Desired

by Virginia Henley

  “Sweet, sweet,” Edward murmured against her throat. “Jeanette, I cannot let you go from me tonight. I want to make love to you until dawn.”

  “No, Edward, we cannot. I must remain virgin or I will be worthless to your father.”

  He let her feet slip back to the carpet. “You’d wed another?” he demanded incredulously.

  “The king will betroth me and there is naught I can do!”

  The king, at this moment, was pressing Katherine de Montecute to dance. The Countess of Salisbury thought it would occasion gossip. He used the Countess of Pembroke to persuade her. “William will expect me to take good care of her, isn’t that so, Lady Pembroke? Come dance with me, Katherine, I have some news that will hearten you.”

  “Edward, you have no shame,” she whispered.

  “Katherine, where you are concerned, I have not.” He squeezed her hand intimately. “I do have news, though. Your husband is in Paris. He’s a guest at the French Court until his ransom is arranged.”

  “He’s a prisoner, not a guest, Edward!”

  “Katherine, he has no doubt dined as sumptuously as we have tonight and at this moment is very likely enjoying some delicious French tart.”

  She laughed at his witticism.

  “That’s better. No tears, beloved. Life’s too short. When this dance is over, I want you to come with me to the solar. Before I go up to the queen, I want to say good night to you in private.”

  Prince Edward and Joan drew apart quickly as the door swung open. The cresset lamps at the entrance revealed the king and the Countess of Salisbury.

  “Father!” Edward said in surprise.

  “Edward? Is that you?” The king took a lamp from its bracket and lifted it high so that it illuminated the occupants of the solar. The two Plantagenets stared at each other in silence. Neither pair of brilliant blue eyes showed the slightest hint of guilt.

  The king said, “We have much to discuss. Has your mother told you our plans?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “Good, we will go together.” The king turned to Katherine de Montecute. “I want you to stop worrying about William. I will get him home safely.”

  She curtsied. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

  Joan’s nimble mind searched frantically for something plausible to say. “I was searching for my brother. Good night, Sire.”

  The two tall men left the solar and walked toward the Queen’s Tower, each occupied by his own private thoughts.

  Philippa welcomed them with pleasure and dismissed her ladies as her husband and eldest son bent to kiss her, inquiring after her good health.

  Prince Edward immediately took the initiative. “I’ve been giving some thought to marriage. The last time you broached the subject, I showed little interest.”

  “Your mother favors an alliance with Margaret of Brabant—”

  “Nay, I fancy an English bride,” Edward cut in.

  “Edward, you must marry someone royal. There is no one suitable in England,” Philippa pointed out.

  “Joan of Kent is royal,” he said firmly.

  The king’s suspicions were confirmed.

  “You are cousins,” Philippa said, her eyes hardening.

  “The Pope will grant us a dispensation.” Edward waved his hand, dismissing the objection.

  Philippa allowed her distaste to show. “Your father chose me to forge a strong alliance with Hainault and Flanders. The King of England’s sons must follow his example.”

  “My brother John is betrothed to Blanche of Lancaster,” Edward argued.

  “Blanche is heiress to the Lancaster fortune. Joan’s brother inherited the Kent fortune and lands. She has little money of her own,” the king said bluntly.

  Prince Edward was not foolish enough to insist money didn’t matter. It did.

  “Lack of money isn’t my objection to Joan,” Edward’s mother said. “Her father was beheaded for treason.”

  Prince Edward spoke up, “I’ve learned enough history to know he was innocent of that heinous crime. Mortimer executed him to save his own neck.”

  They never spoke of the king’s mother, Queen Isabella, and her paramour, Mortimer, who murdered King Edward II.

  “The Kents were tainted by the scandal. I don’t believe Parliament would agree to Joan of Kent becoming the next Queen of England,” Philippa said with finality.

  Prince Edward held his tongue. Obviously the less he said about his little Jeanette, the better.

  “The Council would certainly agree to a match with Margaret of Brabant. We can only conquer France if we keep our allies loyal. Edward, if you have no objection, I’ll start negotiations for a union with Brabant,” his father suggested.

  Prince Edward was shrewd. At one time Parliament had proposed he marry a daughter of the French king, Philip of Valois. That had fallen through when King Edward claimed the throne of France. Next had come the daughter of the Count of Flanders, but his father had a well-known tendency to be arrogantly overdemanding and he was never open and aboveboard in his dealings with foreigners. Edward suspected his negotiations with Brabant would bear little fruit. If things did start to move forward, he would simply be uncooperative. “You will do as you think best.” He changed the subject. “How many ships have the western ports pledged?”

  “Your mother’s good knight, Walter Manny, is bringing me seventy vessels, all over a hundred tons. I’ve made him Admiral of the Fleet north of the Thames.”

  “Thank you, Edward.” Sir Walter Manny had accompanied Philippa from Hainault almost eighteen years ago.

  “Come, we don’t want to exhaust your mother with our incessant discussion of war. We’ll talk alone.”

  The king accompanied Edward to his own tower. The prince dismissed his servants and poured his father a cup of wine.

  “I’m sorry about Joan. Is she pressing you for marriage?”

  Edward stiffened. “Of course not.”

  “Princes cannot marry their mistresses,” his father commiserated.

  “She’s not my mistress! I find her enchanting … you wouldn’t understand,” Edward said repressively.

  “Not understand the desires of the flesh? Edward, you must be jesting. Let me tell you a story. Last year when the Scots invaded and I beat them back and managed to capture the Earl of Moray, I received a message that Wark Castle was besieged. My friend, William de Montecute, was fighting in France and his countess was courageously holding out against the Scots with only a handful of knights. It was no more than my duty to help my friend’s wife. Wark sits on the south bank of the Tweed and we soon routed the Scots and sent them fleeing back across the border.

  “The Countess of Salisbury lowered the drawbridge and came out to welcome the king who had just saved her. I had never seen Katherine de Montecute before. Her beauty was blinding. It hit me like a thunderbolt. She wore a tightly fitted jacket that showed off her tiny waist. I remember her surcoat had lovely trailing sleeves, but most of all I remember her glorious hair, shimmering in golden waves. When we looked into each other’s eyes, a raging desire took possession of me, but I could not be unfaithful to your mother. I burn for Katherine, but I am a chivalrous knight and must not besmirch her good name.”

  For the first time Edward saw the king as a man, rather than a father. “You have succeeded in protecting the Countess of Salisbury’s good name. There has never, ever been a whisper about her.” He held his father’s eyes. “Nevertheless, you are lying.”

  The king drained his wine, then finally nodded. “I am still consumed with fire whenever I touch her. To me she is a goddess. My passion consumes my guilt. I do not allow it to interfere with my duty or my deep and abiding love for Philippa.” He gripped Edward’s shoulder with a powerful hand. “Joan is a delectable little hoyden. Take her, by all means, but find a way to protect her good name.”

  As Christian Hawksblood traveled from the coast to Windsor, he was most impressed by what he saw. Instead of an impoverished country, he saw that En
gland thrived. The crops were abundant, the verdant fields were crowded with milky herds, the hills were dotted with fine sheep, and the rivers swarmed with fish. The laughing peasants who tilled the fields were well fed, their children rosy-cheeked. Workshops in every town and village were producing bows and arrows, blacksmiths hammered out war weapons, and saddleries were making harnesses for warhorses. England was a beehive of activity from carpenters to tentmakers. Prosperity was everywhere.

  When he arrived at Windsor and saw the lavish lifestyle of the king and court, Hawksblood was stunned. He lost no time seeking out a private meeting with the Earl of Warrick. He sent a note asking the earl to meet with him regarding a private matter and signed his name, Christian Hawksblood. Bearding the lion in his den, Christian made his way across the Lower Ward to where the military knights were housed.

  He had hated Warrick for many years. As a boy, he had visualized confronting him, then cleaving him in two with his broadsword. When he became a youth, his plan for revenge grew more subtle. By then he had been trained to isolate, capsulate, and bury deep problems that could not be immediately solved. To be managed, emotions must first be controlled, then set aside until the time was ripe.

  He wondered briefly how long it would take to learn if Guy de Beauchamp was his father. He had mastered patience. He cared not if it took a lifetime.

  Hawksblood knew immediately.

  And so did Warrick.

  The aquamarine eyes staring back at him were his own.

  Slowly, Warrick circled him, openly curious at what he had spawned.

  Hawksblood took a massive chair by the fireplace.

  Warrick took its mate. Still they did not speak. The very air crackled with tension.

  So this was the Norman warrior from whose seed he had sprung! Scarred, hardened, fierce; a body and a will of iron. He had inherited more than his sire’s long limbs.

  Warrick stared at the dark, hawklike face, stamped with the pride of an Arabian prince. Wild, cruel, fearless, enigmatic; all these things, yet by God’s Splendor, he was a man.

  Finally, Warrick spoke. “Your mother had an ironic sense of humor; she named you Christian.”

  “Did you know of me?” The words came like steel-tipped arrows, direct and to the heart of the matter.

  “If I had known of you, you would have been brought up at Warrick. Ten years ago I met a Hospitaler Knight from the east who had heard of a youth in their secret order who was rumored to be my son. “I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t think she would deceive me! Yet, over the years, I wondered.”

  Reluctantly, he admitted Warrick could be speaking the truth. Though his mother had insisted Warrick did not know, he had never believed her. She made excuses for Warrick’s desertion because she had lost her heart to the Norman.

  “I decided not to investigate. If it was true, you were receiving the finest training in the world, and I knew you would come when you were ready. If it was false … my hope would have been destroyed.”

  The words were private—from the heart. Hawksblood knew the gnarled warrior was not in the habit of sharing confidences.

  “This is thirsty work.” He poured them ale and offered a leather jack to Hawksblood.

  When he first entered the room, he would not have drunk with Warrick. Now he took the ale. Silence stretched between them. Hawksblood was a most private man. Secrecy had been an integral part of his life since birth. He had seldom spoken of himself. Finally, he broke the silence.

  “I lived in the palace until I was almost seven. Though it was a closely guarded secret, I knew the princess was my mother. When her marriage was arranged, my life was in danger. She smuggled me to Jerusalem and gave me into the care of the Hospitaler Knights.” He paused, remembering, then continued. “She told me your name that night. I was initiated into a Mystic Order. When I was ten, I was trained as a warrior by Norman knights.”

  That told him everything. And nothing.

  “Was the Mystic Order the Golden Dawn, secret order of the Knights Templar?” Warrick asked, fascinated.

  “The Mystic Order survives because of its secrecy,” he said flatly.

  “How did you get the name Hawksblood?”

  The man before him actually sounded as if he cared. “I had to go alone, without weapons, into the Rub ’al-Khali, the Empty Quarter.”

  Warrick nodded, “The special haunt of djinns, demons, and other evil spirits.”

  “I survived by killing and eating hawks.”

  “How?” Warrick asked skeptically.

  Christian showed him his hands. It was such a simple gesture, there was truth in it. Warrick knew he would always be able to survive with his bare hands. So this was his firstborn. His legitimate son. His princess had agreed to a Christian marriage ceremony. Warrick felt no guilt that he had deceived his English lady into thinking herself a true wife. It had never harmed her in any way. But now he experienced a deep pang of guilt that Robert thought himself his heir when he was actually only his bastard.

  “You are entitled to the name Hawksblood. You are also entitled to the name Beauchamp.” It was a statement. He did not ask if he would use it. Hawksblood was glad. He did not yet know. Probably he would use it, if it served his purpose.

  “Did you never see your mother again?”

  “When I was sixteen I became a Janissary so that I could see her upon occasion. Her father, Ottoman, and her husband were dead, so there was less danger. Her two brothers divided their father’s domains and founded the corps d’elite of the Ottoman armies. Most Janissaries are Christian.”

  Even Warrick was impressed that his son had been selected as a Janissary. They had reputedly never lost a battle. They were the conquerors of all Byzantine. “Why did you leave?”

  Again, silence stretched between them. If he told him, it would expose his Achilles’ heel.

  So be it.

  “Because we enslaved those we captured.”

  Silence filled the chamber. This time it was Warrick who feared to reveal vulnerability.

  “How is Princess Sharon?” My Rose of Sharon, his heart whispered.

  “She was well. She was being courted again.”

  “Courted?” Warrick bellowed like an enraged bull.

  “She is exceptionally beautiful,” Hawksblood said with relish, rubbing salt into the wound now that he had discovered it.

  “How long ago?”

  “I left Arabia over three years ago, selling my sword to the highest bidder until I arrived in France. I had to choose sides in the coming war. I chose England.”

  Warrick nodded with satisfaction. “You’re here in time for the tournament.”

  Hawksblood raised his voice for the first time. “Tournament? Christ Almighty, is that all anyone can think of? Philip of Valois has gathered over a hundred and fifty ships!”

  “Rumors … unconfirmed.”

  “Confirmed! I’ve seen them,” Hawksblood said flatly.

  Warrick’s face blanched. His aquamarine eyes glittered dangerously. “Come with me.”

  They might not love each other, but the two warriors felt a healthy measure of respect.

  Both the king’s Guard Chamber and Presence Chamber were empty.

  “Where’s the king?” demanded Warrick of one of his squires.

  “He has gone out to the park to inspect the lists for the tourney, my lord.”

  “Tell him I have news. Tell him it’s urgent!”

  The squire took off at a run, a healthy measure of fear of Warrick showing on his face.

  Christian looked about the opulent chamber. “I expected it to be more Spartan. I heard the king is in debt to the Bardi for almost a million, and that for past campaigns.”

  “He is.” Warrick grinned. “King Edward is an optimist. If a campaign fails, he doesn’t worry his guts to fiddle-strings, he just moves on to the next.”

  “How can he live so lavishly?”

  “He borrows. He could easily raise taxes, but he won’t. That�
�s why he’s so popular. He takes only the tenth he is entitled to, but it’s never enough, so he borrows large amounts from many sources. You’ll be able to judge him for yourself, when he gets here.”

  Hawksblood wondered if the king would answer a summons from Warrick. Perhaps he was a puppet king. He didn’t have to wonder long. Two men strode into the chamber with purpose. The king was dressed in the latest French fashion of tight hose and short doublet that came only to the hips. The colors were brilliant azure and gold. Save for the golden beard, the second man was identical. Only when they drew close was a difference in age apparent. It was obvious the young man in black could only be the Prince of Wales.

  The king’s all-seeing blue eyes raked over Christian, then his voice boomed out, “By the Rood, you can’t deny this one, Warrick, despite his dark visage.”

  “Nay, Sire, I don’t deny him. This is my elder son, Christian Hawksblood de Beauchamp.”

  The blue Plantagenet eyes scrutinized him keenly. “Beauchamp.” He nodded. “This is my eldest, Edward, Prince of Wales.”

  Hawksblood bowed his head. “Your Majesty, Your Highness.”

  The two young men measured each other openly, frankly assessing what they saw. They had almost identical builds: the same height, the same long limbs, the same athletic body in superb physical condition. Each liked what he saw.

  “Your news?” the king asked Warrick.

  “My son’s news. He’s just arrived from France.”

  “Philip has amassed a fleet of perhaps a hundred and forty large ships. As well, there are numerous smaller vessels from Normandy and Breton.”

  A fierce light of conquest came into the king’s eyes. “You saw this? You know where his fleet is anchored?”

  Hawksblood nodded. “It is off the coast of Helvoetsluys.”

  “God damn Valois! He is using the coastal waters of Flanders. Flanders is supposed to be my ally!”

  “Let’s blow them out of the water,” Prince Edward urged. “You said Walter Manny was sending seventy ships.”