“Surely you don’t want him to become a weakling?” demanded Edward.
“I promised your mother he wouldn’t see action until he turned fifteen.”
“Age has nothing to do with it. He is strong as an ox and taller and broader than either of us.”
“Has he asked you to plead his case?” asked the king.
“No, but he’ll be furious when he learns he is to be left behind,” Prince Edward pointed out.
Prince Lionel was not the only one to be furious. His lieutenant, Robert de Beauchamp, was livid. “Christ Almighty, that’s ridiculous. It’s no doubt the Prince of Wales’ doing. He wants all the glory for himself!” Robert could still feel the humiliating slap in the face from Edward. “I’ll go and speak to my father. Warrick might be able to change the king’s mind.”
But when Robert spoke to his father and he learned that Christian Hawksblood was going, while he was not, a bitter hatred began to fester within him. Arguments availed him nothing. Warrick judged a man by his ability to obey orders.
When Robert returned to Prince Lionel, he commiserated with him while the young giant railed and cursed. Lionel was an extremely physical youth who vented his spleen by smashing an oak refectory table before he began to feel better.
Robert’s rage turned inward and the seeds of revenge began to take root. “Now that I’ve had time to reflect upon it, Your Highness, the king is probably wise not to allow both of you to fight. You are second in line to the throne of England and if aught befalls Edward, you will be the heir apparent. I think you should be given the Scepter and named prince regent while your father and brother go on this campaign.” Robert knew Lionel was Queen Philippa’ favorite son. “Why don’t you speak with your mother? She has a way of persuading the Council to carry out her wishes.”
Prince Lionel was placated. It might be enjoyable to peacock about as King of England; to be flattered and fawned upon, and receive the adulation of the fairer sex.
Robert de Beauchamp, however, was not placated. Jealousy, humiliation, and hatred spawned a need for vengeance.
As they traveled to Ipswich, the king, Warrick, and Prince Edward had many opportunities to talk with Christian Hawksblood and observe his actions. Among a throng of six thousand men there were always minor ailments, injuries, and quarrels. Hawksblood had obviously had medical training and his squires were extremely knowledgeable about horses.
Warrick noticed that the men under young Edward’s standard were well disciplined, even though most of them had seen no military action. Their morale was high because Edward and Christian set the tone. Warrick decided to put his son in charge of two hundred men. He was a natural leader, had much experience in battle, and was the only one who knew exactly where the French fleet gathered.
Prince Edward’s squire, Sir John Chandos, was older than the prince, just as Paddy and Ali were older than Hawksblood, and the five men spent much time in each other’s company. This was the Prince of Wales’ first military maneuver and the other four men made a silent pact to protect him.
The night before they sailed, Christian knew the thoughts that crowded in Edward’s head. He had no fear of facing the enemy; his only fears and hopes were that he would acquit himself well in the eyes of his father and the eyes of his own men. They sat talking in Hawksblood’s tent. Ali had oiled their muscles with almond and frankincense while Paddy and John Chandos selected and polished the armor that would be donned before they embarked.
Edward said, “It will be a disaster without horses if we make land before we encounter the French fleet. I’ve trained all my life to fight upon a destrier.”
“It is not horses that win battles, it is men. Before and after fighting are difficult times, but once you engage in battle you are filled with a divine power that transcends fear, doubt, fatigue, defeat. A calm descends so you are able to focus all thought, energy, and strength. It is a feeling of omnipotence. You see all in such a crystal-clear light that every hazard is avoided. Everything is stripped down to its simplest terms: fight or run, win or lose, live or die.”
Edward said quietly, “My father, the king, always believes in victory and he is able to make others believe it. That is his strength.”
“It is a gift from the gods,” Christian said. “I, too, am firmly convinced we will be victorious. I believe battles are won before they are ever fought.” Edward nodded, for they shared the conviction.
When Edward left, Paddy succumed to doubts and misgivings that clogged the very air men breathed before a military campaign. “Chandos questioned me about Helvoetsluys, asking how long since we were in Flanders. I didn’t let on we’d never set foot there.”
Christian gripped his shoulder to suffuse him with confidence. “Cast out all doubt, Paddy. The French fleet is exactly where I said it was.”
Ali censured Paddy. “He has been taught to totally trust his instincts, to never, ever, doubt himself. It is his life’s sacred secret.”
Paddy shook his head. “ ’Tis an Eastern philosophy, sometimes incomprehensible to me, Ali-Babba.”
“Nay, Paddy’s Pig, it was a secret order of Knights Templars who taught him the mystic rites; they just happened to live in the East. I suspect most of them had Irish blood.”
“Jasus, now I’ve really got the wind up! Anybody with any brains knows the Irish are a bunch of shiftless, lying con men.”
“The expression ‘con men’ is derived from Connaught men, I have no doubt.”
Paddy began to laugh, and his mirth banished the darklings. It was an intrinsic trait of his cursed Irish blood to be melancholy and introspective. He fought the urge to drink himself into oblivion whenever he faced death. Only the fact that he feared Hawksblood’s contempt more than he feared death kept him sober.
Christian Hawksblood lay abed thinking. He was impressed by the English vessels he’d seen. The larger ships were mounted with bronze cannon with long-spouted barrels. The admirals had brought a good supply of shells and gunpowder, which carried the disadvantage of blowing a whole ship to kingdom come if it received a direct hit.
Christian began the meditation that preceded his visions. He was amazed at the detail he saw. His instincts told him the French had been alerted, for they were at this moment busy with plans to defend the great harbor of Sluys. They were forming their ships into four lines of defense. In the center of the first line rode the three magnificent English vessels they’d captured in coastal forays. The ships were linked together by metal chains so it would be impossible for the enemy to retake them.
Christian projected his vision ahead to the time when the French scouts spotted the English fleet. He saw the watch turrets crawling with Genoese arbalests. The vision was identical to his previous one, so he was able to sleep untroubled.
They embarked at dawn, but before he went aboard, Hawksblood sought Warrick, who commanded the entire operation. “Will you trust me to lead the way?”
Warrick searched the dark face for any trace of treachery. He saw none. “I will. We stand or fall together.”
Christian hesitated. Warrick was a plain, no-nonsense military leader who looked as if he would put no faith in visions. “The French have placed the Edward, the Rose, and the Katherine in the front line because they believe we will try to retake them, but they have chained them to their own ships and they must be destroyed. They have blocked Sluys so we cannot enter the harbor, but the fools don’t realize the entire French fleet is a sitting duck. It is your operation to direct, not mine, but if I were in charge, Welsh bowmen would be on the deck of every English vessel to take out the Genoese arbalests.”
There was absolutely no precedent for a sea battle being fought with bows and arrows. Bowmen on deck would hamper the gunners who manned the cannons. Moreover, Admiral Morley had sworn an oath to the king to retake the English vessels.
Warrick rubbed his nose, wanting to ask how his son came by his information. He made a decision not to question him. He crammed his helmet over his graying head and turned
to shout his orders.
Christian and Edward clasped arms before they boarded the ships they would command, then Hawksblood’s ship weighed anchor and sailed out into the northern Straits of Dover.
Robert de Beauchamp sought out Brianna and found her returning from her daily lesson with Dame Marjorie. She knew his pride must be smarting at having been left behind while his father and half brother were in the front lines of the action. Her heart filled with pity. “Robert, I’m so sorry you are stuck here in England. It seems so unjust.”
He laughed and waved a negligent hand. “Prince Lionel was disappointed, but he was left behind for political reasons and since I’m in his service, it is my duty to remain here, not only to guard him, but the queen and you ladies as well.”
He seemed puffed up with hollow pride. She shouldn’t have said anything. It was his way of rejecting her pity. “Then yours is the more important responsibility,” she complimented him.
“If either the king or the Prince of Wales is killed, then Prince Lionel becomes heir to the throne.”
Brianna inwardly recoiled from his blunt words. Dear God, is that what he hopes for? Disloyalty and guilt swept over her for her unkind thoughts of Robert. He wanted no such thing! He was merely facing facts. She supposed it was his responsibility to be prepared for any eventuality.
“I see that the foundations for the new Round Tower are dug. I spoke with the king about the stone he wants from Bedfordshire. He asked me to oversee its transport.”
Brianna was surprised that Robert had taken this upon himself without first discussing it with her. After all they weren’t yet betrothed.
“I thought it would give me the opportunity to visit Bedford and inspect it for myself. The king thought you might like to go home for a visit and I could escort you.”
The suggestion that she return to her home took the sting from his high-handedness. Her father had died in the king’s service, fighting the Scots, when she was twelve and she had made her home at Windsor ever since. The king had appointed a castellan to run Bedford Castle and its holdings and her moneys were collected and kept for her by the Treasury.
When she married, she expected to live part of each year at Bedford and part of the year at her husband’s castle. Since she was an heiress, wealthy enough to be taken into royal wardship, she had taken it for granted her groom would own castles. She knew a woman’s property went to her husband when she married, but hoped he would be generous enough to pass her property to their children, if God so blessed her.
“Oh, Robert, that would be wonderful! I haven’t seen it for five years, though it’s only about fifty miles north. I’ll ask Queen Philippa’s permission to leave Court.”
Robert caught her hand and drew her close. “It will give us a chance to get to know each other more intimately.”
She blushed at his words and glanced up at him to reassure herself that she had nothing to fear from this good-natured, blond giant who was always laughing. He took her by surprise, covering her mouth with his. Brianna did not pull away until his kiss deepened and he began to ravage her mouth. “Robert!” she gasped, “you go too fast.”
At that moment, Lady Elizabeth Grey rounded the corner and almost collided with them. A look of horror came into Elizabeth’s face. Her hands flew to her cheeks, which had turned a flaming red. Then she turned on her heel and ran as if the devil were after her.
“Oh Lord, if she spreads this abroad, I’ll be called on the carpet by Dame Marjorie, and if the queen learns we’ve been kissing in public, she may not let me come to Bedford with you.”
“Elizabeth Grey will keep her mouth shut. She has no room to talk about anyone else’s behavior.”
Brianna cast him a puzzled glance. Why in the world did he insist first Joan and now Elizabeth was immoral? Joan might be flirtatious, but the red-haired Elizabeth wasn’t even that. She supposed he recalled her nervous giggling when Prince Lionel had singled her out for his uncouth attentions. Brianna felt relief when she saw Adele hurrying toward her. She enjoyed Robert’s company more when they were not alone together.
Both King Edward and Warrick had misgivings when their vessel approached the Flemish coast and they saw no sign of ships. It was only when they came up to the massive harbor of Helvoetsluys they glimpsed the forest of masts.
“By the Chalice,” swore Warrick, “my son was right about everything.” He gave the signal for the English bowmen to topple the Genoese from their turrets, and they proceeded to clear the decks with their steel-tipped arrows in preparation for the boarders.
Christian Hawksblood swore an Arabic oath beneath his breath. By firing only a few of the French ships, the entire fleet could have been destroyed, but the vainglorious fools preferred hand-to-hand fighting rather than see the three captured English vessels go up in flames.
The grappling irons were thrown and, swords in hand, King Edward’s warriors swarmed from their own decks to board the French ships. Hawksblood and his two squires fought with sword in one hand and long-knife in the other, dispatching twice as many as the others about them. He saw the king and Warrick taking the leaders prisoner. He cursed again, believing all should die rather than be ransomed to fight another day.
Christian spotted Prince Edward and fought his way to his side. They grinned at each other, unable to speak and be heard over the deafening pandemonium.
For the next two hours they fought shoulder to shoulder with their squires at their backs, and at one point went to the aid of Edmund of Kent. When the battle was about finished and they had won the day, Hawksblood stood transfixed as he watched Warrick order ropes slung over the rigging. Then his father gave the order to hang the French leaders from their own yardarms. Now Christian knew why his enemies called him the Mad Hound.
When the unharmed English vessels were unchained, a great cheer arose from the throats of the English. Admiral Morley and the queen’s knight-errant, Sir Walter Manny, sailed the ships out of the harbor and the king boarded the Edward and stood on the forecastle to acknowledge the hero-worship of his men.
Warrick caught sight of his son and saluted him with his sword. Christian Hawksblood’s feelings for Warrick were slowly undergoing a metamorphosis. His father had put total trust in him to lead them to the French. The sole basis for that trust could only have been the fact that he was his son. He had seen Warrick in action, leading over six thousand men-at-arms, as well as indirectly commanding another four thousand sailors. He now had total respect for Warrick’s leadership and courage. However, he reserved judgment on him as a husband and father.
Hawksblood admired the audacity of retaking their own ships. It was tantamount to thumbing their noses at the French. He bowed his head to his sire in very genuine respect for his leadership. When the gains and losses of the day were tallied, it was estimated that the French must have lost over twenty thousand men, while the English losses were between two and three thousand.
Hawksblood and Ali were kept busy staunching, binding, and sewing wounds on the journey back to England. Hawksblood knew that wounds taken at sea seldom festered, and in fact healed faster. Probably it had something to do with the salt air.
The coast was lined with English waiting to cheer them on their return. It was decided to sail the three recaptured vessels up the Thames estuary, right into the Port of London, and anchor at Tower Wharf. Word of their great victory had spread so that the banks of the great river were packed with what appeared to be the whole populace.
King Edward was well satisfied with the success of the sea campaign. It would give him time to build up his army for the invasion of France. After the battle, King Philip had sent his envoy to offer a one-year truce, but King Edward had demanded the release of his friend William de Montecute before he would parley. He had no intention of waiting a whole year before he invaded France, but perhaps he could deceive the French king long enough to get De Montecute home to Katherine.
The king was both pleased and relieved that the Prince of Wales had emerged uns
cathed from his first military campaign. He now had no worries that Prince Edward would follow in his own footsteps and make a magnificent warrior king, when the time came. He embraced his son warmly. “You are truly my son in every way, Edward. I am more proud of you than of any other achievement.”
“You set such a glorious example, Father. I swear I will never shame you in battle. Christian de Beauchamp fought with a long-knife as well as his sword. I think he should train some of our men-at-arms to fight two-fisted.”
“Warrick and I are indeed blessed when it comes to our sons. I’ll have a word with him. I believe the men of Cornwall are good with knives. We’ll give Hawksblood some men to train, never fear.”
When the ships docked at Tower Wharf the entire Court, as well as most of the citizens of London, came out to give their men a heroes’ welcome. Queen Philippa, Princess Isabel, Princess Joanna, and all their ladies, adorned in their finery, lined the wharf. Prince Lionel and his household, on Robert de Beauchamp’s advice, were turned out in their finest polished armor and plumed helmets, to pay homage to the victors. Both understood they must never reveal the resentment they harbored against the king, the prince, and Warrick.
King Edward greeted Queen Philippa, Princess Isabel, and Princess Joanna with kisses. John of Gaunt, feeling himself too old for kisses, saluted his father and brother with his sword, then pressed his brother Edward with dozens of questions about the fighting.
The queen had brought all the children to London from Windsor on the royal barge, even the new baby, so the citizens cheered themselves hoarse. Princess Isabel and her ladies followed the queen’s lead and congratulated the noble heroes with kisses. She kissed her brother, the Prince of Wales, his squire, who was already a knight, Sir John Chandos, then she moved on down the line anticipating touching her lips to Edmund, Earl of Kent.
Joan began with her brother, kissing him and lightly touching the wound on his forehead. “You were far too handsome anyway, Edmund.”
He laughed with her. “I don’t think the damn thing’s deep enough to leave a scar.” Joan glanced up at the approaching princess. “Jesu, if it does, she will eat you alive!”