Astride her white palfrey, surrounded by a nimbus of silver-blond hair, Jasmine was a vision to strike a man mute with desire. But the violet-eyed love child of King Richard's half brother had vowed that no man would ever rule her heart. Until she saw the face of the Devil himself in her crystal ball--the dark, brooding knight who would kill to make her his own. She would risk a dissolute court and a maddened, lustful king to keep destiny at bay, anything to keep her from the hypnotic eyes and burning caresses of...The Falcon.
A wickedly handsome warrior who lived by blood and the sword, Falcon de Burgh wanted to wed no woman--until he laid eyes on the exquisite Jasmine, and he vowed to possess her, to teach her all the wondrous ways a man could love a woman, no matter what it might take to conquer her fiery, unyielding heart. Falcon knew only blind, reckless passion as he swore to tame, at the risk of his life...The Flower.
Release date:
July 22, 2009
Publisher:
Dell
Print pages:
480
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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 with 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.
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