Desired (40 page)

Her heart ached with loneliness. If only she hadn’t destroyed all his love letters. Remembering his words brought her a small measure of comfort, but if she had them to press to her lips and press to her heart, she was sure it would take away the ache. Joan felt utterly isolated and alone. She sat inert, unable to make a decision for herself.

Glynis had been busy in the laundry all day. She had decided to take advantage of the beautiful sunny day to wash everything in Lady Kent’s wardrobe before the cold winds of autumn made such chores unpleasant. Adele joined her and they decided to wash all the bed linen and heavy coverlets as well.

Brianna missed Joan at the midday meal and again at the afternoon session with the princess and Dame Marjorie. Before she went down to the hall for the evening, she went
along to Joan’s chambers. She found her friend sitting in the twilight gloom alone.

“Where have you been all day?” Brianna asked with concern.

“I don’t remember,” Joan said vaguely. “I went to the chapel this morning. Did you know that the queen and most of the Court ladies attend mass every day to pray for victory for the king and for their men’s safety?”

“No, I didn’t realize. I’ve been avoiding mass, I suppose. At one point I almost went to confession to unburden myself, but realized I couldn’t expose my shameful secrets. The walls have ears, even the walls of the confessional.”

“Oh, you mustn’t breathe a word to the priests. Only think of poor Elizabeth Grey and how she’s being ostracized!”

“Let’s go to the hall,” Brianna urged.

“Oh, you go without me. I don’t much feel like company.”

This was so unlike Joan that Brianna knew there was something wrong. Her friend wasn’t given to introspection, preferring to indulge in mischief. “I’m not leaving you here alone to sit and brood. You are missing Prince Edward and you need company at the moment.”

All through the meal Brianna could see that Joan’s spirits slumped. She did not press her, knowing when she was ready to share her troubles, she would confide in Brianna. Sooner or later she always did. The meal dragged to a close, they walked back to their chambers in silence, but when Brianna bade Joan good night, Joan took her hand in supplication. “May I stay with you tonight?” she asked breathlessly.

“Joan, of course you may! I don’t fancy being alone either.”

Brianna pulled the heavy drapes across the window and barred the door. She tossed some big pillows onto the rug, poured them each a cup of mead and set out a plate of marchpane, knowing her friend’s weakness for sweet comfits.

Joan gave her a misty half-smile as she nibbled the almond-flavored sweet. In a small, whispery voice she said, “Do you think Elizabeth Grey did the right thing?”

“Well, poor Elizabeth’s situation was dreadful. She knew marriage to Prince Lionel was out of the question and she knew if she bore the child, her chance for any marriage was ruined, so I think she did make the right choice.” Silence stretched between them. Then Brianna added softly, “I couldn’t have done it though.”

Joan began to cry.

“Oh, love, what’s wrong?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, it dawned upon her that Joan was with child. “Oh Lord, you’ve been caught.” Brianna sank down on the cushions and took Joan’s hands. “Promise me that you won’t do anything foolish!”

“Such as?” Joan asked, her eyes full of misery, her cheeks wet with tears.

Such as kill yourself
, Brianna thought silently. “You mustn’t abort yourself … it’s so very dangerous.”

“I know,” Joan whispered.

“When I said Elizabeth did the right thing, I meant it was the right thing for her. It would be absolutely the
wrong
choice for you. Prince Edward and you love each other. He would never forgive you if you destroyed his child.” Brianna had Joan’s full attention now. “Edward will be home from France soon. When he learns of the child, I’m sure he’ll find some way to marry you.”

Joan wiped away her tears.

“For goodness’ sake don’t confide in anyone but me. Things usually have a way of working themselves out. Remember,
when in doubt, do nothing!
”

Joan nodded solemnly, trustingly.

Brianna cursed herself for mouthing platitudes, but her immediate concern was Joan’s state of mind. At least she had managed to calm some of her fears and stop her crying. “What you need is a good night’s rest. Things always look brighter in the morning.” As Brianna bustled about, readying the bed, she hoped her tongue wouldn’t wither from her lies.

Before the night candle burned itself out, Brianna saw that Joan slept peacefully now she had unburdened herself. She, however, lay wide awake, not only uneasy about her own situation, but desperately worried about Joan’s plight.

The plight of the French in Crécy became more desperate by the hour. They were defeated, but their leaders refused to concede victory. Throughout the afternoon the French army continued to arrive piecemeal, and was cut down by arrows to the throat or sword thrusts to the gut. As dark began to fall the French king still shouted orders but his marshals had long since fallen.

When all the light was fully gone, Christian Hawksblood called all his Cornishmen, trained in the use of long-knives, to him. On foot they moved unhesitatingly into the French lines. Hawksblood’s first target was the French royal standard-bearer. He dispatched him quickly and tore the red oriflamme from its staff. Then they proceeded to decimate what was left of the French army, executing every moving thing they came across with their long-knives until not one French knight was left on that fateful road from Abbeville.

When Hawksblood returned, he was moved to see every Englishman on his knees, offering thanks for their miraculous victory. Prince Edward’s surcoat was no longer crimson, but black with mud. King Edward embraced his son with joy. “You have acquitted yourself well this day.” Then he raised his voice so all could hear. “You are worthy to be the future King of England.”

A great cheer went up.

The Black Prince replied, “I owe my life to many, especially this man.” He indicated Christian Hawksblood.

Another cheer arose.

“
All
men contributed to the victory of Crécy!”

The English were exultant because they had won against all odds.

The king spoke again. “As long as men shall live, they will speak of Crécy!”

After that, it was impossible to be heard over the jubilant cheering.

The prince and Hawksblood immediately set about counting their losses and aiding their wounded before they ever thought of themselves. Hundreds of wounds needed to be stanched, broken bones set and torn flesh stitched back together, but miraculously most of their men were accounted for.

Hawksblood sought out his half brother. His blood was
still high from battle. “I suspect it was your sword that felled Edward’s horse!”

Robert opened his mouth to protest.

“Don’t bother with denials, we’ll call it an accident this time. But let me warn you, Robert, if aught untoward befalls Edward, I shall seek you out and destroy you!”

Robert was almost consumed with the hatred he felt for the foreign bastard. At the first opportunity that presented itself he would rid himself of the usurper.

Christian Hawksblood and Edward Plantagenet shared a campaign tent. They had washed the blood and grime from their bodies in the river, then Ali had given them each a massage with oil of almond and frankincense. The Black Prince’s courage impressed Hawksblood’s squire when he discovered Edward had been fighting with a dislocated left shoulder. The pain had been excruciating, but thanks to his friend’s teaching, he was learning to separate himself from pain.

Both had received cuts to their faces and torsos and Edward watched with curiosity as Ali applied plain sugar to Hawksblood’s superficial wounds.

“It prevents scarring, but perhaps you wish to display your scars, Your Highness.”

“Hell no, Ali. My lady is a most delicate female. I don’t wish to frighten her. By all means, pass the sugar.”

They wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay down on the hard earth to rest. It had been an unbelievable day. Prince Edward knew it would be the most unforgettable day of his life. Before the battle, anticipation and fear had made his blood rush through his veins, filling him with a bursting energy that needed an outlet. When he joined the battle, he had enough zeal to carry him through for hours. When his horse went down, almost on top of him, stunning him, he realized how tenuous the breath of life was within him. It could be snuffed in an instant. To rise and fight with the agonizing pain of a dislocated shoulder had called up the years of discipline and training he had endured. Again he was filled with a divine power that transcended the fear and fatigue.

He fought on long after his sword arm was numb, long after his mind was blank from the horror of blood, maiming,
and killing. His nose became immune to the stench of death and his ears deaf to the screams of agony from both men and warhorses. He fought on until he had expended every last ounce of strength, every last gasp of breath. But the miracle of victory had sent the blood rushing back to the brain, banishing the total exhaustion that had made his limbs so heavy that he was almost inert. He felt like a vessel that had been emptied, but was now refilled. He felt energy surge back into him, replenishing him a hundredfold.

Both Christian and Edward lay upon the ground physically tired, muscles relaxed from the oiled massage, but their minds darted about with mercurial speed. Both knew sleep was a million miles away. Their throats became hoarse as they talked themselves out.

Hawksblood questioned Edward about his fall. “Do you think it possible there was deliberate treachery?”

“I saw no treachery; sensed none. John Holland rode beside me. I’ve just made him Steward of the Royal Household. He’s too ambitious to do me harm,” Edward said, laughing.

“And your other side?” prompted Christian.

“Why, I was flanked by your brother, Robert. Warrick would have his balls if he did aught that smacked of treason.”

“Aye,” Christian agreed. “I’m beginning to believe my sire an honorable man. I’ll reserve judgment on my brother, however.”

“None of us can choose our brothers,” Edward said regretfully. He knew exactly whom he would have picked for brother if the choice had been his, and hoped Christian was of like mind.

They fell to silence, each man filled with thoughts of his beloved. Edward vowed that if his sojourn in France was to be a long one, he would find some way to get his little Jeanette across the Channel. He needed her sweetness, her soft femininity, to balance the stark realities of being a military leader. He had been trained to be an iron man for his men-at-arms to look up to. He was expected to perform like a well-oiled military machine. But when the battle was over and darkness fell, he needed surcease, and wanted it from none but Joan of Kent.

Christian Hawksblood became introspective. It happened more and more of late. He knew he could escape into an erotic fantasy that would blot out the horrors of carnage, but his fantasies had undergone a drastic change. His dreams were of a home of his own, a family of his making. He had wandered rudderless about the world long enough. He wanted to put down roots, needed the anchor of a mate, longed to surround himself with sons and daughters. The warmth and intimacy of a family of his own was the thing he now lusted for.

He thought of Warrick. For the first time he was glad Guy de Beauchamp was his father. It was good to share command, good to have a bond of blood with someone who cared whether you lived or died.

Finally, he allowed himself to contemplate Brianna. Robert had extracted a promise of marriage from her by manipulating her compassionate nature. How contemptible to have to be pitied to gain one’s ends. Hawksblood intended to have her, no matter the cost. He and Robert knew they were rivals, and though the battle lines had not yet been drawn, Christian knew the confrontation was coming. He had not pressed matters because every instinct told him that when the clash came, the result might be total annihilation. The fatal outcome could blow the tenuous truce and fledgling relationship between him and Warrick to smithereens.

He pushed the sibling antagonism away, cleansing his mind of Robert before he concentrated upon his lady. He saw her in all her beauty, missed no detail of her loveliness. Then he focused, and whispered, “Come to me.”

Brianna curled over in the bed with her back to Joan, finally luring Morpheus to carry her off.
The place was Bedford; the mood, utter contentment. She was in the castle garden with three children
.

Her children. Two sturdy sons and a droll little daughter. Their excitement level was high because they anticipated the return of their father today. Her own excitement matched theirs. Nay, it surpassed theirs if she was being truthful. Her husband was the center of her life. The sun, the life-force about whom they all gravitated
.

Though she would allow the children to run to him first, to claim his attention, she knew when he arrived she would have to stop herself from dashing to him and flinging herself upon him. She savored the anticipation of the moment his eyes would seek hers over the heads of their children. Aquamarine eyes! He would make love to her with those eyes and it would suffice until they were locked in their own chamber
.