The Dragon and the Jewel (8 page)

“I’ll arrange a pension of four hundred marks if you enter royal service,” Henry offered.

Simon almost choked on his disappointment, but had enough common sense to accept the king’s offer. He would make his own success. “I command a hundred knights—I shall send for them at once.”

“Hold, the Count of Brittany has declared war on France and has asked for my help. Since your men are yet on the continent, I will send you. Because de Burgh and Marshal are against fighting in France, I was going to refuse aid to Brittany. Now by a stroke of good fortune you have provided me with the means of joining the fray. I’ll give you messages for the count.”

Henry had taken fire with the idea and looked to his brother for his support.

“If we are going to do it,” Richard said, nodding in agreement, “now is the time, while there is so much unrest in France.” Richard could be cool, calculating, and close-mouthed, but silently he recognized before him the perfect man to control Gascony. Simon de Montfort’s father had been known as the Scourge. When the war lords descended upon a region, they soon cured its dissension with severe medicine. Their methods might be stern, relentless, even cruel, but they were amazingly effective. Yes, thought Richard, we have much need of a warrior such as Simon de Montfort.

“I’ll order Hubert de Burgh to raise an army whether he likes it or not,” Henry said firmly.

“I’ll rally the barons if you’ll give me command of them,” Richard suggested, with the arrogant confidence of youth.

Simon de Montfort recognized immediately that the King of England was easily led and recklessly impulsive. A war against France to regain Normandy could never succeed unless it was meticulously planned and mounted on a full scale. Simon shrugged. He would wrest personal victory from this campaign regardless of its outcome for Henry III.

L
a Belle, Eleanor of Provence, landed at Dover with a great train of knights and servants. They had only the clothes on their backs, and even Eleanor’s trousseau consisted of gowns made over from her mother and sisters. And yet the lowliest of these Provençals with patched elbows arrived with such a superior attitude they sneered at everything English from the weather to the culture, or lack of it, as they never tired of pointing out.

Henry rushed to Dover to escort his bride the fifteen miles to Canterbury where they were to be married immediately by the archbishop. The king was enthralled by her ivory skin and dark golden hair. Plantagenets never did things by half, and so completely in character, Henry fell wholly in love with the sophisticated beauty who set about to enslave him and hold him prisoner for the rest of his life.

Though the Provençal court was poor, it was the center of European culture, literature, and music. Eleanor had her own Court of Honor for troubadors and a Court of Love for her knights, and the entire cavalcade was boistrously noisy and rang with youthful laughter.

Henry and his court had never seen anything quite like it. It
seemed their reason for living was to extract the last drop of pleasure from each day and then begin afresh after dark with all the tempting pleasures of the night.

Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke, was excited. She loved the pomp and pageantry of the royal court of England, and this was the first royal wedding she had ever attended. It was the first ceremonial occasion where she had appeared in public as the Countess of Pembroke, and she fervently hoped it would convince her husband to think of her as a woman.

The Marshal of England rode ahead of her on a massive gelding he used for ceremonial occasions. She followed mounted upon her new white palfrey, flanked by Sir Michael and Sir Rickard de Burgh. All wore white capes bearing the marshal’s device of the resplendent Red Lion Rampant.

William knew their attendants would make a brave show, but ever a practical man, he had charged the de Burghs with Eleanor’s safety. He would be busy with his duties as marshal to the king, and Canterbury was no fit place for a decent young lady unless she had the constant protection of two strong sword arms at her back.

Inside Canterbury Cathedral she had been far too short to see over all the heads of the bishops and clergy, the choirboys and the incense swingers. She had not yet had a chance to get a good look at the beautiful princess who had just become her sister-in-law. The magnificent music still echoed
inside her
head as she rode forward behind her husband to greet the mounted cavalcade of King Henry and his new bride.

Eleanor’s heart was bursting with love and pride for her brother. They had always been very close, and she fervently wished for him great joy in his chosen marriage partner. As she came face to face with the royal couple, her eyes first met and held those of Henry. Love poured from her to him as they held each other’s gaze for long moments. She thought he had never looked more handsome in his entire life, proudly holding up his golden head wearing his golden crown. He of course was inordinately proud of his beautiful young sister whose vivid loveliness took men’s breath away.

They smiled at each other, their smiles widened to grins, then they laughed aloud with pure unadulterated joyousness.
The splendor of the newlyweds was dazzling to the eyes. Each was clothed from head to foot in gold. Eleanor’s eyes reluctantly left her brother’s as she looked upon Eleanor of Provence for the first time and she thought, How lovely she is. No wonder they call her La Belle. Her hair is dark, burnished gold, and matches her cloth-of-gold gown exactly. Eleanor wanted to welcome her with love, but when she smiled into the bride’s eyes, the girl simply returned a haughty stare. Eleanor’s heart went out to her. Oh, dear, she is nervous of all the trappings of kingship and the very thought of becoming queen very shortly is probably frightening her to death. Poor lady, I shall have to offer her my friendship and encourage her to be brave. This country and all these people must be so overwhelming to a fifteen-year-old.

Eleanor would have been astounded had she been able to read the thoughts of her brother’s bride. So this is the infamous little bitch who has ruled the royal roost since she was five years old. This is the King’s Precious Jewel. Her eyes swept William Marshal from head to foot and envy gnawed at her throat. Though his hair was graying and he was past forty, by God he was all man. The bride was not inexperienced in these matters. Her regal sister-in-law was flanked by two of the handsomest young studs she had ever seen, and she vowed in that moment to wean Henry from any love he felt for his sister. If she had
anything
to say in the matter, and she intended to have
everything
to say, she would reduce Princess Eleanor’s influence to nil.

The sun came out upon the dazzling couple in gold, and for a brief moment Rickard de Burgh was blinded by the glittering spectacle. He closed his eyes and swayed slightly in the saddle. When he opened them the beautiful bride was transformed. He experienced a strange vision. The day was no longer sunny. The young queen was in a barge on the River Thames. She was being pelted by stones to drive her back to the Tower of London. The cheering throng had changed to an ugly mob that called her harridan and witch. Rickard de Burgh put a hand to his head, blinked rapidly, and once again golden royalty sat before him in glittering splendor, acknowledging the cheers of
joy from the throng. Rickard shuddered for he knew at his heartroot he had been allowed a brief glimpse into the future.

One of William Marshal’s duties was to see that the king and court, his new bride and her long train of attendants were delivered the fifty miles to London with all possible speed and safety. At the close of every year the pilgrims marched to Canterbury. This year, because of the royal wedding, there was such a crush of visitors, the town was literally bursting apart at the seams. They traveled into the town by three roads, from London, Dover, and Winchester, and these roads were thronged with humanity. They came on foot, by donkey, or on horseback. Great ladies traveled shoulder to shoulder with invalids, pilgrims, prostitutes, rich men, poor men, beggarmen, and thieves. Canterbury was a wall-to-wall religious bazaar where every citizen knew this was the season to make a killing, to fleece the visitor and live off the profits for a whole year.

The clamor for food, drink, and bogus religious souvenirs was surpassed only by the jostling for a place to sleep. There was no longer room at any inn or private home or stable. People slept six to a bed or in spoon fashion on floors of taverns or churches. Many lay outdoors in churchyards or under hedgerows, and the whores, thick as fleas on a dog’s back, serviced their customers standing up in doorways or lying on tombstones.

The court also had to cope with crowded conditions, for the gracious rooms of the priory at Christ Church were the only place fitting to house the nobility.

Eleanor left Isabella Marshal and her maids to cope with the logistics of securing a chamber and plenishing it, while she rushed off to congratulate the bridegroom. Henry and his bride were the only ones lucky enough to have a private chamber, but even this room would remain crowded to the rafters with courtiers and servants until the groom rid himself of the wellwishers around midnight.

When Eleanor arrived she flew into Henry’s open arms, and he swung her about, laughing. “Hello, Maggot, what do you think of my beautiful bride?”

“Congratulations, love, she is wondrous fair. I hope you live happily ever after.” She had removed her white cape and her
gown was spectacular. It was crimson velvet embroidered with the golden leopards of the House of Plantagenet. Her black cloud of hair was fastened back by two great golden leopards with jeweled emerald eyes.

Henry set her feet to the carpet and she glanced about, seeking a familiar face. She encountered only Provençals, most not even bothering to speak English, but the men had seen her exquisite beauty and crowded about her with speculative eyes.

“Let me introduce you. This is my wife’s uncle, William, Bishop of Valence.” Before William could kiss her hand, he had been shouldered aside by his brother, who was younger and handsomer. “This is my wife’s uncle, Peter of Savoy.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” she murmured, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks. Suddenly her eyes flew open again for Peter of Savoy had lifted her by the waist and kissed both her cheeks. Before her feet touched the rug again another uncle was admiring her openly, his eyes fixed upon her cherry-ripe lips.

“Amadeus,” Henry said indicating Peter’s brother, and greatly impressed by these Provençals with their good looks and fabulous easy manners. “And this,” Henry said with great pride, as if he were producing a rabbit from a hat, “is their father, Thomas of Savoy.”

Thomas assessed Eleanor’s breasts and raised his eyebrows to the king. “My sister Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke.”

Henry’s bride suddenly appeared at his side and ran a possessive hand up his arm. She pouted her lips. They were so close that Henry could not resist kissing the tempting mouth. “Surely there is room in your heart for only one Eleanor?” she asked prettily.

“Of course, my darling,” said Henry, slipping an intimate arm about her and hugging her to his side. She glanced at Peter of Savoy, the handsomest of her uncles and the one who knew her intimately. When she saw the look on his face, the dislike she had formed for her sister-in-law turned to instant hatred. Henry had a fatuous look on his face as he said, “Eleanor, may I present to you the Queen of England?”

Though technically she would not become queen until she was crowned in a few days, Henry had made the introduction in a way that made it necessary for Eleanor to curtsy. She did
so graciously, but she got the distinct impression that this impoverished young woman was looking down her long nose at her. “You may rise,” the bride said coldly, looking through narrowed eyes. Then her face transformed as she looked at her new husband adoringly. “Henry, at my coronation when we ride into London I want you to let me have the two men who guarded your sister today.”

Eleanor’s voice became crisp as she explained matters to the newest member of the family. “That is impossible. Henry cannot let you have the de Burghs. They are the Earl of Pembroke’s knights.”

The bride drew herself up to her full height, which made her considerably taller than Eleanor. “Did you say
impossible?”
she said acidly. “Henry is the
king.
He can do
anything
he wishes.” She bestowed a dazzling smile upon him, bathing him in adoration. Her eyes promised rich rewards for his generosity.

Her words echoed his own thoughts. He was the
king.
He was sick and tired of being told what he could and could not do. His hand slipped higher upon her waist until the back of his fingers brushed against the swell of her breast. “The de Burghs will be honored to flank you in the procession from the Tower of London to Westminster.”

Eleanor bit her lip. With a few well-chosen words she could have cut her brother down to size, but she loved him too much to shame him before these arrogant Provençals. She glanced at the queen. Thou shall not covet thy sister’s knights, she thought irreverently.

Later when she enjoyed a few moments with William before he rushed off upon his endless duties to the crown, she explained matters to him in a humorous way to avoid a breach between her brother and her husband. If the Earl of Pembroke thought Henry was ordering his men about and playing king again, he would soon explain the facts of life to him. “Lud, I was glad when the girl took her covetous eyes from my gown. I feared she would order me stripped before that litter of Savoys.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I met only three uncles, Eleanor,” he corrected.

“Only three, you say? I could have sworn someone said
Thomas of Savoy had sired a baker’s dozen of the damned foreign fellows.” She smiled at him. “Well, never mind. She may have my guards … she may even have my gown, but if she sets her eyes upon you, William, I shall scratch them out.”

Splendor of God, when his beautiful young wife said things like that to him, desire snaked through his loins before he could control it. It was a moment before he could conjure up her mother’s image, which was the effective device he had learned to use to rid himself of a painful erection. He would have to use the services of a whore to rid his body of its demands. He had never had so many erections in his life, not even in his lusty youth. Then inevitably he felt shame for his lust.

He deliberately turned his mind to his duties. The accommodations in Canterbury were totally inadequate. He would have to ride to Rochester tonight to see firsthand that the vast numbers of Provençals who had accompanied the queen would be better housed. The sooner he got them out of Canterbury the better, for at the moment it was trying to cope with a population twice the size of London’s and every thief, cutpurse, pickpocket, and penny-whore was trying to separate the visitors from their money before the religious charlatans did so with their fake saints’ bones and bottled martyrs’ blood.