The Dragon and the Jewel

by Virginia Henley

  “Your other enemy is another kettle of fish entirely. The Marshals have such old wealth, even their servants are loyal. The Earl of Pembroke is never ostentatious. The people love him, the barons respect him, and even the Plantagenets do his bidding.”

  Peter des Roches ground his teeth. He had an aloof and superior manner and knew the English hated him. “His wife, Princess Eleanor, is a Plantagenet. There has never breathed a Plantagenet who was not vain and ostentatious.”

  “You are right, of course. She is vividly beautiful and the Earl of Pembroke keeps her in the lap of luxury, her every whim fulfilled. She has a maid called Brenda—a little slut who would make a perfect spy for us if only she could be placed in the marshal’s household.”

  “Yes, it is overtime that he took Eleanor to wife. If the sanctimonious bastard had ever used the tender flesh of a young girl he’d know what he was missing. I’ll speak to the maid. She must urge Eleanor to put a stop to this separate-household nonsense.”

  The grimace that passed for a smile made the Bishop of Winchester’s eyes disappear in little fatty folds. “When we find the Achilles’ heel of our enemies, their destruction will be inevitable.”

  The following day Peter was able to point out Brenda to his father, who lost no time approaching her. When the Bishop of Winchester’s eyes looked deeply into hers and he suggested he would like to hear her confession, she was filled with dread. How did he know her shameful secrets? She had never felt shame that there was a well-worn path to her bed, but now suddenly the night of fornication with the de Burgh twins, which had led her to use multiple partners, caused bright spots to burn her cheeks and her conscience cried out for the balm of confession and absolution.

  She curtsied low and kissed the bishop’s ring. “I shall make my confession in the chapel after compline if you will make time for a sinner like me, my lord bishop.”

  “My child, I shall fill you with the Holy Spirit,” he promised silkily.

  Brenda spent a wretched afternoon wrestling with her conscience until finally she wished only to be free of the whole sordid business. If her behavior became public knowledge she would be dismissed without recommendation, but if she confessed all and begged for absolution, surely a man of God, pledged to silence, would wash away her sin and cleanse her.

  Inside the confessional the atmosphere was close and hot.

  Brenda’s hands began to tremble and a trickle of sweat ran between her breasts. The Bishop of Winchester finally opened the upper half of the door, made the sign of the cross, and bade her confess her sins.

  As her words came tumbling out, they had such an erotic effect upon the bishop that his nostrils began to quiver in an effort to pick up her woman’s scent. The close, warm confines of the confessional often afforded him the telltale musky odor, which stirred him to erection. The favorite part of his calling was the confessional booth where the deepest intimacies could be shared in the utmost privacy. The sex of the sinner mattered little to Winchester. Inside this little box he enjoyed total power and control over the penitent, and it was like an aphrodisiac.

  In a tight-voiced little whisper Brenda explained, “You see, my lord bishop, it is almost impossible for me to get release … and that is why I am so guilty of the sin of overindulgence.”

  Peter des Roches smiled into the perfumed darkness. “My child, I know exactly what you need. I am an instrument of God. Through me you shall receive fulfillment. I shall unlock the door between us and you will come into my cubicle.” When she heard the click of the latch, she moved through the opening quickly and quietly. His unorthodox instructions hinted at some dark but sinfully pleasurable secret practice that she could not resist.

  His robes smelled of incense as he lifted them and began to handle himself. “I shall fill you with the Holy Ghost.” His plump hands lifted her skirts and underdress, and he began to stroke the cleft between her buttocks. In all her vast experience she had never felt anything that aroused her so swiftly.

  His thumb ring, which boasted a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg, was hinged open to reveal a whitish powder. “Inhale some of this Holy Host and lick up the remainder,” he instructed. He handed her his purple sash. “Use this to muffle your cries when I mount you.”

  She was reduced to a quivering mound of fecundity when he anointed her with Holy Oil and plunged his erection into her. Her need was so great that her low moans echoed about the confessional despite the silk sash. He used the thumb that boasted the enormous oval ruby both uniquely and skillfully, and before he had completed a dozen strokes he felt her spasm so violently, he spilled hot and high into her chalice. Her release in such a holy place was so intense she almost fainted.

  This holy man had indeed brought her a little piece of heaven. “And the beautiful part is, my child, it works every time,” he promised soothingly.

  She could hardly speak. “Every time?” She gasped with disbelief.

  He knew in that moment she was his, body and soul. She would do anything he asked of her.

  11

  William Marshal lived at Durham House when he was in London. It was situated on the bend of the Thames just up from Whitehall. Compared to most town houses it was immense, with bachelor quarters for his knights, a tiltyard, an armory, a washhouse, a buttery for keeping the wine cool, storage sheds, and a large stable.

  William had just come from a meeting with four barons. They were livid. The king had recently promised to do nothing of importance without asking the barons’ counsel, and now he was handing out titles and land like a man possessed. They felt Henry was treating them as if they were slaves to provide money for his foreign friends.

  The sun had set by the time his squire helped him remove his chain-mail vest and brought him food. William ran his fingers through his clipped, curling hair and said, “I’m expecting female company tonight. When she arrives send her up.”

  He had not taken a woman since he’d been in Wales, he remembered as he stepped into his bath. In fact not since the day he had been reintroduced to his lovely child-wife. He’d recently married off his mistress of years, a discreet lady older than himself, to a wealthy goldsmith. A just reward for her loyal service, but perhaps he would have been wiser to keep her a trifle longer.

  A picture of Eleanor sprang into his mind as she had stood upon the Tower water stairs in her crimson gown. It was a vision that came to him again and again. He cursed as his body reacted to the mere thought of her. He was annoyed that he needed the services of a whore. Then he sighed in resignation. He’d spent hours jousting in the tiltyard that morning to rid his body of lust, but Eleanor was ever in the forefront of his mind. All he needed to provoke an erection was a glimpse of the color crimson.

  Eleanor sat alone in her bedchamber at Windsor. The lump in her throat almost choked her as she clenched her fists and absolutely refused to let herself cry. Not enough that her privacy was destroyed, the queen added insult to injury by starting a whispering campaign about her.

  The queen thought it her right to waltz through the Countess of Pembroke’s apartments at any hour simply to compare them with her own, which Henry had redecorated in his favorite green and gold. Thankfully she preferred her own. Eleanor had heaved a sigh of relief. Then her rooms had been invaded by those uncles … those Savoys … those foreigners!

  Finally her temper had snapped and a whole roomful of people had felt the sharp edge of her tongue. The queen came in and caught the echo of her tirade. She had gone on tiptoe to the handsome Peter of Savoy, now Duke of Richmond, and whispered something amusingly cruel. He had laughed and murmured to one of his brothers, obviously repeating the queen’s witty remarks. Thereafter whenever she was about the Provençals she saw them speaking behind their hands, rolling their eyes and laughing. Finally in desperation she took Brenda aside and demanded to know what was being said about her.

  “My lady, do not ask me,” Brenda pleaded. “Whatever she says stems from jealousy. I had it from one of her maids that she was in a continual rag
e because you set the fashion for dress at court. Rumor says she is demanding that Henry pay for her clothes to be imported from Paris so she will outshine you.”

  “Brenda, do not becloud the issue. I asked you what was being said about me.”

  Brenda sighed. Eleanor was one of those people to whom you could not he. She decided to tell her everything. “They are whispering and laughing because your husband refuses to take you. They say he uses your age as an excuse to keep you from his castles and from his bed. They say his mistresses are legion, that he has had a liaison for years with Jasmine de Burgh. They say that your brother paid the marshal to enter into this marriage of convenience.”

  The blood drained from Eleanor’s face and her throat closed as she whispered, “Leave me.” She sat unmoving in the fading twilight until it was dark. Then suddenly she wrapped herself in a dark cloak, pulled the hood up, and slipped down through the grounds of Windsor Castle until she came to the barge sheds.

  When she ordered her bargemaster to take her to Durham House, he was alarmed that she intended to go abroad at night without so much as a maidservant to accompany her, but he reasoned that since she was going to her husband’s house, he would make no protest.

  They sailed past the ships lying at anchor in the Pool of London, under the great bridge, and past the lights of the city before her barge pulled into the water stairs at Durham House. Eleanor pulled her hood close and hoped there would not be many servants about at this late hour. When she entered the reception hall, however, she encountered William’s squire. She was quite relieved when he did not detain her, but waved her upstairs to William’s private quarters.

  She had never been in the house before and so opened the first door at the top of the staircase. It was a large, comfortable chamber with an inviting fire crackling on a marble hearth. It drew her instantly. Chilled from her ride on the river, she opened her cloak to let in the delicious warmth.

  William’s voice came through an open door in the adjoining room. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Why don’t you take your clothes off by the fire where it’s warm.”

  She turned in amazement. Had he said “take your clothes off” or “take your cloak off”? And how could he possibly be expecting her? He came into the chamber with only a towel wrapped about his middle and stopped dead in his tracks. “Eleanor, what in the name of God are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “I-I’m sorry William, I didn’t realize you were bathing. Your squire sent me up here as if I was expected,” she faltered.

  “You were the last woman in the world I expected,” he assured her.

  She stiffened. “That is painfully obvious. It’s all true then. You don’t want me. Your women are legion. Marrying the king’s sister was a political move, a marriage of convenience.”

  “Splendor of God, what are you saying?” he demanded. In three strides he was across the room and she was in his arms. His mouth swooped down to taste hers before he could stop himself. Though Eleanor had never been kissed before, she had spent a lifetime imagining what it would be like when William embraced her and touched his lips to hers. Her eyes closed and her arms reached up about his neck encountering the bared flesh of his chest and shoulders.

  He lifted his mouth from hers and said huskily, “Darling, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you this moment. Who has been filling your ears with lies?”

  “Oh, William, I can’t bear it. They are whispering and laughing at me because you don’t want me. I have no privacy; they have invaded my rooms.”

  “Sit down while I dress. I shall come immediately and lay down the law. Henry is being totally irresponsible to let them run loose like a pack of unruly dogs.”

  “No … William … please, let me stay here with you.”

  “Eleanor darling, we’ve been through all this before. We agreed and I thought you understood that you are far too young to be my wife in anything but name.”

  She pulled away from him and forced her eyes from the superb musculature of his chest. She sat down primly before the fire and chose her words carefully. “My lord earl, it is obvious you are expecting your mistress, so I will be brief. I do not ask to share your bed since you make it plain I could never satisfy a man of your age. All I ask is that you take me to live as your wife. If we must maintain separate apartments and be married in name only, then let us do so under the same roof so that I am not the laughingstock of the court.”

  William ran his hands through his hair distractedly. He wanted to scream at her that he had been expecting a common whore. That he needed the services of a whore because of the lust she aroused in him. He wanted to warn her how close he’d come to ravishing her. If she’d been wearing crimson, he would never have been able to bring his lust under control. But he could say none of these things to her. He burned with shame. He had been naked and awaiting the services of a whore when his innocent wife had come upon him. When he crushed her mouth beneath his, he had known immediately she had never even been kissed before.

  “Eleanor, if you will return to Windsor tonight, I shall come for you tomorrow with all honor. You are the Countess of Pembroke and you will reside with me wherever I go from this day forward. We will stop their wicked tongues from wagging. There shall be no hint that we will have separate bedchambers for now. When I decide to make you my wife in the flesh, it will be our business. Our private business.” He smiled at her. “Is that acceptable to you?”

  She flew into his arms again. “Oh, thank you, William. I do love you so very much. I promise you with all my heart I will be no trouble to you whatsoever. I will sleep at the opposite end of the house so I will never, ever disturb you.”

  He sat naked by the fire long after she had taken up her cloak and departed. Only someone that innocent could believe her presence would not disturb him. Something inside him told William he must do the thing properly. He was the most unostentatious man, but he knew the immature royal couple could be impressed easily by a show of wealth, so he set aside his innate good taste for a show of theatrics.

  Only two days since he had been aboard a vessel from Russia to purchase sable skins. He had been disturbed to see a small white bear chained inside an iron cage so confining it could not even stand. He would purchase it for Henry’s zoo. He went along to the Templar’s Countinghouse near the Palace of Westminster where the banking of the country was carried on. A great deal of Marshal treasure from the East was stored there for safekeeping as well as prizes and trophies he had won at tournaments in his youth. He was looking for something that would impress the new queen.

  When he saw the ornate dressing table fashioned from bronze with its tiers of tiny compartments for hairpins and other such women’s fripperies, he shuddered. The built-in candle holders surrounding its mirror had dangling prisms and its carved legs tapered down to carved animal-claw feet. When he noticed the matching seat was fashioned in the shape of a throne, however, he looked at the table with speculative eyes. He decided to gift the queen with it as a small revenge for the indignities she had shown his countess.

  With tongue in cheek he actually sent heralds ahead to announce his arrival at Windsor and to alert the king and queen that this day marked a momentous occasion. He asked his Welsh archers to wear full armor as a special favor to him, and since the queen coveted the twin sons of Falcon de Burgh so much, he had them and the rest of his knights don their white cloaks emblazoned with the Red Lion Rampant.

  At the last moment he remembered the full-length cape of white Arctic fox he’d ordered made for Eleanor’s sixteenth birthday. He would drape the exquisite Norwegian fur about her today while the weather was still crisp. In a couple of months when she turned sixteen the weather might be too warm for her to enjoy it.

  William also took along a score of servants to pack Eleanor’s clothes and household furnishings and transport them to Durham House.

  The trumpeters blew their fanfare as the Earl of Pembroke dismounted and greeted the king and queen and the gaggle o
f courtiers who had flocked out into the courtyard to view the marshal’s cavalcade.

  Eleanor threw open her casement window high above the courtyard to see what was causing the uproar. She gasped with pleasure as she caught sight of William and realized his intent. When his voice floated up to her, formally announcing to the King and Queen of England that he had come to take unto himself his dearly beloved Countess of Pembroke, her heart almost burst with joy. It was not by chance she had chosen symbolic white, faintly resembling a wedding gown, in which she would go to her husband.

  Henry, who reveled in the power of kingship, laid the queen’s bejeweled hand upon his arm and led the way to the throne room. He could not conceal his delight as the bear, sans cage, was led in on a long chain. “What do you think of the name Bruin?” he asked the crowd of youthful Provençals, and the ass-lickers they were flattered him into thinking it a most original name indeed.

  The household steward was dispatched to ask that the Countess of Pembroke attend the king. A Plantagenet to her very bones, Eleanor arrived with her handmaidens in attendance, all Marshal cousins, and all gowned in pristine white. She arrived in time to see the bronze monstrosity presented to the queen. It was now freshly polished, its throne seat sporting a royal purple cushion. She curtsied low to show her respect for her husband, and he immediately raised her, kissing her upon both cheeks, his humorous eyes laughing down into hers.

  “For one hideous moment I feared that was a gift for me,” she murmured, low, keeping her face perfectly straight.

  “No, my love, this is your gift,” he said. Turning to Rickard de Burgh, he took the garment the knight carried over his arm and enfolded her in the crimson-lined white fur cape. His large hands squeezed her shoulders to show her his pleasure, and she gifted him with a smile of adoration to show her deep appreciation for the trouble he had taken today.