Emerald Prince (3 page)

“No, Your Grace, the gown you sent was beautiful, but I must honor my husband. I am in mourning still.”

“
Late
husband,” the King reminded her as he offered his arm in escort. She had no choice but to accept. Alianor looked down, away from his keen gaze and glimpsed the bejeweled heels he wore. They struck her as ridiculous, and she bit her lower lip to still a nervous giggle. Tonight, her nerves were as brittle as the air outside.

Curious stragglers watched as they strolled into the royal gardens and out of earshot. Torches lit the winding path in the dark, their flickers offering a bit of cover from the beady eyes studying her.

“Begone.” King John waved away the page who followed them, wine quaff in hand, and Alianor realized they were alone. The hour late, the air icy, she shivered, but as much from from dread as the cold. She saw nothing of the magnificent gardens surrounding them. Only the determined set of the King’s brow and the little puffs of white as he spoke.

Her hand rested on his sleeve. It took every bit of discipline she possessed not to pull it away. He patted it in false consolation and said, “Lady Alianor, how you tremble. You need not fear your sovereign’s judgment. We have only your welfare at heart.”

Alianor did not reply.

“The court misses Coventry, but vows to see his lady safe.”

This time he awaited her response. “Gratitude, Sire,” she said, praying her insincerity was not too obvious.

“A pity,” he said, though his tone held none, “your union bore no fruit.”

She flushed at his attack and he pressed the point of the arrow home.

“Unless you carry the Coventry heir?” He stopped and rudely eyed her belly.

“No, Your Majesty.” She was unable to keep the pain from her voice and he pounced on it with great satisfaction.

“Ah, well, the Lord’s will.” Again, a fatherly pat and solicitous tone. “There are no other heirs, we trow?”

She shook her head. Everyone knew Walter’s family was long dead.

“No bastards, no spawn of light-o’-loves from yesteryear?” he mused, his narrowed eyes meeting hers. “Perhaps some pock-marked harlot’s get?”

At her stricken silence, the King chuckled. “Though surely,” he added, “your lord husband spread his seed as widely as he spread the legs of the many infidel bitches he ravished during Crusades.”

Everyone knew Walter incapable of villainous deeds, but she swallowed her furious retort. She knew he was baiting her, and despite the overwhelming urge to scream and slap his leering face, she did not.

Instead, she raised her chin and said, “All know Walter served with pride and honor under your brother, good King Richard.”

He bristled at her words. She knew he hated to be reminded of his elder brother, and the people’s enduring love for Richard.
Couer-du-Lion!
The chant still arose during tourneys, though the man himself was long gone.

The King’s grip tightened, hurting her. “Quite right we must cast our protection over our loyal knight’s lady,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Alas, we must not have you fretting over Coventry’s duties — these matters are beyond the simple female mind.”

 Alianor tensed with apprehension. “Sire, I promised milord husband to see to the welfare of the families in his demesne.”

“So you shall, with the Crown’s aid,” he said. “We hereby relieve you of the burden of Coventry’s properties.”

“No!” Her horrified protest escaped before she could stop it.

“What is this? Impudence and ingratitude to your liege!” He stopped, sputtering as he glowered at her. “Else grief has unhinged your mind, Lady Coventry. Which is it?”

Tears welled in Alianor’s eyes, tears he seemed mollified to see.

“Isabella is over fond of you, so we excuse this one outburst,” he said. “This
single
misstep, Lady Coventry. Are we clear upon it?”

She bowed her head in apparent acquiescence, though more so to keep her abject misery from his all-seeing eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Chapter Two

A
LIANOR KNEW
K
ING
J
OHN
did not have her welfare at heart when he confiscated Coventry land and holdings. She even appealed to the Queen, but Isabella did not seem to grasp why Alianor should bother with manly tasks.

“Happy is my heart you returned to me, whatever the cause,” Isabella said the next day as the two ladies sat embroidering in the solar. Her hand rested upon the swell of her belly.

Isabella of Angouleme was only twelve when she married John of England, a child-bride sacrificed upon a political altar. Her sole purpose, besides securing England’s truce with France, was to assure continuation of the royal line.

King John had annulled his first decade of marriage after his first Queen proved barren. Luckily for Isabella, she produced an heir and a spare, Henry and Richard, with a third expected this summer.

“Help me choose a name for our third son, Nora. What think you of Aymer, after my dear sire?”

“Perfect, Your Grace.” Alianor sighed. She loved the Queen, but sometimes Isabella’s childlike naivety frustrated her. How could Isabella not see her husband’s evil intentions? The King seized Walter’s lands and assets, and in one fell swoop, robbed Alianor of her income and security. She was a prisoner, at the mercy of a man who had loathed her husband.

Though only a year older in age, Alianor had always acted as a mother figure to Isabella. She remembered the frightened child-bride she had first met in France, and how she had taken ‘la petite Belle’ under her protective wing. She even taught Isabella her first English words. She was the one who cleaned up the shivering little Queen the morning after the royal consummation. The bruises and bloody evidence of the King’s lust outraged her. Alianor had never held her Plantagenet guardian in particular esteem, but after witnessing his treatment of his new bride, he lost her respect forever.

She knew King John envied his wife’s close relationship with her. He was also aware of her distrust and dislike of him. As the years passed, Alianor’s quick wit and even quicker steps kept her safe from his grasp at court. Later on, Walter stood between her and the King.

The King’s jealousy of Walter was still obvious. He gritted his teeth whenever the Coventry name was mentioned, or Walter was toasted in memory or song. He despised the kind of man he would never be.

Alianor tried to concentrate on her tapestry, but tears burned at the back of her throat as she stabbed at the fabric with her needle. The pewter elephant she stitched reminded her of the Coventry coat of arms. Legend said this elephant killed a dragon to defend its young. As Walter would have slain dragons for her still, had he lived.

More a father figure than a spouse, Walter had always looked after her. In turn, she adored Walter, though she never loved him in the romantic sense. He knew this and with their mutual care and respect, they got along well. She had been fortunate in her marriage. It might have been much worse.

Isabella saw her wipe her eyes. “Dearest Nora, you have been cooped up with me in this stuffy solar far too long. Some fresh air will do you good. Go ride in the yard and fly Goliath as you used to do.”

“I would not leave you, Your Majesty.”

“Hist, now. I will watch from the window and cheer you on, as we did when John and Walter tilted in the yard.” Isabella worried her lip at the inadvertent pain she caused Alianor. Despite her simple nature, she was a kind soul above all.

In many ways, Isabella reminded Alianor of her younger brother, Camber. Pride rose as her thoughts came to rest on Cam. A gentle soul, he was born to love God. He had been educated with the monks of St. Martin-le-Grand, and had taken his vows over three years ago. He was a man of God in body, heart and soul.

Cam was also the only family she had left in the world. Their parents died when a plague swept through London-town; Alianor was five, Cam four. So long ago now, she had only a vague recollection of loving arms rocking her, and the kind face of a woman she assumed was their mother, Lady Maud. Of their father Sir Geoffrey she had no memory at all, but he was oft gone on Crusades.

The moment Walter heard of the tragedy befalling his old friend’s family, he came to their rescue and retrieved Alianor and Camber from the house of death and sorrow. The servants had abandoned the two children; even neighbors turned their backs and shut their doors for fear of contagion.

Not so Walter Coventry. He rode to their rescue on his mighty destrier, leaped down and scooped them up, one in each arm and let them sob themselves to exhaustion against his stout neck. “You are safe now,” he said, his voice rumbling deep as a lion’s. All these years later, Alianor still remembered how protected she felt in Walter’s arms.

A knight with no lady wife who was oft gone on campaign himself, Walter asked a boon of King Richard — he wished the two children of his dear friends be made wards of the King and allowed to live at court. King Richard granted the request, for few men were as loyal and respected as Walter Coventry.

So Alianor resided at court and lived in relative safety and peace. Until now. Dearest Walter, who sought to protect her always, unknowingly delivered her to a much darker fate by bringing her here.

She smiled at the bittersweet irony of it, but Isabella mistook the smile for something else. The Queen looked relieved.

“Go ride now, and cast your worries to the wind.”

Q
UEEN
I
SABELLA WAS NOT
the only one who gazed down upon Alianor a short time later. King John watched the young woman in black cantering the white palfrey about the yard. From his vantage point in his private tower apartments, he had a perfect view of Lady Coventry’s lissome figure and the sweet curve of her backside as she leaned forward in the saddle.

She spoke to the tercel sitting on her arm and Goliath took wing. The bird soared up and Alianor squinted against the winter sunlight, shading her eyes to follow his flight. John saw the flash of her wedding band and scowled. At every turn he was reminded of Coventry.

Indeed, her marriage to Coventry had been a calculated move on his part, an attempt to kill the damnable pride Alianor evidenced at every turn. It had amused him to force her to wed at fifteen a man nearly four times her age, intending her utter and complete humiliation.

To his consternation Alianor and Walter got on together, and for years he suffered the elderly’s knight’s chivalry. It was rubbed in his face at every turn. The display of love and commitment irked him whenever Walter escorted his beautiful young wife at court.

His courtiers did not mock the couple as he hoped, but lauded Sir Walter and his lady. Once a passing troubadour wrote a silly sonnet based upon their obvious devotion to one another. Furious, John banished the troubadour and vowed he would not be made the jester in his own court again.

But Walter was dead. Alianor was a young widow, sheltered under the protective wing of the court until the time as he saw fit to hand her to another man. Or, keep her for himself should she please him.

His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility. Too long had passed since he had a royal mistress proper, a wench ripe for the fucking, awaiting her lord King’s pleasure. He imagined Alianor sprawled naked on his bed with her swathe of silver hair spilling over her breasts and belly. He drew in a long, shaky breath.

Of course, Isabella would protest. Or, perhaps not. His broody little hen was content with her lot in life, submitting as the vessel to his royal seed as she had been trained to do. So, if he chose to breed up a few bastards from Alianor’s loins, who was his Queen to gainsay him? Nobody. Nothing. Isabella knew her place. Now, it was Lady Coventry’s turn to learn hers.

A
LIANOR STARED IN DISBELIEF
at King John, hands clenched at her sides. She assumed he summoned her on a matter concerning the Queen, but she should have realized the peril when the manservant led her to the King’s private apartments and hurried away.

“What of your sworn oath — the promise made to my husband?”

The King cocked his head to one side. “We recall no promise.”

“Yes, a geise sworn on the holy book itself! Walter would never lie.”

He waved a hand as if to brush aside her anger. “Paugh. All men lie to their wives, Alianor — you should know as much. Now, we will have your answer. Never let it be said we do not give a lady a choice.”

“Choice? To be your leman or to wed a madman?” She arched an eyebrow, no longer bothering to keep her tone or words respectful.

He shrugged. “Some say Lord de Lacy is a mad dog, aye, but let us not be hasty to judge the man. He does have the sense to admire your rare beauty.”

Alianor ignored the compliment. She had seen Quintin de Lacy only from a distance. The Norman lord resided in Ireland and came to court with his men to compete in the occasional tourney. She remembered little of de Lacy save his piercing stare. Isabella had teased her, saying she must have ensorcelled the poor fellow.

“De Lacy has pestered us for your hand ever since Walter’s death,” the King said.