I’m sharing with you an excerpt from The Damask Rose by Carol McGrath.
Historical fiction fans, this one could be for you…
You can also check out my review of McGrath’s other book, The Silken Rose, here.
Chapter One
Windsor Castle
June 21st 1264
On the feast of St John, Lady Eleanor watched the forest from the castle’s lower battlements. Smoke from rebel camp fires twisted above the tree line. The rebels had plundered her park, hunted stags in her forest, and cooked her venison. Occasionally a whiff drifted her way, reminding her that soon the castle would run out of food. She sighed, knowing she would have to consult with Master Thomas, her steward, as to how long they could survive without surrender, before they starved. Earl Simon’s deputy, Hugh Bigod of Norfolk, had positioned his troops everywhere. They were hidden by willows hanging over the river banks; they were concealed in meadows and hiding within the barley growing in nearby fields; they camped even closer, amongst the beech trees in the King’s deer park.
There was movement on the edge of the forest! A moment later a rider emerged, galloping along the track towards the castle moat. Eleanor shaded her brow. There had been many messengers demanding she gave up the castle and she had sent them away. She edged along the battlements, peering over the parapets until she reached a point directly above the gatehouse. Something appeared very familiar about this particular horseman. A second rider, a squire perhaps, broke from the trees holding aloft a fluttering pennant. She drew breath sharply because rather than showing as usual Montfort’s fork-tailed lion, this long curling flag displayed the King’s leopards, gold and silver embroidery glinting in the sun. Her heart began to beat faster, pumping hard at her chest. Could he be a messenger from her husband at last?
Time stilled as if the scene below was painted inside a psalter. Eleanor’s mantle billowed out and her short veil was nearly blown from her head by a sudden breeze. The castle rooks, roosting in trees, made loud mewing sounds like babies crying. Bells rang for Vespers. She peered directly below at her ladies trailing into the chapel, miniature figures with bowed heads and clasped hands. She should attend Vespers since it was the feast of St John today, but she remained where she was, as if mesmerized, watching the two riders clip-clopping along the path, their horses’ snorts competing with the rooks’ unsettling caws.
The knight slowed as he approached the moat. He halted, dismounted, and removed his helmet. Her eyes fixed upon his shock of red hair. Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Gloucester! No other. She knew him well from the days before the barons’ rebellion. And if Earl Simon was the devil, Gilbert of Gloucester, once her husband’s friend, had turned his mantle and was Satan’s helper. Tears of disappointment welled up behind her eyes.
Earl Gilbert tugged a scroll from his mantle and with one hand still holding his reins he held it up to the gatehouse guards. Ribbons dangled from a seal. Anger replaced disappointment. If this was a trick, she would have Simon de Montfort’s son, her prisoner, hanged from a parapet.
She twisted her head to stare up at the range of battlements just above her head. ‘Raise your bows,’ she ordered the waiting archers, her Spanish accent breaking through her English speech. ‘Bring Earl Simon’s son out.’ She pointed to the knight below. ‘Gloucester is not to be trusted. Others may be hidden amongst the trees ready to attack.’ A sergeant gave a sharp order and several guards raced off to fetch the prisoner, a young lad not yet twenty, also called Simon de Montfort.
Gathering her mantle close, Eleanor hurried down the stairway that spiralled through the castle and ran into the hall. She pulled a short sword from a wall bracket as she passed. After all, she had taken lessons in fighting from her brother Enrique in Castile, practising swordplay with him on sun-baked courtyards when she was growing up. Pages stared at her as she sped past them, their mouths wide open. Shocked guards by the great door fell back out of her way as they dragged it open. Not pausing for breath, she raced down the steps brandishing the sword and ran across the courtyard,
‘Lower the bridge. If Gilbert de Clare carries a message from King Henry, fetch it.’
The drawbridge clanked as it was slowly lowered over the moat. A guard raced across it with her demand. Moments later he returned saying breathlessly, ‘The Earl says he must deliver it himself into your own hands. He says go across yourself for it, my lady, else he will bring it over to you.’
Her captain of the guard shook his head at her. Eleanor hesitated for just a heartbeat. ‘Tell Earl Gilbert he may cross but his squire remains beyond the drawbridge with their horses and weapons.’
Her guards fell back, hands on the hilts of their swords. She waited impatiently in the courtyard, trying hard to remain calm, as Red Gilbert casually walked onto the drawbridge and swaggered under the raised portcullis. After what felt long enough to say a dozen Paternosters he reached her. She did not waver but stood with Edward’s short sword raised and pointing towards Gilbert’s breast. The rebel looked her up and down from under fox-like eyebrows. He shook his russet hair and grinned but she kept her sword-arm steady and glared at him.
‘Lady Eleanor,’ he said smoothly, making a low bow. ‘It is good to see you so well. Do put down that weapon.’ He slowly held the scroll out in his open hands as if it were a precious glass ornament and added, ‘I carry an order from King Henry. You are to relinquish his castle to us.’
Her response like his own speech was spoken in the Norman French of court. ‘His castle!’ She felt her face grow hot. ‘My castle. This is a royal castle and I have sworn to my Lord Edward, the king’s son, to protect it.’
‘And he is a prisoner in Kenilworth Castle.’
It was true and Henry was their king, if, she knew well since Edward had complained often enough about his father, a weak one. Since Lewes a month before, Simon de Montfort had had Henry and Edward both in his power. There really was no alternative. She slowly lowered her sword and snatched the scroll from Gilbert. She unrolled the letter and read its brief message, the short sword’s hilt loosening in her hand as she studied the words. It indeed bore Henry’s signature. She grunted her disbelief. Henry ordered her to free young Simon de Montfort, to accompany the Earl of Gloucester, and join the King’s household in Canterbury. There was no mention of her husband.
She crumpled the scroll, crumbs of sealing wax flaking onto her gown. Looking up she said, her anger seeping into her voice, ‘Was King Henry forced to sign this order?’
‘He signed it freely,’ Gloucester said, his tone light, almost amused. How dare he sound amused.
‘Give you Windsor and free my prisoner? I swore to my lord husband I would not and I shall not. Return to the King and tell your master I do not treat with traitors.’ She felt herself glaring. ‘Montfort must bring my husband to me before I return his son to him.’ She waved the scroll in his face and pointed it up to the ramparts, where young Simon de Montfort now stood perilously positioned on the wall, a sword at his back. ‘I give my order and he’ll plummet down like a bird falling from a tree.’
‘She-wolf,’ hissed Gilbert, all amusement now wiped from his face. ‘Call your men off. Release Earl Simon’s son as your King commands.’
‘Bring me my husband first. Bring Lord Edward here.’ She crushed the letter in her left hand, its crimson ribbons fluttering in blood-like streamers. The sword dangled loosely by its hilt from her right hand.
That moment of angry pause was her undoing. With one agile movement, Earl Gilbert grabbed the sword from her and pulled her to him.
She hissed, ‘You lay hands on a princess of the realm, Gilbert de Clare? It is treason.’
‘But this princess disobeys her King. Treason indeed.’
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I hope that’s given you a taste for the book! I really enjoyed The Silken Rose, although I just couldn’t quite get into this one, but I really have to be in a particular mood for historical fiction, so I’m going to read the last 100 pages again – it’s not you, The Damask Rose, it’s me.
The Damask Rose, Carol McGrath, RRP £.99 (hardback); Amazon
Pages: 381
Publisher: Headline Books
Genre: Historical Fiction
