Desired (62 page)

“What will we do?”

“You will do nothing, save recover from the ordeal. I will take care of Holland. You two will take care of each other.”

Brianna nodded, some of his strength infusing her with
calmness. Christian dipped his dark head to brush her lips with his. Then he murmured softly, “I have to leave again. Tell me you will be all right. Promise me you will be strong?”

“I promise.” Brianna lifted her mouth to seal the vow with a kiss. He squeezed her hands, then bent to Joan. “I want you to be strong for Edward and for Jenna.”

“I promise,” Joan said, knowing this man’s protection and loyalty were absolute.

He came back to Brianna. “My mind is at ease. All danger to you has passed. Trust me … I know these things.”

“Christian, I do trust you.” Silently she thought,
Now I know what it’s like to kill someone to protect another. You killed your brother, Robert, to protect Prince Edward, and I almost let it kill our love
.

Christian looked at her bleakly. He had heard her thought as if she had spoken aloud. “Brianna, I beg you, listen to your heart.”

He rolled the carpet firmly about Holland’s body, then slung it over his shoulder, departing as swiftly as he had come.

Hawksblood rode for two hours with the body slung in front of his saddlebow. Then he dismounted to unroll the carpet and examine Holland’s body. His jugular vein had been severed, which would have resulted in his death, if he had not died as a result of his caved-in skull.

Hawksblood’s eyes fell on a paper in Holland’s doublet. When he drew it out, it was soaked with blood, but Christian saw the official wax seal of the king and realized it had import. He broke the seal and studied the message. Some of it was obliterated, but enough words were left to convey its meaning.

Lancaster’s army was not coming! The king suggested Edward’s army return to Bordeaux. Fighting the French army with a force of ten thousand was tantamount to suicide. Hawksblood looked down at Holland with contempt, realizing he would never have delivered the dispatch. He wanted Joan of Kent. Keeping this vital information from the Black Prince would guarantee his death.

Hawksblood had no more time or energy to waste on the heap of offal that lay before him. He lifted his gaze to the
clear blue skies and projected his wishes upon the wind. Within minutes he glimpsed a lone vulture gliding upon a hot updraft. More birds joined the first, until about two dozen gathered, making their pattern of lazy circles. It was a fitting end. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, carrion to vultures.

Hawksblood urged his destrier to ever greater speed in his attempt to rejoin Edward’s army. Though he had spent twenty hours in the saddle, his weariness fell away when he focused on his goal.

Relief swept over him when he reached Angoulěme where the army had camped for the night. When he dismounted and greeted the nearest men-at-arms a cold hand gripped his vitals. He had ridden into the French camp, completely unaware! He cursed beneath his breath. Why hadn’t he utilized his sixth sense to warn him of the danger? He had been preoccupied with thoughts of Brianna and of the black plague endangering his mother. How on earth had the French army reached Angoulême so quickly?

He faded back behind the trees and was swallowed by the darkness. His clothing and his horse were black. If he was worth his salt, he must treat this as a God-given opportunity to assess the size of the French army.

Hawksblood advanced with great stealth, leading his horse on foot. After two hours he had gauged how far south, west, and north the army stretched, but the unknown was the eastern boundary. It seemed to spread back across the entire country.

He stretched out full length on the warm earth beneath the trees and began to concentrate. One by one he penetrated the barriers of time, space, sound, and distance until he attained the state conducive to his visions. Unbelievable as it seemed, John of France had an army of forty thousand men! He had his four sons with him, twenty-six noble dukes and counts, and over five hundred knights belonging to the chivalric order of Our Lady of the Noble House, who had taken an oath to die in battle rather than give ground. And as if this were not enough, they stood between Edward’s army and Bordeaux, cutting off any hope of retreat.

Armed with nothing but bad news, Hawksblood pressed northward until he met up with Prince Edward and Warrick
a few miles outside Poictiers. “You had best call a meeting of the leaders. Your nobles must be armed with the knowledge of our precarious position.”

Hawksblood related the unwelcome news that Lancaster’s army had retreated to Cherbourg and would not be joining forces. He told them that they had advanced too far north, and that the French army stood between them and their home base of Bordeaux. Then, reluctantly, he told them the numbers.

Salisbury swore. “We will be defeated!”

Edward crashed his fist down on a war chest. “It is blasphemy to say I will be conquered alive!”

Warrick spoke up, “No army on earth can withstand good English bowmen!”

Pembroke said, “I will inform the men-at-arms of the great odds they must face.”

Hawksblood thundered, “Nay! Battles are decided before they begin. Our men must not be handicapped by fear of greater numbers!”

Edward said with pride, “It is English tradition to face great odds—and win!”

Warrick spoke up decisively. “From here to Poictiers the hillsides are covered by vineyards. We will occupy this strategic site. The rows of vines will protect us.” Warrick set the foot soldiers to digging trenches and erecting ramparts of earth behind the vines.

The next morning, the Cardinal of Poictiers, Talleiran de Périgord, fearing his beautiful town would be laid to waste, issued an edict to John of France. He told him that the plague that was now rampant in France was God’s punishment for fighting. He ordered the king to sue for terms.

The French king and his nobles did not want terms, they wanted to defeat these English dogs who dared raise their eyes to the throne and crown of France. But the religious leader could not be ignored. The power of the Church was greater than the power of the crown and John of France was forced to agree to meet with Prince Edward.

Under a flag of truce, John and his nobles met with Edward, Warrick, and Hawksblood. The Black Prince, the most chivalrous knight in Christendom, generously offered to return all the prisoners they held for ransom and to give
up the towns and castles they had recently taken, in return for a seven-year peace.

King John, seeing the look of contempt on his nobles’ faces, demanded that Prince Edward surrender himself along with one hundred of his knights.

The Black Prince laughed in his face!

King John argued, “Your countrymen love you so well, they will soon raise your ransom.”

The Plantagenet temper exploded. “What sort of knight do you think I am? I will rather die, sword in hand, than be guilty of deeds so opposed to my honor and the glory of England!
Englishmen shall never pay ransom of mine!

Warrick, usually so stoic, was unable to suppress his indignation. “You French have no intention of making a truce! Why should you? You have four times more men than we have. We care naught for that! Here is the field and the place. Let each do his best and may God defend the right!”

Christian Hawksblood had never been so proud in his life. Warrick was indeed worth five Frenchmen. He thanked both God and Allah that this man was his sire. From this day forth he would be honored to use the name De Beauchamp!

The prince, Warrick, and Hawksblood knew the English position was hopeless if the French king used tactical skill. All he had to do in fact, was surround the small army to force its surrender. They refused to accept defeat, however, even when it stared them in the face.

On the morning of the battle, the English bowmen were positioned on the slope behind hedges and thick vines where the ditches and ramparts had been dug. It was not a fair and open field where knighthood could perform to advantage.

A scout brought Edward news that the King of France wore a white plume upon his helmet and his highest-ranking nobles had copied him. The Black Prince stationed himself at the top of the hill where he could command a view of the narrow path that wound up it. What he saw astounded him. King John had learned nothing from Crécy!

He sent his knights, four abreast, up the narrow path.
The Black Prince gave the signal and his longbowmen cut them down as quickly as they advanced. When John broadened his lines, the English archers shot down the horses of the advancing knights. Hawksblood’s Cornishmen with their long-knives crept through the thick vines and dispatched the French knights before they could gain their feet.

The French marshal, trying to save the king’s sons, ordered them to retreat. As a result, one division fell back on the one behind and chaos reigned. Warrick and Hawksblood with a small force of mounted knights rode headlong into a second French division. Edward’s squire, John Chandos, cried, “Sire, push forward. The day is yours! God has given it into your hands.”

The golden lilies of France fell to the ground with blood on them. The retreat of the French was so infectious that by afternoon only the troops under direct command of King John were still fighting. Finally, they had to either die or surrender. The King of France at last yielded himself a prisoner, saying, “I hope you take me peaceably to your prince. I am great enough to enrich you all!”

So many nobles surrendered themselves for ransom, the Black Prince could not believe his good fortune. When Randal Grey brought in the king’s youngest son, twelve-year-old Philip, at the end of his sword, Edward knighted him on the spot.

When Warrick and Hawksblood tallied their gains and losses, they estimated the French had left over ten thousand dead on the field, while the English lost only hundreds. They had taken prisoner the King of France, his four sons, his brother, the Duke of Orléans, and dozens of the highest nobles in the land, all sporting the white feather!

That night the English celebrated their victory with the food and wine of prosperous Poictiers. Prince Edward, honoring the rules of chivalry and carrying them to new heights, served the King of France with his own hands.

John ground out, “This is the bitterest day of my life; I am your prisoner!”

The Black Prince lifted his goblet in a salute and said valiantly, “Nay! You are my honored guest.”

Paddy, Ali, and Sir Randal slept in Hawksblood’s tent, while their lord shared Prince Edward’s pavilion. They could not sleep, of course, after the exhilaration of battle and knew they would have to talk it out, as had become their custom. In the darkest hour of night, just before dawn, Christian said quietly, “John Holland is dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I positively identified his body. His throat had been slashed and his skull caved in. He was dead when I came upon him,” Hawksblood said truthfully.

Prince Edward crossed himself. Silence stretched between them for long minutes. Finally, Edward could contain himself no longer. “That means Joan is a widow!”

“It does, Your Highness,” Christian agreed, holding his breath.

“Jesu, all I need is a dispensation from the Pope! Will you go to Avignon for me?”

“I will, Sire,” he said, smiling into the darkness. In that moment they felt omnipotent as gods.

When Hawksblood finally drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of his childhood. He was the pampered darling of the harem with his silky black curls and brilliant aquamarine eyes. Then the scene changed to the night he was smuggled to safety. He felt his mother’s deep anguish. Parting with him had been like death to her, but she loved him with all her heart and soul, and giving him up was the sacrifice she accepted in return for his safety.

He relived his baptism of fire. It was a cruel awakening for a spoiled seven-year-old to be thrust among hardened Norman knights, but the training had been of more value than the gold and precious jewels his mother left in trust for his future. When he awoke, he was drenched with sweat. The beautiful image of his mother was still with him, but so was her pain. He sensed a threat to her future happiness that he could not dispel.

Hawksblood roused his squires from their sleep. Ali arose quietly and dressed. Paddy complained loudly that he had only just fallen asleep. Hawksblood grinned at him. “You’d better get used to being disturbed at all hours of the night, Daddy.”

“Jasus, don’t give Ali-Babba ammunition or I’ll be known as Daddy-Paddy for the rest of my days!”

“I am going to Avignon for Prince Edward and taking Ali. I want you, and Randal,” he added glancing at the earnest-faced youth, “to watch over our ladies. The mission isn’t secret in the strictest sense, but the fewer who know about it, the better.”

Ali crouched down beside Paddy and said low, “Tell Glynis …” He hesitated. Then he realized how ridiculous it was to be reticent with a man who had saved his life and vice-versa. Paddy would be the closest friend he would ever have. “Tell Glynis to start sewing her wedding dress … no, that would be sheer male arrogance! Just tell her that I shall return, no matter what.”