by Karen Harper
They lay unspeaking for a while, and then his breath moved the hair at the nape of her neck as he spoke. “I pray you meant those words, Jeannette, that they were not just forced in the heat of the moment.” His voice sounded drowsy, but the tone was crisply urgent.
“Aye, my Edward. I meant those words and my actions too.”
“Then, for this one night, I do not care what is outside this little bed of ours.” He pulled her so possessively against him she could not breathe for one moment. “Sleep, Jeannette. I have been so exhausted for days. Sleep here against me, my wild, little love.”
He seemed to doze instantly on that last word. Love, she thought. Love with Edward whom she had ridden so far to hate, tried so hard to hurt ever since she had learned who he really was at Windsor that first summer. But who was he indeed, and who was this woman who turned to flame at his mere touch? All these years separated and the yearning between them had sprung full-blown as if they had never been apart. He had battled hard for her and won her too—but, though they would lose each other soon again, were they not both victors?
The next day at midmorn when she awoke all warm and drowsy in the big bed, he had dressed and gone. Rain still pounded on the roof and spouted noisy rivulets off the thatched eaves as she surveyed the room lit by pale daylight. She stretched, luxuriating in the feel of rested muscles, though she felt slightly bruised in places she had never felt before.
“Saints,” she said at the thought of his returning to find her waiting in bed for him in all too obviously invitation. She threw back the covers only to be smacked with chill air as she darted to the hearth expecting to find her discarded robe. Instead, all laid out on chairs, were a soft velvet kirtle of sky blue, matching velvet slippers, and a cream-hued surcote in ribbed velvet dusted with tiny seed pearls. She only stared one moment before she slipped them on and tied her heavy hair back with a red ribbon draped on the arm of the chair. In the coals at one side of the broad hearth, she discovered an iron pot of delicious frumenty and a metal decanter of warm, spiced wine. She had barely completed a gobbled breakfast when the door opened and Prince Edward was back again, soaking wet.
“St. George, slug-a-bed, I thought perhaps you meant to sleep all day. Rainy weather can make one tired, eh?”
She smiled back at him despite the fact she had told herself she must not be so pliable, so eager. Then as he came closer, she noted what he was unwrapping from under his wet cloak even as he stamped the water off his boots.
“Oh, a lute, my lord.”
“Aye, for my own private little musician. I need music to soothe the savage beast.” He grinned again looking like a naughty boy as he dared his next jest. “Since it appears you will be my guest here for several days, there really ought to be something you can do to amuse me.”
“Saints,” she shot back, her face serious but her heart dangerously exuberant, “a quick song or two it shall be, and then we shall be even for whatever you might have done to amuse me.”
They laughed together and she took the lute from him to twist the tuning pegs until the eight strings resounded to her satisfaction. She felt strangely at home where she sat beside him along the hearth side of the table, and she looked up to note he had spread a parchment map on the table before him.
“I have been in meetings all morn with the pope’s cardinals here to negotiate a peace, Jeannette.”
She let the notes die away at his new, serious tone. “Then your army will not have to fight?”
“Hell’s gates, but I have no doubt we will fight. The French terms are so despicably ludicrous, I cannot believe they are serious to propose them.”
“Such as?” she asked and noted the surprise that flashed in his eyes before he decided to answer.
“Such as, sweet, complete return of all prisoners and conquered territory, and total fealty and surrender of my own royal person and my one hundred most honored knights on our knees before King John the Good.”
“The man is daft!”
“My thought exactly, my lovely, little advisor. Damn, but I ought to just put you on council. I am only pretending to listen to such doltish negotiations to give my men time to move ahead to dig in at Poitiers and light diversion fires in the suburbs of Tours.”
“In all this rain?”
A new respect sobered his gaze and he said simply, “The rain is the problem, but we must try. Time negotiated is time for a rest—and for us to be together here which, may saints preserve me, I actually considered in my answer to the French when such personal concerns should play no part at all.”
Touched, she lay the lute on the table before her and folded her hands in her lap to listen further.
“Jeannette, I have only thrashed your comrade in arms Callender with my tongue and not the whip he deserves. Now that you are here and safe with me, I find it nearly impossible to punish the man, and besides, he had best go back with you in one piece when I deem it safe to send you home.”
“And when will that be?”
“As soon as the rain slackens and the pope’s cardinals head back to the French at Blois. One day or two.”
“Oh.”
Their eyes held. She knew her grief that all this peaceful calm must be shattered by the outside reality of war and danger and lives lost was plainly written on her face.
“Jeannette, Callender claims much of the blame for your coming here. The man has simply fallen all over himself trying to excuse you. It seems—hell, love, it seems you have won him over as you have others and under the most dire of circumstances.”
She felt her hackles rise at what would surely be his old scolding, argumentative tone about other men. “Saints, our Grace, I cannot help what any of your little spies report to you!”
He seized her arm. “Sit, love, sit. I do not criticize. Quite the contrary, though you usually manage to madden me beyond control one way or the other. I understand the poor rogue’s desire to protect you—his begrudging admiration. You may drive me to distraction, but I can hardly resent a man who falls for your charms—not that he is getting the same return from those charms as I, of course. And now, before those violet eyes pierce me like a lance, I have something else for you.”
From a little leather pouch dangling at his belt, he drew out a huge strand of pearls as large as spring cherries. Her eyes grew enormous at the bounty dripping from his fingers. “Oh, so lovely. And this gown, too. I meant to thank you.”
In a single strand, the necklace fell over her breasts nearly to her waist, and wrapped around her head to hold her tresses back it would surely go four widths. Her eyes glowed with pleasure as he rose and let the stiff parchment map roll itself back into a tight coil on the tabletop.
“I was going to have you show me,” he said low, “the little bridge you and Callender finally got over the Loire on. I was hoping a messenger could go that way to locate my brother’s forces, but I am afraid it will have to wait.”
“It will?”
“It will.” He reached for her waist and pulled her to him. Mesmerized by the clear aquamarine eyes, she moved forward as one who walks through a heavy-footed dream.
“I want to—I must see those white pearls against your bare, silken skin,” he whispered. Their lips joined breathlessly as time stood still in their precious haven sealed by the driving storm.
On their third day together, the rain stopped, and the picturesque little village of Monbarzon came alive with myriad noisy preparations for an army on the move. The prince’s love-making before dawn was possessively rough as if he could no longer bear to be tender or unhurried. Word had come from the Captal de Buch’s spies that the French army was crossing the Loire at many points nearby and haste meant survival. After much equivocation in the pope’s negotiations, the Black Prince, flower of all English chivalry, had thrown the harsh terms of surrender back in the French king’s face, and everyone knew it. Joan, Stephen Callender, and three armed guards dressed as merchants were to set out to Normandy by a circuitous northwest route; the princ
e at the head of his greatly outnumbered battalions was to retreat south toward Aquitaine hoping to reach safety before the huge enemy army forced them to turn and fight.
Joan cast a long, last look at the sprawling, third-story chamber where they had spent three wonderful, stolen days they might never have again. What a different world it had been, a bittersweet fantasy, now turned cold by the reality of crushing dangers. She touched her pearls through the boy’s jerkin and tunic she wore as her disguise. They felt warm and comforting under the rough garments against her bare flesh. Her eyes rested on the still mussed, red-curtained bed. She turned away and followed the scolding Stephen Callender down the stairs.
“A shame to leave that lovely lute behind,” she remarked, desperate to say anything to halt the flow of grief. “But I suppose it started out in French hands so it might as well end up that way.”
In the common hall of the inn where they were to await word from the prince to set out, Joan sank on a little bench before the low-burning hearth. “Wakeley says that other lute His Grace gave you years ago is a fine one, Duchess,” Stephen said.
“Aye. Wakeley says,” she mocked more bitterly than she had meant to. “I have him to deal with yet.”
Stephen put one booted foot upon the bench and leaned an elbow on it. “I tell you, Duchess, Roger Wakeley has been on your side, wanting what is best for you these years, as well as for His Grace, whatever you think.”
“I do not wish to discuss it now. I just want to have this wretched trip home over with.”
The front door of the inn banged open, and the Captal de Buch with several others in partial riding armor crowded in. “Madame, men, we shall go out through the back where your mounts await,” the imposing Gascon knight ordered, and everyone moved.
The Captal took her elbow as they went through the small pantry and larder and out into a narrow alley crowded with horses. Joan glanced from face to face searching for the prince, but of course, none of the men here were tall enough to be he. Surely, he did not mean to send her away without a final farewell after all this!
“You men, you Callender, may mount and hold your horses down there by the string of baggage wagons,” de Buch shouted not even looking their way. While she stood by the Captal, twisting her little beryl ring nervously, Joan watched the men mount and trot off.
With only her horse Windsong standing by, Joan waited awkwardly with the wily Gascon advisor of Prince Edward. Shouts, sounds of clattering horses, clanking metal, and creaking wagons filled the air from nearby streets.
“My palfrey looks well cared for, Captal,” she ventured. “The respite here has done him good.”
“Saints’ souls—it has been a boon for all of us, I warrant. His Grace included, lady. He was near the edge of his control with worry and tension but now—well, I believe his men have you to thank for the healing balm of his better temper and steadier mind now.”
As if those words had announced him, Prince Edward galloped in on a huge white destrier. Clad in ebony-hued riding armor on arms, chest, and thighs, he wore no helmet and his tawny mane flowed free as he rode. Clanking piece on piece, he dismounted in an amazingly graceful movement as the Captal disappeared behind the two horses.
“I meant to be here sooner to send you off, Jeannette, but there was so much to see to.” His vibrant blue eyes under the blond, rakish brows were serious and intent. His surcote was shiny black with his three Prince of Wales’s ostrich feathers and his proud motto in German: “Ich dien”—I serve.
“I know you are busy and that your mind was elsewhere this morning, our Grace. I am certain that everything will be well.”
“I had thought, sweet, that my father’s forces might make it here, but he is beset by troubles on the Scottish borders at home, and my brother’s battalions are trapped somewhere north.”
“But I know you can count on yourself and your men, my Edward.”
A little wisp of smile lifted his firm, chiseled mouth upward. “Aye, my love. I intend to tell my men as we move out now that I shall count on nothing—nothing but victory. I pray it shall be so for us someday.”
His face blurred, then doubled as she blinked back tears. “I do not see how, my lord prince, Morcar’s elaborate star castings notwithstanding. All the other things too that we—”
With a metallic clanking, his big fingers lifted to still her lips. “God’s safe journey home, my Jeannette. My guards will die to a man to protect you if need be. We must all be away now. No one will speak of this visit of yours here, they have sworn it.”
He bent to kiss her, a mere brush of the lips, then lifted her to her saddle as if he could not bear to look upon her face again. She sat erect, gripping the reins he handed her so tightly that her fingernails bit painfully into her palms.
“May the saints keep you safe, my lord prince. For England and St. George,” she managed, but her speaking of that battle cry was a mere whisper. Her face felt stiff, her wide eyes sought his. Suddenly, he looked austere, unknowable in his black armor and royal accoutrements.
With a sharp smack on its rump, he sent her horse down the little alley toward the waiting men. She did not dare to look back.
Now just another mounted man in rough yeoman’s garb, she held her hood tightly to her face as they melded with the throng pouring outward toward the narrow city gates. Yeomen with longbows and pikes walked afoot in well-ordered ranks; armored knights trailed by squires and personal baggage trains gleamed silver in the faint morning sun; horses and rumbling wagons lumbered along everywhere. Pennants and banners bobbed aloft like ship sails at sea.
Outside the city walls, Joan’s little band parted from the swelling march of Prince Edward’s army heading south to Poitiers where they were already digging in to cover their retreat. On a little hillock above the town, Joan turned stiffly in her saddle to look back at last.
Below, a moving silver river of armor flowed south and somewhere there, at the very vanguard, her prince would be leading them boldly on. Her own danger, the grueling ride back, even the future away from him faded to nothingness in that instant as she prayed fervently for his safe deliverance. How distant it all seemed already, how impossible that they had smiled and loved and bedded—and that she had dared to call that lofty, austere prince “my Edward.” She smothered a little sob deep in her throat and turned her face to the muddy road north.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
By midmorn the day after Joan and the prince parted, the pursuing French army had forced the outnumbered English battalions to dig in for a fight at a little plain called Maupertuis near the walled town of Poitiers. The disadvantaged Plantagenet forces, nevertheless, faced the massed, armored French fiercely, proudly and unafraid. Had not their hero-prince promised them victory despite the odds? Had not he carefully chosen this naturally protected stronghold and had it fortified despite the rain during their four days of rest at Monbarzon? The French leaders combined had not the brilliant tactical mind of their Black Prince, the English knights, bowmen, and baggage guards alike whispered; the French King John, his son Philip, and his brother the Duke of Orleans failed to recognize that the lay of the land at Poitiers did not seal the English fate, but rather their own.
Hunkered down within the natural barriers of thickly wooded hills to the east, marshy ground to the west, sloping vineyards and the shallow River Moisson to the south, and a broken thorn hedge to the northwest facing their enemy, the English awaited the inevitable. Only through two small roads in the thorn hedge could the massive onslaught of mounted French knights come, and on the defense of those two chinks in the English armor, the survival of Prince Edward’s forces depended.
Wave after wave of mounted armored Frenchmen shouting “Montjoie! St. Denis!” threw themselves into the deadly storm of English longbow arrows. The prince and his closest advisors waited behind their archers under the brazen flaunting of the Prince of Wales’s banner with the three white plumes captured nine years before at Crécy.
“I can read those French
surcotes and pennants, Your Grace,” the one-eyed Sir John Chandos shouted to the prince over the ringing din of battle. “This huge first battalion must be under the king’s son, the dauphin.”
“Aye, John. Prince to prince, then, but I want the king himself as my prisoner before we leave this field behind as victors on this day!”
As the prince’s eager eyes scanned the continual inundation of enemy horses carrying their armored, plumed men, he marveled, not so much at their awesome numbers, but at their immense stupidity. “It is Crécy all over again, John. Our stout English archers mow them down to stumble on the bodies of their fellows and yet they come on hardly breaking rank! Only when they reach our lines here we must fight dearly to keep their sheer might from trampling us into this mud.”
“The men murmur at the unending host of French, Your Grace!” a bloodied Captal de Buch panted at the prince’s side as if he had appeared from nowhere. “Your forces need something to lift their hearts, for their supply of arrows is dangerously low.”
“Then we shall mount and charge—just long and hard enough to set the French back with our daring and cheer on our front line men. Meanwhile, de Buch, get a small contingent of clever Gascons like yourself who know this terrain as well as you—enough knights and archers to set up a goodly hue and cry. Go south, loop around the woods and hoist the St. George banner behind the French. Our numbers will be small but, saints willing, the bloody French may panic at the sight of us.”
“Aye, Your Grace, and with pleasure! Any king who garbs nineteen other men in identical battle gear to avoid capture should fall for such a ploy. I swear by the holy rood, I shall fetch all twenty French kings to you and you shall have your choice of them!”