Joan was not a deep thinker and Adele wished Brianna were more like her at this moment, for she could tell that Glynis’ words were provoking disturbing thoughts.
“Dreams too can mirror the future, especially a dream at the time of a great storm.”
Brianna shuddered uncontrollably. “Christ, I hope not! Mine was a nightmare, not a dream.”
“Dreams are not literal, my lady. They are highly symbolic. They must be interpreted. Tell me what you dreamed and I will show you its meaning is entirely different from what you fear,” urged Glynis.
“I … I cannot tell you. It was wicked, nay, it was evil,” Brianna admitted, sipping the wine Glynis prescribed.
“Oh, do tell us!” Joan begged.
Glynis added, “By telling us, you will purge it from your mind. It will be cathartic. It will cleanse you, purify you.”
Brianna wished to be free of it, but she should go to confession for absolution. She suddenly realized the subject was too intimate for the confessional booth. She looked at the faces about her. These were her only friends in the world, the only ones who cared about her. She knew whatever she told them would go no further. Even so, she could not bring herself to confess that she had deliberately tried to use the power of her mother’s gray cloak to communicate with her lover. Without her realizing it, the lily of the valley loosened her tongue. “I … I was in a tower chamber built from Bedfordshire stone. Robert was with me.” She blushed. “He was kissing me … I was returning his kisses.”
She stopped. To give her time to pick and choose her words, she finished the cup of wine. “His half brother, Christian Hawksblood, stabbed and killed him.”
Brianna heard Adele’s indrawn breath.
“That’s not the worst part. I was happy when he killed him. I saw blood on my thighs and I was glad!”
Joan’s eyes were wide, her bottom lip caught in pretty white teeth as she listened to the dream.
Glynis asked, “Did the dream involve intercourse?”
Brianna’s cheeks flamed as she recalled the passion of the mating. “Yes … that is, I was about to, but … but I think I fainted before … before …”
“My lady, it is clearly symbolic, as I thought. You were attracted to two brothers and so you dream of them. You felt guilt, so you dream of committing a terrible act that produces guilt. A tower of Bedfordshire stone is naturally your Castle of Bedford, which will go to your husband when you marry. You dreamed about one of them dying because they are both off to war and the fear is there with you every day. Even though you bury that fear, it surfaces in your dreams.”
“What about the blood on her thighs and the intercourse?” Joan whispered.
“That is the core of the dream. That is what is deeply disturbing you, my lady. You fear there will be no blood on your thighs on your wedding night after you and Robert are intimate.”
Brianna sat stunned. She had never given it a thought, but Splendor of God, what would Robert do when he discovered her no virgin? Brianna’s hands covered her burning cheeks. “I’ve been so wanton,” she said wretchedly.
Adele put her arm about her. “Tush! None of us are virgins here. Women have been duping men about maidenheads since the dawn of time.”
Glynis nodded her head. “It only happened recently. You will still be very small. He may not be able to tell, especially if he drinks deep at the wedding.”
“Prick your finger with a rose thorn or your brooch and put some drops of blood on the sheet,” Joan suggested. “There isn’t a man breathing can compete with a woman when it comes to being devious,” she added with pride.
Adele went down before Brianna. “I don’t want you worrying yourself sick about this. ’Tis a trifle! Thank Heaven above that your courses have started and you are not with child. Now that would be something to worry about, my lamb.”
Joan’s lovely brows drew together. Now that she thought about it, it seemed a long time since she had bled. She pushed the frightening thought away and jumped up. “In the morning when the sun comes up, it will banish all tonight’s darklings. The storm will pass, tomorrow will be a glorious day, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”
The four young women smiled at each other as they said their good nights, but alone in their beds later, Joan and Brianna lay wide awake, each far more worried than she had been earlier.
Across the Channel in Crécy, France, the King of England, his marshals, and most of his captains and nobles also lay awake. Some had a fatalistic attitude, knowing they were badly outnumbered, and offered up prayers before they met their Maker.
Both the king’s son and Warrick’s son, however, believed they would win the day. They arose at five in the morning. Hawksblood and Prince Edward’s squire, John Chandos, helped the prince don his armor. He insisted upon wearing his distinctive black chain mail and to go over it he chose a crimson and gold surcoat.
His squire protested, “Your Highness, you will stand out from the others. Every Frenchman will know you on sight and all will lust to take the son of the King of England, dead or alive!”
Prince Edward insisted, “I wish to be recognized! I would despise myself if I feared to be known.”
Hawksblood knew the extent of Edward’s towering pride, for he himself had been blessed, or cursed, with the same self-esteem. The Black Prince went to join the king and the moment he left the tent, Hawksblood too donned black chain mail.
The king wore an equally brilliant azure and gold surcoat and together with his son, mounted on white horses, rode before the assembling ranks. He noted with satisfaction his green-jacketed archers in the front had kept their bows in their cases to keep them dry. Their faces were wreathed with assured smiles, for they, more than any in Edward’s army, knew their deadly power.
In the right division he placed Harcourt, the Black Prince, Warrick and his sons, along with his very best English knights. Under Northampton, a second battalion of two thousand archers and two thousand men-at-arms formed the left flank, covering the ridge. The king himself commanded a third battalion of equal strength, which could be dispatched swiftly to any part of the battlefield where they were needed.
King Edward raised his voice. “The French must travel eighteen miles around yon forest. They will come upon us abruptly and become involved in the conflict before they are ready to fight. There is no room for them to form a battle line.”
A great cheer went up.
King Edward raised his arms and continued, “The larger the French force, the greater their difficulty!”
Another cheer, louder than the first, arose.
“Never forget that one Englishman is worth three Frenchmen!”
The men cheered until they were hoarse. Cries of “Edward and St. George” and “Edward, fils du roi” were deafening, but heartening. Rain began to fall, but none seemed to even notice. King Edward’s flashing smile came to rest upon his son. Suddenly he looked uneasy that the Black Prince was such a recognizable target.
Young Edward ground out, “I care not who comes to me. I’ll give a damn good account of myself. Just remember your promise to me!”
The king grinned broadly. “May the honor of this day be yours!”
The English army heard mass and waited.
At midday, the spotted the enemy. The sky was black, lightning forked the sky, and the rain teemed down. Genoese crossbowmen, weary after tramping eighteen miles through the storm with their heavy equipment, were reluctant to fight that day. The French high command called them Italian scum and scurvy cowards, and the French cavalry forced them across the wet fields until they were in range of the English and Welsh longbows.
Suddenly the rain ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun came out, shining in the faces of the French. As if conjured by a sorcerer’s hand, a flock of black crows rose up and flew cawing over the heads of the French.
It was an omen!
Suddenly, the goose feathers on the English arrows made it seem like a snowstorm had replaced the rain. The breastplate
s of the Genoese bowmen were no protection against the violent power of arrows propelled from longbows. In minutes their ranks were decimated. They turned and fled through the knights behind them.
“Kill me these cowardly rogues,” cried the King of France.
The English were treated to the ghastly spectacle of mounted cavalry destroying their own men with no mercy or concern!
Philip was in a black rage because he had seen the English flag quartered with the lilies of France. He threw caution to the wind and disorder reigned. The French rode onto the plain and up a slope, not only clogged by dead men and horses but slippery with their blood. The road was narrow, like a ramp to a slaughterhouse.
They came, they charged, they died!
But they came in such great numbers, the battle raged on all afternoon. Finally, the furiously attacking French broke through the archers and engaged the English right division. Suddenly, the men fighting about the Black Prince were surrounded.
For Hawksblood everything slowed so that he could focus his concentration upon every danger that threatened him. He knew exactly where to plunge his sword into three vital places unprotected by armor: the throat, the gut, and beneath the raised arm. He gave no thought to his back, for he knew Paddy and Ali protected it well. He clearly saw half a dozen French ride toward the Black Prince.
He knew John Chandos was at Edward’s back, and saw that his brother, Robert de Beauchamp, was beside the prince. Both the prince and Robert would likely die if he did not cut off the Frenchmen’s advance. He swerved his destrier directly into their path. He slew two and knew that Paddy and Ali slew two more. The other two French cavalrymen escaped by changing direction.
A great cry went up behind him and Hawksblood turned in the saddle to see Prince Edward go down. How could that be? It made no sense! Hawksblood was out of the saddle in a flash. He stood over his friend’s body as it lay in the mud, raised broadsword in one hand, battle ax in the other. For one moment he rued the decision to wear black armor identical to Edward’s, for he knew what a target he made, but he firmly set aside regret so that he could glory in becoming the target. He attracted so many of the enemy, there was a sea of blood about him before he was done.
It was a great excuse for Robert de Beauchamp and Sir John Holland to retreat to safer ground. They rode straight to the king. “The Prince of Wales is sorely pressed, Your Highness.” De Beauchamp hoped he was dead, but by seeking aid for the downed prince, he would avoid all suspicion of having a hand in it.
The king looked at Warrick’s son, whom he had knighted beside his own son that first day. Fear gripped the king’s throat. Surely Fate would not take his son’s life this day, yet spare Warrick’s son. “Is he wounded?” demanded the king.
“I know not, Your Highness,” swore De Beauchamp.
Holland had seen him put his sword into the prince’s horse so he would go down, but kept his mouth shut.
King Edward was ready to dig in his spurs to gallop to his son’s rescue. Then he remembered his promise. He did not ever want it said that Prince Edward would have failed if his father had not saved him. “I want him to win his spurs. You, too, must have a chance to acquit yourselves. Go back and aid him!” He was well pleased with these valiant young knights of his.
Hawksblood glanced anxiously to see if any of the blood gushed from Edward. He almost staggered with relief as he saw all the blood upon the Black Prince had come from the mortal wounds of his horse. The prince had merely been stunned in the fall. Now he got to his feet. He had dislocated his left shoulder when his horse fell on him, but he ignored the pain. John Chandos rode to him with a horse, as did Paddy for Hawksblood. The two knights in black mail mounted, grinning from ear to ear, then flung themselves into the thick of the fighting. A picture came fullblown into Christian’s mind of Prince Lionel killing his opponent’s horse in the tournament. He had no proof that Robert had copied Lionel, thrusting his sword into Edward’s horse, only the suspicion of his sixth sense. He tucked it away for future use and got on with the slaughter.
Joan of Kent almost went out of her mind with worry that twenty-sixth day of August. When she arose at dawn, she calculated when her menses should have started and realized that she was almost two months late. She had never once been late in five years, not since the onset of her womanhood at twelve. She had no doubt whatsoever that she was enceinte; her doubts all centered about what she must do about it. She was racked with indecision.
There was only one person on earth she wanted to confide in, but her beloved Edward was across the sea in France, fighting a war. All her thoughts winged to him across the miles, begging him to return to her, begging him to send her an answer to her dilemma. Trying to commune with Edward made matters worse. Suddenly she began to worry about his safety. What if he was killed in battle? The thought was unendurable. If Edward didn’t return to her, she would not want to live either. The morbid thoughts engulfed her. If he died, it would solve the problem of the baby. She would kill herself and the child inside her!
Suddenly Joan began to cry. Then she began to pray. She jumped up and dashed the tears from her face. God was much more likely to listen to her if she went to Windsor’ chapel. She grabbed a head veil, for once not caring if its color enhanced her delicate beauty or matched her pretty gown.
In the chapel, Joan was surprised to see Queen Philippa and half the noble ladies of the Court. She felt ashamed of herself when she learned that they came every day to pray for victory for England and for the safety of King Edward, the Prince of Wales, and all the valiant men who had accompanied them to France. This was the first time she had attended mass, but she promised it would not be her last.
Joan’s cheeks burned hotly as she thought what would happen if they knew the secret she carried. Women were so cruel, especially to one of their own sex who had fallen from grace. The gossipmongers would have a heyday. She already had a reputation for flirtatiousness which she knew she had earned, but she paled to think of what would happen if they scented that she was in trouble. They would descend upon her like a pack of ravenous hounds and rend her to bits.
She sank to her knees and began to pray in earnest. It was to her great credit that she prayed for Edward’s safety and her brother’s for a full thirty minutes before she moved on to her own plight. Like most of her sex, Joan made extravagant promises that she would never again ask for divine help if only the angels would aid her this once. She did not dare to presume to ask for anything specific, like Edward’s marrying her, she only asked that all would turn out well in the end.
After the service she went back to her chambers. She had no intention of attending Dame Marjorie Daw’s incessant lecture today. It wasn’t so much Dragonface she wished to avoid, it was Princess Isabel’s malicious company. The spoiled princess had listened to whispers about Lady Elizabeth Grey and she had withdrawn her friendship immediately, treating her like a leper.
Joan’s burden of worry seemed no lighter after her attendance at mass. She spent the next three hours contemplating abortion. She would have to confide in Glynis, of course, because she herself had no idea what to take or what dosage was safe, if any. To rid herself of the pregnancy would be the simplest solution. That way she wouldn’t have to burden Edward with the problem.
However, abortifacients were highly dangerous. Many women died trying to rid themselves of an unwanted child. If she was being truthful, this baby was not unwanted. It thrilled her to think she carried Edward’s baby beneath her heart. He would have royal blood. How could she destroy the child of a prince? She knew it was wrong to destroy any child, but it seemed doubly wrong to destroy this one. Still, she was prepared to do whatever was necessary to save Edward worries.
If only he would return to Windsor, her problem would be solved. She realized all her worrying, praying, thinking, and plotting had carried her in a circle and she was back where she had begun at dawn, wishing for Prince Edward’s return. Then a frightening thought intruded itself. What if he didn’t return
for a year? She would have to leave Court before she began to show. Where would she go?
Her brother’s town house on Fish Street was not nearly far enough away from Windsor. She would have to go to the family castle in Kent. She couldn’t even picture it. She had been a baby when she left there. Her brother had also inherited Wake Castle in Liddell, wherever that might be. She pushed the thought away. She could not bear to live remote from Prince Edward.
Her heart ached with loneliness. If only she hadn’t destroyed all his love letters. Remembering his words brought her a small measure of comfort, but if she had them to press to her lips and press to her heart, she was sure it would take away the ache. Joan felt utterly isolated and alone. She sat inert, unable to make a decision for herself.
Glynis had been busy in the laundry all day. She had decided to take advantage of the beautiful sunny day to wash everything in Lady Kent’s wardrobe before the cold winds of autumn made such chores unpleasant. Adele joined her and they decided to wash all the bed linen and heavy coverlets as well.
Brianna missed Joan at the midday meal and again at the afternoon session with the princess and Dame Marjorie. Before she went down to the hall for the evening, she went along to Joan’s chambers. She found her friend sitting in the twilight gloom alone.
“Where have you been all day?” Brianna asked with concern.
“I don’t remember,” Joan said vaguely. “I went to the chapel this morning. Did you know that the queen and most of the Court ladies attend mass every day to pray for victory for the king and for their men’s safety?”
“No, I didn’t realize. I’ve been avoiding mass, I suppose. At one point I almost went to confession to unburden myself, but realized I couldn’t expose my shameful secrets. The walls have ears, even the walls of the confessional.”
“Oh, you mustn’t breathe a word to the priests. Only think of poor Elizabeth Grey and how she’s being ostracized!”