The Dragon and the Jewel (26 page)

Simon de Montfort reached the banks of the Severn River as the blizzard hit. He was forced to take shelter and ask hospitality at Berkeley Castle. The following day the river could not be crossed, and he was forced to go so far north before he could
bridge the waters, then all the way back south, that he lost almost two days.

Rickard de Burgh and his men had departed as soon as the calm descended after the blizzard. His experiences in Wales had taught him there was much worse to come and they had better forge ahead through the daylight hours.

When Eleanor awoke after the blizzard, a calm had descended upon the land. A thick white blanket had fallen, making everything look still and picturesque. The sun shone brilliantly upon the crystals of snow, making the entire landscape look both enchanted and inviting.

In her newfound freedom Eleanor felt she had been a prisoner long enough. Her confinement had set up such a desire to enjoy life and nature to the full that she grew more restless with each hour. Finally in the early afternoon she could tolerate it no longer. She pulled on high boots beneath a velvet riding dress and took up her sable-lined cloak.

“Bette, find my warm riding gloves, I’ve decided to fly one of the falcons for an hour.”

“God’s nightgown, you’re not going out in the snow, surely, my lady?”

Eleanor laughed. “Of course I am. It’s exhilarating! I love the snow.”

Bette looked worried. “The Black Mountains are treacherous in winter.”

Eleanor laughed again. “Those are just the foothills, they’re not the Black Mountains proper. I remember William had a hunting lodge in the hills. I took refuge there once from a downpour and stayed all night. It was most comfortable.”

“All the same, Lady Eleanor, I don’t think you should venture far. It looks lovely now in the sunshine, but dark will fall early this afternoon.”

“Please don’t nag me, Bette. I feel I’ve missed so much, I’ll never catch up. It will put roses in my cheeks.”

Bette got up from her knees before the trunk. “Here’s your fur hat. Promise me you’ll wear it. I don’t want you with an earache all night.”

Eleanor giggled. “I never had an earache in my life.”

As the groom saddled her horse for her he asked in Welsh, “Where are you going, lady?”

She mounted with a flourish and bent toward him in a conspiratorial fashion. “Wherever I wish, for the rest of my life!”

The falcon fastened its talons into her embroidered glove and tested its wings. She held it at arm’s length and looked it straight in the eye. “Today we are birds of a feather—let us risk all!”

The icy mountain air was heady as wine. She stood in the stirrups to cast the falcon, and as she watched it soar into the sunshine she was giddy with exhilaration. The snow was fetlock deep as she cantered off in the direction the hawk had taken, but in places it deepened where the wind had piled it into drifts, so Eleanor avoided these smooth, white, innocent-looking mounds and kept to open ground as much as possible. As she rode west lifting her face to the sun she did not notice the threatening, bruise-colored clouds sweeping in from the east.

The falcon flew ever farther and higher into the hills. It had twice returned obediently with its prey, and Eleanor was preoccupied with its soaring beauty. The next time it returned she intended to head back to Chepstowe whose warm fires and secure walls beckoned temptingly. Yet the falcon flew to the top of a majestic Douglas fir and would not be coaxed down.

Eleanor noticed how much the wind had picked up; it swirled the snow madly about her. Was it another snowstorm, or was it simply the wind blowing yesterday’s snow? She decided she could not wait for the obstinate falcon and hoped it would follow her back to the castle.

The wind had obliterated her horse’s tracks; indeed it seemed to have altered the whole perspective of the landscape. Heavy gusts swirled the blinding snow, and Eleanor realized it was again coming down thick and fast, for it had now obliterated the sun. She began to shiver as a finger of fear touched her spine, telling her she did not know in which direction to ride. She continued to shiver as the icy cold crept up her legs from her feet.

She told herself not to panic. Somewhere in these hills was the small hunting lodge. She gave her horse its head and whispered encouragement, hoping its instinct would lead it to shelter.
She clung to its mane, bending low over its neck as it laboured slowly through the heavy drifts.

She knew she was on high ground because the wind howled unmercifully, whipping the snow from jagged boulders and piling it high on ledges and in crevices. Suddenly a crack like a whip rent the air, terrifying her horse. As the wind brought down the gigantic Welsh fir, the frightened animal surged forward. Eleanor was thrown from the saddle. Her body was cushioned by the snow, but her head came down against a jagged rock so forcefully it might have killed her had she not been wearing the fur hat. The tree trunk came down to trap her body against the rocks as she lay unconscious and blood ran freely from her lacerated scalp into the pristine snow.

B
ette’s apprehension grew with every hour. Lady Eleanor should have returned long ago, she told herself as she stood glued to the high tower window. The snow fell so thickly she could no longer see into the courtyard, so with determination she threw on her cloak and hurried to the stables.

The stocky, dark Welsh grooms stared at her when she spoke to them in English. They knew what was troubling the woman for they were uneasy themselves, but they knew she did not understand their language. Finally the steward was brought to interpret. Bette’s worst fears were confirmed when she learned that Lady Eleanor had gone hawking alone without a groom to attend her. Frantically she told the steward they must go and look for her, organize a search party,
do something
, but they told her bluntly if they went out before the storm subsided, they would lose both men and horses.

“She will have taken shelter,” the steward told her over and over until she thought she would scream from frustration. Finally she ordered them to saddle her a horse, thinking them less than real men when the Countess of Pembroke was in peril. She had no idea of the deep-seated resentment the Welsh felt for the English. They would not try to save an English life by sacrificing
Welsh lives, unless they were forced by a strong master to do so.

Bette got no farther than the castle walls before she realized her quest was an impossibility. The wind-driven snow made visibility impossible. Her horse floundered in the deep drifts, and she had no idea in which direction Lady Eleanor had gone. After an hour of freezing futility she reluctantly returned to Chepstowe. She was distraught and spent the entire night alternately pacing and kneeling in prayer.

When Simon de Montfort rode his weary stallion into Chepstowe’s bailey, he had never before been so glad of reaching his destination. He dismounted and led the animal inside the stables where he immediately fed and watered him, then removed the heavy saddle and rubbed him down thoroughly.

The dark, stocky men in the stables stared at him openly because of his size. They knew Englishmen and Normans were taller than Welshmen, but here was a giant. Only when he had seen to his horse did he venture into Chepstowe’s hall, hoping he had not missed the noon meal.

Bette recognized the Earl of Leicester immediately. She had never spoken to him, but she had watched him defeat everyone at the tournament earlier that month. She rushed forward now seeing a glimmer of hope in his timely arrival.

“My lord earl,” she cried, dipping low in respect, “Lady Eleanor rode out yesterday afternoon and never returned. I beg you order the men to form a search party. They refuse to venture out until the storm has passed.”

Simon set his saddlebags on the floor and ran his hand through his wet hair. “Eleanor’s been gone twenty-four hours?” he asked in disbelief. “Where did she go? Did de Burgh accompany her?”

Bette shook her head. “Sir Rickard and his men rode deeper into Wales. After the first snowstorm the sun came out and she went off for an hour’s hawking … alone.”

“Splendor of God, she needs her backside warming,” he said angrily. “I’ve never encountered weather like this in my life.” He strode to the fire and held out his hands to the blaze.

“It seemed so calm and serene yesterday. She told me not to nag her, that it would put roses in her cheeks.”

“A blizzard like this is more likely to put lilies on her chest!”

Bette closed her eyes. “May God keep her safe. She said something about a hunting lodge in the hills. Mary and Joseph,” she said, crossing herself, “I hope she has taken shelter there.”

Simon glared at the servants in the hall. “Where is the steward?” he demanded.

An older man came forward fearful that the huge, black-eyed man would fell him.

“Bring me food,” he ordered. “Anything will do so long as it is hot. Fetch wine, or stronger brew if you have it. I’ll give you five minutes while I change into dry clothes.”

“You’ll go out after her?” Bette cried with relief.

“Aye,” he said grimly, “but I won’t be responsible for my actions once I lay hands on her.”

Bette’s face was wreathed with smiles. Lord God, if the Earl of Leicester could find her, Bette would hold her down while he applied his belt. As Simon returned to the fire, clad in dry clothes pulled from his saddlebags, the steward accompanied by two servitors brought hot food and a potent liquor the Welsh brewed.

Simon drained the cup, feeling the fiery fingers of the potent brew creep along his veins and spread warmth throughout his wide chest. He took the trencher from the servitor and wolfed down the hot food where he stood. Between mouthfuls he ordered, “Fill me a flask with some of this devil’s water, it might come in handy if I get frozen to the bone.” The steward hovered and Simon beckoned him again.

“Chepstowe must have kennels. Do you have brachet hounds that hunt by scent?”

The steward nodded uncertainly.

“Get me a pair now,” de Montfort instructed. He turned to Bette. “Get me something she has worn so the dogs can get her scent”

Bette flew upstairs to Eleanor’s bedchamber. She picked up a bedrobe, then realized it would be too big if he wanted to carry it with him. She snatched up a pair of silken hose that Eleanor had exchanged for woolen stockings before she went for her foolish ride.

Simon de Montfort’s eyebrows rose slightly as Bette pressed the intimate apparel into his gloved hand. Before he emerged into the bailey he could not resist pressing the hose to his face to inhale her delicate fragrance. He carried his saddlebags back out to the stable and packed a measure of fodder for his horse. As he resaddled his black stallion, he murmured his apologies, more to assure himself than the animal. “Sorry, Nomad, old man, we’re off again. I think the storm abates somewhat.” He led the horse outside and took the leashed dogs from the young kennel master, then offered a stocking to each lean dog until both began to bay and strain on the leash. He freed them and tucked the hose inside his leather doublet.

He mounted swiftly, Nomad’s hooves striking sparks against the ice-covered flagstones of the bailey, and surged after the brachet hounds. As he rode higher into the hills, the swirling snow was blinding, but he told himself the wind had slackened and the worst of it was over. It was slow going for the massive horse, and after three hours his sides were heaving noticeably.

At first the dogs had been frenzied and eager, sometimes tunneling beneath the snow, sometimes picking up the trail of a rabbit or fox, but always circling back. De Montfort dismounted in a somewhat sheltered copse where the snow lay heavy upon the branches but not so deep on the ground. He rested his horse and gave him a couple of handfuls of oats. The feeling had left his own feet long ago, and he stomped his boots to restore his circulation.

He was extremely worried, but doggedly pushed his fear to the back of his mind as he took out the fiery liquor for a large swallow. He observed the hounds keenly. They were trying to climb up an ice-covered, rocky ledge, but they slid back each time. It proved too high when they tried jumping, and they fell back and rolled over in the snow.

Simon hoped that at last they were onto something, either Eleanor or her horse. He remounted and rode a long way looking for an opening in the ridge of jagged rock. Finally he found one and urged his destrier into the gap. The snow came up to Nomad’s underbelly as he labored upward. Then Simon heard the unmistakable howl of a wolf pack.

He was already cold, but the sound almost froze his heart.
Nomad was now in the snowdrift up to his shoulders and though he struggled valiantly, he could clearly go no farther. The wolf pack was in sight now and Simon counted four. The hounds were almost mad with fearful excitement. They were torn between fleeing the wolves and fearing the whip that had been liberally used in their training.

Simon knew if the hounds deserted, the wolves would attack his horse, which was neatly trapped in the snow. Making his decision instantly, he slid from the saddle and threw his saddlebags into the snow. He was up to his own chest in the stuff, but he helped to turn Nomad so that he could struggle back down through his own tracks. Then he slapped the horse’s hindquarters sharply and broke into a relieved sweat as he saw the black stallion head back the way they had come.

Simon had his knife in his palm although he knew wolves would not attack a man if there was lesser prey about. He watched the pair of brachet hounds lose their courage and flee with their tails between their legs; the wolves picked up speed as they began to hunt in earnest. He didn’t think the wolves had had a meal recently and hope for Eleanor’s safety rose one small notch.

With his saddlebags slung about his neck, he clawed his way through the snow. When he came up against jagged ledges of rock, he inched up them by using his fingers and toes and by the skin of his teeth. His leather boots, breeches, and doublet were good protection against the cold and the wind, but eventually even these became saturated and he knew he was losing his body heat.

Defeat, however, was not in de Montfort’s nature. He set his mind and doubled his efforts. He came into a vast clearing just as the last of the afternoon light was fading from the sky and saw a low-timbered structure he hoped was the hunting lodge. No smoke came from its chimney, however, so if Eleanor was there she was without a fire.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, he made his way toward the small building. At last he reached the door. He had to force it open, then he fell to his knees inside the room, his hopes dashed as his eyes scanned the dimness within and he knew no human had set foot inside in at least a year. His first
priority was a fire. After he had warmed himself he would renew his search.

At the rear of the lodge was a three-sided lean-to that should have held logs but did not. He was relieved, however, to find an ax. Suddenly he heard the unmistakable nicker of a horse, and his heart leapt in his breast as he saw Eleanor’s mount with its reins entangled in the branches of a massive fallen fir. He struggled through the deep snow murmuring encouraging words to the animal. The moment he freed its reins it had sense enough to seek shelter in the lean-to.

De Montfort raised his ax to chop a heavy limb from the fir. As he heaved it back, he saw Eleanor’s limp body tucked beneath the crevice of a rock. She was so pale he feared she was dead. His very heart trembled as he stooped to gather her body in his arms. Her body was not yet stiff! Blood of God, though, it was icy cold and lifeless. He ran with her back to the cabin and placed her inert form upon the bed.

His heart constricted at the tiny mound she made upon the huge bed. He felt for her pulse. Finding none, he dipped his ear to her mouth. His own heartbeat thundered inside his eardrum, but finally he discerned a shallow breath.

That she still lived was all he needed to know. He was a good hunter and could keep them fed all winter if necessary, but she needed sustenance and warming immediately and could not wait for a good fire to be built. He took the flask of liquor from his doublet and tipped it up to her lips. She gasped and choked as a little dribbled down her throat, but her eyelids fluttered closed almost immediately and she was again still as death.

He feared she had injuries but they would have to wait until he’d revived her. She had been outside for over thirty hours without food or water, and it was a miracle that she was still alive. Only the cover of the thick fir needles heavily blanketed with snow had kept her from dying from exposure.

Without hesitation he took his knife and nicked the vein in his forearm, then he placed it against her lips and clenched his fist open and closed so that his warm blood trickled into her mouth. His anxious eyes watched her swallow painfully. He’d learned this trick to save wounded men who had lost nearly all
their lifeblood. It was a quick restorative until they could receive other sustenance.

Gradually her eyes opened and closed more frequently and her breathing seemed less shallow. He knew his next task was to warm her. First he removed her boots and vigorously rubbed her small feet. Then he stripped her naked and threw her sodden clothes toward the hearth where they would dry once he’d had time to build a fire. He took up the flask of liquor, took a quick swallow then poured a few drops of it onto her belly, thighs, and breasts. With long, smooth strokes he rubbed warmth back into her frozen body. A brandy rubdown was the most stimulating remedy known for restoring vigor to a lifeless body.

His mind was detached as he noted how exquisitely she was formed. At the moment there was no room in his brain for thoughts of lust. As his powerful hands circled her breasts and belly, massaging in a steady rhythm, Eleanor opened her eyes beneath her heavy black lashes and murmured. He did not catch what she said, but it sounded very much like “Sim.” He turned her over and after pouring more of the fiery liquid onto her back and buttocks, he set to work stroking heavily down her back and down her long, slim legs. He gave up thanks that nothing seemed broken. When he examined her scalp laceration he saw that it was superficial, though it had probably bled profusely until the cold snow had congealed the blood.