The Lion and the Leopard (The Knights of England Series, Book 1)

England.

Beginnings

Did you dream of him again, the golden knight? Maria d'Arderne whispered to her twin. Tell me about him. Does he truly shine like the sun?

Eleanora sighed. Go to sleep.

Maria shifted on her pillow, causing the tallow candle on her side of the bed to flicker and create sinister shadows upon the chamber walls. I wish I had the sight, she said. Then I would not have to ask you about my future.

I am not a soothsayer. Eleanora turned toward her sister in the dark. Who knows whether such dreams are real or simply fancies?

Will I meet him soon? Might we someday wed?

Eleanora reached out to touch her twin's cheek. If my sight is true in this instance, then I wish happiness for you and your knight.

Thank you, Maria said fervently. But would you tell me exactly—

If you do not let me sleep, how can I ever hope to dream of him?

Aye, aye. I'll not say another word.

Good night, sister. Eleanora settled back upon the feather mattresses and folded her hands atop their fur coverlet.

Good night.

Maria lay silently, willing her body to be still as a statue's, her breathing to slow. After a time, she whispered, Eleanora?

A gentle snore was her twin's reply.

Chapter 1

Cheshire, 1314

Above the jagged line of Cheshire's Wirral Forest the morning sky showed red as a hart's blood. Richard Plantagenet, Earl of Sussex, reined in his gray stallion at the edge of the trees. The other members of his hunting party followed suit. When Richard dismounted, Rolf the Huntsman plunged deeper into the forest, still dark-shadowed and cold with the lingering breath of night. Handlers followed, skillfully controlling the lymers, brachets, and greyhounds straining on their leashes.

A perfect spot to break fast. Lady Constance Warenne smiled at Richard. After motioning her servants to spread cloths and lay forth meat, wine, and bread, Lady Constance moved toward Richard. The earl turned his back.

More pleasant to face a screaming battalion of Scots than Constance Warenne so early of a summer morn.

A triumphant baying emerged from the Wirral's interior.

The hounds must have found the deer's spoor, m'lord. Phillip Rendell, the Herefordshire knight, moved toward Richard. The two men were similarly matched in physique though Phillip's hair was black, while Richard's was as golden as the royal lion gracing his tunic.

Sit with me, will you not, Sir Rendell?

Richard found the baron's unobtrusive manner pleasing. As one of Richard's vassals, Phillip was obligated to him, his liege lord, for the usual terms of military service, but Richard knew full well that many in his retinue sought his approval primarily for the hope of personal gain. As a second son, Phillip was most definitely in need of favors, but he gave no indication of seeking anything more than Richard's comradeship. They had fallen into such an easy camaraderie that Richard sometimes felt he'd known the older knight all his twenty-one years, rather than a scant fortnight.

Besides, Phillip Rendell could provide relief from the constant Constance, who had attached herself to Richard's right.

Saints protect me from that woman.

Recently widowed and enjoying the freedom that came with great wealth, not to mention great ambition, Constance Warenne was too old to provide the comfortable number of heirs necessary to ensure the Sussex legacy, as well as too forward for his tastes. Not a suitable marriage match, even if Richard had been so inclined.

As the meal proceeded, Phillip, at least, ate without unnecessary conversation. Constance, however, gossiped about the guests at yester eve's banquet and Richard's forthcoming meeting at Berwick Castle with his half-brother, King Edward. Her invasive laughter shattered the hour's softness. Who could hear the shy trill of a mockingbird, the forest stirrings over Constance's ear-wrenching voice? If one deer remained in all of Wirral Forest, it must be deaf as Margarite, the Queen Mother.

Lady Constance leaned against Richard's shoulder. Her petite figure and bland countenance seemed at odds with her bold nature, but wasn't that the way with women?

I hope when you ride north to battle the heathen Scots, sire, you send their leader to the block. I can think of no finer sight than to see Robert the Bruce's head stuck atop a pike.

Richard's eyes met Phillip's. The glimmer of a smile danced across the baron's full mouth.

Constance licked heavily beringed fingers sticky with venison juice. Aye, I hope to see Bruce brought as low as that grasping, greedy Piers Gaveston. 'Twas a great day for England when Thomas Lancaster divested the favorite's pretty head from his body.

Richard's hand, which had been reaching for a cup of wine, froze. His brows met in an angry line. You forget to whom you speak, lady. You would do well to keep your opinion of His Grace's friends to yourself.

Fighting to control his temper, Richard turned away. He had not liked the avaricious Gaveston either, and had chafed at his cavalier use of England's Great Seal, as well as his arrogance and insatiable appetite for property. But Edward had loved Piers, and his grief over his favorite's death had been terrible to witness. Gaveston's sins might have been great, but so had been his fall.

From the forest, Rolf the Huntsman emerged, strode to Richard and bowed.

What have you found, Rolf? The earl stood and tossed the dregs of his wine onto the dew-damp grass. Is the stag of a good size?

I measured his tracks with me fingers, m'lord, and the velvet of his antlers that's left on the tree trunks. 'Tis my belief that he is a stout stag and worthy. Rolf thrust a hunting horn in Richard's face. I gathered a bit of his fumes, m'lord, if ye would care to judge for yourself.

Richard firmly pushed away the huntsman's hand. That is unnecessary, Rolf. I'll trust your judgment. The earl had no desire to poke about deer droppings, no matter what their contents might reveal.

Then I might take the dogs, sire?

Aye.

Lady Constance stood and brushed grass from her skirt while casting a sidelong glance at Richard. Oh, I canna wait for the hunt. There is nothing quite so exhilarating as seeing a fine stag brought to bay, is there, my lord?

Richard could think of all manner of unchivalrous replies. Instead, he ignored her. Undeterred, Constance slipped her arm through his. He firmly replaced it at her side.

Perhaps I will leave for Berwick Castle earlier than planned, he thought. Say, immediately after the hunt.

Constance's first husband had been far older, had died conveniently within a year of their nuptials, and left Constance with an abundance of properties. But Richard was in no hurry to marry and was sure, when duty so decreed, he could find a more pleasing match.

As they remounted, Richard turned to Phillip. When the time comes, would you care to kill the stag?

A smile lightened his vassal's dark features. I would consider it a great honor, m'lord.

Such a little thing to please Sir Rendell. Richard removed his ivory oliphant from its saddle strap. Would that all my vassals were so easily pleased.

* * *

The fallow stag careened toward Richard's hunting party. Its yellow coat, spotted with white, was wet and roughened with sweat. Behind it ran a howling pack of dogs.

After raising the oliphant to his lips, Richard hesitated. His signal would bring the deer to bay and end its life. It was a magnificent stag, one of the largest he'd ever seen—graceful, dignified, even in panicked flight. Richard blew a series of harsh monotonic notes, alerting the pursuing hounds. As the dogs closed the distance to the rapidly tiring stag, Constance loudly thanked St. Martin and a plethora of hunters' saints. How could one so slight have a voice that could pierce even above the hounds' baying and the blast of the horn?

The hounds drove their quarry past the party, toward a huge outcropping of sandstone, a silver sliver of stream. Spreading out across the buttercup-blanketed meadow, Richard and his troupe followed.

The stag splashed across the stream; the hounds guided it toward the rock, trapped it. The stag tried to leap above the boulders; its hooves struck granite. Tumbling to the ground, it landed on its side. The dogs closed in. Struggling to its feet, the stag faced the hounds. Head lowered, antlers menacing, the deer's ribs bellowed in and out. Foam mixed with blood dripped from its nostrils and mouth.

Misjudging the separating distance, a greyhound ran too close. The stag lunged, impaling the dog on its rack, then dipped its head, jerking upward. Flying through the air the hound slammed against the gravelly edge of the stream. A second dog fell victim to the stag's cloven hooves, but the deer was obviously exhausted, its movements floundering. If the huntsman gave the signal, the hounds would move in for the kill.

Rolf turned to Richard, an excited grin splitting his coarse features.

A fine stag, is it not, m'lord? Just as I told you.

Richard's gaze remained on the deer's frightened eyes, which showed a circle of white. Fine dark eyes, intelligent eyes. Richard's mouth tasted sour. Turning to Phillip, he nodded. Phillip flung his left leg over his saddle and, lance in hand, dismounted.

Sunlight glinted off the tip of Phillip's spear. He circled to the stag's right, to the exposed shoulder that was dusted with white spots as well as sweat. Phillip raised the spear, tensed. The shaft hurtled through the air, above the heads of the leaping dogs. Steel met muscle, penetrated. Blood spurted outward, staining the stag's coat, turning the white spots scarlet. The lance quivered with the force of impact, the sudden tremble of the stag's body. The animal's legs buckled. It fell forward, sinking on its forelegs, shook its great head—as if clearing death from its vision—and toppled onto its side. Racing forward, Phillip removed his dagger from its belt. Leaping upon the stag's shoulder, immediately above the lance, he grasped its antlers, curved its neck backward. His dagger hovered before the animal's jugular.

Watching, Richard's hands tightened on the pommel. He forced himself to look into the stag's clouding eyes—no longer brimmed with pain or terror, but merely focused on a great distance. Phillip's knife jerked across the jugular. Blood spilled onto the blue wolf's head sewn on his tunic, sprayed his fingers. After gently placing the animal's head on the ground, Phillip stood and walked to the stream where he washed the blood from his knife and hands and forearms.

Richard watched the entire procedure with an expression conveying no more than casual interest. From earliest childhood he had accompanied his father or half-brother on hunting expeditions, had brought a hundred stags to bay, personally braved the tusks of countless boars.

And hated every moment.

* * *

Richard edged away from Constance, snoring softly on her side of the canopied bed. Pulling back the bed curtains, he carefully reached for his chausses.

Blessed Christ help me should she awaken.

While a man's needs might bring him to unlikely places and the lady had been more than willing, Richard was in no mood to further feast of her charms.

Bending over, he slipped on his cordovan leather boots. Easier to dress himself than awaken servants and therefore his companion.

Tomorrow I will confess my fornication to Father Andre and resolve never to commit such sin again. At least not with someone as eager to snare a second husband as Constance Warenne.

After closing the bed curtains and finishing dressing, he tiptoed from the room.

In Wirral Castle's great hall, Richard searched among the sleeping knights palleted there until he found Phillip Rendell. Bending down, he touched the baron's shoulder.

Phillip sat up, immediately awake. M'lord?

Would you ride with me? I feel a need to be away.

Phillip stood, still fully dressed. I would be honored to ride with you, sire.

* * *

Richard's grey stallion, Excalibur, stretched beneath him. The earl bent forward, enjoying the night wind pummeling his face, blowing away the lingering scent and feel of Constance. A full moon raced overhead, keeping pace. The dirt road stretched toward the city of Chester near the border of Wales. He and Phillip reined in and dismounted at the stone bridge spanning the River Dee. Trading ships were moored near the city wall along Bridgegate, one of the entrances to the city.

The two men stood on the bridge, Richard looking down at the water; Phillip's gaze fastening upon the Milky Way. Richard relaxed, grateful that Phillip neither questioned nor chattered. Turning to Phillip, he said, You are not married?

Phillip shook his head. My older brother constantly laments my state. Humphrey would have me marry a rich heiress to add to the family demesne. But what heiress would settle for a second son?

If you desire property and a good marriage, I could arrange both.

Phillip turned in surprise. Sire, I was not asking—

Aye. That is why I offered.

Phillip returned his gaze to the heavens. I am twenty-seven years old. If I had wanted to marry I could have, but it does not interest me. Nor does land. I would rather roam freely about the world than be tied to a few acres of dust. Humphrey laments that travel is my mistress. Perhaps my brother is right.

At one time I'd also thought not to marry. Richard's voice was low pitched with reflection. I considered becoming a Knight Templar. I longed to fight in a crusade as great as the Lionheart's, and devote myself to being a true knight in the service of the Lord.

Didn't the Templars take vows of chastity?

Richard grinned. Perhaps 'tis best my brother had their order disbanded and imprisoned. I fear I would have broken that vow a hundred times over.

At least you would have been better able to fend off the charms of Lady Warenne.

Richard laughed. The monks say it well. Such as she is 'an insatiable beast, a house of tempest, a curse upon mankind.'

Scooping a stone from the ground, Phillip tossed it in the river. After the Scottish campaign I'll be bound for Venice, where a friend and I will travel to the Holy Land. I have promised my brother I will marry upon my return. He paused. I think I'll not see England again.

Chapter 2

Fordwich Castle, May 1314

Life is about duty, not pleasure, Maria d'Arderne's mother was fond of saying. And so it was, most certainly for Henrietta, who perfectly performed her obligations as wife, mother, and lady of Fordwich Castle. With fierce determination. And without the faintest glimmering of enjoyment.

Maria d'Arderne stood on the banks of the River Stour, downriver from Fordwich Quay, where sailors were loading and unloading cargo, knowing she cradled her family's fate in her hands. And silently rebelling. But only silently. She no longer had the courage to speak her mind.

As Henrietta often reminded her daughter, God granted you a comely face. Would that he had done so for both of you, she would add, referring to Maria's fraternal twin, but He did not. So 'tis up to you. An old and respected name will not fill our coffers. A good marriage will.

Duty. Not pleasure. Never pleasure.

The bells of the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin rang sext, followed far in the distance by those of Canterbury Cathedral. Maria watched the River Stour slip soundlessly past, so close she need but lean down and extend her fingers to caress its cool surface.

During olden times, Danes had regularly raided this part of Kent. Maria sometimes imagined colorful boats crossing dangerous seas, finding tributaries that allowed them to glide along until they glimpsed Canterbury in all its charm and decided, Ah, here's the place. (She wasn't sure what Canterbury might have looked like in those days. Had the cathedral been built? How had the enemy surmounted city walls? Had there been city walls? Eleanora would know for she paid more attention during history lessons.) Maria imagined foul-smelling giants with beards and hair down to their waists, smashing heads with clubs the size of trees, looting treasures from abbeys and monasteries, scooping up wailing maidens and carrying them, kicking and screaming, off to their heathen lands.

But, while Maria was an indifferent student of history, she'd never forgotten the prayer that accompanied those centuries-old raids: 'Preserve us from the Vikings and their terrible dogs.' She pictured animals big as ponies with fangs more wicked than rondel daggers. The very thought caused her to shiver, as if ancient atrocities yet lingered in the soft summer air.

Preserve us, she breathed.

Church bells faded; sailors continued their work upon the quay. A brace of ducks waddled past, pecking at the ground.

While the Vikings had retreated to lands that most probably looked exactly like those described in Beowulf—though Maria oft debated Eleanora on whether Geatland actually contained a dragon—England was currently plagued by Scots, who were little and hairy and very uncivilized, more like hobs than people. They did, however, fight as fiercely as any Dane. Papa had received his leg wound during the old king Edward Longshanks' last battle, the Battle of Loudoun Hill, when they'd gone up against the Scots and their fiendish leader, Robert the Bruce.

I thought I'd find you here.

Maria jumped. She'd not heard Eleanora come up behind her.

I've completed my lessons, Maria said defensively.

Mother wants you to be bathed and specially readied for tonight. We have important guests.

Who?

Lord Edmund Leybourne and two of his sons, I think. He has so many it's hard to separate one from the other.

Maria sighed. Lord Leybourne was one of several potential suitors. But he was so very old. Older even than Papa, with whom he had fought at Loudoun Hill. She was confident their father would never allow such a mismatch.

Seeing her twin's troubled expression, Eleanora said, Lord Leybourne brought his troubadour, Chretrien. They say he is very accomplished.

Ah. Maria's spirits lifted. Perhaps tonight he will entertain us with tales of great battles.

Arm in arm, Maria and Eleanora strolled back to Fordwich Castle. Some believed that twins came from two different sires, which judging from Eleanora, might be true—except for the fact that Henrietta was the most virtuous of women—for the sisters looked nothing alike. Where Maria's hair was thick and a rich shade of auburn, Eleanora's was more the color of mud and thin enough that when she wore it tight in a braid her scalp was visible. And while Maria only had a distorted view of herself via her mother's polished metal mirror, she could see enough to know. As she discerned from the reaction men had to her as opposed to her sister.

They cut across Fordwich's cherry orchard, where only weeks past the d'Ardernes had held their annual Cherry Fair.

Do you ever think about marrying? Maria asked abruptly.

Eleanora snorted. Me? Without dowry and plain as ditch water? The best I could hope to be is a lady-in-waiting or a nun. Or mayhap no one will notice me and I can just grow old here. I don't eat much; nor do I take up much space. And I already do most of the accounts.

Aye, said Maria. But I am so very young. Far too young to seriously consider marriage. Don't you think so?

Eleanora pressed her lips together and said nothing.

* * *

Had Maria been introspective enough to contemplate her young life, she would have described its defining moment as The Day Mother Murdered My Rabbits.

'Twas true that Maria had committed a foolish act, but she'd been, at most, eight years old. One of Henrietta's prized hawks had attacked her favorite rabbit, who had escaped from its hutch. Torn Saladin to pieces in front of her and no one had cared. Not her sister, who'd said, Go conjugate your Latin verbs, or her father, his bad leg propped on pillows while he and Henrietta played draughts, or her mother, who said, Queenie was only doing what gyrfalcons are born to do.

So Maria had committed a very stupid act. That midnight she had snuck down to Fordwich's mews and released all the d'Arderne hawks.

Stupid and expensive.

In retaliation, Henrietta had ordered the rest of Maria's rabbits killed. After which she'd served them for dinner.

It was at that moment that Maria had realized, on some primal level, a basic truth. She had no allies. Not her father, who she loved, and who preferred not to quarrel with his wife, or Eleanora, who she also loved, but who had already embraced their mother's dictum, Duty, not pleasure.

No allies meant no power, no haven in which to retreat should she deviate from accepted behavior. That much Maria clearly understood, even if she was incapable of putting it into words.

The Day Mother Murdered My Rabbits had never again been mentioned, but the coldness between Henrietta and her daughter had not thawed. Maria could not articulate the change beyond This is how life was before.

This is how life is after.

Before was roaming free about the castle or along the river and marshes or the town of Fordwich or wherever she pleased. She imagined that younger self, skipping, running, hair flying, chattering to the hounds that trailed her or to other bailey children or to pilgrims bound for Canterbury. Whatever she did, whether riding her pony, playing with carved wooden soldiers, clay animals or dolls with Eleanora and the other household youth she remembered herself as fearless; every moment as carefree.

Even if time colored her before memories as falsely as it colored those that came after.

After was being tethered, like a hawk to its perch. Daily reading, writing, language and arithmetic lessons; prayers and religious instruction; household management. Manners and etiquette, which covered everything from how to walk correctly so she wouldn't trip over her gown—it all had to do with a certain sweep of the foot and never, never on pain of a thump to the head, lift your skirts—to a flawless curtsy to the proper way to dance, which was gracefully, sedately, while somehow also merrily. Maria would have considered parts of her education enjoyable had Henrietta not administered them with such ruthless intensity.

Maria tried so very hard. But she never succeeded.

Which simply meant that tonight, in the presence of Lord Leybourne, she must try all the harder.

* * *

Edmund Leybourne, earl of Dorset, was currently out of royal favor for his part in the murder of Piers Gaveston, King Edward's pretty favorite. Though, Henrietta confided, as she supervised Maria's dress for the even, the Leybournes possessed enough money and lineage to nullify much of the sting that accompanied His Grace's displeasure.

Maria nodded, as if she cared about politics, but she was determined, as trumpets signaled the beginning of the banquet, that tonight she would be the perfect damoiselle.

She took her seat at the dais, mercifully not next to Leybourne, but to his son, Timothy. Married, saints be praised and more interested in discussing falconry with another diner than engaging with her.

After the pantler and butler finished performing their services, pages began carrying in the main dishes.

We are so sorry you missed this year's Cherry Fair, said Henrietta, talking past her husband to Lord Leybourne, who was seated next to Hugh. Mayhap next year, my lord? She smiled and gazed directly into Leybourne's eyes, in the accepted way of a woman to a man, though somehow she made the act seductive.

Maria watched, surprised. Though her mother was undeniably old she was still a dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty. To whom Lord Leybourne was openly responding.

Most certainly I will attend, Lady d'Arderne. His smile encompassed Henrietta, Hugh and Maria.

Do sample our cherry wine, Henrietta urged, motioning the butler to fill Lord Leybourne's cup. 'Tis our specialty.

Maria looked from her position at the dais, above the salt, to those at the lower tables. Usually supper was a plain affair, meat or fish and bread with a bit of fruit or sallat in season. To her right, below her parents, Eleanora, who'd been paired with Lord Leybourne's second son, was daintily washing her hands in a scented water bowl offered by a page.

Such perfect manners.

When they were younger she and Eleanora would oft find themselves giggling over the smallest things. But more raps from Henrietta's knuckles had knocked the mirth from them both. Eating, like everything else, had become serious business.

'Tis time for my troubadour, Chretrien, to play for us, said Edmund Leybourne. His usual ruddy complexion was even more flushed from wine.

Maria sat up a bit straighter. She'd been curious about this Chretrien and welcomed the diversion. While all troubadours had wonderful speaking, singing and instrumental skills, some were old and bent. After Chretrien approached from an alcove, she saw that, while only of average height, he was comely with a finely cast profile, long blond hair and oh, such expressive eyes.

The knight who shines like the sun.

Maria's eyes narrowed. She studied Chretrien more closely. Only days past, Eleanora had said she'd dreamed once again of the golden knight. Chretrien? Many troubadours were noble, though he most certainly wasn't a knight. But Richard Coeur de Lion had also been a troubadour...

Maria caught her sister's attention and offered the unspoken question, Could this be him? As if reading her thoughts, Eleanora rolled her eyes and turned away.

...much in demand, Edmund Leybourne was saying. He has even performed before His Grace the king. That was not quite true, thanks to that pesky business with Piers Gaveston.

Our king? Henrietta murmured, impressed. His Grace has attended our Cherry Fair.

Maria felt like stabbing her trencher with her dagger. Aye, King Edward had passed an afternoon at the fair, many years ago. Why was her mother intimating their sovereign was a regular guest?

Leybourne cleared his throat. Well, more specifically, my man has played for His Grace's half-brother, Richard of Sussex.

The earl took a long swig of his cherry wine, which was pleasantly tart. Two years was not sufficient time to obtain King Edward's forgiveness, though in Leybourne's defense, he might have been one of the barons who'd pronounced a sentence of death upon His Grace's insufferable favorite, but he'd been half a kingdom away when two Welshmen had run Gaveston through. Then beheaded him.

Concerned that he might be wandering into politically dangerous territory, Leybourne leaned forward, across his host and hostess, to their beautiful daughter. Damoiselle, do you have a request for Chretrien?

Flattered that she should be so consulted, Maria smiled and clapped her hands. "I do love the Song of Roland, my lord. Particularly the part where Roland blows his oliphant so forcefully to bring reinforcements that his temples burst. And then the angels arrive to carry his soul away to paradise..." Seeing her mother's frown she stumbled to a halt.

Have I said something wrong?

"If not Roland then mayhap William of Orange? He was also a great fighter against the Saracens, wasn't he? The frown between Henrietta's finely arched brows deepened. Maria stumbled on. Or King Arthur and his knights?"

I think a canso would be more appropriate, Henrietta said smoothly. Don't you think so, Lord Leybourne?

I do, my lady. Leybourne retrieved a linen cloth that had been placed upon his shoulder and wiped his grizzled beard. Chretrien has created several fine chansonniers for me, one of which is devoted specifically to such love songs.

While Maria thought an epic poem the far more interesting choice, she kept her head high and pretended polite interest in their conversation, all the while wondering at the nature of her impropriety.

Lord Leybourne placed his goblet down on the linen tablecloth, a bit clumsily, for the wine was unusually potent, and clapped his hands in command.

Do delight us with your sweetest love song, Chretrien.

The troubadour bowed gracefully from the waist. He was dressed all in black, an unusual choice, though it set off his hair and those perfectly cast features, making them all one noticed. Save for his exquisitely shaped hands.

Chretrien ran long fingers across his psaltery. Diners quieted in anticipation. Leybourne winked at Maria.

How peculiar, Maria thought. She was not a fan of cansos. Blathering about