One of the scouts they had sent out had just returned, and the leaders hurried to the large war tent they were using as headquarters. The scout, disguised as a Welshman with long mustaches, leather tunic, and bare arms with gold bracelets clasped above his biceps, threw off his sodden, mud-spattered, scarlet cloak and gratefully quaffed a tankard of ale that a quick-witted young squire had poured for him. “My lords,” he said, gasping, as he set the empty vessel down on the large map table, “the army Llewelyn has amassed is larger than we suspected. They have several castles under siege in the southwest.” He looked at William Marshal as he said this, for the southwest was his. “Others dotted throughout the southeast have already fallen. One at Bridgend and one at Mountain Ash, and one—”
“By the breath of God, Mountain Ash is mine!” thundered Falcon de Burgh, his fierce eyes burning holes into the tired messenger. “De Burgh, to me!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The family name was used as a rallying battle cry and his knights responded immediately, running to attend their commander’s call for aid. He quit the tent instantly, waiting to hear no more. He had earned the nickname Prince of Darkness, for when seen in the madness of battle this dark young man resembled the devil himself.
At the sudden departure William Longsword raised his brows and William Marshal answered his unasked question. Chuckling, he said, “By the bones of Christ, our enemy picked on the wrong man to steal from this time. De Burgh has only one castle, and if I know aught he will hold what is his.”
Hubert de Burgh spoke up. “Horses sink exhausted beneath him; when his men beg leave to rest he leaves them in his dust with a snort of contempt. He is a truly stark Norman lord with fire in his belly.”
The Earl of Salisbury, who had only daughters, said to Hubert, “You must be exceeding proud of such a son.”
Hubert shook his head regretfully. “I am not his sire, milord, merely his uncle.”
The war council dragged on until late into the night. One plan of action after another was examined and discarded because of its flaws. The next day saw some agreement among the barons and a plan of action was decided upon. The third day saw the order to strike camp, but not until day four did the large assembly of soldiers put out their last campfires.
The Earl of Salisbury was just about to mount his great destrier when he saw a young knight he thought he recognized. “Aren’t you one of Falcon de Burgh’s men?” he asked, puzzled.
Normand Gervase was amazed that the king’s half brother had just spoken to him. “Aye, milord earl,” he answered guardedly, wondering why he had been singled out.
“Did you not accompany him to Mountain Ash? He rode out of here like the Angel of Death to retake his castle.”
“We are back, milord earl,” Gervase said simply.
“But what of Mountain Ash?” he probed.
“He retook the castle. Discovered treachery from within. The castellan’s head now decorates the portcullis.”
“But there was no time for a siege! How did he retake it?”
“He scaled the walls, milord earl,” Gervase replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The Earl of Salisbury was stunned. “Ask de Burgh if he would speak with me,” he requested.
It was some hours later when Falcon de Burgh, astride his great black destrier, Lightning, rode up beside William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, The earl’s squire dropped behind respectfully to allow the fierce knight access to his lord. William scrutinized de Burgh thoroughly, noting the powerful thighs, the great length of his sword arm, and the ferocity of his dark countenance. Then his eyes narrowed and he came straight to the point without wasting any time on greetings. “Is it true you scaled the walls?”
“They underestimated my anger. They will never make that mistake again,” he said quietly.
“How can you be sure it won’t happen again?” Salisbury asked reasonably.
Falcon de Burgh’s wolf grin flashed and was gone. “I took the new castellan’s son as hostage. He knows if he betrays me I will not hesitate to take the lad’s life.”
William nodded, satisfied. He had taken the measure of the man and liked what he saw. Falcon was a member of the powerful de Burgh family. His great-grandfather had come over with William of Normandy and had conquered Ireland alongside of him. His father had met an untimely death, but his father’s brother was Hubert de Burgh, Marcher Lord of Wales and sheriff of Hereford, Dorset, Somerset, and Berkshire. Falcon’s other uncle, William de Burgh, was the Lord of Connaught and Lord of the Limerick Region, which covered almost a fifth of Ireland.
Finally Salisbury put his thoughts into words. “Is either of your de Burgh uncles your overlord?”
Falcon shook his head. “Nay, milord. I own only one castle yet, but control of this land is absolute. I owe only fealty to the crown.”
“Then I would be honored if you would fight beside me, under my banner.”
Falcon de Burgh answered him without hesitation. “The honor is mine, milord. I will fight beside you, but I will fight under my own banner.”
The Earl of Salisbury took no offense. Young de Burgh was his own man and made no bones about it! Over the next two days and nights Salisbury was able to observe the young knight at close hand. He always wore full armor; it almost made one tired watching him carry all that steel upon his body. Salisbury never saw him sleep. He knew his men by name, not only his knights but his vassals and castellans also. Whenever they made camp he moved about, stopping to speak to his men, to answer their questions, to look at their horses. He even took time to speak to the common men-at-arms so that he knew how much he could count on each man when it came to fighting. He handled his men with total authority, yet with such seeming ease that Salisbury was greatly impressed.
That night while other leaders drank, gambled, and whored, Salisbury joined de Burgh at his campfire. “I think you’ll do a better job than my own captains. If I give you fifty of my knights and a hundred men-at-arms to command, could you handle them as well as your own men?”
“You know I could, milord, or you wouldn’t offer,” Falcon de Burgh said with amusement glittering in his eyes.
“We reach Bridgend tomorrow. They are yours for this first skirmish.”
“I would meet them tonight so I can get to know them and they can learn what to expect from me.”
William groaned. “Tonight? God’s bones, boy, don’t you ever sleep?”
The wolf’s grin appeared. “I can sleep when I’m dead!”
The Anglo-Norman army on the march moved slowly through the April rains that dampened every article of clothing the men wore until their woolens chafed and their chain mail rusted. Their supply wagons and siege engines, brought to batter down walls with large stones shot from mangonels or trenchbuts, bogged down at the most inconvenient times, rubbing the men’s tempers as raw as their arses.
Falcon de Burgh kept his knights so busy they had no time to whine or complain. He took full advantage of the slow-moving army, knowing he could withdraw his men for a couple of days at a time then rejoin the mass. It was early in the morn, the mists still not cleared, when Falcon de Burgh, intent upon taking a castle before the sun set that day, was taken by surprise. The Welsh band hidden in a small copse loosed their arrows upon the enemy. Retreat and cover were not in de Burgh’s vocabulary. His men were under orders to wear their armor and chain mail at all times, so any who disobeyed and were foolish enough to be vulnerable to Welsh bowmen, the best in the world, received no sympathy.
He led the way full gallop into the woods to rout and trample the enemy. The sounds and smells of battle assailed him: arrows whistling through the air then thunking into soft flesh or pinging against metal shields; the hot metallic smell of blood and sweat and vomit and panic. The moans and sobs and screams faded away as the pounding of his own heart in his ears obliterated all else. This early in the day he wielded his sword without effort, for he had been trained to fight from dawn to dusk long after the muscled sword arm was nu
mbed.
He had annihilated a dozen Welshmen, some going beneath his destrier’s hooves to make the ground slick with brains and guts. Lightning, his war-horse, had been trained to be fierce and savage and attack strangers. Falcon glimpsed a leather-tunicked youth fall back from the snarling teeth and rolling wild eyes of his destrier. As the youth hit the hard earth, the impact dislodged his helm and long, black, silken tresses came tumbling down. Falcon was stunned to realize it was a female who was almost beneath Lightning’s hooves. He was off the horse in a flash. He removed a heavy gauntlet and ran his calloused hand over the girl’s strong limbs. She spat into his face. Without hesitation he brought his fist up and rendered her unconscious with the blow. He slung her limp form across his saddle and rejoined the melee.
When the skirmish was over all but half a dozen Welsh were dead or dying, and these they took as hostages along with the girl and a herd of about thirty cattle that had been hidden in the woods.
By the end of the first week Falcon had taken two castles, Skenfrith and Llantilio, and intended to apply to the crown to keep them for himself.
William Marshal’s forces were only awaiting supply wagon reinforcements before they moved on to Pembroke, leaving Salisbury and Hubert de Burgh’s fighting men to take all between.
At last the supply wagons arrived with food and fodder gathered from the marshal’s demesnes of Striguil, Weston, and Badgworth. Supplies were the one big headache for an army on the march, and later that night the atmosphere was almost one of celebration as the leaders relaxed about the warm brazier in Marshal’s tent, enjoying the new supply of ale and a large wheel of cheese his thoughtful wife had included.
“You’re a lucky man, William,” said Salisbury, wiping an appreciative hand across his mouth, “A supportive wife is worth her weight in gold.”
Hubert de Burgh slapped his nephew Falcon heartily on the back. “That’s what I’ve been telling the lad here, and now that he has three castles of his own, he’s going to be hard-pressed to manage without one.”
Falcon grinned. “I’m not sure I want a wife, but I readily admit that I do indeed need one.”
Hubert pressed on, for in his opinion it was time Falcon strengthened the great de Burgh family with his sons. “Warwick’s widow is available, but she’ll be snatched like a ripe plum for the lands she would bring to marriage.”
Falcon de Burgh drew his brows together. “I’d rather win my lands in battle or through service to the crown.”
“That’s to your credit, but don’t turn your nose up at a woman because she comes well dowered,” cautioned Salisbury. “Since I have no male heirs, my two daughters, Ela and Isobel, will inherit. I would prefer a landless knight for a son-in-law who was strong enough to hold what was my daughter’s rather than some titled baron or earl without iron in his gut.”
The men refilled their leather tankards and laughed heartily as they advised young Falcon de Burgh on the fine points to look for in a wife. The list was simple but it was to the point. First and foremost she must be a bearer of strong sons. Second she must be trained from birth as a chatelaine to handle the thousand and one duties required to run many households smoothly and efficiently. And last but certainly not least, she should bring much land, castles, towns, and villages with their knight’s fees, vassals, and peasants.
The talk of women soon had the men’s lust aroused, and one by one they slipped from the tent to ease their loins with the camp followers who were ever present whenever an army was on the march. Hubert de Burgh walked beside Falcon as he sought his own tent. “By God’s glove, boy, I think Salisbury has you in mind for son-in-law. Mayhap you were right to turn up your nose at a countess,” he said, referring to Warwick’s widow.
Falcon shook his head. “I admit to being ambitious, Hubert, but Salisbury is half brother to the king. Don’t you think that’s raising my sights a little too high?”
“De Burgh blood is as good as Plantagenet any day … mayhap better! We’re not tainted with the Plantagenet temper that borders on madness.”
“Are we not, Hubert? I’ve been accused of it often enough,” Falcon said with his wolf’s grin.
“That’s just fire in your belly!” Hubert said with pride.
Gervase hovered about the entrance to de Burgh’s tent with a worried frown between his brows. He said in a low voice, “My lord, one of the hostages begs audience.”
“Tell him no,” de Burgh said shortly.
The squire hesitated. “It is the woman, sir.”
“Tell her no,” Falcon repeated.
Gervase cleared his throat nervously. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer, my lord. She awaits you within.” He felt he must warn his lord further. “Have a care, sir, the Welsh use their women to lure us to our graves.”
Falcon’s dark brow slanted up like a raven’s wing and he let out a yelp of laughter at his squire’s obvious devotion. Then Falcon de Burgh lifted the flap of his pavilion and entered.
Morganna’s eyes widened momentarily as his gigantic shadow loomed across the tent. The candles in metal holders had been lighted and sat atop his war chests, illuminating the interior of the red silken pavilion. Without his helmet Falcon de Burgh had a dark, masculine beauty, but he gave off an unmistakable aura of danger. He swept her with one bold, speculative glance that stripped her of the short leather tunic and golden arm bracelets. He looked directly into the green eyes that slanted above sculpted cheekbones and let the silence stretch out between them until she blurted, “I wished to speak with you.”
“If I’d wished to speak with you,” he said with contempt, “I would have had you summoned.” He was amused to see the anger flare in the green eyes. How easy she was to bait!
“I’ve seen you watching me for days,” she threw at him.
“And I’ve seen you watching me for days … with lust,” he threw back.
She tossed her head and her black hair swung down her back like a silken waterfall. Again the silence stretched out between them. With a shrug of her bared shoulder she turned her back upon him and strolled over to his high map table. There she let her fingers trail across the parchments. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve come for?” she asked archly.
“I know what you’ve come for tonight,” he said, closing the distance between them in three long strides. “You’ve come to be fucked. It is what you want for tomorrow that I’m curious about.” He put two strong hands on her slim hips and lifted her to sit before him on the high table.
Morganna clenched her fists into small iron balls and thumped him upon the chest. His hands closed over hers cruelly and squeezed until she ceased pounding him. She gasped with pain and his mouth came down to thoroughly devour her. Falcon’s strength was like an aphrodisiac to her, and she took his tongue inside her mouth, sucking with all the sensuality he aroused in her.
Falcon glanced ruefully at the bed across the tent and knew they would never make it that far. He opened her legs and pulled her hard against his body as he stepped between. As he tore off her leather tunic, she freed his engorged member from his chausses, one as eager as the other to mate with such new and exciting physical perfection.
He bent his knees slightly and thrust upward into the girl’s body, holding her buttocks firmly in both hands. She writhed upon him in a frenzy. Never before had she been aroused so quickly or so violently. His raw male strength stripped away every inhibition, and as he brought her to shuddering climax she dug her nails into the skin of his shoulders and an eerie wail was torn from her throat.
With her still impaled upon him, he lifted her from the table and strode toward the bed. It was a long time since he had had a woman and he was ready again instantly. He laid her upon the bed and hung over her, taking most of his own weight on his braced forearms. She was small, olive-skinned, and beautifully proportioned. Her hair was as black as his own and her eyes glittered with an animal quality that screamed her sexuality to a male as virile as de Burgh. He took her again swiftly without kisses or lo
ve words, and she was amazed that she reached another climax, this one greater than the first.
He rolled off her, but instead of lying beside her, two strong hands lifted her above him to straddle his muscled thighs. She wished she could dissolve in his arms and fall asleep next to him. Her limbs were turned to water, her eyes half-closed in satiety as a great languor stole over her naked body. He watched her through narrowed eyes. A girl this beautiful would never have escaped the notice of Llewelyn. “Do I make a welcome change from Welsh peasants?” he asked.
“The king himself enjoys my favors,” she said with pride. Her value as a hostage rose considerably as she unwittingly confirmed her status.
“Llewelyn is lord, not king,” he corrected her sharply. She shrugged her supple brown shoulders, not wishing to argue. Since he would not let her sleep, she decided to explore the magnificent warrior’s body beneath her. She ran her palms across the thick slabs of muscle in his chest. The dark mat of hair upon it was crisp to her fingertips. She slid them along the faint outline of his ribs and down across his hard, flat belly. By the time her hands had reached his groin, his shaft was hard again, standing erect, pulsating with blood. She stared in disbelief. Surely he couldn’t take her a third time?
Suddenly her blood was on fire. He must find her very exciting if he were this insatiable. She smiled secretly. She would make him her slave. She arched her body up and impaled herself upon him. Inside her he felt like steel sheathed in silk. She bent forward to taste his mouth and moaned with deepest pleasure as he began to thrust savagely into her.
Hours later, when he lay sated and she curled against him in utter exhaustion, he asked, “What is it you want from me?”