The Dragon and the Jewel (25 page)

“Please let me explain, my lady,” Brenda said. “I ran away from Windsor because I was afraid. Someone tried to kill me!”

Eleanor eyed her with suspicion. She did not believe her tale for a moment. Likely she had run off with some man. Brenda continued, trying her utmost to be convincing. “I had nowhere to go, my lady. I ran to Durham House in London, but one of the Marshals came and his servants threw me out. I found my way here knowing it belonged to you. I feared the Marshals would swallow up everything that belonged to the earl.”

“And so they will if I let them,” Eleanor replied with spirit. “If I allow you to remain, you will have to take orders from
Bette here. She is a trustworthy woman whom I rely upon completely.”

Brenda bobbed a curtsy and one to Bette for good measure. “May I prepare you a bath, Lady Eleanor?” she asked quickly, hoping she would be able to remove her things from one of the pretty guest rooms before the Countess of Pembroke discovered she had told the gullible steward she was lady-in-waiting rather than servant.

As Bette was unpacking the things Eleanor would need, she said, “That’s a saucy wench, if ever I saw one.”

Eleanor laughed, remembering. “’tis my own fault, Bette. When I was nine years old I chose her for her sauciness. She was maid to one of the Marshal cousins and I deliberately stole her.” Bette helped her out of her riding dress and petticoats. “After my bath, I’ll go down to the kitchens to ensure we’ll get a decent meal tonight. If you feel up to it, I’d like to start for Wales in the morning.”

Bette was a large-boned woman who sat a horse almost as well as a man. “I feel up to it and I’m happy to see you so vigorous, Lady Eleanor. The ride has put the roses back in your cheeks. This change of scenery will be like a tonic for you, mark my words.” Bette cast her an anxious glance. This was a lovely manor house, but she hoped it would not stir too many poignant memories for the princess. Not just as she was beginning to recover from her tragic ordeal.

After Eleanor finished in the kitchen, she wandered over the house and garden reliving the past. Though the memories were bittersweet, the manor house did not have William’s indelible stamp upon it. In fact, she imagined he had scarcely ever visited the place before he had given it to her, for his holdings were too vast and his duties to the crown too heavy.

After supper that night Eleanor gathered the entire household together, including the gardeners and the grooms. They thought they were in for a tongue-lashing and came reluctantly, but before she had finished speaking, she had won their hearts. She stood before them gowned in turquoise velvet, which accentuated her vivid loveliness. “I want you to know that I love Odiham and that in the future I shall probably spend a lot of my time here. The Earl of Pembroke had vast holdings, but at
the present tune my affairs are a tangled mass of assets and debts instead of a proper dower. The Marshals, it seems, have not been pressed to give me any estates endowed from William. Odiham, however, was a direct gift from my late husband and I have the deed firmly in my possession. I pledge, therefore, that none of you will lose your place here. Yet I do think that Odiham could be run more efficiently. I should like to see every room turned out and cleaned from top to bottom. I should also like to see the weeds cut and bulbs planted for the spring. Sadly, Odiham has about it an air of neglect, and I am just as guilty as you for that neglect. In a month’s time I shall return. We could even have the Christmas festivities here, if you make Odiham the warm and welcoming manor that it could be.”

She had noticed at supper that Rickard seemed embarrassed by Brenda’s attention. The knight was scrupulously polite to the redheaded wench, but Eleanor could see he was trying to keep her at arm’s length. She decided to speak to him about it.

“Sir Rickard, you don’t seem eager for Brenda’s attention. Would you prefer it if she did not accompany us on the journey into Wales?”

De Burgh looked so relieved, Eleanor laughed aloud.

Slightly shamefaced, he too laughed. “Indiscretions from my past rising up to haunt me, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically.

“Why don’t you tell her it was your twin Mick she knew intimately?”

He almost choked on his ale, wondering just how much she had guessed.

Before Eleanor retired for the night, she took Brenda aside for a frank talk. “As I understand it, you have no wish to return to Windsor?”

Eleanor saw a look of real fear come into the girl’s face. “No, no, Lady Eleanor, please let me stay here. When you come in future you won’t need to bring your other woman, I will do everything for you. You always liked the way I dressed your hair, and I would just love to take care of your beautiful wardrobe.”

“That may be true, but I must know you are reliable, Brenda. I cannot have you disappearing whenever I turn my
back. Also I must know that I can count upon your discretion.”

“You can, my lady, I swear it. You may tell me anything. Wild horses would not drag it from me,” she vowed.

“I hope not. I am leaving for Chepstowe on the Welsh border tomorrow. It is a secret. If anyone comes here to inquire of my whereabouts, you will tell them I have returned to Windsor. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lady,” promised Brenda, thankful she was not to accompany her mistress into that heathen land. Rick de Burgh had turned all monkish since their last encounter, and she much preferred the attentions of Odiham’s menservants.

S
imon de Montfort haunted the gardens for three days and nights. He was starving for a glimpse of Eleanor and had to spend endless hours training the fighting men with sword and shield or on horseback in the tiltyard to rid his body of lust.

When he was with her he felt every inch a man, able to overcome her every objection. She was so small and feminine he could easily master her. His strong hands could bind her to his side or release her, bending her to his will. His powerful body dominated their encounters, showing her plainly his male appetites and desires that she aroused in him. But when they were apart his personal vulnerability crept up upon him, whispering in his ear that perhaps he would never be able to take the place in Eleanor’s heart that was still firmly held by William Marshal.

Simon was a man who had never before doubted himself in any capacity, least of all when it came to engaging the affections of a woman. But, he admitted to himself with many a wistful sigh, this woman was different. He was all lusty flesh and blood. How could he compete with an idealized memory? He must find a way to banish the ghost of William Marshal for
he would never endure being relegated to second place in his beloved’s heart.

Queen Eleanor often watched Simon de Montfort from her windows. She had never seen such a superb body on a man and daydreamed of what he would be like in bed. In the dining hall at night she saw that the Savoys and the other Queen’s Men avoided him. The Lusignans, or King’s Men, seemed to hate him also. She decided with amusement that they were all jealous of the magnificently endowed male, who put them all in the shade.

De Montfort usually dined with the knights and the men-at-arms. These men, by contrast, seemed to hold him in such high esteem they almost worshipped him. For amusement one evening she called him up to the dais table. “My lord, pray join the king and me. ’tis unfitting that the Earl of Leicester sup with lesser men night after night.”

He bowed his acceptance graciously, but glanced at the petty nobles from Provence and Lusignan and said, “Their lack of title does not make them lesser men, your Grace.”

“How odd for a nobleman to champion the common man.” She
smiled, patting
the seat beside her.

Simon sat down, stretching his long legs beneath the table, and expounded upon his beliefs. “The common man is what makes a country strong. The common men of England will make her great. I believe, as your husband’s grandfather believed, that the common man should have a say in the government of his country.”

Henry overheard him, of course. “God’s foot, Simon, I have enough trouble with my barons and nobles having too much to say about everything. Deliver me from a system where every man-jack has a say in things.”

The queen laughed flirtatiously and touched Simon’s arm. “What about women in this fantasy world of yours?”

“Who knows?” He grinned. “Perhaps someday, even women will have a say in government.”

“Would you allow your wife to have a say in things?” the queen asked playfully.

“Ah, there my theory falls apart, I’m afraid. My wife would
have to know her woman’s place and keep it. There could only be one head of my household.”

“Bravo!” cried the king. “She usually teases that handsome young devil Rick de Burgh, but now he’s escorted my sister to her manor house of Odiham, she’s decided to plague you to death,” he said indulgently.

Simon bestowed a brilliant grin upon the queen. How fortunate that her roving eye had selected him to join her tonight. So, Eleanor had bolted. A woman ran away so that a man would pursue her. He bent toward the king and said, “Sire, I think it time I saw to my estates in Leicester and Coventry. Your permission, Sire, to leave Windsor for a time.”

“Of course.” Henry waved his hand. “Just so you return to us quickly.”

The queen pouted and Simon’s lying eyes told her how attractive he found her. Her thigh brushed his beneath the cover of the tablecloth, and Simon decided to put a stop to her playful games. With a soulful look from his magnetic black eyes, he covered her hand and squeezed it ardently. He felt the vulgar rings she displayed and squeezed her fingers together unmercifully. He saw her go white and pretended not to notice. She gasped aloud, but it was not from pain. She had just learned a most erotic secret. The man beside her was no gentle giant. He was capable of being deliberately brutal. Waves of heat and ice washed over her as his massive hand imprisoned hers. What would it be like to be imprisoned between his thighs? The contrast between this superb male animal and her husband was almost unendurable. If she left the hall now, would he follow?

At last he released the cruel grip upon her hand and she rose to leave, but his great boot was clamped upon the fragile material of her train and a sickening tearing sound confirmed her worst fears. Simon de Montfort was on his feet, abjectly apologizing. “Your Majesty, please forgive my clumsiness. I forget my strength and my size. I am unfit to dine with a queen, I fear. I am much more suited to the company of the common man.”

She was ready to scream with frustration. They had attracted far too much attention to themselves to arrange a rendezvous tonight. Now it would have to wait until he returned to court.
As her eyes ran down the length of his powerful torso, she shuddered. He was well worth waiting for.

Though the hour was advanced, he rode to Odiham, arriving at midnight. When he led his black stallion into the stables, he saw neither Eleanor’s horse nor Rickard de Burgh’s destrier, which puzzled him somewhat. The high pile of fresh horse manure outside the building told him the stables had recently accommodated at least twenty more horses than were there presently. The stableboys were asleep and he did not wish his arrival to cause a stir of any sort, so he wrapped his cloak about him and bedded down in the straw.

Brenda had worked her way through all the men who were employed inside Odiham Manor, now she was working her way through the stables. She knew Turner, the head groom, was about to fall into her hands if only from curiosity of what the other grooms had told him. Suddenly she came upon a sight that made her blink with disbelief. A man, nay a god, lay stretched upon the straw sleeping. The impact of his magnificent physique hit her like a thunderbolt. She wanted to be tumbled by him into that straw more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She measured him with her eyes and guessed his length to be over six-and-a-half feet. God’s blood, how long must his manroot be? She decided to find out. She knelt down in the straw and reached out an itchy palm to touch his man’s center. Simon de Montfort had the keen hearing of a warrior even in his sleep. At the first rustle of the hay his black eyes shot open and he sat up, swiftly reaching for his dagger.

Brenda’s lips parted in a little round O. “Who are you?” she asked huskily.

“I came from Windsor with a message for the Countess of Pembroke.”

His voice was so deep her bones felt like they were melting. She licked her lips. “She’s not here,” she said absently, her mind on other things. Her eyes deliberately lowered to his groin in hopes that she had aroused him.

Simon watched her closely. Her bold thoughts were so blatant they were etched upon her saucy face. “Where is she?” he demanded, preparing to rise.

A veil came down over her eyes before she replied, “She has returned to Windsor.”

In a flash he knelt before her, his powerful hands seized her shoulders, and he brought his face level with hers. “Why do you lie, wench?”

She groaned at his touch. The smell of the hay and his leathers acted as a powerful stimulant to her senses, and she slid her hand between his muscular thighs and tried to cup him. He overflowed her hand and she tumbled head over heels in lust with him. He was what she had been searching for her entire life.

Simon de Montfort had never met a woman whose need was so great. He would not have been a man if he hadn’t been flattered by her blatant desire for him. Most women threw him subtle glances and hints; this one reached out for what she wanted and took it.

With ungentle hands he pulled her gown down from her shoulders, letting it fall about her waist, then he filled his palms with her generous breasts. His mouth took hers swiftly, savagely, and as he thrust his tongue in deeply, he turned and lowered her to the hay, pinning her beneath his body. Brenda was stunned as she felt herself climax. It so seldom happened even when a man had been inside her for an age that she thought she must be dreaming.

“Where is the Countess of Pembroke?” he demanded.

“I know, I really do know.” She gasped. “Come to my chamber and I will tell you.”

Simon de Montfort was many things, but a fool was not one of them. There was no way on God’s earth he would be foolish enough to fuck the maid of the woman he wished to make his mistress. “You will tell me now,” he said grimly, his hands circling her throat.

Brenda’s face went ashen. “Did Winchester send you?” she cried fearfully. He had seen a look like that on an animal that knew it was trapped. He tucked Winchester’s name away in his memory for future reference. “Where is Eleanor?” he repeated for the last time.

“She has gone to Chepstowe in Wales,” she whispered fearfully.

Simon flashed a smile and swung the girl to her feet. As she gaped up at him, he pulled her gown back up to her shoulders to cover her breasts. “Thank you,
chérie,”
he said gallantly, his eyes brimful of humor.

“Who are you?” she asked again in wonder, as she realized he had not been sent to murder her.

“I am a man in a hurry,” he said with a wink.

Rickard de Burgh set as fast a pace as he dared as he and his dozen fighting men escorted the two women toward the Welsh border. The weather had turned bitter cold, and he wanted to get the countess safely settled before the first snowstorms of autumn made the land impassable.

His men were hardbitten enough to crawl through the Welsh mountain ranges, taking shelter in caves if they had to, but anyone who had never experienced the ice, snow, and winds of that heathen land would never have believed her beautiful green valleys and majestic vistas could be so deadly treacherous.

It took three days to travel eighty miles. De Burgh heaved a sigh of relief once they were west of the River Severn for a light coating of snow now covered the land as far as the eye could see and heavy, pewter-colored clouds hung low over the mountaintops in the distance.

Chepstowe was like a small universe. It was completely self-sufficient with its Welsh guard, its armory and smithy. It had its own brewhouse and gristmill and was surrounded by out-farms and villages fully stocked for the winter months. As Bette dismounted in the bailey she thought her knees would never touch again, so long astride had she been. She marveled that Eleanor ran laughing into the warm, welcoming hall, hailing the familiar Marshal servants in their native tongue.

Eleanor issued her orders with the regal air of a princess born. Extra fires were lighted, cooks dashed about preparing the spits, servitors rushed down to the castle cellars to fetch up ale and wine as Eleanor showed her men where to deposit the heavy trunks they carried in from the backs of the packhorses. Eleanor told Rickard de Burgh, “Don’t banish your men to the
knights’ quarters. You may all dine here tonight. We 11 be a merry company holed up by our blazing fires.”

He looked down at her observing the marked change in the last weeks. The pale, quiet wraith had disappeared, forever he hoped. She had been replaced by a dark, sparkling creature of verve and challenge.

A Welsh harper sang sad laments and stirring ballads until well after dark. Eleanor mingled freely with the company, joining in the men’s laughter as they lounged about the floor dicing. Rickard de Burgh arose to stand beside her at the great fireplace. Out from under the watchful eye of the royal court and clergy, she felt free and unrestrained. She made up her mind that in future she would have her own court. She would take back some Welsh harpers and minstrels. She would enjoy the company of whomever she pleased whether it be man or woman. Her vows of perpetual widowhood would not prevent her from enjoying friendships, she decided.

She looked at her friend Rickard now as she sipped her wine reflectively. “Can I not tempt you to stay awhile at Chepstowe? When I was last here with William we rode out into the mountains, explored caves, flew our hawks, and the hunting hereabouts makes Windsor Forest seem tame and unexciting.”

Rickard de Burgh thanked her for her generous invitation but shook his head. “The snowstorms are on their way even though it is only September. We must press on.” He indicated his men who lounged before the fires. “They will grow soft with idleness.”

About ten o’clock the blizzard began. The wind raged like a vicious, mad thing, tearing apart everything that wasn’t fastened down. The snow swirled blindingly as the temperature plummeted to freezing. Chepstowe Castle was such a well-built fortress that those within were ignorant of the blizzard’s devastation. Those waking in the night heard the wind howl through the chinks in the shutters, but turned over, thankful of their snug beds and warm fires.