The First Princess of Wales (42 page)

“Aye, my lord prince?”

“I want this woman escorted by you and guarded by my private yeoman across the street at that little inn where I left my things. Get that old woman we found cowering in the cellar to help the lady bathe and find some dry, suitable garments.”

“Aye, our Grace. Suitable.”

“If this woman gives anyone a moment’s strife, just have them bind her until I have time to interrogate her later.”

“Interrogate,” de Buch repeated slowly.

“Hell’s gates, de Buch, you sound like some simpering parrot the queen used to keep about on a velvet perch! Just do it, then get yourself back in here for a council meeting. I have too much to worry about here to be—be—bothered by some adventurous female’s tricks. And send that bastard Callender in on your way out.”

The Captal de Buch led her firmly away, and she went. Aye, she agreed it would not do to squabble in public when there was a war to run, but when she faced him later, alone, he would see she would not cower as all the rest did when he flashed the royal Plantagenet temper like that.

But at the door, her eyes snagged with those of the ashen-faced, wide-eyed Stephen Callender and, at his obvious trembling, she nearly crumpled in the hall despite de Buch’s firm grip on her arm.

When she faced the prince later alone—saints, why had she not let her reason override her own fierce temper? The driving rain outside soaked her to the bone again, and when she stumbled, the massive de Buch picked her up as if she were a child to carry her across the cobbled street running with rivulets of water. Only then did she go temporarily light-headed at the thought she might have trod this long and dangerous path only for that precious moment she would face Edward truly alone after all these calm but lonely years.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
he heavy rain brought an early, damp dusk to the captured French town of Monbarzon. In a sprawling, crooked-floored chamber of the inn across the street from the house the prince had requisitioned as headquarters for his closest advisors, Joan waited. An old French woman arrived and with her came five buckets of hot, fresh rainwater in which Joan bathed and washed her hair. After she had gratefully donned a warm, green wool robe the old woman produced, a boy came in to light the fire on the hearth and set a place at table for her. Joan toweled her waist-length tresses dry before the fire and motioned for the old woman to leave her; when she watched her shuffle out, she realized the prince’s guards still stood in the hall.

As if she would try to escape from the first comfortable place she had seen in days, Joan sniffed, but her heart beat fast at the thought he had provided such protection and comfort for her here despite how she had so obviously infuriated him. The clumsy, nervous servant woman was hardly a substitute for dear, departed Marta, but the private room, bath, and fire were heaven.

Then, as if her next wish had been magically anticipated, the boy came back with a tray of hot chicken and vegetable stew with rye bread, Brie cheese, peaches, and wine. Joan stuffed herself the moment she was alone again. Never had food tasted so succulent, and though she had been a picky eater these last few years, she devoured every crumb and even wiped the wooden bowl with scraps of bread as she had seen serfs do.

She soon found herself nodding, her eyes heavy, half-asleep in her chair: the caress of a warm hearth, the marvelous sense of well-being from the hot food and fine wine, the feel of the soft woolen robe on her naked, glowing flesh all combined to make her drift in drowsy contentment. The thunder and lightning fought a war of their own above the thatched roof outside, and stray splatters of rain hissed on the hearth stones, but she could face anything now. In the morning, of course, she would demand that Prince Edward release both her and Stephen. Maybe he could spare them a guard to head back north since he evidently had assigned two men to just stand about in a damp, dark hall outside this room here.

Her eyes lazily roamed the room. It was no doubt the finest accommodation in this little place, for it sprawled across the entire third story under the eaves, whereas the common rooms and other chambers below were small rooms she had glimpsed on her ignominious ride up in the Captal’s burly arms. The furniture here was all dark oak and quite plain compared to what she was used to. A long sideboard with a few dented pewter and wood plates stood under the single, tawdry tapestry of a hunt scene. The long dining table and four hard-backed chairs rested near the hearth on some sort of large, braided rug. The only imposing piece of furniture in the entire hump-floored room was the large feather bed with its burgundy velvet curtains to screen the occupants from drafts or intrusion. In the corner, however, were piled four ornately carved, stacked coffers which made the rest of the room’s dark furniture and woodwork look plain and crude.

She sat bolt upright in her chair at the next thought. There was really nothing here of course to suggest it, except those coffers were entirely too fine for this plain room. She got up and padded across the oak floorboards to stand over the four stacked coffers. The carved design on the top one leapt up at her: in scripted, engraved letters it read, H. R. H. P.W.

“Saints!” she cursed aloud, her reverie broken. She had sat here all warm and sated and so pleased with herself like a rabbit in a trap—the coffers, and no doubt, the exclusive use of the room, belonged to His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales! What was wrong with her lulled brain? Had he not said something of the sort to de Buch which she had been too stunned to note?

She fingered the intricate metal catch on the top coffer, and, to be ludicrously certain, lifted it open. A fine jerkin of softest Spanish leather and a silk
surcote
with the unmistakable quartered Plantagenet leopards and lilies lay perfectly folded, and from them emanated the rich, heady scent of bergamot he so favored. Rooted to the floor, she snapped the lid closed. Aye, all this luxury after four terrible, bone-racking days in the saddle had addled her brains—she had been sent to await his pleasure in his private room just as these yet unpacked coffers of clothing!

The awful fluttering in her stomach began as she paced on the braid rug around and around the table. Mayhap he was too busy, too angry, too proud to come here tonight. Indeed, he might mean for her to have this room and he would sleep in his quarters across the rain-swept, cobbled
rue.
After all, he must have tens on tens of coffers holding the precious clothing or armor he carried with him on campaign. These four might be mere overflow.

She considered redressing in the clothes she had draped across a chair before the hearth and demanding of her guards to be freed, or at worst, to be taken back across the street to face the prince among his men. Stephen Callender must be released; they must head back at dawn to once again skirt far around the French forces. She had a husband, sons, duchy lands to care for. She had only come to tell him she knew of his treachery and would allow no more, and she had not believed Stephen Callender when he’d said that Tours was so damn far until the evening of the first day out, and then it was entirely too late to turn back.

She halted her wild pacing and spun to face the door across the width of firelit room as it snapped open. The massive form, the tawny head gilded by distant firelight were unmistakable. He came in alone, shook wild, flying drops of water from a soaking cloak, then dropped it. He covered the space of creaking floorboards between them in six strides. She stood her ground mutely, stiffly, holding her robe to her body with both arms.

“St. George, it seems this rain brings two gifts from heaven at any rate, Jeannette, even if it might bog us down in a bloody French mire.”

She stared amazed as he dared to shoot her a quick grin. How swiftly his terrible wrath had dissipated, she marveled, but if he thought this charming, hail-fellow approach would get him aught with her, he was sadly mistaken.

“Two gifts from heaven, our Grace? I believe I must thank you for the food and fire, but to what else could you possibly refer?”

He plopped in the chair nearest her and yanked off his squeaky, wet boots. In the fireglow she could see the droplets of rain plastering his thick hair to his forehead and smell the damp odor of his dark woolen
surcote.
“Aye, those too, of course. I am pleased you ate because I did not know how long that council meeting would run. But I,
ma chérie,
referred to the respite here to rest the men while it rains and the delight of having you here to fulfill my every whim while we wait.”

Her heart thudded at his blatant implications, and her hand gripped the chairback so hard, her fingers went numb. “I came here, my lord prince, as I told you over there in your other confiscated house, only to tell you I knew of your treacherous spies and I will have no more of them. I am certainly not here to fulfill your every whim as you so callously put it!”

“Of all the things we may do tonight, bitter arguing is surely not one, Jeannette, so do not start. Now, would you be so kind as to go to the door and bid my squire come in with the food and bath water? I am famished for more than you, sweet—tired, wet and eternally on the edge of a jagged streak of temper lately, as my men could tell you. Do as I say, or I fear if I have to administer my first lesson in obedience, I will get you all wet, as well as that bed I want to have dry and warm later.”

She stared at him astounded at the brazen ploy. She entertained a score of tart replies as they stared at each other like wary adversaries, then froze him with an icy glare and walked slowly to the door.

The squire sat close outside, dicing for coins with the two other guards on the narrow third-story landing they had lit with one cresset lamp. “Your prince bids you bring food and bath, squire,” she said as tonelessly as she could manage and closed the door quietly. She sat on one of his heavy coffers near the door, not even deigning to look back his way even when he began to speak again.

“Thank you, Jeannette. How pleasant—even delightful—this time will be now we are together. I keep you warm, fed, and happy, and you return the favor.”

“I feel no desire whatsoever to please anyone who has had me spied on for years—years!”

“I only wanted to see that you were well cared for and protected and I am sorry you interpret that otherwise, but we shall not speak of that tonight. If you wish and I have time in the morn, we shall discuss it then.”

“I will not be put off!” she ventured from her perch on the coffer, and made the mistake of darting a quick glance his way. Her blood pounded. Standing before the hearth, he had stripped off his garments and stood naked but for the woolen
surcote
he had tied by its long arms around his narrow hips. The fireglow seemed to highlight each molded alabaster muscle of the powerful shoulders, back, and the flat belly when he turned to meet her gaze across the table and the space of the chamber. Boldly she stared back, her gaze drinking in the angular planes of that body, the shadows and gold-dusted, curly hair on the swelling chest. She beat down the rampant desire to walk to him across that little space and touch him, but the treacherous butterflies fluttering within her loins would not be stilled. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks to heaven when his squire and another man knocked on the door behind her and entered with a parade of buckets of steaming water and aromatic trays of food.

She fought to still her panic as the bathwater sloshed in the same hip tub she had used across the room. She moved away from the door until the men went out, darting a quick, curious glance at her. The door closed.

When she looked again, the prince had climbed into the tub and was sluicing his shoulders with the hot water. “Bolt the door, please, Jeannette, and come over here near the fire. I cannot spare a surgeon to nurse you through chills or fever when I shall need every medical man I have for the coming battle.”

She knew it would be weak and foolish to protest. She would mayhap cooperate while it was possible; then when she denied him, he would know she meant it. Her hand trembled slightly as she shot the bolt and walked slowly down to the far end of the table where she intended to seat herself with her back to his noisy, sloshing display in the bath.

“A goblet of wine, please,
chérie.
”

Despite herself, she glanced warily at him down the length of table. His eyes slitted, he had settled back in the little tub to cover as much of his big body with the water as he could. His knees and shins protruded nearly obscuring his arms, shoulders, and head from where she stood. She bit back a sharp retort that she was not his servant, but then obeyed. This mask of jovial calm was far preferable to his aroused temper or passion.

She poured him an almost full goblet of wine and walked near enough to him to extend it stiff-armed. She kept her eyes carefully lifted to avoid the golden expanse of muscled, wet skin.

“Thank you. Peek and see what is under those delicious-smelling dishes, will you, sweet? I am starved.”

She was glad to move away and turn her back. “I thought I overheard something about foodstuffs being low,” she said, hoping she sounded calmly conversational and not a whit distressed by his nearness or the situation.

“They are, and on the morrow, it is back to rationing for all of us. Tonight—well, Jeannette, tonight is special and everyone needs his spirits lifted in this rain. We have been marching for days hoping to unite with my brother John’s forces and avoid the French. A good roof, fire, and food will do all the men good.”

She breathed in a warm, pungent aroma from the first lid she lifted. “Stewed partridge with saffron eggs, our Grace, and this other one looks like new-baked nutmeg custards with molasses sauce.”

“Delicious, but then, tonight, everything is,” his deep voice teased. “Bring me a little piece of the partridge then, please.”

“It will get cold.”

“Just do it, Jeannette, or I shall come over there to get it myself. I have not eaten since midmorn and that was cold pastry and some damned smoked fish.”

How easily the tired, ill-tempered edge came back to his voice, she thought. She picked up a piece of partridge breast dripping hot saffron sauce and edged around the table toward his hearth tub. She stood behind him, thankful the tub was so small he had drawn his knees up tightly to his chest to hide his strong thighs. His big hand gently covered her wrist to bring the food to his mouth. His thick mustache grazed her finger, and her entire arm began to quiver uncontrollably. He devoured the hot morsel, then licked and kissed her imprisoned fingertips, her moist palm, and inner wrist.

“Your Grace, please. Your precious food will all get cold if you do not get out of there to sup.”

He loosed her the minute she tried to pull away. “Aye, sweet. I have forgotten in this war how to be a patient man, it seems—to woo opportunities and not just seize them.”

Without warning, he heaved himself dripping out of the tub, and behind him Joan got a good view of his lean, hard buttocks and muscular thighs before she darted back and turned away. She hated herself for the cowardice and wild flow of passion that flooded her. She ought to brazen it out, she told herself—to stare at him and pretend he moved her not one whit. But—oh, blessed saints, it was inevitable.
He
was inevitable, and it always had been so!

He dried himself quickly with the same huge piece of wool she had used on her hair earlier, and wrapped himself in a black velvet robe his squire had left. He sat at the table immediately to ladle huge portions of food onto his plate. “Come over here and try this, Jeannette. It is fabulous.”

“As you said, I already ate.”

He spoke with his mouth full. “Then have some wine or custard. Mmm—delicious.”

She sat two chairs away to watch him devour three huge helpings of the food. She drank some wine and merely picked at a dish of custard, as marvelous as it was. Too soon he shoved his empty plate away and regarded her pensively over the rim of his goblet as he downed the rest of his wine. The next words he spoke terrified her. They made her feel she must run away down some long, secret, dark tunnel of fantasy to escape the painful truth: “We have wasted a lot of time, Jeannette. Days, weeks, years even. Morcar’s charts were right—I know it.”