father. He’s my man, though I’ve no objection to his giving you his oath.”

For the second time in an hour, Christian placed his hands between those of a Plantagenet. His father’s name was of use sooner than expected. “I, Christian Hawksblood de Beauchamp, swear by my faith to obey, defend, and
serve thee entirely as my sovereign against every man, without deception.” Though he did not give his oath lightly, he was jaded enough to believe few men acted without deception. There were three motives for everything: what a man told others, what he told himself, and the real motive.