“That, English, is a peregrine falcon, the fastest, finest bird of prey in the world.”
“I hope you both rot in hell,” she shouted, her breasts heaving from her shortness of breath.
“I should teach you to curse in French, it sounds so much more civilized.”
“You? You? Teach me anything? Fais de I’air,” she cried, telling him to get lost.
Again his eyes narrowed, but she ignored the warning. “English, I think I’ll teach you some manners,” he threatened as he took a step toward her.
“Don’t call me that,” she warned. “Pigs can’t teach manners.”
“Someone should have taken you over their knee when you were a child. You shouldn’t speak to your betters in gutter language.”
“Don’t call me that!” she screamed. “You … you Frenchman! You filthy foreigner! You come over here with your superior airs, with your unmitigated gall, and take over. You’re thick as scum on a pond. Don’t ever dare to lay a hand on me, Frenchman—you’re not fit to clean my boots!”
Suddenly he began to laugh at himself. She had exactly the same quality as all the other beautiful things he admired—wild orchids, dragonflies, peregrine falcons—things so exquisite that it was hard to get enough. He had a fascination for wild things; a desire to make a connection with them. He wanted to get close, to touch, to possess. “I’ll stop calling you English if you’ll tell me your name,” he offered. “Go and rot!” she spat.
He shrugged. “I already know much about you.” “In a pig’s eye!” she swore.
“I can see that you are some important man’s fancy piece and that you are far too beautiful for your own good.” As he looked her over, Simon felt his balls tighten and his shaft fill. He had an urge to remove her clothes to see if her body was as exquisite as her face. He knew he could span her waist with his hands. She was so small, in fact, he wondered if she would be able to take his great shaft, which pulsed with desire from just looking at her.
His throat went dry. Somehow the contrast in their size acted like an aphrodisiac on him. His vast experience with women told him that satisfactory coitus could be achieved only if she became fully aroused. Lord God, how pleasurable it would be to bring her to such a peak.
She shrieked with chagrin. “Oh! You are a mountain of conceit. You see yourself as tall, dark, and handsome, but I see you as a monster, a giant, a freak!”
Her mare shied nervously, but before it could bolt Simon grabbed its bridle and thundered, “Stay!” The horse trembled uncontrollably but it obeyed the authority in his voice.
Eleanor blazed angry as fire. “You might intimidate my mare, but you don’t intimidate me!” She recalled that the giant Goliath had been brought down by a stone and looked about her for a missile. She bent to snatch up a rock in each hand, but he clearly saw her intention and clamped his great boot on her long hair, effectively pinning her to the ground.
For a moment she was bereft of speech. Her eyes traveled up the muscled column of his leg that resembled a young oak tree. As he towered above her she realized for the first time the powerful strength he held barely in check. A tendril of fear curled inside her as she took in his height and breadth. He could snuff out her life with his bare hands without even exerting himself. His impossibly broad shoulders strained the fabric of his doublet as he stretched his muscles. She shivered delicately and said in a small, hurt voice, “I cannot believe you would crush my hair beneath your filthy boot.”
He took her shoulders into his powerful hands and dragged her up against the solid wall of his hard body. “I could beat you to a jelly and enjoy every minute of it, English,” he told her with relish. With punishing fingers he wrenched the stones from her grasp and flung them an impossible distance. He turned his black, obsidian eyes upon her and held her mesmerized with his compelling gaze.
How had she ever dared to curse him, to challenge him? she wondered desperately. What a foolish mistake it had been to scratch him and threaten him with stones. His dark, forbidding face promised punishment, and she wondered wildly what in the name of heaven and hell he would do to her.
“I shall soon discover your identity. I shall find out whose mistress you are, and when I do I shall buy you from him.”
He was a madman. “Women cannot be bought and sold,” she whispered.
“Can they not?” He flashed her a look of triumph and withdrew his hands from her.
She took courage the moment he removed his iron grip. She knew she must say something that would allow her to escape. “I am a married woman.” She lifted her chin and gave him a small defiant look. “My husband shall own my heart forever.”
His own heart plummeted at her words. He stiffened and the muscle in his jaw clenched like a lump of iron. She retrieved the little merlin from the ground and led her mare off with the pride of a pantheress.
Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke, had awakened from her trance.
20
A few evenings later Simon de Montfort sat between the king and queen at supper. They had a surprise guest in the person of Robert Grosseteste, the Bishop of Lincoln. His was the largest see in England, comprising Lincoln, Leicester, Buckingham, Bedford, Stow, Northampton, and Oxford. He was an unrelenting critic of the king, and Henry hoped the presence of the Earl of Leicester would divert the bishop’s attention.
Lincoln and Simon de Montfort hit it off amazingly well. Both men had a profound understanding of science. They believed in stern measures for putting an end to rebellion and treachery, and Lincoln had been known to lop off the head of an abbot or prior as he traveled about his monasteries.
He and Simon had been engaged in a two-hour conversation before dinner in which they discovered how much they had in common. The bishop was totally against England sharing revenues with Rome, as was Simon. He also opposed Italian priests in his territory because they couldn’t speak English, which made perfect sense to Simon. This was the bishop who had abolished the Pagan Feast of Fools and put an end to games in churchyards.
Henry was delighted that the bishop befriended de Montfort, but bit his lip in annoyance when Lincoln brought up the reason for his visit the moment they sat down to dine. Simon watched and listened with interest as the stern bishop said bluntly, “Sire, you have put forward the name of John Mansel for prebend of Thane. He is unacceptable. He is nothing more than an acquisitive royal clerk.”
Henry had proposed Mansel because Winchester wanted him in the post. “My dear bishop, he has a natural ability with figures and an affinity for paperwork. I assure you he is an excellent choice.”
“Sire, we need men who put England’s interests before their own, like de Montfort here. Mansel is unacceptable to me.”
“My dear bishop, I am not the only one who thinks he should become prebend of Thane. The members of my council have already approved him.”
“My dear Majesty,” Lincoln said implacably, “if you persist in this, I shall have recourse to excommunication. I may even have to put the royal chapel at Westminster under interdict.”
Henry retreated.
Simon missed nothing.
Lincoln leaned forward and winked broadly at Simon who did a creditable job of masking his amusement. The Bishop of Lincoln had just taught him a valuable lesson in dealing with the king.
The young queen accidentally brushed her hand against Simon’s thigh and murmured an apology. The sidelong look she cast him told him plainly it had not been accidental and that she quite enjoyed pawing him.
Henry turned petulantly away from the bishop and engaged Simon in conversation. “I hope you have found much to amuse you at court. The queen’s ladies will be fighting each other for your favors. Has your fancy fallen upon any one yet?”
Simon shook his head. “I like spirit as well as beauty.”
Henry grinned and looked pointedly at the scratches on Simon’s cheek.
Simon laughed as he fingered the gouge. “A little wench, prideful as a cat, spat and clawed at me.”
“I used to have a siste
r like that. She was a little blackhearted devil, a true imp of satan. I miss her.” Simon asked, “Isabel?”
Henry didn’t understand. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your sister Isabel who married Frederick of Germany?”
“Heavens no, she was a sweet-tempered child. I meant Eleanor. Since William Marshal died the change in her is appalling. She swore a vow of chastity on her husband’s bier and turned into a recluse. I think she’s about to become a nun.”
More conflicting stories about Eleanor Plantagenet, thought Simon. He’d heard her called everything from the Whore of Babylon to a nun. Neither picture appealed much to Simon.
He could no longer ignore the queen’s overtures. “Would you care to dance, your Highness?” Her sensual body language told him she had a more voluptuous nature than King Henry, and he shrewdly speculated about which Gascons received her favors.
The king had asked the war lord to take over training the men in his personal service, and Simon had spent the morning trying to master a weapon that fascinated him, the longbow. He pondered on why it was a more effective weapon in the hands of the Welsh. His idol, Henry II, and Henry’s Norman knights had been experts, and Simon thought it imprudent to allow the weapon to fall from favor. He soon discovered he had a natural ability with the longbow, probably because of the great length of his arms and legs. He could draw the bow with ease and had no trouble hitting his mark. All he had to concentrate upon was improving his speed. He stopped to watch the knights practicing in the quintain yard and shook his head. Their skills with the sword left much room for improvement. Tomorrow he would have them remove their chain mail and padded gambesons. There was nothing like exposed bare flesh to improve a soldier’s agility.
He walked toward the Upper Ward, admiring the older buildings of Windsor that Henry II had designed. From the tail of his eye he saw a small figure walking on the northern terrace and was certain it was the beauty he had encountered in the forest. Without hesitation he followed the dark-haired girl and saw her insert a key into a door and disappear behind a fifteen-foot wail.
Scaling walls wasn’t too much challenge to a six-and-a-half-foot man. He stood atop the stones for a moment scanning the beautiful garden to gauge which place she would choose to sit, then lithely dropped to the lawn and stretched his long legs out before him as he sat down upon a stone bench beside a fountain.
Eleanor’s gown was an acceptable mourning shade of lavender, her hair was severely plaited into knots for the Trinity, chastity, poverty, and obedience. She lifted the trailing frond of a weeping willow and rounded the fountain, then she stiffened with disbelief as she saw a man sprawled before her.
“You!” she cried with dismay. “You bribed the gardener to let you in. You will leave at once. This is my sanctuary.”
“I came over the wall, English,” he said, grinning.
“You lying oaf!” She caught her lip between her teeth, for what she had almost screamed at him was “Balls!” Until their last encounter she hadn’t used such profanity in many years and was determined not to allow him to destroy her dignity again. She clung to her temper, but when she saw how much she amused him she felt it dangerously slipping away.
“How old are you—sixteen, seventeen? Why in the name of heaven do you need a sanctuary?” His laughing black eyes mocked her.
“Because I am in mourning for my husband,” she whispered sadly.
His dark eyes became suspicious. Last time she had told him she was married, now she said she was widowed. Could he believe her? “I’m sorry, English. You don’t seem old enough to be a wife, let alone a widow.”
Her temper snapped. “Don’t call me that, you filthy Frenchman!”
“Supply me with a name and I’ll stop calling you English.”
“Katherine,” she replied, giving him her middle name.
“Kathe,” he murmured, making the name sound like a caress. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Simon de Montfort.”
Her eyes widened. “The war lord?” she asked doubtfully. She had assumed he was one of the queen’s relatives. William had spoken to her of Simon de Montfort, calling him the world’s greatest warrior. Some of her fear departed. If he was the great knight, his code of chivalry would prevent his harming her. “Your reputation as a soldier is clearly undeserved,” she said with contempt. Simon’s eyes widened in turn.
She continued coolly. “You disregard the first rule of battle. If your enemy is superior, avoid her.”
Simon threw back his head and his deep laughter rumbled up from his chest. “You have wit. We shall deal very well together.”
She was alarmed at the noise he was making. Blood of God, no one must ever know she had had a man in her private garden. She said icily, “We? We? Get it through your thick skull there is no ‘we.’ Nor can there ever be a ‘we.’ Now, sir, if you are any sort of a gentleman you will never again violate my solitude.”
“I am no gentleman, as you will soon learn, but then, Kathe my little hellion, you are no lady.” He repeated, “We shall deal very well together.”
“I am a lady,” she insisted passionately. “’tis you who bring out the very worst in me!” Tears gathered in her eyes of sapphire. “The little merlin was a gift from my husband; I cherished her.”
Simon felt a prick of shame. He had noble qualities and usually treated the gentler sex with gallantry. Somehow Kathe had lit a spark deep within him and he knew he wanted to possess her. He thought bleakly of the unpalatable heiress he would likely have to wed. If he could possess this delectable little wench, his days would be filled with laughter and his nights with sensuality.
His fingers flashed like quicksilver to capture a tear from her cheek, then he actually tasted it before he ran across the lawn and vaulted over the wall.
Eleanor sat stunned. She didn’t know which had astonished her the most, his intimate gesture or his athletic ability. What she did know was that her thoughts were in disarray, her temper in chaos, her poise shattered, her tranquility vanished, and her heartbeat accelerated.
* * *
On Fridays the Countess of Pembroke tended the sick at the side of Mother Superior. The head of the Order of St. Bride’s was very pleased with her pupil. She had led her down the path of salvation and knew in her very bones that Eleanor was only a step or two away from taking the veil. She had learned obedience, and her nursing skills with the poor improved every week.
She had even taken to wearing the white habit of a novitiate when they went to tend the sick. Today they went outside the confines of Windsor, down to Thames Street where a peasant woman had reportedly been in labor all night. A small group of mounted knights rode up Thames Street toward the main gateway to Windsor and politely reined in their horses to let the nuns pass.
Simon de Montfort’s mouth gaped open as he saw Kathe, swathed in religious robes, enter the humble home of a peasant. Beside him he saw young Rickard de Burgh frown at him. Something told him Sir Rickard had more than a passing interest in the girl. For the moment he kept silent, but he was determined to get to the bottom of the puzzle.
Inside the small chamber Eleanor helped Mother Superior ease the swollen young woman onto a clean sheet. They heated water and Eleanor bathed the girl who moaned in agony. She was cold and clammy and had a dirty gray pallor from her vigil. Eleanor could see that her strength was spent and that if something was not done immediately, she was going to die.
Mother Superior lifted her rosary and began to pray. Eleanor kept silent for a full minute then said urgently, “Mother, you must do something.”
“I am doing something, my child. I am praying,” she reproved Eleanor solemnly.
“Praying is not enough … we must do something more practical, we must help her.”
Mother Superior was deeply shocked. What on earth had come over her pupil? The passive, malleable girl who had learned meekness and obedience had been replaced by an imperious Plantagenet princess who was practically issuing orders. “All pain, affliction,
and suffering come from God. It is sacrilege to interfere,” she said repressively.
“What rubbish!” Eleanor cried. “Move aside.”
Mother Superior fell back in alarm. She must not lose her hold over the young countess at this late stage.
Eleanor opened the young woman’s thighs to examine her. A doubled-over limb of the child protruded from the cervix and simply wedged there when Eleanor tried to coax it further. Eleanor had attended birthings only since she had visited the sick with the St. Bride’s nuns. Up until this last year she had not even known how children came into the world. Common sense, however, told her that while the birth canal was blocked, nothing would happen other than death for both mother and baby. She washed her hands in the heated water, then began slowly to press and force the doubled limb back inside the mother.
The young woman was almost beyond protest and her color had become an alarming bluish hue. Eleanor’s hands were extremely small and delicate, and she was able to manipulate the child into another position. Suddenly she felt its round head push into her hands. Then the rest of the baby slipped out with a gush of blood and body fluid.
Eleanor wrapped the little bundle tightly in a swaddling blanket and wiped the mucus from its tiny nostrils and mouth. Mother Superior now took over extracting the afterbirth and giving the new mother a restorative herb tea.
Outside in the pale sunshine Mother Superior could see for herself the transformation in Eleanor. It was as if she had awakened from her sleepwalking and her strong will, so long dormant, was reasserting itself.
Eleanor’s usually generous mouth was set in thin disapproving lines, so quickly Mother Superior said, “We must talk. You have questions and differences that must be addressed, my lady.” Mother Superior hid her alarm. Eleanor had been like a ripe damson ready for the plucking; now she was like a young colt that bolts at the sight of the stable door. “Come to the convent with me now.”
Eleanor shook her head. “I shall come this evening when my emotions have had time to settle down.”