The Dragon and the Jewel (14 page)

The young Provençal knights spent their time drinking and wenching, and Henry seemed content to parade through the safe reaches of the territory that still remained under English control.

William Marshal’s Welsh and Irish joined Simon de Montfort’s men in the heavy vanguard fighting. They scored victory after victory, but Henry brought in no reinforcements, not even to hold the land gained. The men at the front could not conquer new territory today and hold on to what they had taken yesterday without backup.

William was impressed by Simon de Montfort. The six-and-a-half-foot giant certainly lived up to his reputation as a fierce war lord. He had never seen a man in such superb physical condition. All other men suffered by comparison, even himself, William admitted. But de Montfort had more than strength of body. The marshal recognized his natural abilities of leadership. He was a brilliant strategist and always fought with an eye to his men’s safety. He never asked a man to do aught he was not willing to do himself. He always took the lead, and his men trusted and loved him enough to follow his magnificent example.

William and Simon spent many hours together in campaign tents after the day’s fighting. Here he got to know the man behind the soldier. Simon was candid and forthright about his ambition, yet William doubted he would ever sacrifice his honor for expediency. He was a true, worthy, and valiant knight.

Simon knew his men by name. He was completely fearless, especially when it came to removing his wounded men from the field. He was so quick and strong, it was easier for him to carry out wounded singlehanded than to send in two-man teams.

William Marshal poured Simon de Montfort a leather horn of ale and sat down by the campfire. Simon’s deep voice was troubled. “Cite me for treason if you wish, but the king has no more idea about winning wars than a bloody pack mule.”

William agreed with him. “We both know only a decisive thrust would have been effective. He listens to the wrong people these days. I’ve managed him for years. I let him think my ideas were his own and led him down whichever path was best for England, but now we will all suffer from the false council of those who have him by the balls. Relatives!” he spat.

Simon laughed. “Are you not his brother-in-law?”

“Aye,” William acknowledged. “’tis a wonder he turned out as well as he did with John for father. I tried to be a father to them all, but I was off fighting so much. If only Henry had Richard’s guts and Eleanor’s brains, he might have made a good king.”

“’tis hard to believe he’s descended from the great King Henry II. Surely it gnaws at his throat that his grandfather
ruled an empire three times as big as that of the King of France. He believed what I believe,” Simon de Montfort said firmly, “you can become what you behold. Henry II wrested England, Brittany, and Normandy from Henry I. He inherited Anjou and Touraine from his own father, Geoffrey of Anjou, and he acquired Poitou, Gascony, and Aquitaine by marrying Queen Eleanor.” Simon shook his head in silent admiration.

“He was an extremely ambitious man—a great leader. That’s what we lack today, strong leaders,” William lamented. “Hubert de Burgh would rather wear silk scarves and ornamental armor than the real thing. Ranulf of Chester grows old. The barons have no strong leader to unite them and oppose the vicious influence of men like the Bishop of Winchester and the greedy Savoys.”

Simon seconded his hatred of religious leaders. “They take holy orders only because it’s an easy path of preferment. Personally I have always opposed the Pope’s influence, especially in matters concerning England.”

“You have strong views, de Montfort, but you are right, of course. I believe you have the qualities of a great leader. You have rare ability and a resolute mind, and from our conversations I know you have political foresight. You see more clearly than a native Englishman the genius of the old English institutions of law Henry II laid down.”

“I?” de Montfort asked. “What about you? The Marshals are the uncrowned Kings of England, and ’tis rumored you control half its wealth.”

“I’m tired of being a leader. I’m tired of King Midas giving my gold to his favorites, but most of all I’m tired of fighting this losing war. All I want is to go home to my beautiful wife and start a family of my own.”

Simon de Montfort laughed. “There aren’t many men who are in love with their wives. Most are glad of war so they can escape from marriage.”

“I’ve little experience of marriage,” Will admitted. “The king’s sister was a child when we wed. There is a vast age difference between us.” He shook his head. “I feel she is being robbed of her youth, married to an older man.”

Simon kept a wise silence. The marshal sounded vulnerable
tonight, as if he looked mortality in the face. Simon tried to visualize William’s wife. He pictured a vain, spoiled princess who had in all probability already been unfaithful to the older man. “Get her with child,” he advised.

William smiled ruefully. “I’m forty-six years old, I must act before it’s too late.” He set down his empty cup. “They are finally sending us reinforcements. Chester is supposed to arrive tomorrow. You would enjoy talking to him. He was one of King Henry II’s brilliant young leaders forty years ago.”

Simon got to his feet. “Chester holds my earldom and lands in England. I intend to have them back. I intend to be Earl of Leicester before I’m much older.”

William Marshal gazed into the campfire long after Simon de Montfort retired. It had not been a threat exactly, rather a statement of fact. The marshal did not doubt for a minute that Simon would soon be Earl of Leicester.

It was indeed fortunate that Henry had sent reinforcements, for Louis of France had called together his entire army to pit it against the war lord Simon de Montfort and the Marshal of England. That day the beautiful vineyards of the wine country were turned into battlefields, the earth stained by blood, not grape. The fighting was hot and heavy, yet though they soon became covered with dust and sweat and blood the combatants were easily identified by the sleeveless surcoats covering their armor and emblazoned by their coats of arms.

Simon de Montfort towered above all, wielding a long sword in one thickly muscled arm and a battle-ax in the other. His black stallion was both fierce and massive, standing a full thirty hands tall and trampling everything in its path. He was a fearsome sight to the enemy, vanquishing some by intimidation alone. Usually an enemy hesitated before engaging the giant and in that moment of hesitation was lost.

His two squires Guy and Rolf, who were father and son, fought at his back. They enjoyed the reputation for bravery this gave them, but in truth fighting at de Montfort’s back was just about the safest place on a battlefield. For the last half hour Simon had focused his attention upon Ranulf de Blundeville, Earl of Chester. Though aging, he had put up a valiant fight, surrounded as he was by the French. If he was killed in the
melee, Simon would be Earl of Leicester. He wanted the lands and title so badly he could taste it upon his tongue mixed with the metallic taste of blood. Then Chester went down and Simon’s heart leapt with a feeling of what … triumph, hope? Surely nothing so base. Simon forced his horse into the fray, needing to know if Chester was already dead or just wounded. The knot of French fell back before his maddened warhorse and blood-drenched weapons, and there, almost beneath his hooves, lay the Earl of Chester.

A pair of blue eyes, icy with fear, pierced Simon’s black orbs from either side of Chester’s nose guard. Simon’s bloodlust was up and for one second he realized how easy it would be to snuff out Chester’s life. His horse could trample the life from the earl, he wouldn’t even have to stain his weapon. Then the red mist cleared from his brain. That was not the way he wanted to fulfill his ambitions. He would never taint his honor with a deliberate act of cowardice. He would attain his goals by dint of his own ability; by fair means, never foul ones. In a flash de Montfort was off his destrier and lifting the old earl into the saddle. He thwacked its rump with the broadside of his sword and swung about savagely to dispatch two of the enemy into eternity. His squires closed ranks about him fore and aft, but it took thirty minutes of heavy combat for the three men to clear a path to the perimeter of the battlefield to reclaim Simon’s mount. He recognized his destrier before he saw Chester. However, as his powerful hand snatched up the reins and he vaulted into the saddle, Chester, his pitted face still gray from shock, shouted up to him, “You saved my life—I owe you a debt.”

Simon knew he had to get back into the battle before his sword arm stiffened, but in that moment he sensed his destiny stared him in the face. “I am the rightful Earl of Leicester— you owe me that, nothing more!” He wheeled his great stallion back onto the field of battle.

At dusk when the fighting had ceased and the clang of battle had subsided to pitiful cries and low hopeless moans of those with mortal wounds, Simon de Montfort saw William Marshal struggle from the field with a soldier in his arms. Simon strode forward and lifted the heavy burden from his arms. “I think you are too late. His limbs are stiffening.” Simon deposited the
body in a field tent. There was an English arrow in the Irish soldier’s back. “Who is he?” Simon asked angrily, feeling tragedies like this were the result of blatant carelessness.

William Marshal swallowed the lump in his throat. “It is Gilbert de Clare. He is … was my sister’s husband.” He knelt and with amazingly gentle fingers removed the fatal arrow.

“Do you suspect foul play?” Simon asked bluntly.

“By the bones of Christ, I hope not,” William said grimly.

Marshal and de Montfort felt only frustration when they were recalled to Gascony. They were holding their own against insane odds, but once they withdrew from the front lines the territory they had regained would be swallowed up by Louis’s army. Moreover, the English and Irish would look as if they were retreating.

When they were ushered into the king’s presence, they tried to hold their frayed tempers when they learned he was suffering from a bad case of dysentery. “This campaign was doomed to failure before it was even begun,” Henry lamented. He was looking for a scapegoat and there had been plenty to whisper one man’s name in his ear:
Hubert de Burgh.
Henry looked at the marshal. “Well, go ahead and gloat. You were another who had his mind set against this venture.” Henry’s eyelid drooped noticeably and the gripe of his distended bowels made him petulent. “Your father’s terms were too easy when they drove the French from England. He should have demanded Louis’s head.”

The marshal stiffened. He was used to Henry’s whining thanklessness, but when his criticism was directed at the old Marshal of England, it was too much for him. He gripped the handle of his sword until his knuckles turned white. De Montfort thought his control was magnificent. “You are ill, sire. You should return to England.”

Henry nodded, the insults he’d just uttered forgotten. “I ordered Richard home to smooth my path with the barons. They’ll be livid that all the money is gone without regaining one acre of land.”

Simon de Montfort almost choked. He had helped regain
Brittany for its ruler and would have regained Aquitaine for Henry if he’d given him a free hand and agreed to a full-scale decisive thrust. “Leave me your army, sire, we may yet be able to claim victory. I have never accepted defeat in my life!”

“Chester came to me this morning. I don’t know how you did it, but he is ready to hand over your English lands. I need your support in England, Simon—at least one of my barons will be loyal.” Henry groaned and rubbed his gut. “I need my wife. I’ve done nothing but regurgitate and defecate since I took that camp slut to my bed.”

They could hardly keep their smiles of satisfaction from their faces. There was a God after all. As they walked back to their men to see if camp had been set up, William Marshal felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Though it was galling to admit defeat, this ill-fated war was over. He looked up at Simon. “Congratulations, you said you would soon be the Earl of Leicester, and I didn’t doubt it for a minute.” Who would have thought Simon shrewd enough to manipulate old Ranulf into relinquishing the title? He was also relieved that Richard had returned to England already. Therefore it was unlikely he’d had a hand in Gilbert de Clare’s death.

B
ack in England the barons who had borne the cost of the French campaign were demanding a reckoning. The King’s council had decided that as soon as he returned they would draw up a document for Henry to sign, reaffirming the Great Charter. He needed their loyalty and their money to rule effectively, and they felt it was time they put him on a leash.

At the end of the month all the leaders sailed home except William Marshal. Henry left him in charge of getting the men-at-arms and horses back to England. The marshal didn’t mind; at least he knew the job would be done properly.

William felt excitement building up inside of him. He wouldn’t have believed it possible to miss someone as much as he’d missed Eleanor. Her father, King John, had been right about one thing: She was a precious jewel. He loved her above all things. Her sixteenth birthday had come and gone six months past and he would wait no longer. She was with him from the moment he closed his eyes at night until dawn when he awoke in a sweat and an agony of need.

William put Rickard de Burgh on the first troop ship with instructions to stay by the Countess of Pembroke at all times to
keep her safe. He entrusted the knight with a love letter—the first he had ever written in his life.

William lifted his quill and closed his eyes. Instantly she rose up before him, but she was in his bed naked, save for the cloak of her silken black hair. When she reached out to touch him, he groaned. He opened his eyes quickly, cursing that his body had again responded to the mere thought of her. What a bloody fool he’d been not to make love to her before he left. Then suddenly he was glad that he had not. The anticipation gave him unbelievable pleasure, and the ultimate experience of intimacy still lay ahead for both of them. He would hint at it in order to prepare her.

When Richard, Duke of Cornwall, returned to Westminster, he was asked to join the Bishop of Winchester in the chapel. He would rather have avoided him, but Henry had restored Winchester
to a position of power. He was now the Treasurer of the Royal Household. Richard was annoyed that Henry had confirmed him in that position for life, but he was both alarmed and angry when he learned that Henry had been witless enough to give Peter des Roches custody of the king’s personal seal. Richard decided to beard the lion in his den.

“My lord bishop, now that I am returned from France you may give the king’s seal into my hands for safekeeping.”

A superior smile touched Winchester’s mouth. “I trust the matter we discussed was handled to your satisfaction, your Highness?”

Richard was puzzled. Surely the wily bishop hadn’t been able to obtain an annulment for Isabella de Clare in so short a time? He dared to hope. “Do you speak of the annulment?”

“We spoke not of annulment, we spoke of removing an impediment, your Highness,” Winchester carefully pointed out.

“Are they not one and the same thing, Peter?” Richard asked, at a loss.

“Annulments can take years. Apparently you are unaware that Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester, fell in battle.”

Richard was speechless. How often had he lain awake and wished the man dead? Now this oily swine was hinting that he had arranged his death because Richard had asked him to do so. Jesu, Winchester had him by the balls! He could have his heart’s desire but not without paying a heavy price.

If Isabella ever got wind of this, her love would turn to hatred. His concern for Isabella took precedence over who had possession of England’s seal. Did she know she was a widow? Had the lands and titles of Gloucester been confirmed upon her son Richard? He must go to her immediately. She would protest that she was in mourning, but he would convince her to marry him as soon as he received Henry’s permission and the council approved the marriage.

When Richard arrived at Gloucester, he saw that Isabella Marshal de Clare already knew she had been widowed. Not only the castle, but the city of Gloucester was in full mourning for its young earl.

Draped in black from head to toe, Isabella received him stiffly, surrounded by her castellan and her faithful de Clare
servants. He had visited her there only once before, and it too had been an emotional trauma for him. She had fled Windsor and he rushed after her demanding a reason. When he learned she was carrying his child, their world had been turned upside down. She begged him never to show his face there again and because he loved her, because he wanted no scandal attached to her, he had departed that same day so that de Clare’s servants could carry no tales to their earl.

This time, however, he would not be banished. No impediment stood between them, and his resolve was taken. He ignored the disapproving glances he received from the mournful household servants. Damn it all, he was the Duke of Cornwall, and royalty had its privileges. Almost he began to mouth condolences, then he changed his mind.

When he raised his voice, eyebrows also were raised, but the time was past for him to play out his role in the shadows. “The Countess of Gloucester and I have matters to discuss in private. Please see that we are not disturbed.” He stared them down. Her ladies were the first to depart, her male servants were slower. Richard saw her stricken look, saw her small figure sway. He was beside her instantly. “I am taking you upstairs.”

Her pleading eyes beseeched him, but he put a firm hand at the small of her back and propelled her forward. Isabella took him into the solar. It was beyond her to flaunt convention and invite him into her chamber. She whispered urgently, “Richard, you should not have come to Gloucester. You know how servants gossip. Their curiosity will know no bounds.”

“Their curiosity will soon be satisfied when they learn you are to be Duchess of Cornwall.”

He picked her up and held her against his heart. She sobbed against his shoulder.

“I love you so much. I can’t bear to see you in these black draperies.”

“I’ll have to be in mourning for a full year,” she said helplessly.

“Like hell you will. Didn’t you hear me say we will be married?”

“Richard, we cannot marry until I’m out of mourning. Even then it may cause a scandal.”

“Scandal be damned.” He took the black wimple from her head and threw it on the floor, then he threaded his fingers through her lovely chestnut curls and held her immobile while he kissed her.

She clung to him desperately, having no strength to deny him. “I’ll wait for no mourning.” Then he smiled down into her gentle eyes. “Every fortune-hunter in England will beat a path to your door once they learn you are a widow.” His fingers went to the fastenings of her gown and she was shocked that he would take such liberties in the solar. “The servants,” she protested.

“I’ve already sent a formal request to the King and council that we be married immediately,” he explained, his hands persisting in their quest.

“There is no lock on the door,” she cried in alarm, pulling her gown back up to cover her naked shoulders.

With an impatient sigh Richard went to the door and jammed a high-backed chair beneath the latch, then he turned and came toward Isabella with such resolute intent, she could deny him no longer.

Simon de Montfort assumed Ranulf of Chester was the most generous man breathing. As he rode through the English countryside with his hundred men at his back, he felt more English than French. This country was a rare jewel with its verdant pastures dotted with fat sheep and cattle. The peasant farmers contrasted greatly from their European counterparts. They were adequately clothed, their wives and children plump and happy, their homes sturdy wooden or stone structures thatched with mud and wattle.

Simon was inspecting his newly acquired estates. Though the king hadn’t formally ceded him the lands and title of Leicester, that was only a formality. The estates were spread over a dozen counties, and he found the same thing at every one he visited. They had all been willfully mismanaged. The stock had been driven off and sold, the timber cut and the game depleted. Each and every demesne was in a state of impoverishment, contrasting starkly with the surrounding estates. The revenues in no way equaled the costs.

He smiled grimly as he realized Chester had unloaded an almost insurmountable liability from his back. Simon wasted no time laying the facts before King Henry.

“My dear Simon, the solution is simple. You must do what every other English baron has done, marry an heiress. Your own grandfather became Earl of Leicester by marrying a great heiress. My brother Richard is about to marry de Clare’s widow, who just happens to be a member of the wealthy Marshal family.”

Simon felt it was the time to marry though no lady held his attentions. An earl needed a countess to run his households and provide him with children. He was a practical man with few romantic notions. Marriages were forged for the advantages they brought to a man. A wife brought land and estates, and her dowry paid for the upkeep of those castles and holdings.

“I have no objections, Sire. I will be happy to accept any lady you propose,” Simon replied.

“Zounds, I would arrange it in a minute if there was an English heiress wealthy enough to restore all your estates, but the truth is rich widows are so coveted, they are often abducted and forced to the marriage bed.”

Simon thought to lighten the conversation by a half jest. “I have no objection to force, all I need is a name.”

“I have a dozen heiresses who are still children,” Henry suggested.

“I need money now, Sire, I cannot wait for a wife to grow up and her father die before she comes into her inheritance,” de Montfort pointed out.

“Oh, you simply borrow from the moneylenders against your future prospects,” Henry explained, totally familiar with negotiating loans. “The only drawback, of course, is that you wouldn’t be able to breed sons until the little girls were at least fourteen.”

The mere suggestion of the six-and-a-half-foot giant mating with a fourteen-year-old child was so ludicrous both men dismissed the idea. “Weil have to look outside England. From the rate you kill men off in battle, France must have a goodly share of wealthy widows. What about Mahaut, Countess of Boulogne? She’s middle aged, but eager I wager.”

Simon swallowed hard. Middle age was a euphemism; she was an old woman.

“I’ll send a dispatch to William Marshal today. He can negotiate it before he returns home.”

Simon thanked the king coolly and wished to God he’d never asked for the audience. Not that he was a sentimental idealist where marriage was concerned. He was a realist and he was ambitious, but the thought of taking Mahaut to wife made him want to run to the nearest brothel and lay the prettiest whore he could find.

When Rickard de Burgh handed Eleanor the letter from William, she was overjoyed. She knew he would be among the last to return home because of his duties as marshal and was determined to exercise patience.

When she read the love letter, however, her heart fluttered and the rosy blush that touched her cheek stayed there for days. She was more excited than any bride. After six long years of yearning and dreaming, her life’s wish was about to be fulfilled. Her spirits rose, her eyes sparkled brighter, her laughter came more frequently, and she broke out in song day and night.

Peter des Roches and his bastard son, Peter des Rivaux, who now spent more time in Westminster’s Exchequer than Westminster’s Chapel, had called in the king to tell him the treasury was empty. This was nothing new to Henry, but a new twist was added. They convinced him that his poverty was due to Hubert de Burgh. He had been the cause of the expensive war in Wales, and his mismanagement of the French campaign had caused it to fail. Moreover, his right-hand man, Stephen Segrave, had now brought them documents that proved Hubert had also mismanaged his position as Justiciar of England and was a master at diverting funds. They told the king that Hubert should be dismissed from office.

“But Hubert is a peer of the realm,” Henry protested, half afraid of the military man who had done so much for him when he was a boy.

Winchester sneered. “There are no peers in England.” Henry had grown quite used to foreign disparagement of
everything English. Winchester’s voice was now added to the Provençals’. All told him, “You are the king … be firm … let them know you are the king. Don’t give in an inch to these English traitors!”