Eternally. When I was but three, they promised me to Pedro, son of the King of Castile, but that fell by the political wayside somehow. I did not even inquire how. Then to the Duke of Brabant and last year to the son of the Count of Flanders, Louis de Male. Flanders is where my dear mother came from, you know. I pay not the slightest heed to all their planning. Those men are all elsewhere and, remember,
charmante, ‘Suis-je belle.’
”
The young, lovely princess’s laughter echoed like brittle bells in the room and her clear blue eyes were strangely wild.
“Now I understand, Your Grace,” Joan said and entwined that laughter with her own. “What is there to fear then?
‘Suis-je belle?’
”
CHAPTER THREE
L ike a proud, young lion poised over his domain, England’s tawny-haired Prince of Wales surveyed the broad Thames Valley below. Lofty spires of the three great London cathedrals, countless bell towers, and toylike, beflagged turrets and towers of the rich and royal; a stone and timber, daub and straw city of twenty thousand souls: the very heartbeat of the kingdom lay at his feet as his massive, black stallion stamped and snorted impatiently under him at the edge of Epping Forest.
“I know, Wilifred, I know. But someday their love too will be ours when we have earned it so. Even the most valiant heart must bide awhile until the hour is fully ripe. Our great day will come, good lad. You will see.”
Edward Plantagenet, Duke of Cornwall, heir to the throne, Prince of Wales, loosed his taut, left-handed grip on Wilifred’s reins, and the horse turned back onto the road southeast to their destination, the prince’s big, stone London house on Fish Street. Though he did not glance back at his small entourage again, he knew full well what he would see if he did. Nine of his most select boon companions, themselves heirs to the greatest noble houses of the realm, followed their liege lord and future king closely with their small, private contingents of falconers, musicians, squires, pages, and packhorses. Indeed, they always traveled fairly light on these journeys to their prince’s personal properties like Berkhamstead Castle, or to his manors at Sonning on the Thames near Reading Abbey, Bushey northwest of London, Newport Manor, Cheshire, or the others. Today, since dawn, this traveling party hand-picked from his normal-size household of one hundred twenty men had made the journey of nearly thirty miles from Berkhamstead to London at a fast pace in just four hours.
He felt restless; he admitted it, more restless than usual. This spring—perhaps it was because his formal education with his tutors and his short sojourn at Oxford was over—he felt quite at odds with his life. He was poised, ready, waiting for something grand and wonderful, some sweep of circumstance to test his mettle and thrust him headlong into destiny. But to what, he knew not. And so, he bided his days in overseeing his vast and growing estates, in comradeship with those he would someday need to know to rule well, in observing his world, and in keeping in fighting trim in case this French thing ever came full circuit to a war, as he hoped it might. Damn, but this tenuous treaty with the French was only valid for two more years until 1346. He cursed quietly again and wished his broken arm from that bloody joust a month ago would heal and be done with!
As the horses clattered into the first narrow streets in the northwest suburbs of London, Hugh Calveley and Nickolas Dagworth, hands on swords, moved up to ride abreast with him, and Edward heard his faithful falconer’s voice directly behind as the strung-out band tightened into a closer group. Indeed, there was no need for the added security here among the Londoners, Edward believed, but he accepted their concern. Though his sire, the Plantagenet monarch, had been riding a crest of relative popularity these fourteen years since he had seized the reins of his kingdom from his mother Isabella,
charmante, ‘Suis-je belle.’
”
The young, lovely princess’s laughter echoed like brittle bells in the room and her clear blue eyes were strangely wild.
“Now I understand, Your Grace,” Joan said and entwined that laughter with her own. “What is there to fear then?
‘Suis-je belle?’
”
CHAPTER THREE
L ike a proud, young lion poised over his domain, England’s tawny-haired Prince of Wales surveyed the broad Thames Valley below. Lofty spires of the three great London cathedrals, countless bell towers, and toylike, beflagged turrets and towers of the rich and royal; a stone and timber, daub and straw city of twenty thousand souls: the very heartbeat of the kingdom lay at his feet as his massive, black stallion stamped and snorted impatiently under him at the edge of Epping Forest.
“I know, Wilifred, I know. But someday their love too will be ours when we have earned it so. Even the most valiant heart must bide awhile until the hour is fully ripe. Our great day will come, good lad. You will see.”
Edward Plantagenet, Duke of Cornwall, heir to the throne, Prince of Wales, loosed his taut, left-handed grip on Wilifred’s reins, and the horse turned back onto the road southeast to their destination, the prince’s big, stone London house on Fish Street. Though he did not glance back at his small entourage again, he knew full well what he would see if he did. Nine of his most select boon companions, themselves heirs to the greatest noble houses of the realm, followed their liege lord and future king closely with their small, private contingents of falconers, musicians, squires, pages, and packhorses. Indeed, they always traveled fairly light on these journeys to their prince’s personal properties like Berkhamstead Castle, or to his manors at Sonning on the Thames near Reading Abbey, Bushey northwest of London, Newport Manor, Cheshire, or the others. Today, since dawn, this traveling party hand-picked from his normal-size household of one hundred twenty men had made the journey of nearly thirty miles from Berkhamstead to London at a fast pace in just four hours.
He felt restless; he admitted it, more restless than usual. This spring—perhaps it was because his formal education with his tutors and his short sojourn at Oxford was over—he felt quite at odds with his life. He was poised, ready, waiting for something grand and wonderful, some sweep of circumstance to test his mettle and thrust him headlong into destiny. But to what, he knew not. And so, he bided his days in overseeing his vast and growing estates, in comradeship with those he would someday need to know to rule well, in observing his world, and in keeping in fighting trim in case this French thing ever came full circuit to a war, as he hoped it might. Damn, but this tenuous treaty with the French was only valid for two more years until 1346. He cursed quietly again and wished his broken arm from that bloody joust a month ago would heal and be done with!
As the horses clattered into the first narrow streets in the northwest suburbs of London, Hugh Calveley and Nickolas Dagworth, hands on swords, moved up to ride abreast with him, and Edward heard his faithful falconer’s voice directly behind as the strung-out band tightened into a closer group. Indeed, there was no need for the added security here among the Londoners, Edward believed, but he accepted their concern. Though his sire, the Plantagenet monarch, had been riding a crest of relative popularity these fourteen years since he had seized the reins of his kingdom from his mother Isabella,
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