Mary-Ann rushed over, the stars in her eyes replaced by tears of sorrow. “Oh, Jasmine, I want to die!”
“Whatever is wrong, Mary-Ann?” she asked urgently.
“I am caught between two loyalties, two loves … I’m being torn apart!” She threw herself onto the bed and sobbed into her pillow.
Jasmine moved to the bed and smoothed the girl’s lovely chestnut hair. Mary-Ann’s muffled voice said, “While I was sneaking up here with Robert, the Sheriff of Nottingham took my father into custody to question him of the identity and whereabouts of the outlaw Robin Hood, because he had been seen on numerous occasions near our manor of Malaset. My father managed to convince the sheriff he knew nothing and had been with the king’s court in London these past weeks, and so he was released. But of course my father knows his identity, knows that it is the former Lord Huntingdon who was courting me. Jasmine, I cannot go to meet Robert tomorrow because we are probably being watched. The sheriff wants to be able to deliver Robin’s head on a platter to King John.”
“I will go tomorrow,” Jasmine said with quiet resolution. “I will warn him.”
“Oh, Jasmine, what if you are caught? What if you are tortured? I cannot ask it of you!”
“Rubbish! Get up off that bed and do something about those red-rimmed eyes. One look at you and they will read guilt and despair writ plainly on your face. You must be merry tonight at this feast. Mask your fears and think of celebrating your little cousin Matilda’s birthday. I will brew you a posset that will make you carefree.” Jasmine’s mind leaped apace with her nerves. She knew her talents would be on display this night when she read the queen’s cards. One missed step, one tiny miscalculation as she diced with danger could jeopardize her own future.
The vast dining hall with its open fireplaces had big square candles known as quarions held in iron brackets along the walls. As well there were hundreds of wax tapers in iron candelabrums hanging from the ceiling. The serving people were staggering about under heavily laden platters, dodging cuffs from the guests who were trying to keep food splatters from their best clothes.
Jasmine wore one of her new gowns her father had provided for her stay at court. It was made from the softest lambswool in a shade of pale lavender. It clung to the curves of her figure, outlining and emphasizing breasts, waist, and hips, then fell in full folds to the floor. A silver-gilt girdle went about the waist, crisscrossed at the back and tied again at the front just above her pubic bone. Unknown to Jasmine, the glittering V attracted every eye. She was partnered by Dame Estelle who was adorned in her cabalistic robes. That attire set her apart and above everyone gathered. Jasmine saw coming toward them an extremely tall, thin figure adorned in skullcap and flowing gray robes. His beard and bushy eyebrows were the same gray color. He looked exactly as she imagined Merlin would look had he sprung from the mists of Avalon. His nose was long and sharp and turned slightly to one side as if he had used it unwisely.
Estelle had been watching him for some time holding court beside King John and Queen Isabella. Around had clustered a dozen ambitious courtiers, wrapping their tongues about shameless compliments like ass-licking parasites. A feeling of exhilaration coursed through Estelle as she anticipated firing the first shot in a long, cruel campaign that would establish the pecking order of the purveyors of magic to their majesties.
The Countess of Nottingham said, “I must introduce you to Orion, the king’s astrologer and a known wizard of renown.”
Orion looked down at Estelle and said from his great height, “I hear you dabble in the occult?”
It was meant to be a sneering putdown, but Estelle laughed and in a loud, carrying voice, said, “Orion? Orion? More likely O’Ryan from the sound of that common Irish brogue!” All those present at the opening skirmish agreed that Dame Winwood had won the first round.
Jasmine and Estelle moved forward to make their obeisance to the royal couple. Isabella eyed the pale lavender gown with envy, but she knew it would have done nothing to enhance her own beauty. She had chosen royal purple to show off her dark, vivid coloring, and for adornment had chosen a diamond and amethyst necklace to attract every eye since she was still too young to have anything but the slightest breasts. John also ogled Jasmine, his eyes bulging almost as much as his codpiece. He was annoyed that the old woman watched her so vigilantly, her hooded shrewd eyes reading his every thought. He asked sarcastically, “Are you two joined at the hip?”
Estelle’s quick tongue was more than a match for him. “No, I am connected to her by blood alone, as are you, your majesty,” she said to shame him for lusting for his brother’s child.
“Are the pasteboards ready?” asked Isabella, her eyes glittering with anticipation.
Jasmine nodded. “Yes, your majesty. The paint is drying on the last card.”
“Excellent. You can be part of the entertainment. After dinner Orion is going to perform some wizard’s tricks for our amusement, then you may read my cards to climax the evening. Orion has declined to read horoscopes.” Isabella licked her lips in excitement as a child would do. “Would you like to entertain us instead, Dame Winwood?”
Estelle drew herself up to her full five feet, which on her was intimidating and menacing. Her haughty look quelled the queen as effectively as she could subdue a village maid. “I never abuse my special power by using it to entertain. I am an adept, not a charlatan with a bag of tricks.” She swept past, taking Jasmine along with her. “A bitch doesn’t stand a chance against a witch, remember that, Jasmine.”
Above the heads of the crowd in the minstrel’s gallery Falcon de Burgh stood where he could observe the whole panoply without being seen. His squire Gervase had reported that he had seen a man climb from the window of Jasmine’s chamber just after dawn. When pressed to describe him, Gervase had compounded de Burgh’s jealousy by saying he was well muscled and lithe as a panther.
Falcon didn’t believe she had a lover, but the hall boasted a dozen men at least who fancied themselves in that role, from the king down … or up, depending on your opinion of the monarch. His eyes narrowed as he saw the Earl of Chester greet the king. The physical contrast between the two men was marked. Chester was tall, stark, graceless while the king was short, flamboyant, always laughing over some crudity while the jewels on his fingers flashed as his hands gesticulated. Yet the two men had a great deal in common. Both loved power and wealth and cared not a fiddler’s fart how they came by either. De Burgh admitted to himself that it was a Norman trait; he was power-hungry himself, but the difference was honor. Some men were honorable and some men were not. Why couldn’t the crown go to the most honorable man in the realm? he mused. Like William Marshal? Now there would be a king! Instead, England was ruled by a pricklouse—an insane pricklouse, to boot.
His eye caught sight of the most mercenary of the king’s mercenaries, Falkes de Bréauté. Falkes was a captain like himself, a hardbitten soldier who was a savage fighter, who neither gave nor asked for mercy for himself or the men whom he led. He too was cursed with the Norman ambition for power and money, and by the looks of it he was halfway home to filling a dead man’s bed. He had his arm about the widow of the Earl of Devon, who held castles all through the Midlands. She rubbed herself against Falkes like a bitch in heat. Christ, women were faithless! De Burgh mocked himself for the thousandth time that his heart was ruling his head in his choice of women. Before his eyes was an example of how an ambitious man could feather his nest and get his acquisitive Norman fingers on castles and land. All he had to do in return was marry an old earl’s widow and screw her brains out!
The instant he saw Jasmine his breath caught in his throat. She was utterly lovely, without flaw. The unique pale-gold hair set her apart from other women. She was like a vision, a princess from some mythic tale. Delicate, ethereal, desirable. Splendor of God … what the hell was she wearing? Her gown clung so lovingly to the curves of her body, she might as well be naked, and what was worse she actually wore some sort of gilt girdle that outline
d her mound of Venus, framing it, emphasizing it. By Christ, if this was meant for some lover’s eyes, he’d thwart her plans instantly, and tonight if the lithe panther returned, he’d find himself dead meat—skewered on de Burgh’s longsword.
Falcon left the gallery and sought her immediately. His methods had always been direct. He stopped directly in front of her, his wide shoulders effectively blocking out the rest of the room. His green eyes swept down her body in disbelief, then he looked directly into her eyes and asked grimly, “What the hell is this display in aid of?”
She refused to answer when spoken to in such a fashion.
“Well, is this a dumb show; are you deaf?”
“I am neither deaf nor dumb, milord, I simply do not understand what you mean,” she said in a cool, controlled voice.
“You are a little liar. You understand exactly what I mean. Your gown and girdle were designed with one purpose in mind. It was meant to arouse a man’s lust. You will go upstairs and change into another and you will never wear it again except in the boudoir for me alone!”
She gasped in outrage at his autocratic commands. As always, she was more than prepared to accept the gauntlet. “Issue me no orders, Lord Dogdung, I’m in no mood to obey them!”
“Mood or no mood, madame, you will change that gown,” he said grimly.
“I will not!” she said, emphasizing each word of defiance. Then she deliberately spun about to walk away from him. With horrified dismay she felt the material of the gown being torn from her body. She looked down in disbelief and saw that he had merely placed one great boot on the hem of the delicate cloth and allowed her to do the rest. The gown was rent from armpit to hip and she desperately sought to cover her dishabille.
“I warned you … you heeded me not. Go and change into something that makes you look more like a maiden and less like a strumpet.”
Her eyes blazed their anger. She wanted to scream, Go to hell, de Burgh, but her revenge would be more subtle. She gathered the torn material in one hand and walked away from him, her small steps sure as a prideful cat.
Chapter 17
In her chamber she knew exactly where to lay her hands on a gown that really was outrageous. She had set it aside when she had unpacked, thinking it could not be worn, for it was only one piece of a two-piece outfit. It was an underdress of white silk; the red velvet tunic that went over it had somehow not been packed. The silk was so fine it was almost transparent, and if observed closely the flesh of her limbs could be discerned. She twisted the gilt girdle about her torso in exactly the same way it had been tied before, making a V of gold that pointed to her mound of Venus.
She had done this thing, but now that she had returned to the hall she was afraid of the consequences. She had been determined to defy him, and yet in the end the fact remained that he had made her change her gown. He was perfectly capable of carrying her kicking and screaming from the hall. She must circumvent him from another confrontation.
Dinner was about to be served and the king and queen climbed to the dais. Jasmine quickly chose a seat directly in front of the dais in full view of their majesties. Even de Burgh would be loathe to make a scene where every word would be overheard. She had no doubt that he would be enraged with her, but he would have to wait for a private moment after the dinner and the entertainments, and that would be hours away.
She glanced across the table and was amused to see Estelle sitting between the Countess of Devon and the Countess of Warwick. Both were widows but were soliciting Estelle’s help for opposite problems. The king had dug up a husband for Warwick’s widow named Geoffrey de Serland of Lincoln. Her first marriage had been arranged, and she had had no say in the matter. True, Warwick had left her a wealthy widow, but this time she wanted a husband of her own choice, someone she could enjoy in and out of bed. She’d heard rumors that de Serland enjoyed an occasional boy and the very thought of it made her flesh creep.
Devon’s widow, on the other hand, had had her eyes and other intimate parts on Falkes de Bréauté. She knew he was ambitious enough to covet the castles and land Devon had left her, but she didn’t think the mercenary captain had enough money to pay John the high price he would set for her.
For Estelle the two problems were simply solved. All the Countess of Warwick had to do was offer John a thousand pounds and a dozen or so of the famous Warwick white stallions to allow her to refuse Geoffrey de Serland, then she could take her sweet time in choosing her own mate. The Countess of Devon simply had to give Falkes de Bréauté enough money to buy her. However, Estelle would not dispense the wise advice until she had extracted a generous fee from each woman.
Ranulf, Earl of Chester, sat on the dais at John’s right hand. The two men were thick as thieves. For ten full minutes Ranulf hadn’t lifted his eyes from the vision who sat down directly in front of the dais. Finally he turned to John and said, “Your brother’s daughter is a very desirable piece. How much will you take for her?”
Inwardly John was frustrated. If he couldn’t have her, he was damned if he wanted Chester between her legs. He temporized. “Do you mean one fuck or had you something more permanent in mind?”
The pockmarks on Chester’s cheek whitened slightly at the crude remark. “I have marriage in mind. I would have spoken to Salisbury, but he’d just betrothed her to young de Burgh.”
The workings of John’s mind were so convoluted that he was immediately at war with himself. Obviously Chester was ensnared enough to pay any price. John coveted the girl himself, yet his palm itched for the riches Chester could pour into it. Then his mind walked down another path and he knew he could have both. He’d make a secret pact with Chester. Implicit in the deal, however, would be that once she was a wife and no longer under his brother’s authority, he would be free to enjoy her sexual favors.
Toward the end of the meal, the comfits were passed round and fresh hogsheads of wine and ale were rolled in for the fun part of the evening. Isabella clapped her hands in excitement as Orion stepped to the center of the hall. An accomplished magician, he plucked a rose from thin air and, with a flourish, presented it to the queen. Then he walked along the row of diners at the front table and seemingly pulled brilliant silk veils from the left ear of every person at the table. The astonished antics of those who had imbibed too much added to the laughter and enjoyment of the room at large, and suddenly each victim Orion chose for his next magic trick became the butt of the jokes of his fellow diners. Amid oohs and aahs, Orion lifted his arms high and a white, fan-tailed dove flew from each upraised hand into the rafters above.
John leaned across Isabella to question their host, Nottingham. “Don’t you have any of those dancing girls who walk on their hands and show off their legs?” he asked restlessly.
Nottingham shot an embarrassed look at the queen and apologized for the lack.
Next came the trick where Orion turned objects to stone. Isabella had been anticipating this for days, ever since she heard he could perform such feats of magic. He asked his audience to give him objects they carried on their person and he would turn them to solid stone before their eyes. Dozens of hands held out a variety of objects. One by one he selected a ring, a knife, a goblet, even a shoe as he intoned an incantation: “By all the might of Moon and Sun, cast the spell and it is done!” He then handed back a stone ring, a stone knife, a stone goblet, and a stone shoe.
The audience was spellbound. Jasmine’s eyes were filled with wonder as the spoon she had given Orion was handed back to her turned to stone. “Isn’t it amazing?” she said to the table at large.
Estelle sniffed loudly. “There is a limestone cave just a few miles off, this side of Sheffield. People leave objects inside the cave and the walls and ceiling drip, drip constantly with limestone, which coats all the objects. Orion, or O’Ryan as I call him, simply took the spoon you gave him and switched it for one he retrieved from the cave!”
The Countess of Warwick laughed richly. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. You’
ll notice he only picks very common objects that are certain to be handed to him. Demand he turn something unique into stone and he’ll be stumped. The King’s crown,” Estelle suggested in a loud, carrying voice.
Orion cast her a look of malice while pretending not to have heard the suggestion. Now the audience was in stitches as others took up the cry, “My wife’s mother,” and from the back of the hall, “My husband’s tool!”
As he heard the tone of the group degenerate, which it always did sooner or later when the ale and wine flowed, Orion held up his hands to quiet them. When he had their attention he said, “If you wish me to turn your stone objects back, simply bring them to me and I will give the counterspell.”
Estelle mocked, “By the power of Land and Sea, as I will, so will it be!”
The Countess of Devon said, “Estelle, stop before I pee myself!”
Isabella, childlike, had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She stood now and the diners quieted to catch what she said. “Jasmine of Salisbury is going to read my tarot cards now, which will fascinate all the ladies. I give my permission for the gentlemen to play dice or other games more suited to their tastes.”
Many of the men in the hall rose and stretched and refilled their goblets preparatory to an hour’s gambling— all the men with the exception of King John and the Earl of Chester.
John jumped down from the dais and took Jasmine by the hand. He led her to Chester, lifted her in his arms, and handed her up to Ranulf’s waiting arms. “Priceless!” John said with a wink.
Ranulf grimaced. “Not to the wealthiest man in England,” he said with meaning.
De Burgh ground his teeth in mute rage as they handled his betrothed. Jasmine had exchanged one provocative gown for another simply to inflame his temper—at least he hoped her defiant action had been done with him in mind. His dark brows drew together in a frown as he recalled the man who had scaled walls for her before dawn. He glared down the hall. At least one thing was certain, it hadn’t been Chester. Though the earl was undoubtedly strong, his arms and legs were overlong and lanky; he could never be described as lithe as a panther in a million years. Falcon’s ears picked up snatches of conversation from his own knights, from nobles who had traveled to get here, and from Ralph Murdach, the Sheriff of Nottingham, who was weary from listening to complaints. All the talk, it seemed, was centered on an outlaw in these parts who had taken over the forests. Men were flocking to him by the hundreds, according to rumor, and even though there was a price on his head, none would turn him in to the king’s bailiff. Falcon heard Murdach excusing his inadequacies as sheriff for the tenth time at least. “My men are outnumbered. I intend to petition the king for more men to rid the forests of this scourge.”