* * * *
Plumes of smoke rolled through the blood-drenched countryside, blocking out the sight of the strife. The stench of blood, hot and coppery, hovered over the field, assailing Kendrick’s nostrils mercilessly. Over the years, he had been in many wars but somehow he never could quite get used to the odor of spilled sanguine fluid.
Bodies, bathed in gore, littered the emerald covered hills. Weapons, used in battle, now lay beyond the reach of lifeless hands. If they had only given up when they had the opportunity, none of this would have happened. It is too late to think about what might have been.
Kendrick wandered in and through the aftermath, the ground crunching beneath his booted feet. He could feel the spilled blood exude between the armor plates but he ignored it and continued.
Lifeless forms desecrated the path he strode, lying in careless heaps on either side. He casually kicked the pervading limbs aside and searched for any sign of Edmund. Here and there bodies took on the resemblance of his half-brother but none of them were Edmund. Had he survived the bloodshed?
Kendrick bent down and turned over a particularly familiar form, the sickening crunch of his surcoat, stiff with blood, rising in the air. He gazed at the face and noticed the incredibly well known bulbous nose under all the gore. It was King Philip of Castile! His breath held as he leaned back on his haunches.
"Kendrick, do not look so sad. Castile is ours now," remarked the mocking voice behind him. He whirled around sharply and shielded his eyes from the sun with a strong hand. It was Edmund. A jagged cut ran along Edmund’s cheek with blood running in a long tendril and slipping beneath his sharp jaw. Damp curls framed his gleeful face.
Kendrick leapt to his feet and clasped Edmund by the upper arms in thanksgiving. "Edmund, you are alive! Heaven be praised!"
Edmund winced as he unsteadily pulled himself from the strong grasp. "Aye, ‘twas by the good grace of God I survived, Kendrick. ‘Twas me that cut the friendly King down. I must admit he put up one hell of a struggle but with youth on my side, I was able to dispatch him easily."
"Did he administer that nasty looking cut on your face?"
Edmund nodded, his fingers dancing gingerly on the edges of the wound. He grimaced slightly. "He paid for this injury. No one who injures the future King of England will live to tell about it," he remarked strongly as his gaze flicked unceremoniously to the dead King. "Well, now Kendrick, with the good King out of the way, it seems you will be bedding a Queen. Do you think ‘twill be different than bedding a servant?"
Kendrick rose to his feet and shrugged as he stared at the lifeless monarch. "I know not but I will find out, rest assured...." he trailed off as sudden flickers of light caught his eye. Where did that come from?
His vision traveled to the source. The glimmer came from a ring on Philip’s finger. He bent down with a quick motion and removed the ornate piece of jewelry, holding it up to the sunlight for closer inspection. Carved on the top was the crest of Castile, the lion and stag standing out proudly. Kendrick turned it over. Etched on each side were the letters M and I. Aye, it stands for Margaret and Isabeau. Kendrick slipped the ring over his large finger. Unfortunately, it would not go past his first knuckle. Low curses emitted from his lips as his fingers tried to work the ring on his finger.
Edmund chuckled heartily. "It seems, my brother, the ring does not fit you. Perhaps ‘tis an omen."
His brow lifted. "An omen of what, Edmund?" His free fingers worked furiously to remove the ring but it would not budge. He ripped the mail coif from his head in frustration, flinging it to the ground where the intricate mesh of rings clanked together in a clarified unison. Kendrick dexterously ran the hand with the ring through his damp hair several times with the hope the moisture would loosen it. He tugged on it again. This time it slid from his finger easily. He finally was able to breathe a sigh of relief. With all the intricate carving, he did not want it cut from his finger.
Once the task was finished, Edmund answered the lingering question. "What I mean is maybe you are not to possess the ice Princess Isabeau. For whatever reason in the Fates, you are not meant to cross her path again."
His anger roiled beneath the surface at the banality of Edmund’s words. Nay, I will possess her if ‘tis the last thing I do. Determined not to let Edmund know of his fury, Kendrick kept his face in a stoic mask. "I will possess her, Edmund, make no mistake. ‘Tis only a matter of time until I have her in my bed. When that happens, I will rule all of Castile with her at my side."
Edmund’s eyes widened. "You do not mean you will actually marry the wench?"
Kendrick shook his head wildly. "Nay, I will not. I will marry no woman as I have already told you. She will just share my bed. No woman will ever have my heart at her disposal again." That was one vow he intended to keep. He smirked slightly. No wench would ever have the pleasure of mashing his heart again.
Edmund clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Perhaps she will prove a better bedmate than Gardana or Bregonia. Come let us leave for camp. With the King dead, it will be very easy to persuade the Queen to give up Castile."
Kendrick casually slipped the ring into his hauberk and patted the slight bulge with a confident hand. "I will do the persuading, Edmund. I will have Castile and its Queen before all is said and done."
* * * *
Gardana watched the serene surface of the water ripple as the image of Kendrick slowly faded from her sight. So he intended to follow through with the silly game! Her hands gripped the hot lipped edge of the pot. She ignored the heat burning through the soft, pink flesh of her naked palms as the cogs of her mind spun in a wild fashion. Something must be done and quickly!
"Gardana, take your hands away if you do not wish to burn them!"
Halden’s issued warning pierced the aura of disbelief surrounding her head. Suddenly the heat became too much, causing her to retract her hands. She whirled around so fast her wool skirts shimmied in time. "I care not, Halden! The Duke belongs to me and no other!"
A sly smile curled the corner of Halden’s lips. "You have already stated that, Gardana, but the fates cannot be changed. The light woman will bear his children. You will not. ‘Tis simple as that."
Gardana shook her head in protest as her hands gripped onto this dark purple sleeve as though he was her only lifeline. In a way, he was. "Help me, Halden, and you may have anything you wish."
His deep crimson brow rose with a quick movement. "Anything I truly wish?"
She nodded as her hand rubbed down her voluptuous body in a seductive manner. "Aye."
His thick tongue darted out of his mouth, caressing the edges of his cracked lips hungrily. "Then I will help you, Gardana. What is it you wish me to do?"
"I am ripe for a child, Halden, and I need one. Since I cannot get one from the Duke, then someone else must sire it. You know," she purred, her finger sensuously trailing the underside of his grizzled chin as the bile rose in her throat, "I was thinking of a powerful man and you are the most powerful I know. After I am with child, I will convince the Duke the child is his. Then he will give up the pursuit of the blonde woman."
Halden smiled a wicked grin then shook his crimson hued head. "Milord will never give up the light woman for anything so we must make the best of the situation. I propose we allow the Duke to bring her here and get her with child. Then, we poison her and the child, paving the way for you back to the Duke’s bed and a lifetime of comfort."
Her anger built with ease but she refused to let Halden see it. Throwing her raven mane in a defiant manner behind her, Gardana stared at him through hardened eyes. "Do you think ‘twill work?"
"Aye, it must work or else all is lost. There is a particular poison, which I make myself, if given to a woman in the throes of childbirth, will bring death to her and the child within moments. Perhaps, if one was paid, it could be slipped to the Princess during the birth. Once she and the child are dead, then the Duke, in his sorrow, will have no choice but to take you back into his bed."
&nb
sp; Gardana’s gaze swept over the ancient wizard, scrutinizing the magician’s form. Dark purple fabric covered his body, the rich material embroidered with all sorts of alien symbols in gold thread. Flame colored hair, shot with lodes of white, hung on either side of his face and framed the learned countenance. On his head rested a leather circlet with a deep scarlet colored ruby in the middle. Halden better be correct, she thought viciously, or I will use his own tricks on him.
Her midnight brow arched. "Promise on your very life you will make all you said come true."
He nodded. "Aye, I can do that and more."
Gardana strode toward him in a purposefully, her hands outstretched. "Then let us get started with the task at hand." She gripped his wrist with a firm hand, leading him to the room serving as his bedroom. The Duke will be mine even if I must sell my soul to the devil to have him.
Chapter 4
Days passed with a solemn tone, one into each other as though it was one long piece of rich fabric. Isabeau waited with a silent demeanor for news from the battlefield, sitting fervently at the window with the faint hope she would catch a glimpse of the bearer of the tidings. In her tumultuous mind, she wished for someone in whom she could confide her feelings. Margaret had left for the convent the morning after the banquet, going into seclusion upon her arrival. That meant Margaret could not receive correspondence nor send any out.
Isabeau sighed with a resigned heaviness, her chin sinking deep the palm of her hand. When would she hear anything?
* * * *
Deep rays of blue spread over the countryside, indicating night would arrive with a furious abandon. Isabeau finished her meal quickly and returned to the warm security of her own chamber to wait for any news. She was quite exhausted after a long day of meetings and important documents needing her signature. Tis not easy being Queen Regent.
She drew her filmy gown aside and took the roomy seat underneath the large window facing toward the west. Intense reds and oranges of the sun slipped behind a strong bank of clouds, grasping the last bit of sky before the heavy fabric of night came in, claiming its territory. Just like the English.
As Isabeau settled in, a movement in the distance caught her eye. Her back stiffened as she sat up straight to get a better view of the rider. His surcoat, red and gold, flapped in the breeze created by the horse’s strong stride. In his hand, he carried the standard of Castile, proud and strong, its tattered edges of the ecru flag riffled in the breeze. Her eyes widened. News from the battle field! Heavy pounding stirred in her chest, beating an unsteady rhythm in her chest.
Was it good news or bad?
She took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.
Isabeau rose from her seat and hurried downstairs, a lump forming in her throat. Her father had to return victorious. It could be no other way.
* * * *
The bedraggled messenger knelt before her with a parchment in his outstretched hand. "My Queen. I bear tidings from Cantilles Field."
Anxious fingers tore the message from his hand, her head nodding toward him. "Much thanks, my good man." Nervously, Isabeau broke the wax seal and unrolled the fibers. Her curious gaze swept in a cautious manner over the familiar script.
My Queen,
I regret to inform you that King Philip has died a hero’s death on the battlefield. He fought bravely for God and country but alas he was not successful. I pray his soul spiraled to heaven most readily. I would have returned his signet ring but unfortunately, ‘twas looted from his hand upon death. I know not the party who took it but I have an idea. I will keep the identity to myself until I know for sure. We will bring his body back to lie in state in a few days hence. Until then, the instructions will proceed for your coronation as set by your father.
God speed to you, my Queen.
Seamus
The evil parchment slipped from shocked fingertips as she fell to her knees. Out of sheer panic, her hands gripped the sides of her head as she rocked on unsteady haunches. Nay, her father could not be dead! He was valiant, brave and strong! No one could defeat him! Damn that dark bastard, she thought viciously, I will have my retribution on the Duke of Kent if ‘tis the last thing I do!
* * * *
Dusk settled on the castle, wrapping around the earth as thick as a fur blanket. Soft, gentle winds blew through the bailey, lifting up stray tendrils of her hair. Isabeau shivered, pulling her cloak around her tighter. This simply was a dream. It could not have happened. Her father was just toying with her. Any moment now, he would be riding around the corner, ready to greet her....
The party rounded the bend, her heart beating anxiously. Father would be at the head, leading all of his men in his customary proud manner ... It was not to be. Seamus, with his ragged hair hanging in tatters on either side of his face, rode ahead of the grisly retinue. Bits of dried gore clung to his skin and armor as well as his surcoat. His horse lumbered in a leisurely manner through the open gate, its head hung low as though it knew the weariness of battle as well. The only sound in the heavy silence was the clop of hooves against the hardened cobblestones of the bailey. Each time the hammered steel hit the stone, it signaled she was one step closer to her coronation.
Seamus halted a short distance away and dismounted. He strode over to her, kneeling before her in obeisance. Out of instinct, she held out her hand. With quivering fingers, he took her hand and held it to his lips, kissing her hand. He peered up, gazing at her through soft, sorrowful eyes. "My Queen. I brought back your father as I told you I would do. Please do not look upon him now. Wait until he has been tended to." Subtle pleas in his voice touched her heart but she chose to ignore the feeling it evoked. She must see her father’s face one last time before the earth reclaimed his body.
Without a word, Isabeau withdrew her hand from Seamus’ reluctant grasp and glided toward her father with numb legs and heart. Death’s odor enveloped the cart but she pushed the offensive smell from her mind. She must do this.
Tentative fingers drew back the blanket, exposing the lifeless body underneath. Her father, the once regal King of Castile, lay dead inside the tiny structure. His eyes were closed. She breathed a sigh of relief. She surely would have fainted had they been open.
Her gaze flicked to his wounds. Blood tainted every part of his armor, staining his surcoat the deepest crimson. Isabeau’s fingers pressed to her trembling lips and touched the cold flesh of her father’s cheek. He does not like the cold. She pulled the cover up, tucking it securely under his bloody chin.
Isabeau took a ragged breath to steady her nerves and turned to Seamus. "Who is the purveyor of the murder of my father? Was it the bastard of Kent?"
Seamus shook his head in slow manner. "No, milady. ‘Twas the Prince of Wales who fought your father. He fought as the brave man he was but the Prince of Wales cut him down like an animal. The Duke was no where in sight."
Tremors of emotion rose at the thought of her father losing his battle but she pushed the feelings deep down inside of her, capping them with an iron lid. "Then let the war begin. Once my father is buried and I am formally crowned, I will need your help in staging an attack on those English dogs to drive them from our soil once and for all."
Surprise and shock skittered across his face. "But, my Queen, you cannot lead the troops! Surely, you will let me lead them!"
Isabeau could feel the heat of sheer determination crawl across her face in a steady ream, strengthening her iron will. "Seamus, you are now my advisor and my former tutor. I learned more than I should about war at your knee. With your help, I can plan the most aggressive attack against them."
He fell to one knee, bowing. "What you wish will be done, my Queen."
She nodded her acknowledgment. "Rise, Seamus. There is much to be done. My coronation will take place after my father’s funeral so there will be no unrest. I want you to rally the remainder of the troops and get them ready for battle. As soon as the coronation is over, we shall begin."
He rose to unsteady feet, his
hand on the cantle of his saddle for support. "Aye, my Queen." With those words, Seamus mounted his horse, kicking the animal into motion. A swift movement of his arm encouraged the others to follow. The wooden sound of the cartwheels against the solid stones rose high in the sullen air, stabbing her soul. Where was she to look for guidance? Please, God, guide me for I know not what I am doing.
* * * *
Kendrick winced as the physician plied his leg wound with a potion meant to speed his healing. His mouth twisted in a grimace as the sting of the strange potion became almost more than he could bear. "What is this mixture you put on me? Are you trying to poison me?" he gasped as he drew in a breath from the pain. How much longer was this to last? He took another drink of the ale. For now, it was the only thing calming his urge to strike the silly man across the tent.
The man continued to dab at the sewn flesh. "’Tis herbs and other ingredients to keep the infection down. I can give you a pain soother if it becomes too much."
His anger flared. "If I can take the pain of you knitting the flesh together, I can stand this pain, you fool."
Edmund, lying in his bed with his own arm bound in yards of white cloth, burst into laughter. "Kendrick, you wail like a woman. Keep quiet and take it in a manly fashion."
He cast Edmund a murderous look. "If anyone here wails like a woman, ‘tis you. Tell me, was is not you screaming when the physician was trying to set your arm?"
Edmund nodded as his mirth rose to a higher destination. "Aye, ‘twas me. I suggest the pain soother. It comes in handy when you wish to feel nothing."
"I would rather feel than live in a fog, Edmund."
Edmund threw his bare arm over his eyes. "I know where you would rather live, Kendrick and do not deny it! You are totally consumed with the Queen of Castile. You eat, sleep and drink thoughts of her."
Kendrick shook his head. "Nay, I do not. Once I fulfill my end of the bargain, the girl will mean nothing to me." Unfortunately, Edmund was right. When he awoke in the morning or went to sleep at night, it was her face he saw. Since the night of the banquet, his body ached for her in a way that was alien to him. Before, women were nothing except to keep him warm on a cold night. With Isabeau, it was different. How distinct, he was not sure. He drank from her cup of passion, making him hunger for more. His thirst grew rapidly, almost like rising flames of fire during the summer nights.
Desires Promise Page 5