The moment she saw William. Eleanor came down the room to meet him. She could not let the events of the night spoil things between them. She loved him with all her heart, and he must be most fond of her to have generously deeded Odiham manor house to her. He would not allow her to curtsy to him, and when she raised her dark lashes he saw there would be no awkwardness between them.
“You haven’t forgotten your promise to teach me how to hold court, my lord?”
He smiled down at her. “It is a pleasure to have such an eager and intelligent pupil. I pledge that I shall never forget a promise to you.”
Eleanor’s heart soared. She was the luckiest lady in the world to have William Marshal for husband.
7
Llewellyn, self-styled King of Wales, looked down from the lofty heights of his impenetrable stronghold on Mount Snowden and saw that Hubert de Burgh was building a formidable fortress at Montgomery. He knew how the de Burghs’ had conquered half of Ireland, and he swore the avaricious Norman bastards wouldn’t do the same to Wales. Hubert de Burgh already had more castles than flies on a dog turd and Montgomery stuck in Llewellyn’s craw. He was damned if he would swallow the insult.
He began to incite his people to rebellion. The men who ruled England began immediate preparations for war. King Henry couldn’t wait to get his first taste of battle. His wedding plans were pushed to the back of his mind in his excitement to take up arms and teach the uncivilized Welsh a lesson.
Richard came home from Gascony bringing his fighting men. The Gascons had proved impossible to control; the counts and viscounts of each region were bitterly contentious. They burned towns and ravaged the countryside, and Richard’s meager resources were not strong enough to keep the rampaging nobles in order. Richard had fought beside Hubert de Burgh before and relished the idea of a full-scale war. As well, it would keep him from the temptation of Isabella Marshal de Clare.
Thoughts of Eleanor were erased from William’s mind as well. This is what men were born for, to fight, to kill, to hold what was theirs. The importance of women was insignificant when compared to that of glorious war. A few barons who held castles in Wales joined the fray, but a great many of them, envious of Hubert de Burgh’s power and wealth, refused to spend their money or risk their men.
The aging Earl of Chester owned lands not only in Wales but also in so many counties of England that he could quickly gather a great army of men. He finally came forward to pay the enormous fee for confirmation of his lands and titles, and Henry welcomed him with open arms.
On the eve of his departure for Wales, Rickard de Burgh took quill in hand and wrote to his parents in Ireland.
Once again Llewellyn is inciting his people to rebellion. We march our men into Wales at dawn to snuff out the flame before the whole land ignites into an inferno of burning destruction. Uncle Hubert inadvertently set the spark by building a fortress at Montgomery, which as you know lies at the foot of Llewellyn’s hallowed Mount Snowden.
I am surprised at the jealous envy the barons are openly displaying against Hubert. Since there is naught they can do about his wealth, they are doing their best to undermine his power. I suppose it is human nature to covet and hate one who has risen so high who was not born into the nobility. I must own, however, that Hubert is guilty of flaunting his wealth to a marked degree, seemingly oblivious of the gathering storm of grumblings against him, which grows ever louder.
You would not believe the high state in which he dwells at the Tower of London. He lives on a far grander scale than the king; his entourage of sycophants, body servants, musicians, scriveners, almoners, and confessors almost outnumbers his knights and men-at-arms. His vanity has grown apace with his girth, and he rides forth in polished chain mail and bright silk scarves. He owns so many castles he has lost count, and wherever his household travels they can repair by nightfall to his own lodgings. All his business is carried out by Stephen Segrave who is ambitious and without many scruples.
For his daughter Megotta’s fifth birthday, Hubert gave her five manors in Sussex, Leicestershire, and Lincolnshire. He employs great armies of men, stewards, seneschels, yeomen of the ewaries, larderers, cooks, grooms, blacksmiths, carpenters, and villeins to till the soil, all wearing the iron badge of de Burgh about their necks. The number of armorers alone necessary to cover the backs of his men-at-arms and forge steel chausses, shields, prick-spurs, and two-edged swords is legion. A feeling of dread for Hubert nags at me. I hope I have not inherited mother’s second sight. She calls it a gift, but I consider it a curse.
My own lord, William of Pembroke, probably commands more knights and men-at-arms, and is doubtless wealthier in estates, yet he does all unobtrusively and makes few enemies. I thank God you had the foresight to urge us to his service. He is a Spartan man with the tastes of a soldier. He made me castellan of Odiham whenever Lady Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke, is in residence. I regret to say they still live entirely separate because of her tender years, but she is a beautiful lady and I much doubt me if he will be able to resist her charms much longer.
When we return from Wales the royal wedding will take place immediately. It is too bad you cannot talk Mother into coming for the great celebration and for the bride’s coronation; after all, she is King Henry’s cousin.
I write also for Mick. When he dips his quill, it is not in ink, I assure you.
The devastator of England swept down from his fastness with fire and sword, his battle helmet crested with a fierce wolf. It took all the armies of King Henry, William Marshal, Hubert de Burgh, and Ranulf of Chester three long months of hard fighting to quell the uprising that had spread like wildfire. William Marshal’s vast storehouses from Chepstowe to Pembroke were emptied to victual the entire army before Llewellyn was brought low enough to beg for terms.
Richard of Cornwall and the marshal were thrown together in battle frequently. At first they were not on speaking terms, but grudgingly William was forced to admit that Richard was a brilliant strategist as well as a brave and valiant knight. He took his hand in a renewed pledge of friendship and hoped that Fate would arrange the future to someday make them brothers-in-law.
All had conspired to keep young King Henry out of the fray, but when it came time to negotiate terms of peace, Henry insisted upon riding out with the Marshal of England. William was appalled at how easily the crafty Llewellyn manipulated his young monarch, but he kept a wise silence. In exchange for a yearly gift of goshawks, falcons, and Welsh bowmen, Henry agreed to make Hubert de Burgh raze his castle at Montgomery.
When King Henry arrived back at Westminster, the business of England, neglected for three months, threatened to overwhelm him. He ignored the scores of petitioners and complainants clogging the halls, declaring that the only important matter he would attend to was his wedding. He made one exception, however. Simon de Montfort, younger son of the Sovereign Prince of Southern France, demanded an audience. The de Montfort men were reputed to be the greatest warriors on the whole continent. They were war lords who had fought on Crusades, conquered the country of Toulouse, and were a continual threat to Louis of France.
Henry was closeted in his office behind the exchequer, issuing orders to his chamberlain in charge of ceremonial matters. “I want the streets of London cleaned up, aye, and its moral tone. Get rid of the whores, stop the drinking and loose living. Forbid games in the churchyards. I want cressets of oil placed at every street corner for illumination.”
The chamberlain was nodding, but he wondered where he would get the money for all this. Richard of Cornwall walked into the office to interrupt them.
“Henry, are you aware that Simon de Montfort has been cooling his heels for two days, waiting to see you?”
“The war lord?” asked Henry, not able to conceal the awe the very name de Montfort inspired. He turned to the chancellor. “Find him and usher him in immediately.”
“Nay, Henry,” Richard protested, “let’s not receive him in this dark cubbyhole you call an office. He’s desce
nded from the great Robert of Leicester. He has more Anglo-Norman blood than we have, for Christ’s sake.”
“The throne room?” Henry suggested.
Richard shook his head decisively. “Invite him to your private apartment. He’s kin to us. We want to extend the hand of friendship … he would make a deadly enemy.” Richard instructed the chamberlain and added, “See that the steward attends us to offer hospitality and provide refreshment.”
When Simon de Montfort entered Henry’s apartment, the king’s mouth literally gaped open. The war lord was the largest man he had ever seen. His actual height was six feet four inches, but when anyone described him they invariably said he was six-and-a-half-feet tall. His torso was so well muscled his clothes could do naught to disguise his magnificent physique. He had the dark beauty of the Southern French and his eyes were a magnetic, jet black.
Richard’s eyes held only admiration, while Henry’s flickered with fear. The war lord had come armed into the king’s presence because none had had courage enough to ask for his weapons. It was only when Simon de Montfort smiled and held out a massive arm that they realized he was a young man, not much older than the king.
His voice was deep-timbered as it rumbled up from his massive chest. “Congratulations, sire, I hear you are just returned from a successful campaign in Wales.” Simon had shrewdly guessed the weaker of the two brothers was the king.
Henry laughed nervously, flattered to receive a compliment from the champion warrior. “If I’d had a sword like yours, my lord, I might have vanquished the foe sooner.”
Simon immediately unbuckled the double-edged weapon and presented it to Henry. Not wishing to slight the Duke of Cornwall, he untied the knife strapped to his thigh. It was no jewel-encrusted showpiece, but a deadly dagger, ten inches in length, its handle lovingly bound in leather so that when gripped by a strong palm it became an extension of the hand that wielded it. As they drew the weapons from their sheaths, all three men shared a moment of zeal that only glorious battle could generate. They tasted bloodlust on their tongues and experienced such a rush in their veins they all three became sexually aroused. The young men laughed because they knew their momentary reaction was mutually shared.
Simon did not wait for the king to address him. “I am here to offer you my services.”
“You would swear fealty to me?” Henry asked in disbelief.
“What do you seek in return?” a more astute Richard asked.
“Only that which is mine by right,” Simon said in an implacable voice. “My family came with the Norman conquerors and fought at Hastings. My grandsire wed an English heiress and became the Earl of Leicester. When your father lost Normandy to France, it became necessary for my father to choose which king and country to serve. When he elected to serve France, King John confiscated all his lands and honors in England and put these estates and the earldom of Leicester in the hands of Ranulf of Chester to be held in trust for us. You have just reconfirmed Chester with my earldom, and I am here to formally protest it.”
Richard was well versed in the ancestry of the Norman nobility. “I agree the earldom of Leicester belongs to Simon de Montfort, but that is your father, I believe.”
“My father was killed in battle wiping out the Albigenses from Toulouse. My elder brother has just been appointed Constable of France. Since I do not wish to spend the rest of my life at my brother’s throat, we came to an agreement. I renounced all claim to the continental possessions of the family in exchange for whatever I could salvage in England.”
The Plantagenets could only admire his blunt honesty. He did not dissemble, but asked outright for what he wanted.
“And if you do not get what you want by asking?” Richard inquired.
A wolfish grin spread across Simon’s face. Henry interpreted. “You take it.”
“I am a soldier of fortune. I stand before you without money, land, or title. What I do have is ambition—and I am in a hurry,” he added with a disarming smile.
The steward came in accompanied by two servants laboring under trays of food. Richard was thankful the man had sense enough to order something substantial, for their guest must surely have an enormous appetite. Simon accepted their hospitality and the three were seated at a table laden with meat and game, accompanied by fresh baked loaves and tankards of good English ale.
“If it was in my power I would restore your earldom today, but it is not so simple,” explained the king. “Chester wields enormous power. I cannot offend him by demanding back your lands and title, at least not yet. But Ranulf of Chester is no longer a young man. When he dies, I will see that what is yours reverts to you. I’m sorry it seems so hopeless.”
Simon quaffed his ale, seemingly unperturbed.
“Why do you prefer England to France?” Richard asked baldly.
“I always felt my father chose the wrong country and I am obsessed with the notion of regaining all that he lost.” He looked into the eyes of both men. “You must be obsessed by a similar curse.”
All their lives they had been ashamed of what their father had lost, and in that moment the secret ambition to regain Normandy and Aquitaine burst into flame. Their victory in Wales had made Henry turn his eyes upon France, but Hubert de Burgh and the Marshal of England were totally against war.
Simon confessed, “Your grandsire, Henry II, served as my role model. He was a mere count, but his ambition rode him relentlessly until he became not only King of England, but ruler of Normandy, the Angevin provinces, and the fair Aquitaine. Although I admire the way he took whatever he wanted, his real genius lay in ruling. He was the great lawmaker. His vision was crystal clear. He transformed the whole judicial system from the superstition and corruption of the dark ages.” He paused, then laughed. “Forgive me, when I get on the subject of Henry II I get carried away.”
“I’ll arrange a pension of four hundred marks if you enter royal service,” Henry offered.
Simon almost choked on his disappointment, but had enough common sense to accept the king’s offer. He would make his own success. “I command a hundred knights—I shall send for them at once.”
“Hold, the Count of Brittany has declared war on France and has asked for my help. Since your men are yet on the continent, I will send you. Because de Burgh and Marshal are against fighting in France, I was going to refuse aid to Brittany. Now by a stroke of good fortune you have provided me with the means of joining the fray. I’ll give you messages for the count.”
Henry had taken fire with the idea and looked to his brother for his support.
“If we are going to do it,” Richard said, nodding in agreement, “now is the time, while there is so much unrest in France.” Richard could be cool, calculating, and close-mouthed, but silently he recognized before him the perfect man to control Gascony. Simon de Montfort’s father had been known as the Scourge. When the war lords descended upon a region, they soon cured its dissension with severe medicine. Their methods might be stern, relentless, even cruel, but they were amazingly effective. Yes, thought Richard, we have much need of a warrior such as Simon de Montfort.
“I’ll order Hubert de Burgh to raise an army whether he likes it or not,” Henry said firmly.
“I’ll rally the barons if you’ll give me command of them,” Richard suggested, with the arrogant confidence of youth.
Simon de Montfort recognized immediately that the King of England was easily led and recklessly impulsive. A war against France to regain Normandy could never succeed unless it was meticulously planned and mounted on a full scale. Simon shrugged. He would wrest personal victory from this campaign regardless of its outcome for Henry III.
8
La Belle, Eleanor of Provence, landed at Dover with a great train of knights and servants. They had only the clothes on their backs, and even Eleanor’s trousseau consisted of gowns made over from her mother and sisters. And yet the lowliest of these Provençals with patched elbows arrived with such a superior attitude they sneered at everything English
from the weather to the culture, or lack of it, as they never tired of pointing out.
Henry rushed to Dover to escort his bride the fifteen miles to Canterbury where they were to be married immediately by the archbishop. The king was enthralled by her ivory skin and dark golden hair. Plantagenets never did things by half, and so completely in character, Henry fell wholly in love with the sophisticated beauty who set about to enslave him and hold him prisoner for the rest of his life.
Though the Provençal court was poor, it was the center of European culture, literature, and music. Eleanor had her own Court of Honor for troubadors and a Court of Love for her knights, and the entire cavalcade was boistrously noisy and rang with youthful laughter.
Henry and his court had never seen anything quite like it. It seemed their reason for living was to extract the last drop of pleasure from each day and then begin afresh after dark with all the tempting pleasures of the night.
Eleanor, Countess of Pembroke, was excited. She loved the pomp and pageantry of the royal court of England, and this was the first royal wedding she had ever attended. It was the first ceremonial occasion where she had appeared in public as the Countess of Pembroke, and she fervently hoped it would convince her husband to think of her as a woman.
The Marshal of England rode ahead of her on a massive gelding he used for ceremonial occasions. She followed mounted upon her new white palfrey, flanked by Sir Michael and Sir Rickard de Burgh. All wore white capes bearing the marshal’s device of the resplendent Red Lion Rampant.