The Falcon and the Flower

by Virginia Henley

She gasped, for she assumed her body had emptied his mind of any coherent thought. “I don’t want to be taken to England as a hostage,” she said desperately. “I don’t want to be humiliated when English women look at me with contempt.” She had little chance of appealing to an inner softness for she instinctively knew he had none, and so it was that she trembled uncontrollably with relief as he murmured,

  “I’ll send you to Mountain Ash, perhaps.”

  One hour after dawn William Marshal’s vast army of nearly two hundred knights and three hundred men-at-arms, along with his supply wagons and siege engines, was ready to depart camp for Pembroke. Before they moved out, however, messengers rode in with such momentous news that it put an instant end to the Welsh campaign.

  King Richard had been wounded and might even die. He had ordered his marshal to take ship for Rouen where the state treasury of Normandy was kept. The entire camp was in shock, and little by little as the details came out, the barons were sickened that King Richard’s insatiable greed over a few gold coins had ended in disaster. Apparently a golden shield and a trove of ancient coins had been unearthed in a field at Chalus. King Richard took a handful of his knights hotfoot to Chalus to demand the treasure, and an arrow from the castle walls had struck him down. The man who had survived the great crusades and fought the berserk infidel, the man who was reputed to be the greatest warrior-king who had ever lived, was now losing his life’s breath over a handful of coins.

  William Marshal crossed the River Severn, rode across Wessex, and took his own ship to Normandy and the city of Rouen on the River Seine to stand guard over the treasury.

  Falcon de Burgh rode beside Salisbury on the journey back into England. He chose his words with great care for he knew he could quite easily be caught between the kettle and the coals. King Richard was an absentee king who preferred the glory of battle to ruling his kingdoms. He cared so little for England that, in order to finance his crusades, he would have sold London if he had had a buyer. And yet with his faults, he was still preferable to either of the two remaining Plantagenet heirs to the throne. Richard’s brother Geoffrey had been killed in a tournament, but Geoffrey’s young son Arthur was next in line. The boy was only thirteen years old and had never set foot on English soil. His mother was Constance of Brittany and he shared all her hatreds. One such hatred was for the queen mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Philip of France was such a threat to England that it would be tantamount to suicide to crown young Arthur king.

  That left only Richard’s youngest brother, Count John of Mortain. John would have virtually ruled England and Ireland in Richard’s absence if it hadn’t been for the powerful barons. There was not one of them who did not secretly dread the thought that John might become king.

  Falcon de Burgh had come to know and like Salisbury well, and he knew that the man’s greatest virtue was loyalty. He did not wish to say anything to William that would sound like criticism of his royal half brothers. “It will be a sad day for England, milord, if Richard’s wound proves fatal.”

  “Never!” William cried with conviction. “He’s survived a dozen worse woundings than this. Mark my words, we’ll be back in Wales before the month is out.”

  Falcon cleared his throat, wondering if William was deliberately wearing blinders in this situation. After all, they were on their way to England in case the barons were called to Normandy for the king’s funeral and the crowning of a new king. “I hope with all my heart that you are right, milord, yet would William Marshal have been ordered to Normandy if the situation was not critical?” he asked carefully.

  “William Marshal is the only baron whose honor comes before self-interest. He is the kind of man who comes along only once in a century. If Richard is chained to a sickbed because of his wounds, there is only one man he would trust with his treasury.” He winked at de Burgh. “We all know how important money is to our king.”

  Falcon laughed, relieved that William had been the one to say it. “Aye, the marshal is a man you could trust with your life—or your wife,” he joked. The subject of Arthur and John had not been broached between them, so Salisbury decided to let de Burgh know exactly how he felt.

  “You know, I always tell myself that I inherited my courage and my fighting skills from my father, King Henry, and yet I lack that ruthless ambition for the throne that drives my brothers. So I also tell myself the driving ambition that crushes everything and everyone in its path was passed down to my brothers through their mother, Queen Eleanor. Mercifully I had another dam. I am not blind to Arthur’s shortcomings or John ’s faults, but they are royal princes and both in line to the throne. Should the day arrive when either is crowned king, I am his man … to the death!”

  Falcon de Burgh wished he himself saw things in such a simple, straightforward way. If only things were cut and dried, black and white, how simple life would be. But things were not black and white these days, they tended to fall into the vast area of gray with its infinite shadings.

  William’s voice brought him back to the present. “I extend the hospitality of Salisbury to you and your knights, de Burgh. I would like you to meet my daughters, but of course there is a catch. I have an ulterior motive,” he said frankly.

  Falcon de Burgh was flattered and honored. Salisbury was making it plain that he viewed him favorably as a suitor.

  William continued, “I should like to ride straight home in case there is urgent news, and yet Berkley Castle and Castle Combe have not been visited this year. Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to inspect them in my stead?”

  “You do me great honor, William, to trust me with such a task.” The words came from his heart. Falcon was being trusted to collect Salisbury’s share of the produce of the two demesnes along with the rents of his tenants. He would have to inspect the men-at-arms and defenses of the keeps, listen to any complaints, go over the accounts and tally sticks. It was not lost on him that William was also showing him two of the holdings that his daughters would inherit.

  Falcon wheeled his great destrier about and rode down the line to his own men. Immediately Normand Gervase and Walter de Roche flanked him.

  “Sir Walter, I want you to take half the knights and men-at-arms to Mountain Ash. The other half will come with me to England. I am putting you in charge at Mountain Ash. Your word is law so be heedful that if anything goes amiss, I will hold you responsible.”

  “Rest easy, my lord,” said de Roche, grinning with deep pleasure at his newfound authority. He dropped back to select his men as impartially as he could, for de Burgh would need good men to. Accompany him into England.

  Falcon said to his squire, “Gervase, I want you to go to Mountain Ash also, but when your task is completed you will catch up with me as soon as may be. We are invited to Salisbury.”

  “Then it is true! William Longsword is giving you your choice of his daughters for your wife.”

  “Softly, man. I think the wind lies in that direction, but there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip,” he cautioned. He winked at Gervase. “I will need you at Salisbury … to help me choose!”

  “God’s nightshirt, you know I’ve had little experience with the fairer sex; they scare the shit out of me.”

  Falcon chuckled. “I’m giving you an opportunity to gain some experience. The female hostage, Morganna … see her safely to Mountain Ash.”

  Gervase paled visibly. “My lord, I command men easily, you’ve been a good teacher, but a woman is another matter … especially this woman. Why, she is as fierce as a young warrior. I-I have doubts that she would heed my authority,” he confessed bluntly.

  “Come,” said Falcon, “I’ll give you a short lesson.”

  They rode down the line to where the hostages rode on their sturdy Welsh ponies. De Burgh signaled to Morganna, who eagerly guided her mount to his side. Rumors were rife that King Richard, Coeur de Lion, was dead, and she planned to get the answers to a dozen questions when he bedded her tonight.

  “My squire here, Normand Gervase,
will see you safely to Mountain Ash. His word is my command. You will obey him to the letter,” he said in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

  Her face fell with disappointment, then her eyes glittered with anger. “You do not come with us, Lord de Burgh?” The other rumors must be true, she thought. He is going to England to wed Salisbury’s daughter. Her heart twisted with bitterness. She had vowed to own a piece of this magnificent man, but what chance did she have if he was off to court an Englishwoman? “Is it true the king is dead?” she demanded, knowing she would not be sharing de Burgh’s bed this night or for many nights to come.

  “That is of no concern to you, Morganna. What is of concern is your behavior.” Falcon turned his head to Gervase. “If she disobeys you, take away her pony and make her walk.”

  She threw up her head proudly. “I could walk! To England and back if necessary! I’ve climbed Welsh mountains all my life.”

  “You’d be so thin and scrawny, your legs so well muscled, what good would you be in bed? A man could get more pleasure from buggering his page!” Falcon said with contempt.

  Gervase was impressed at the way de Burgh’s words had silenced the girl and drained away her arrogance, leaving only meekness in its stead. However, he had his doubts she would be quite so docile once de Burgh’s razor-edged tongue was on its way to England.

  Chapter 3

  Jasmine had heard Meg and the other girls giggling and whispering for a week and she had a pretty good notion what it was all about. May Day meant a celebration of spring rites that harkened back to pagan times and the old religion. However, Jasmine had been aware for years now that there was more to it than innocent maypole dancing in the village and choosing a May queen.

  It was whispered that at Stonehenge, under cover of darkness, a bacchanalia took place. When Meg came to change her bed linen, Jasmine questioned her. “Meg, I wonder what it’s like at Stonehenge?”

  Meg blushed and said primly, “I don’t know, my lady, I’ve never seen the goings-on.”

  “But you must have heard things,” Jasmine pressed. “What goes on?”

  “Well … ’t is said there is a feast and dancing. They light bonfires and dance about the flames.”

  “I should like to go,” Jasmine said with conviction.

  Meg lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Me too, my lady. I’m planning to slip out and join in the fun.”

  Estelle was worried about the spring rites that took place amid the ancient Druid stones. She knew exactly what went on under cover of darkness, and the results would be a bumper crop of swollen bellies. The peasants could be counted on to obey their basest instincts, then come crying to her once the seeds had been sown. She sighed, knowing she could not turn the tide against human nature, but she would do what she could to prevent the young maids of the manor from attending the revels. She and Jasmine had taken part in the May Day holiday with the villagers, joining in the maypole dancing and crowning the buxom lass chosen as Queen of the May, but she whisked her charges back to the manor house before dusk had fallen and took Meg aside to give her extra duties.

  “I want you to be sure to stay with Lady Jasmine until she falls asleep tonight. I think she has looked very peaked lately, and she is not robust at the best of times. Make sure she drinks lots of the mead and honey tonight. It is a potion that will make her glow with health and beauty.”

  Meg bobbed a curtsey, resenting the restricting duty with which Lady Estelle had charged her. She came tight-lipped to Jasmine’s bedchamber and made a halfhearted attempt to set it in order as the long minutes stretched into an hour.

  Jasmine had a difficult time concealing her amusement; she knew Meg had been sent to her as a jailer of sorts. Jasmine watched as the maid poured her a goblet of honeyed mead and held it out to her. Suddenly she became aware of an unusual aroma. She surreptitiously sniffed the mead and realized Estelle had laced it with poppy. A secret smile turned up the corners of her lips as a wicked idea came to her.

  “You drink the mead, Meg. I know you’re going off to Stonehenge in a little while and it will fortify you on the long walk.” Meg needed little urging for mead was not often on the servant’s menu.

  Jasmine poked up the fire and watched in silence as first Meg yawned, then her eyelids drooped, and finally she slumped on the stool as Morpheus claimed her. Jasmine quickly changed into the servant girl’s clothes, covering her hair with the rough linen coif, then she lay Meg in the bed and pulled the covers high to conceal her identity from a casual glance if someone opened the chamber door. With her heart beating wildly she donned Meg’s shabby, dark cloak, pulled up the hood to doubly conceal her pale hair, and slipped from her chamber.

  She walked briskly, lest her nerve fail her at the last moment, and hummed a happy tune to ward off the darklings. She took a black pony from the paddock beside the stables so that even the young grooms could not know of her departure. The moon seemed to keep her company as it sailed above her, disappearing beneath a cloud, then when the darkness made her heart thump, it glided from behind the cloud so serenely she chided herself for being a coward. She knew it was close on midnight and hoped she had not come too late for the revels.

  Her excitement built as she neared Stonehenge. She realized there would be men there as well as women, but she intended to be very careful and observe only from a distance.

  The great fire inside the circle of stones crackled noisily and lit up the sky. The revelers were making a great din, filling the air with wild laughter, shrieks, and screams. As she crouched behind a large boulder to watch the human forms dancing, she was shocked to her soul to see that the men and women cavorted naked! Mesmerized, she watched the naked bodies silhouetted against the flames and realized with horror that most of them were not dancing, they were coupling! She averted her eyes to stare across at the stark outline of the Druid stones. Her attention was drawn to a small group wearing hooded robes and became riveted upon a female figure that seemed to be carrying a baby. They walked toward a stone that formed an altar and the woman raised the child up to the sky, its white swaddling blanket clearly visible in the darkness, then she lay it down upon the altar. A man drew forth a long dagger and plunged it down into the baby.

  Jasmine stood up and screamed, “No!” As fast as she could, she began running toward the stone altar.

  Falcon de Burgh had made the journey of thirty miles from Berkley to Castle Combe in one day, and he hoped to better that distance on the journey from Castle Combe to Salisbury. He had not counted on the Cotswold Hills, some of which seemed more like mountains. He had had no word about King Richard and pressed his men as hard as he could so they would reach Salisbury without delay. If Richard died, the Earl of Salisbury would go to Normandy immediately.

  When darkness overtook them, Falcon estimated they were still a good ten miles from their destination. They set up their tents on Salisbury Plain. As they did so, he noticed that some of the men were gathering in groups with worried faces. Ordinarily he would have consulted with his most trusted knight and friend Gervase, but he had not yet caught up from his journey to Mountain Ash.

  Falcon went to the men who were tethering the horses for the night and asked bluntly, “Montgomery, what’s amiss? Speak up, man!”

  The knight glanced at his companion Fitzgerald and back to de Burgh. “Some of the men are afraid to make camp near Stonehenge.”

  Fitzgerald nodded, “Aye, my lord, ’t is a most unsettling place, haunted by ancient spirits.”

  De Burgh threw back his head in laughter. “God’s bones, since when were Norman knights crippled by superstition?”

  Montgomery offered quick denial. “’T is not the knights, my lord, but some of the men-at-arms who are from these parts. They say we are camping too close to Stonehenge for comfort.”

  “Rubbish! We’re miles from the place. This is an excellent spot to make camp—flat ground, close to the River Avon. Tell them to stop their idle chatter and put them to work gathering wood for cooking fir
es.” He grinned. “The fires will ward off the evil spirits.”

  Though the hour was late and most of the camp slept, the horses were decidedly unsettled. De Burgh heard their nervous whickering hour after hour and heard them milling about long after they should have quieted to rest. Perhaps there were wolves about or a wildcat come down onto Salisbury Plain from the mountains. He had been lying wrapped in a thick fur rug pleasantly conjuring up pictures of William’s two daughters when a disturbing thought came to him. Perhaps the animals could pick up a strange unsettling atmosphere from Stonehenge. He shook his head to dispel such a ridiculous notion, threw back the furs, and stepped to the tent’s opening. Was it his imagination, or could he hear chanting on the air? He stepped out into the darkness and listened. Faint cries and music were coming from a distance and the horses, with their keener hearing, were strangely disturbed by it.

  He untethered Lightning and rubbed him behind his ears. Stonehenge was beckoning and his curiosity got the better of him. He mounted the destrier without a saddle and guided him in the direction of the singing.

  The scene laid out before him angered him. Excess had always disgusted him. In any raid on castle or town his men were forbidden to rape on penalty of death. Self-discipline was a virtue he valued highly in himself and others. These people had no discipline and in fact were out of control. The veneer of civilization was so thin they reverted to savage, feral beasts at any opportunity.

  He was appalled to see some hooded figures flee an altar, leaving behind a blood sacrifice of some sort. His sensibilities were affronted to see such an ancient and hallowed place as Stonehenge defiled.

  As Jasmine flew to the altar like an avenging angel, her eyes fastened upon the tiny bundle swaddled in the blanket, the hooded figures melted into the darkness. Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she lifted the blanket. Her eyes filled with tears as she saw that it was a newborn lamb that had been sacrificed. Her sadness was mingled with relief that it had not been a baby. Suddenly fear gripped her. They were Devil worshippers. The sacrificial lamb had been used to conjure the Prince of Darkness himself.