Authors: Virginia Henley
“Enjoy the gorging and guzzling, Paddy,” Christian said, stroking the ruffled breast of his gerfalcon on its perch. “Don’t forget to give Salome a few succulent morsels. I’ve an invitation to visit the castle tonight.”
“Ho, watch out fer the noble French fillies. The ones I saw from the lists today all looked like they were sufferin’ from night starvation.”
“I’ll try not to overtax my strength, Paddy,” Christian said with a leer. Hawksblood felt a sense of anticipation. He had glimpsed more than one lady who from a distance
looked as if she might have golden hair. Once again he had been lucky in the lists.
Who knows? Perhaps this is the night I shall meet my vision
.
The Royal Court at Windsor was a haven for at least a dozen young heiresses. Edward III, married to Queen Philippa, was the most spectacular Plantagenet king England had ever known. His court was brilliant because he lived and spent lavishly. He gathered orphaned heiresses into his vast household, then bestowed these coveted young royal wards upon the families who gave him the most loyal service.
One or two of the older girls had been chosen as ladies-in-waiting to young Princess Isabel, whose every whim was indulged by her doting father. Though Queen Philippa was sweet and motherly, her
raison d’être
was giving birth to Plantagenet princes and princesses. It seemed that whenever Edward spilled his seed in her, her fecund womb ripened it. She had just whelped her ninth Enfant Royale. As a result, the queen’s household grew apace until now it overflowed with nursemaids, nannies, serving women, laundresses, ladies-in-waiting, chaperones, and tutors.
Lady Brianna of Bedford and Lady Joan of Kent picked up their skirts and ran like hoydens through Windsor’s gardens. They were both seventeen, both orphaned, but there the similarity ended. Joan was petite with silver-blond hair the color of moonbeams. She enhanced her dainty looks by wearing pink or other pastels, and entwining her hair with seed pearls. She looked innocent as a child and was never, ever blamed for the mischievous tricks she was always ready to instigate.
Brianna was a beauty. Her ripe breasts and generous mouth proclaimed to every eye that she was all of seventeen and on the brink of womanhood. Her hair cloaked her in golden splendor, falling below her knees in shining waves ending in hundreds of silken tendrils. One glimpse foretold she would become that rare object of desire: a man’s woman.
The two girls stopped running the moment they saw the group of females gathered about the fountain in the privacy of the walled garden where Dame Marjorie Daw instructed
them on etiquette each afternoon. They could hardly be punished for being late when Princess Isabel had not yet arrived. All the royal wards were now present, ranging in age from seven to seventeen.
Little Blanche of Lancaster sat decorously by the fountain. Though she was motherless, her father was Henry, Earl of Lancaster, who had been head of the Regency Council for King Edward before he took the reins into his own hands. Though Blanche was heiress to the vast Lancaster fortune, she was pale and ethereal. Her lack of vitality made her almost timid.
The dragon-faced woman with eyes like agates tapped her long stick impatiently on the flagstones as she awaited Princess Isabel’s arrival. The afternoon was extremely warm and as Dame Marjorie removed the black cloak she always wore, Joan’s eyebrows elevated with delight as she looked meaningfully at her friend Brianna, then imperceptibly inched toward the discarded mantle.
Isabel and her entourage finally arrived with her greedy little pug yapping at her heels. They disposed themselves upon the fountain’s ledge while the fat little dog removed itself from the vicinity of the dragon and lay down on Joan’s pink skirt, which billowed upon the lawn.
“Ass-licker,” Joan whispered to Elizabeth Grey, Princess Isabel’s best friend.
Dragonface glanced sharply in the direction of the whisper. Her agate gaze passed over an angelic Joan and settled fiercely upon Brianna. The birch rod lashed out like a whip. In its fright the little dog immediately produced a turd, missing Joan’s skirt by half an inch. Brianna lowered her lashes to keep from whooping with laughter.
“Ladies, I admonish you all to be both courteous and meek.” Dragonface looked at Joan and Blanche with approval. “A young demoiselle looks before her with her eyelids low and fixed. Each one of you will have the status of a minor until you are wed. All words of authority belong to your lord and a wife’s duty requires she listen in peace and obedience. Submissiveness is the best way to disarm a husband’s anger.” Dragonface glanced at Princess Isabel and hoped some of her words would be heeded. In truth she gravely doubted they would.
Joan’s quick fingers trickled a vial of lemon juice down the back of the black cloak. She had procured it to bleach the curls at her temples, but she could get more from the castle stillroom.
Dragonface droned on. “It is a wife’s duty to bear children and manage her servants.
However
…” Dame Marjorie paused for dramatic effect and rapped her stick upon the flagstones, “you stand little chance of becoming a wife if you fall from grace. You must keep the body modestly covered at all times. Never allow yourself to be alone with a man, never allow a man to touch any part of your person except your hand. A kiss upon the cheek is permitted after a betrothal, but kissing on the mouth is forbidden until after marriage.” Again she paused. Isabel looked quite flushed and eager at this talk of kissing. Dame Marjorie reminded herself the girl was a Plantagenet, a passionate brood who came over-early to sexual maturity. She cleared her throat and moved to less titillating nostrums.
“No running or trotting, never trail your mantle, do not scold in public, never overeat or get drunk. Young ladies should not tell lies. Never repeat gossip, never indulge in games of chance. Take no pleasure in low songs or the antics of the jongleurs. Rather, you should go to chapel every day.”
Brianna hid a yawn. Dragonface would next be telling them to use their serviettes rather than wipe their hands on the tablecloth. Her mind drifted off to contemplate her betrothed. She hadn’t the vaguest idea who King Edward would choose for her, but she knew it would happen before she reached the age of eighteen. She had begun to have the most deliciously disturbing dreams of a phantom knight who would come to claim her. The dreams were so intense they felt real, yet when she awoke she could never quite recall his face. Brianna shivered with anticipation, knowing the most exciting time of her life was almost upon her.
She was abruptly brought back from her daydream by a roar from the dragon. Dame Marjorie, upon concluding her lesson, laid down her stick, then swept her cloak about her ramrod back. Then she heard the ridicule of laughter.
The lemon juice combined with the bright sunshine had left a yellow streak all the way down her black cloak.
“None of you may leave until the culprit is found.” The light of battle was in her eye and the lines of her face were rigid, showing she was not amused one iota. The silence stretched out as the Dame’s agate eye fixed upon each girl.
Blanche of Lancaster paled and looked as if she might faint. Princess Joanna, Isabel’s younger sister, shrank back in alarm. Joan, however, was busy sticking a sharp rose thorn through the birch rod just at the place where the dragon would grip it.
Isabel tossed her dark hair back over her shoulder and said with malice, “It was Bedford, and her friend, Joan of Kent.” Isabel was jealous of the girl’s beauty.
Brianna’s mouth fell open.
Joan had been absorbed in poking the birch rod’s handle into the dog turd but as Isabel’s words reached her ears, she stood up to confess all. Brianna quickly took hold of Joan’s hand and squeezed hard to stop her friend’s words. “I did it, Dame Marjorie. Joan had naught to do with it.” Brianna was used to Joan’s mischievous, childlike behavior. Joan never gave a thought to the consequences of her irresponsible actions and Brianna always felt a need to protect her.
The Dame’s face went still. “Lady Bedford, you will follow me.” The words were like a sentence, dooming Brianna. She would be purged of her evil ways. The dragon bent dramatically to retrieve her stick. The thorn pierced her thumb, which immediately flew to her mouth so she could suck upon the injured digit. Joan of Kent was entranced at the look that came upon the dragon’s face when she realized she was sucking shit.
Brianna followed Dame Marjorie from the formal gardens of the East Terrace with reluctant steps. As she walked through the Upper Ward past the State Apartments, she glanced longingly across the Quadrangle to her own rooms in the York Tower. She had hoped to finish painting a page to illustrate the Legend of St. George and the Dragon she had laboriously scripted. She sighed with resignation and followed the rigid back of Dame Marjorie
to her lodgings, located beyond the cloisters that housed the clergy.
Joan of Kent, racked with guilt, trailed after her friend. She watched Brianna enter the dragon’s lair and knew she must gather her courage to intervene. Joan drew herself up to her full five feet one inch and knocked resolutely. When the door was flung open she forced herself across the threshold. Not daring to look at Brianna, she blurted, “Dame Marjorie, I am to blame for the wicked prank—”
The older woman swung to Brianna immediately. “This is beyond the beyond. To drag Lady Joan of Kent into this is unconscionable.” She turned back to Joan. “My dear, you are to be commended for such a noble gesture. Royal blood will out, I suppose, but this time Lady Bedford will suffer the consequences of her depraved actions.”
Joan knew it was futile to argue. She was making things worse for Brianna. As she turned to depart she was rewarded by a smile of thanks from her friend that warmed her heart.
Brianna decided in that moment not to let Dame Marjorie victimize her. Before she held out her hands for the birching, she would challenge her woman to woman. “Dame Marjorie, we both know I wasn’t responsible for the mischief today. Princess Isabel wrongly accused me out of spite. But since you cannot punish the princess royal and are loathe to chastise Joan of Kent because of her royal blood, that leaves me.” Brianna’s eyes lit with mocking laughter. “If you really feel the need to vent your spleen, be my guest.” She held out her hands and the Dame knew immediately that Brianna of Bedford didn’t give a tinker’s damn about a few strokes from a birch rod. The Dame decided on a more subtle punishment. She looked with distaste at the pigment stains on Brianna’s hands.
“The devil makes work for idle hands. The stains upon your fingers lead me to believe you fritter your time away unwisely in useless endeavors. Your hands are intended to ply a needle. It is shameful to do otherwise when so many garments are needed in the royal household.”
In fact, the queen and her ladies had insisted just the opposite. They excused Lady Bedford from sewing duty so
she might pursue her God-given talent. Brianna kept a wise silence.
The dried-up old spinster felt even more outrage at the girl’s upthrust breasts and long golden tresses. “I shall advise the queen to betroth you to an older man who will rule you with an iron hand.”
Brianna’s heart sank.
“You are dismissed, Bedford.”
Brianna’s heart lifted slightly.
“Go straight to the chapel and confess your sins to Brother Bartholomew.”
Brianna’s heart sank hopelessly. She would have to attend vespers and wait until he had finished the service before she could confess.
All the light had gone from the day before Brianna could seek the refuge of her chambers. With every step she plotted her revenge. She would paint her dragon with Dame Marjorie’s features!
Her mother’s sister, Adele, who had accompanied her from Bedford as her waiting-woman, opened her chamber door. She was Irish, but it had been Brianna’s mother who was the beauty of the family. Adele was covered with freckles and her hair was the color of straw. She had resigned herself to being an old maid though she was only twenty-nine. “Oh, my lamb, wherever have ye been? Someone’s been in here doing mischief while I was visiting the royal nursery to glimpse the new baby princess.”
Brianna flew to her worktable beneath the leaded window. Her parchment lay in ruins. Spilled paint obliterated the exquisite sketch of her dragon and the carefully scripted legend of St. George. She gazed through the darkened window with unseeing eyes, angry at the injustice of life. She had taken the blame for her friend and been rewarded by having her artwork ruined. In a moment of self-pity her eyes flooded and a lone tear rolled down her cheek. A minute later she dashed it away with impatient hands, her Irish sense of humor coming to her rescue. “No good deed shall go unpunished.” Her laughter bubbled out irrepressibly. “Remember that, Adele.”
Brianna often used laughter to mask her sensitivity and vulnerability. Laughter was a most alluring quality in a
woman. Men were attracted to her because of her laugh, which gave them a delicious foretaste of her innate sensuality.
As she drifted off to sleep, a smile curved her lips as a tall figure stepped into her dream and beckoned. Desire overwhelmed her. This knight who came to her dreams was utterly irresistible. She went to him willingly, wanting him to touch her, to kiss her, to carry her off to a secret place. As the distance between them closed, she realized they were on the parapet of a strange castle. He reached out a powerful hand and lifted a tear from her cheek with the tip of his finger. Brianna laughed up into his face, and as she had hoped, he could not resist the sensual curve of her smiling lips.
His mouth on hers felt glorious. She had never experienced anything to equal the deep pleasure she received from the touch and the taste of him. When he enfolded her in his arms and pressed his hard body against hers, she thought she might die of joy. She sighed with longing as his image began to dissolve, then moved restlessly in her sleep. Her palm cupped her full breast where the hand of her phantom knight had touched her so possessively only a moment before. She sighed again. This time she had seen his eyes. They were a startling aquamarine!