The Falcon and the Flower Read online

  “IF YOU ARE STUPID ENOUGH TO MARRY

  ME, MILORD, I PROMISE I WILL DO MY

  BEST TO DISGRACE YOU!”

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her. “I warn you, that’s enough. Persist in this and, by God, you’ll drive me to violence.”

  Her lips trembled and her eyelashes were wet with tears, then she felt the rough sweetness of his kisses. He couldn’t help himself. She was so desirable, at once earthy and ethereal, a combination guaranteed to drug him and become habit forming.

  “Don’t!” She pulled his hand from her breast. “You think you can hurt me one minute and rape my mouth the next. We are mismatched, unsuited … leave me at once!”

  “Opposites attract!” he insisted. “For a man and a woman to love each other, they don’t have to be cut from the same cloth.”

  “Love?” She laughed derisively. “I’ll never love you!”

  He towered over her, his green eyes blazing with un-quenched passion at the challenge she threw at him. “You shall,” he vowed. “You shall!”

  Books by Virginia Henley:

  THE RAVEN AND THE ROSE

  THE HAWK AND THE DOVE,

  winner of the 1988 Romantic Times

  award for Best Elizabethan Historical Romance

  THE PIRATE AND THE PAGAN

  THE FALCON AND THE FLOWER

  THE DRAGON AND THE JEWEL

  TEMPTED

  SEDUCED

  ENTICED

  DESIRED

  ENSLAVED

  DREAM LOVER

  A YEAR AND A DAY

  A WOMAN OF PASSION

  THE MARRIAGE PRIZE

  THE BORDER HOSTAGE

  For my husband Arthur.

  When we married thirty-three

  years ago, we were the same age;

  now, however, I’m much younger!

  The recipes and magic potions referred to herein are historically accurate, based on the ancient work, Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, written by the astrologer/physician Nicholas Culpeper. These recipes are included merely to enhance the medieval atmosphere of this novel and are in no way recommended for use by anyone.

  Chapter 1

  The young virgin lifted her arms high while the old woman adorned her naked form with a silvery robe as finely spun as a spider’s web. The filmy material drifted down to her ankles, which were encircled by delicate golden chains studded with amber, chosen for its mystic qualities. The maiden’s hair, pale as moonbeams, was unbound in all its glory and fell to her waist in curling tendrils.

  The old woman pulled back into the shadows of the high tower room, while the girl went forward gracefully, stepping inside the circle of thirteen green candles. She moved with such fluid grace the flames barely flickered before they rose up straight again, burning yellow, then narrowing and lengthening to blue flame.

  She began the ritual by crushing herbs and spices in an alabaster bowl, then setting them to smolder with a long taper. The scent of rosemary, cloves, and myrrh spiraled into an aromatic smoke that filled the senses headily. As she had been taught, she lifted the jeweled chalice and sipped the blood-red wine, then in a beautiful, clear voice she chanted the magic wish:

  “I call upon all the Powers of the Universe to send the king and queen to England to set up their royal court. Blessed be.”

  She then gazed intensely into a crystal orb, which seemed to fill and swirl with gray smoke before slowly clearing. Her eyes were an unusual lavender color that darkened to purple as she stared into the sphere. She willed herself to “see” a royal couple upon thrones with crowns upon their heads. The gray smoke swirled up in the crystal orb, then cleared again to show the king and queen on a ship crossing the sea from the Continent to England.

  The old woman watched her granddaughter with pride and possessiveness through shrewd, hooded eyes that had once been as beautiful as the maiden’s. “Bastard of a bastard,” Estelle whispered as she watched the girl, then her hand reached up to pluck the ugly words from the air before they had a chance to float off into time and space. There were, at the very least, two ways of looking at everything. Jasmine was a love child, and she had drummed into the girl’s head since childhood that by blood she was a royal princess!

  The late, great King Henry II’s illegitimate son, William Longsword, had taken Estelle’s lovely daughter for his mistress. The planting of his seed had killed her. She had been too delicate and small to bear a child, yet even though the babe had been a puny and sickly thing, through Estelle’s determined efforts it had survived. Jasmine, she mused, fragile and delicate as the flower for which she was named, would soon be eighteen summers. Briefly she wished she could keep her a child forever, then she quickly made a cabalistic sign to erase the selfish wish.

  Suddenly Jasmine laughed and ran from the circle of candles. “Estelle, I’m freezing, get my woolen robe.” Her grandmother hurried forward and wrapped her warmly, then bent to snuff the candles.

  “It was perfect, Jasmine. We will do it exactly so when we have the village women here tomorrow night.”

  “This time I actually saw the king and queen. Perhaps it would have been stronger magic if I’d invoked their names, Richard and Barengaria?”

  “Nay,” said Estelle, shaking her head firmly. “Always remember to never be too specific because it narrows the odds of getting your wish. All you want is a royal court set up in England so that you can become a lady to the queen—any queen.”

  Jasmine laughed and nodded her agreement. “Even Queen Eleanor.”

  “Never underestimate her jealousy! She never forgave Henry for being unfaithful with Rosamund Clifford, and she never forgave him for begetting your father, William. Ah yes, she accepts and honors him as the great Earl of Salisbury, but you being his love child and so exquisitely beautiful would be a constant thorn to prick jealous memories. She is an old she-wolf who would not hesitate to destroy you.”

  Jasmine quickly changed the subject. “Do you really think I shall be able to convince the women of the village that I can cast magic spells?”

  “It will be child’s play, my love. Peasants’ lives are ruled by superstition. I’ve convinced them of my powers for years. And you are pure, a virgin, so your powers are twice as strong as mine. Besides, what spells do they ever need? Cures for the evils visited upon them by men!”

  She said this last word with total loathing. Her lectures on the subject of men were as endless as they were lurid. Her own husband had beaten her savagely whenever he had gotten drunk, and she knew full well she would have poisoned him if he hadn’t died from an enemy’s sword thrust. The only thing she had cherished from that ill-fated marriage had been her beautiful child. But that beauty had turned out to be a curse because it had attracted an earl who lost no time in getting her daughter fatally pregnant. All men were created evil according to Dame Estelle Winwood, whether they be king, peasant, or anything between, and she had dedicated her life to keeping Jasmine safely isolated from them.

  “The peasant women start out wanting a love potion to attract a male, progress to a talisman to keep them from conceiving, then end up begging for an abortificant. Do you recall them asking for aught else?”

  Jasmine’s eyes twinkled. “Only ointments and electuaries to heal their wounds from a beating!”

  “Just so,” Estelle said with satisfaction. “Mark you well and inwardly digest it!”

  “Speaking of electuaries, I wanted to get one more page finished in the herbal book before bed. I’ve written up hemlock. Would you check it for me before I paint in the illustration?” asked Jasmine.

  Estelle walked across to the large oaken desk and ran her fingers down the parchment of the page. “Let’s see … ‘T he common great hemlock grows up w
ith a green stalk, four or five feet high, full of red spots. At the joints are very large winged leaves, one set against the other, dented about the edges, of a sad green color. It is full of umbels of white flowers, with whitish flat seeds in July. The whole plant has a strong, heady, and ill-favored scent. Saturn claims dominion over this herb. Hemlock is exceedingly cold, and very dangerous, especially taken inwardly. It may safely be applied to inflammations, tumults, and swellings in any part of the body as well as to St. Anthony’s fire, wheals, pushes, and creeping ulcers. The leaves, bruised and laid to the forehead, are good for red and swollen eyes. The root, roasted and applied to the hands, helps the gout. Pure wine is the best antidote if too much of this herb is taken.’” Estelle smiled with satisfaction. “That is excellent, but then you have had the benefit of such a magnificent teacher. Good night, child, don’t sit up painting all night. I’ll send Meg up with a tray. We must try to put a little meat on your bones.”

  Jasmine loved to paint. She had an eye for light and shadow that made the flowers appear so real you could smell them or reach out a finger to touch the drop of dew upon a leaf.

  The moment she sat down at the desk a sparrow flew down onto the rim of her wine chalice. “Shoo, Feather, shoo,” Jasmine said, gently wafting her hand so the little pet bird flew off to perch in the rafters. With the tip of her tongue between her teeth, Jasmine soon became absorbed in the illustration of the hemlock plant. She didn’t notice Feather fly back down to perch upon the edge of the goblet and dip its beak into the blood-red wine, then tilt its throat back to swallow greedily. She was cleaning her brushes when Meg, the young maid, came in with a tray and set it down on the great desk.

  “Oooh, my lady, the wee birdie is dead!” she cried with alarm as she saw the little sparrow on its back with its feet sticking straight up.

  Jasmine looked around startled, then she laughed. “No, he’s not dead, he’s just drunk again. You naughty boy, Feather,” she scolded as she scooped him up and dropped a kiss upon his head. She finished the wine, wiped out the goblet with a napkin, and popped him into the bowl of the chalice. “You’ll be safe there till morning.”

  Dame Winwood resided in Winwood Keep, a small manor with a high tower deeded to her by the Earl of Salisbury. It was located on the remote edge of the Salisbury Plain, close upon Stonehenge. The people who served the manor were all drawn from the nearby village. Estelle preferred women servants, but in the stables where male strength was a necessity, she took boys only to the age of fourteen. It was a lawless time, because Richard Coeur de Lion chose to be a king in absentia and England was ruled by mighty barons who warred with each other for castles, land, and power. Yet the household of women lived without fear for it enjoyed the protection of the mighty Earl of Salisbury, half brother to the king. Though his seat of Salisbury where his main castle was located was a mere twelve miles from Winwood Keep, Jasmine saw little of her father, for he was a marcher lord, pledged to keep the marches into Wales safe for the crown. He commanded a hundred knights and nearly two hundred men-at-arms, so Estelle saw to it that Jasmine visited only briefly and always kept her strictly within the women’s quarters of the castle.

  The earl had two legitimate daughters who were the heirs to his vast lands. They had been brought up to be competent chatelaines and were expected to make good marriages. Though William had loved the baby Jasmine dearly, he had found it beyond him to keep the puny little scrap alive and willingly placed her in the hands of her natural grandmother, who had taken her and breathed life into her. Jasmine had had an unconventional upbringing, to say the least. The child, much too small and fragile to train up as future wife and mother, was taught instead the finer arts of music, painting, writing, botany, poetry, and magic. Her life was a blend of fact and fantasy, ideally suited to one so delicate.

  Dawn brought one of the loveliest mornings of the year. April’s end seemingly brought forth a blossom on every tree bough, and the birds had been singing their throats out since first light. Estelle came into Jasmine’s bedchamber as she was dressing. “I’m glad you’re up early. We have a busy day ahead if we are to be prepared for tonight’s gathering.”

  Jasmine rolled the spiny ball of a hedgehog from her slipper and smiled at the tiny squeak of protest it made at being disturbed. “Hush, Quill, you kept me awake half the night rustling about, but now that you want to sleep, it is another matter entirely.”

  “He’s nocturnal, Jasmine. A leopard can’t change his spots, you know. Why didn’t you leave him up in the tower room?” asked Estelle.

  Jasmine confessed, “Feather got dead drunk again and I was afraid Quill might forage for him.”

  “Mmm,” said Estelle, pursing her lips. “Typical male behavior.”

  Winwood Keep’s gardens were a riot of color as the two women stepped out into the warm sunshine. Jasmine saw a honeybee drowning and dipped her finger into the stone birdbath to pick it up. It clung on, holding perfectly still for a couple of seconds, then immediately set about wiping its face and antennae with its front legs. Since their first stop was the beehives anyway, to gather the honey, Jasmine let the furry creature stay on her finger until they reached the hives. Everything in this first garden had been planted to attract bees and butterflies. Beneath the hawthorne, cherry, and crabapple trees bloomed borders of phlox, pinks, lemon verbena, primroses, and hyacinths. The lawn was dotted with buttercups, clover, and daisies, all swarming with honeybees.

  Estelle wrapped the honeycombs in cheesecloth, put them into her basket, and the women moved through the hedge into the herb garden. There they gathered sage, mint, angelica, poppy, and alkanet, then left the garden for the nearby woods where they gathered hemlock and arrach.

  That night they dispensed to the women of the village most of the materials they had gathered. Arrach was given to the few who were barren and wished to be fruitful, poppy was dispensed for toothaches, alkanet for burns, angelica for black-and-blue bruises, but most of the peasant women had come for electuaries to feed their husbands. One was of hemlock to stop a man’s lust; the other was mint to provoke a man’s lust and stir up venery! The rest had come to the high tower room for magic spells. As she had the previous night, Estelle adorned Jasmine with the finely spun silken robe and the girl glided into the circle of thirteen green candles. Again she began the ritual by crushing the herbs in the alabaster bowl and smoldering them to a heady, spiraling fragrance. Then she sipped the blood-red wine from the jewel-encrusted chalice and chanted each wish, calling upon the Powers of the Universe. She gazed into the crystal orb and told each woman exactly what she wished to hear. Yes, the love of a certain youth would be revealed before the next full moon; yes, the child that was on the way would be male rather than female; yes, the husband would stray no more; yes, the hunting would be bountiful this season.

  The women were totally bedazzled by the maiden’s sheer physical perfection. Her cloak of silvery gold hair fell about her delicately boned body giving her an ethereal, other-world quality. The candles’ glow formed a nimbus around her, and not one soul doubted that she was a fairy princess who could foresee the future and cast magic spells.

  It was almost midnight before the last guest left and they were alone. Jasmine spoke worriedly to her grandmother. “Estelle, I didn’t have one single vision, I ’saw’ nothing!”

  “My dearest child, true visions are few and far between, but you acted like an adept and carried on as if you were a high priestess of the Universe.”

  “But I feel like such a fraud,” she explained.

  “Never, ever think you have perpetrated a hoax. As I’ve told you before many times, we are not really dealing in magic and miracles. What we are dealing in is belief, faith. If they believe strongly enough, then it will happen for them. People of every walk of life, not just peasants, but the highborn too, are infinitely better off and happier if they have something they believe in. Well, I’m off to bed; I find there is nothing quite so exhausting as the hoi polloi.”

  Jasmine wat
ched her grandmother affectionately as she walked to the tower room door. Though she must be near sixty years old, her back was straight as a poker and her mind as keenly convoluted as it had been at twenty; perhaps even more so.

  Jasmine experienced a mild disappointment because of her power, or more to the point her lack of power. She slipped off the silvery robe and reached for a warm velvet bedgown, but suddenly stayed her hand. Something compelled her to try one last time. Perhaps alone she would command more concentration. She bent and carefully relighted the green candles, then stepped naked within the magic circle. Patiently she observed the rules of the ritual and gazed intensely into the crystal orb. Suddenly from inside the globe came a flash of lightning. She was paralyzed; the one thing that had always struck unreasoning fear in her was thunder and lightning. As she stood momentarily transfixed, a dark figurehead appeared in the crystal. It was the face of a man, so darkly forbidding she fell back with a cry. The vision disappeared instantly yet as she hurried from the tower room to the sanctuary of her warm bedchamber, it persisted in her mind. The face had been partially obscured by a helmet with a metal noseguard, but the eyes had burned with a fierce, cruel brilliance, and she shivered from head to toe, convinced that she had glimpsed the Devil.

  Chapter 2

  William, the marshal of all England, was in residence at his great castle of Chepstow on the border between England and Wales, yet he hadn’t enjoyed the comforts of sleeping in his own bed for over a week. A hundred tents had been set up in one of his meadows along the Severn River to accommodate the barons who had any holdings in Wales. Lord Llewelyn, self-styled King of Wales, had agitated an uprising, and once again the land was aflame with rebellion.

  William Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, was the greatest landholder in Wales and held the county of Pembroke, which stretched from Saint Bride’s Bay to Carmarthen. But he was by no means the only one with vast interests in Wales. William Longsword, the Earl of Salisbury, had brought his knights and men-at-arms to the war conference, and his tents were set up next to those of Hubert de Burgh, Keeper of the Welsh Marches.