Desired (48 page)

She sent Robert a smile of thanks, knowing he had paid good coin to have the balladeer write special lyrics for her.

When the trestle tables were cleared away so the ball could begin, Queen Philippa watched the king have the first dance with Princess Isabel, then she retired. Her pains had started in her back, but not by word or gesture would she spoil her husband’s Victory Ball. Every lady of the Court looked forward to a dance with King Edward and at least one with the divine Prince of Wales.

Brianna accepted Prince Lionel’s invitation to dance and realized immediately why he was nicknamed the Ox. It was a relief when Robert rescued her, and though he was too large to be graceful, Brianna thought it rather endearing that he made the effort to dance at all, when he was more suited to the battlefield or the joust.

Dancing was a form of courtship affording intimacies such as touching and whispering and oftimes kissing. Not a few of the bolder men asked ladies for a stocking or a
garter to wear as a favor in the jousting. Brianna had refused Prince Lionel’s request for an intimate article and was relieved when Robert concentrated on the figures of the dance rather than personal favors.

When Brianna danced with Prince Edward, she inquired anxiously of Joan.

He grinned down at her. “She is well. We have both decided we want a little girl.”

“I miss her so much,” Brianna said wistfully.

Edward’s hands tightened painfully on Brianna’s. “By the Chalice, not as much as I. It was like cutting off my arm to leave her. Her brother, Edmund, has promised to look after her until I return and that won’t be long, I swear to you.”

“Will the army be returning to France soon, also?”

“Yes, Our victories have given us a great advantage. We must press on until the whole country is ours. I am returning as soon as the tournament is over; the army will follow shortly. I will be glad when you come, Brianna. I know Joan misses you.”

Suddenly there was a commotion in the center of the floor. The dancing had stopped and whispers had replaced the music. The king had been partnering Katherine de Montecute, Countess of Salisbury, when suddenly a lacy blue garter, embroidered with jewels, fell to the king’s feet and slithered and twirled across the polished floor.

Katherine’s cheeks were bright with guilty embarrassment. Edward Plantagenet, ever chivalrous, bent to retrieve the garter and slipped it over the sleeve of his doublet. He stared down the speculative glances of those close by and said, “Shame on him who thinks ill of it!” Then he took Katherine by the hand and led her back to her husband.

A short time later the king went up on the dais to address the dancers. “The garter is an old symbol of honor in the chivalry of our land. My great ancestor, Richard Coeur de Lion, ordered the bravest of his knights to wear it at the storming of Acre. Those knights excelled in valor and bravery and were known as the Knights of the Blue Thong. I shall create the Order of the Garter and the motto writ on it shall be:
Honi soit qui mal y pense
.”

Robert claimed the next dance from Brianna. “Every man in this room burns to receive the highest honor of English knighthood, but only twenty-five of us will be chosen.”

By his words Brianna realized that Robert took for granted that he would be among those chosen. She prayed that it would be so, for she had seen how sullen he could be when disappointed.

“I know someone else who burns and lusts for everything that is mine. My bastard brother watches us with his dark impassive face, but underneath that mask, he covets all that is mine. He cozies up to my father, hoping for some of Warrick’s lands and castles. How it must gall him that the title will be mine!”

“Oh, Robert, I don’t think he harbors any resentment toward you,” Brianna protested, trying to deny her guilt, but failing miserably.

“I hope he does. I hope he lusts for you so badly it chokes him on our wedding day!” Robert threw back his head and laughed.

Desperately she tried to change the subject. “You haven’t asked me for a favor to wear in the tournament.”

He leered down at her. “I’ll settle for nothing less than a garter.”

Her emotions were in such turmoil, she could neither pretend shock nor amusement. She simply reached beneath her skirts and removed one of her garters.

“I would have preferred getting it myself,” he said boldly, “but I know you are a little prude and won’t allow me to undress you until we are wed.”

She didn’t smile, but looked at him with serious eyes. “Thank you for waiting, Robert. Thank you for not forcing me to be intimate. It is most chivalrous of you.”

At that moment, Prince Lionel engaged Robert in conversation and Brianna signaled to Adele so they could make good their escape.

The next morning, all the bells began to peel as a sign that Queen Philippa had been safely delivered of another daughter. Brianna and Adele visited the queen and were allowed to peek into the magnificently carved royal cradle for a glimpse of the newest princess. Isabel, diverting attention
from the baby, gathered all the ladies in the room and insisted they accompany her to the lists. The fields and meadows for miles around Windsor were crowded with competitors and spectators. Champions had arrived from all over Europe to compete in the tournament. Princess Isabel insisted they go to the lists so they could all watch Bernard Ezi practice his jousting. Brianna didn’t really mind; she knew she would be safe in a crowd.

The morning before St. George’s Day, the list was posted naming England’s most valiant knights who were to be inducted into the Order of the Garter the following day. It was headed by King Edward III and Edward, Prince of Wales. Next came Sir Walter Manny, Queen Philippa’s personal knight, who had accompanied her from Hainault. Then came the king’s uncle, Henry, Earl of Lancaster, the Earl of Warrick, and William de Montecute, Earl of Salisbury. Also included were nineteen barons and knights who had fought at the Battle of Crécy, including the two men who had stood shoulder to shoulder with the Black Prince: Sir John Chandos and Sir Christian de Beauchamp.

Men of lower rank had been preferred to such powerful members of the aristocracy as the earls of Hereford, Pembroke, and Northampton. The younger princes and their cousin Edmund, Earl of Kent, were not included.

That day the Court almost turned into a viper’s nest. Some said it was a list of favorites, others applauded that only heroes of the great Battle of Crécy were being honored. Most were consoled by the knowledge that the vast round table in the new tower would hold two hundred, so there was plenty of room for men who showed valor in the future.

The knights’ costumes were put on display in the Banqueting Hall. Every garment was new. Each knight inducted into the order would wear spotless white chausses and tunic for purity, an ermine-trimmed crimson robe to
show their willingness to shed blood, and spurs of gold. Twenty-five golden medallions stamped with St. George and the Dragon had been forged for the occasion, and twenty-five dark blue velvet garters emblazoned with the motto:
Honi soit qui mal y pense
.

On the eve of St. George’s Day, the king led the other inductees into Windsor’s chapel where each man’s armor stood against the walls and his sword lay upon the altar. They sat a vigil all night long, spending hours on their knees in prayer. At dawn, their squires came in to bathe them, to wash away their sins, then dressed them in their new garments and finally their armor.

King Edward inducted them with the great Sword of State, beginning with his own son. “Rise, Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales. Be thou a knight of the Order of the Garter.” He placed the medallion about his son’s neck and the garter about his knee. Then the king gave him the kiss of peace. Prince Edward took his sword from the altar, then stepped aside for the next man.

When the religious ceremony was finished, the twenty-five celebrants mounted and rode to the new Edward III Tower. They climbed the one hundred steps and took their honored places at the round table, where they were served breakfast with all pomp and ceremony.

“Fucking whoreson bastards!” Robert de Beauchamp spat. He picked up a stool and hurled it into the wall, smashing it to splinters. It was only a momentary outlet, bringing no satisfaction. “How could they choose that stinking Arabian ahead of me?” he asked the air.

When his rage abated enough to allow him to think straight, his hatred transferred to the Prince of Wales. “It was that son of a bitch who picked his friends for the order!” That’s what power did for you. It gave you the freedom to do anything you wished, Robert decided.

He made his way to Prince Lionel’s apartments and found the heavy door locked. He used his key to gain entrance and saw that Lionel was consuming a liquid breakfast. “That is not the answer, Your Highness,” Robert growled.

“There is no answer, Robbie,” Lionel said hopelessly. “My brother is a god; I a mere mortal.”

“You are a prince of the realm! You have power! You just don’t exercise it!” Robert cried.

“My father is blinded by his love for his firstborn. He has raised him so high, I shall never be able to scale the heights.” Lionel’s voice broke on a sob. His wine cup fell from his hand and he threw himself into Robert’s arms and wept like a child. As Lionel’s weakness grew, so Robert’s strength doubled.

“Don’t get drunk, Lionel, get even!” he urged.

“How?” Lionel blubbered.

Robert seized the moment. This prince of the blood would never be more vulnerable than he was at this moment. Now was his opportunity to turn the tables. He would no longer be Prince Lionel’s man; Lionel would become Robert de Beauchamp’s man!

“Your brother is no god. He is mere flesh and blood and bone, just like you, just like me. If wounded, he bleeds. If mortally wounded, he dies!”

Lionel raised his head and wiped his face on his sleeve.

“Power, Lionel; power is the only thing that counts. Without it you are nothing. The hastilude that follows the jousting where everyone fights with spears is a heaven-sent opportunity to seize your destiny and make it happen!”

Lionel stared at Robert with glazed eyes. “I … I cannot.”

“I
can
! Just give me the word.”

Lionel’s throat closed so that he could not speak.

“Give me a sign!” Robert urged.

Lionel nodded his head
.

At last Robert had him in the palm of his hand. Prince Lionel would become heir to the throne, and then King of England, and because he had assented, Lionel would be able to refuse him nothing for the rest of their lives. Robert kept his plan to rid himself of his own brother to himself. He felt as if fate were beginning to smile upon him at last.

All those participating in the jousting spent the night in their pavilions so they could arise at dawn to begin preparations. Again, Prince Edward and Christian de Beau-champ had set up their tents next to each other. This time, however, Hawksblood had received more challenges than
he could accept. Because of the number of contestants, the grand marshal had declared a limit of three jousts for each.

The melee at day’s end in which all the contestants took part, was officially declared a hastilude, which meant that spears could be used. It was the king’s idea because his men had tasted victory in real battle and a run-of-the-mill free-for-all would lack the thrill of dangerous anticipation.

Randal Grey came into Prince Edward’s tent breathless from running. His red hair was on end and the freckles across the bridge of his nose stood out darkly against the pallor of his skin. “Your Highness, you are in grave danger!”

John Chandos picked him up bodily and deposited him outside the pavilion. “Prince Edward has no time for your games, lad.”

Randal swore foully. “Let me speak with him!”

“He’s halfway into his armor. You’ll make him late.”

Randal didn’t have time to argue. He rushed into Hawksblood’s tent, where he ran into Paddy, who was about to give him the same treatment as Chandos. Randal ducked under Paddy’s arm and began shouting at Hawksblood. Christian removed his helm so he could hear what the page was trying to tell him.

“It’s Prince Edward! They are going to kill him!”

“Who is going to kill him?” Hawksblood demanded.

“I don’t know. Some men over in yon meadow. I heard them plotting!”

“Come on.” Hawksblood entered Edward’s tent with Randal in tow. “The boy here had heard some men talking about killing someone. He thinks it involves you, Sire.”

Randal cried, “It does! I wouldn’t lie to you, Your Highness!”

“I hope not, Randal,” the prince said quizzically. “Tell us just what you heard.”

“I was over in the east meadow … it was still dark. I was crawling between the tents looking for a sword or a weapon that nobody would miss, when I heard men talking.”

“You were stealing,” Chandos accused.

“No … yes,” Randal admitted, knowing he must tell the truth if he was to be believed.

“How many men?” Edward asked.

“I don’t know … I heard three different voices.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t think so. I couldn’t see them … I couldn’t let them see me.”