“I’d like to see the House of Clarence challenge the House of Wales. You’ve grown a lot since last year. You are heavier, taller, and your reach is the longest at Windsor. I myself have a long reach, but you’ve got me beat, I believe.”
“Do you think we can do it?” Lionel asked slyly.
“Queen Philippa’s knight, Walter Manny, is here. Why don’t you ask him to be our thrid man? He’s a seasoned veteran.”
“Goddamn, I’ll do better than that. I’ll get my mother to ask him.” He glanced over toward the palisade, a wooden barrier running the length of the lists, to enjoy the crowd of females gathered to watch their practice. “Don’t look now, but your bastard brother watches us.”
Robert grinned. “Let’s give him a little demonstration.”
Lionel grinned back. “Hugh! Richard! Let’s show the ladies how we thrust a lance.”
The two young men galloped a hundred yards down the lists. “Which one do you want?” Hugh asked.
“What the hell’s the difference? We’ll both eat dirt! Why the hellfire don’t those two goddamn giants joust against each other?” grumbled Richard.
“De Beauchamp is too proud to sprawl in the dirt and too wise to unhorse Prince Lionel,” Hugh said shrewdly. “I’ll take the Ox.” It was a name the prince’s men used behind his back because of his thick skull.
Hawksblood watched the performance with a practiced eye. For a big man, Lionel couched and charged well enough, but when it came to the strike, he relied upon his size and weight to carry his opponent from the saddle, rather than skill. Both lances were splintered with the heavy impact, but it was the smaller man who was flung to the dirt.
Squires ran out to clear the broken lances from the lists, while Robert de Beauchamp and Richard positioned themselves, with lances couched. A tournament marshal dropped the white baton, but Robert began his charge before the baton fell, giving him a head start and a longer gallop. Momentum alone would be enough to unhorse his opponent. Robert’s lance splintered with an earsplitting crack, but its impact had been enough to unseat his challenger.
If De Beauchamp had thought to impress his brother, he had not succeeded. Hawksblood shook his head. How would they fare in battle if they had not mastered the lance?
Christian sensed rather than saw Brianna. He turned his dark head to watch her approach. His body quickened at the sight of her. Whatever she chose to wear always made her look more beautiful than the last time he’d seen her. The color yellow had mystic properties. Today, she looked like the Egyptian goddess Isis.
He smiled inwardly at their last encounter. She did not realize it, of course, but when she bit him, it had moved them many steps closer to intimacy. In truth, biting was actually a form of foreplay.
Hawksblood remembered Edward’s letter when he saw Joan with Brianna. Suddenly, Joan broke away from her friend and ran to him. She was about to ask the prince’s whereabouts, but when he pressed the letter into her hand, she realized Edward had written because he would not be able to see her. Joan slipped the folded sleeve from her bodice and pressed it into Christian’s hand. “Will you give him this favor, my lord.”
“I will, demoiselle,” he pledged, seeing exactly why Prince Edward was besotted with the angelic-looking creature.
Brianna watched the exchange with dismay, disappointment, chagrin, regret, disenchantment—all these and more! She felt pique that Joan was irresistible. She felt anger that Christian Hawksblood gave Joan a love note when he had led her to believe that his heart belonged to her, Brianna. A voice inside her head clearly said, That’s not anger, that’s jealousy!
Aloud she said, “Rubbish!” She caught sight of Robert and waved gaily. He left Prince Lionel and galloped over to meet her. He took off his helm and ran his hand through his blond, unruly locks. As she gazed up at him she thought he presented a handsome picture astride the great charger. When he grinned down at her, he looked so boyish, she told herself she was lucky to have him. “Queen Philippa gave me leave to go home to Bedford,” she said breathlessly, “providing I take Adele and a couple of serving woman for propriety.”
“That’s wonderful, Brianna. We’ll leave the day after the tournament. The king is most impatient to begin the building. Did you bring me a favor to wear in the lists?”
“No, I …” She hesitated only a moment, then on impulse she unthreaded the ribbon that attached one of the yellow sleeves she was wearing. “Here, take this.”
He touched it to his lips and winked down at her. She was left standing there with one bare arm.
Joan of Kent rejoined her and Robert. “What an impulsive thing to do, Brianna.”
“You never seem to suffer from your impulsive behavior,” she said coolly, hoping with all her heart that Christian Hawksblood had witnessed her generosity to Robert. She felt the pull of his gaze but fought valiantly against looking his way. She was a willful woman; he a mere man. She’d be damned if she’d allow him to overpower her!
“Brianna, can we announce the formal betrothal at the tournament banquet?” Robert asked.
Brianna hesitated, looked at Joan, then almost defiantly she looked up at Robert. “Yes, have the papers drawn up, my lord.”
Joan of Kent was forced to school her impatience to read Prince Edward’s letter. The only place she would have any privacy was in her own chamber and she didn’t return there until after the evening meal. She had missed Edward in the Banqueting Hall and had left early to avoid spending the evening with William de Montecute.
When she broke the wax seal and began to read, her heartbeat quickened at his words.
My little love,
I miss you as if it were a thousand years since I held you in my arms. At the forest pool we made memories I will cherish for a lifetime. I am looking at a house in London, close by the river near your brother’s residence. Our time spent together must not ruin your reputation. We must be discreet, though my body and even my heart and soul cry out for indiscretion! Forever yours,
Edward.
Joan kissed his signature, then pressed the letter to her heart. Being in love was the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her. Everything in the universe paled beside this all-consuming emotion! She vowed to do her utmost to keep their love a secret since that was what Edward wanted. Actually she was proud of herself for concealing it from her dearest friend. Brianna was wise and so very astute, she was amazed she hadn’t already guessed her secret.
Joan fell into mischief so easily and she relied upon Brianna’s strong and courageous character to extract her from trouble. Brianna also advised her when she was unsure of herself. But regarding Prince Edward, she was absolutely sure their love was meant to be.
Joan searched among all her lovely things until she found what she was looking for. It was a silver filigreed casket with a cunning little lock. She placed Edward’s letters inside, scattered a few rose petals on top, then popped it beside her pillow. Since she couldn’t yet share a bed with Edward, she would share it with his “essence.”
Excitement for the tournament was building inside of her. She had watched her beloved joust many times, for Edward had been a champion since the age of thirteen, but this would be the first time he would carry her favor and become her very own champion!
Because it was to be just a small tournament, the king set aside two of the rigid, ancient chivalric rules. The first forbade a man of lower rank challenging a superior. The king and Prince Edward were so confident of their jousting skills, they agreed to accept all challengers. The second rule stated jousts be ridden according to rank, starting with the king. It was not pride alone that prompted the Plantagenets to save the best till last, but an innate sense of pageantry and showmanship.
Earl Henry of Lancaster was chosen field marshal of the tournament. It was both an honor and a grave responsibility bestowed only upon one who embodied the highest ideals of knighthood.
The colors chosen for the spectacle were gold and azure and the silk standards that marked t
he length of the field sported golden leopards and fleur-de-lis upon backgrounds of brilliant azure.
Christian Hawksblood was impressed by the costliness of the prizes that could be won. He had taken part in many tournaments whose prizes paled in comparison with those offered by this Plantagenet king of England. Whoever defeated an opponent received a dagger bearing the sovereign’s coat of arms. Any man emerging victorious from three jousts received a broadsword whose haft was encrusted with semiprecious tourmalines, amethysts, or carnelians.
The Prince of Wales offered the day’s most magnificent prize. It was a golden chalice whose bowl was clasped in the claws of the dragon of Wales. The piece had great value as well as beauty and naturally every contestant had designs upon it, if only in his wildest dreams.
The king, as always, would have a pile of crown-filled purses to toss to any challenger who pleased the crowds. As well as the prizes offered by the royal family, there were the usual horses and armor at stake and in addition there were private wagers between contestants for a valuable hawk, hound, weapon, or saddle.
Christian Hawksblood was surprised that he did not receive many challenges. Surely any man with red blood in his veins would like to pit himself against an untried newcomer in the hope of emerging victorious. He had no idea how intimidating his dark visage was to the fair-skinned English youths.
Godfrey de Harcourt, a French knight who had offered his services to England because the French king had seized his estates, challenged Hawksblood. He had heard of the Arabian’s reputation and wished to try his luck.
Christian did not challenge his brother, Robert; he had no wish to humiliate him before that vast assembly. However, as the day of the tournament drew nigh, Robert issued his own challenge to his foreign bastard of a brother. Christian schooled himself in patience, hoping a third challenger would come forward since he fancied winning one of the jeweled broadswords. On the eve of the tournament, however, when he received no more challenges, he approached his friend Prince Edward with the intent of issuing his own challenge. He coveted a black Berber Edward owned and sought him out in his pavilion.
Edward groaned, “God’s teeth, Christian, have mercy and don’t challenge me.”
Christian saw that his friend was indeed serious. His glance swept over Edward, looking for an injury. “Is aught amiss?”
Edward threaded his fingers through his fair hair in agitation. “Tell him,” he bade John Chandos, his squire.
“The prince has received two dozen challenges. Half a dozen is most men’s limit. We are in a bit of a dilemma. If a challenge is refused it might make him appear a coward.”
“Since I have received so few, and you so many, I have a suggestion, Your Highness, if you will be open-minded,” Christian said.
John Chandos put down the black breastplate he had been polishing and gave his attention to Hawksblood.
“You and I are the same size and we both possess sable armor. I’ll relieve you of half your challengers. None will know the difference.”
“I couldn’t,” Edward protested, his sense of honor coming to the fore.
“You could,” Chandos pointed out, “if you would!”
The three men laughed at the audacity of the scheme, then the prince’s squire thought better of it. “Even twelve would be an impossible feat.”
“Yes, if we rode in one bout after another. But if we alternate, resting between each joust, I have no doubt whatsoever we could take on all comers,” Christian urged.
“John, I could certainly manage a dozen,” Edward asserted, then lapsed into laughter again and shook his head. “Nay, I could not be so deceitful. It goes against the grain, but thanks for the generous offer, friend.”
Their tents stood side by side, so when young Randal couldn’t find Hawksblood, he entered Prince Edward’s pavilion with another young page in tow. Randal dipped his head and spoke up. “Sire, the king sends this page with a message for you.” He turned to Hawksblood. “I have one for you, m’lord, from Warrick.”
The men took the notes, dismissed the pages, then both groaned aloud and said at the same time, “A challenge from my father!” Suddenly they looked at each other with renewed speculation.
Edward said, “I have no qualms at unseating him because he’s king, only because he’s my father.”
“There is no pleasure in my making Warrick eat dust, either,” agreed Christian.
“We could switch fathers,” Edward suggested, with a glimmer of hope. “Last year we jousted in teams. It was a larger tournament of course. Lionel, Father, and myself were all on the same team. We disguised ourselves as Cossacks, from Muscovy, in great fur hats.”
“If you perpetuated a hoax upon the spectators last year, why do you cavil at our disguise?” asked Christian.
“Let’s do it! We shall have to confess all at the climax of the tourney, of course.”
“If your honor demands it,” Christian reluctantly agreed. “John, ask my squires to attend us, this will take some planning and coordinating.”
A holiday air surrounded the whole of Windsor. Excitement gripped all. The dogs were noisier, the children more mischievous, the adults laughed more and scolded less. Windsor was busy as a human beehive.
A huge canopy was erected over the stands where Queen Philippa, the princesses, and their noble ladies would sit. The queen’s household, however, had swelled to one hundred and sixty females, so some of them would have to sit in the sun.
Windsor Castle overflowed with visitors from the other royal residences of Berkhamsted, the Savoy Palace, Woodstock, and Havering. Crowds from London thronged into the town of Windsor the day before the tournament, happy enough to sleep under a hedgerow or upon a churchyard’s tombstone.
Hawkers made a fortune selling cups of ale, steaming black peas, and hot cross buns. Jugglers, minstrels, and jackanapes entertained the spectators, hoping for farthings from indulgent merrymakers with well-lined pockets.
Whores were thick as fleas on a dog, but saucy servant girls and milkmaids gave them a run for their customers by flirting prettily with any man they thought connected with the Royal Court.
The early morning sunshine sat patiently upon Brianna’s windowsill, waiting to flood inside her chamber when Adele drew back the drapes. Brianna was doubly excited, for today was the tournament and then the betrothal, and tomorrow she would journey back to her own castle of Bedford with her betrothed. For a moment she felt subdued and noticed the sun had gone behind a cloud. Her betrothal would be announced at tonight’s banquet, sealing her future. She was still so unsure about Robert de Beauchamp, but she realized all maidens must experience these selfsame doubts. She should be ashamed of herself. Robert was handsome, young, strong, noble, ambitious, and physically attracted to her. What more could she possibly ask? An answer to her private thoughts came stealing to her, but she pushed it away firmly and arose to drink in the fresh crisp air of morning.
As Adele opened her wardrobe, Brianna caught a glimpse of the buttercup-yellow gown she had worn yesterday. Its missing sleeve would flutter bravely from Robert’s helm or lance. Her thoughts went immediately to the scarlet ribbon Christian Hawksblood had demanded from her and she wondered if he would wear it or the delicately embroidered sleeve Joan had pressed into his hands so prettily. She crushed down the stab of envy. Joan was her dearest friend and if she was attracted to the Arabian Knight, what in the world did it matter to her?
It mattered. It mattered.
As Adele spread the new amethyst sarcenet across the bed, Brianna caught her breath at its loveliness. Her aunt had sewn her one of the fashionable tight-fitting jackets in deep purple velvet that would show the curves of her figure in the most daring way imaginable. When Brianna donned the new outfit, her pulses sped up with pleasure at the picture reflected in her polished silver mirror. The tight sleeveless jacket pushed up her breasts so that they swelled above the heart-shaped neckline.
Brianna wet her lips. “Perhaps I shouldn’t,” she murmured.
“Then how can I resist?” Brianna asked, laughing, as she reached for her cloak.
“No, don’t take that cloak, my lamb, I’ve a surprise for you. I remembered your mother’s favorite was packed away in one of the trunks we brought from Bedford.” With flowing pride, Adele brought forth the soft gray velvet, lined with vivid heliotrope. “It personified your mother, Brianna. Exquisitely tasteful on the outside, shockingly flamboyant on the inside! It would make her very happy if she knew you wore it the day of your betrothal.”
Brianna reached out to stroke the gray velvet with the scent of violets still clinging to its soft folds. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Carry it for me, Adele? I want to take parchment and charcoal so I can sketch one of the jousts.”
Brianna’s mother had died a few months after giving birth to her second child, who was stillborn. People said Brianna was far too young when it happened to remember her mother, but she did remember. She remembered vividly! Her mother had been gifted with second sight. Some whispered she was a witch; an accusation that sent her mother off into peals of rich, ripe laughter. It was the laughter Brianna remembered whenever she daydreamed about her beloved mother.
As she and Adele made their way through the throng in the Upper Ward, Joan cried her name joyously as if she was her savior. In a way she was, for poor Joan had been selected to help Princess Isabel dress for the tournament. “My brother, Edmund, will never forgive me for the white lies I’ve told about him since dawn.”
“Isabel is rather like a dog with a bone where Edmund is concerned,” commiserated Brianna.
“A bitch, you mean! When she saw my silver jacket, her palm itched to slap my face, but the fear that I would complain to Edmund stayed her hand. I swore Edmund would wear her favor.”
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