Free The First Princess of Wales by Karen Harper Page B

but not our prince. Still, it is as though he wanted to be alone to think on some lady he cannot have.”
    “Holy St. Michael and his angels! Now that would be a change,” Dagworth chortled as he darted the pouting, waiting girl across the hall a smile and a wink. “It cannot be, Hankin,” he went on in a low voice. “I have been with him for months with no such lady in sight, and besides, our prince only deals with females in one quick way if they are not members of his own family. He always gets anyone he favors in a wink. Damn, but that would be rich!”
    Nickolas Dagworth’s laughter boomed through the house, and the front door slammed below where Edward lay on his feather bed staring at the ceiling.
    He silently cursed his friend for being so boisterously happy. And it annoyed him mightily that his mind taunted him with thoughts and pictures of the innocent blonde newcomer to court at Windsor. He was deeply malcontented with this life of waiting for something grand or dangerous to begin. He longed to control his world, his mind, his rebellious body, which longed for so much he might never have.
    And that, curse it, included the blonde at Windsor. He must see her again, but she would get no soft words from him that she might enjoy his ensnarement. He would find her, and she would know that he was master of himself—and mayhap of her too.
    With a groan, he dragged himself off the bed and went to the door of his room to bellow for more wine and for Hankin to come back and play some brave, marching melodies of war.

    T he afternoon of Joan of Kent’s eighth day at Windsor began much as the others had. Her brother Edmund had gone back to Liddell four days ago to oversee the early fruit harvest, and old Morcar had disappeared into the depths of the king’s vast array of servants at court. Queen Philippa was still abed recovering from birthing fever, so Joan had not yet been summoned to meet her royal legal guardian.
    To suit the style at court, she had taken up embroidering on a standing frame, an occupation she detested. But all of Isabella’s friends embroidered and it was a time in late morning when they met to gossip and exchange juicy tidbits, or
bonbons
as they termed any hint of scandal about love intrigues of the court. Much to her disappointment, Edmund had been entirely correct that ladies at court did not play the lute much and had their own musicians. Joan’s dreams of singing and playing for Isabella or the rest of the royal family went entirely unfulfilled. She was so busy darting here and there with the others, and her time on her own was always with others about—in short, she grieved that her beloved lute went quite untouched while her detested, intricate embroidery scene of a hunter chasing a fleeing doe in the forest grew apace.
    Today, however, would be different. She would escape them all for a little while to be free and alone and with her lute. Isabella would be called as she had been lately to spend time with her mother, the queen, and for once Joan was relieved that the queen felt too sickly to receive others besides her family.
    The lovely, lively
demoiselles
of Isabella’s entourage would surely be occupied with their own fickle worlds. Those ladies still did not favor Joan fully; she knew that for a certainty from their stares and whispers, but she was trying to win them over. Isabella had also introduced her to the king at dinner in the Great Hall two nights ago and to the young Prince John of Ghent, the second royal son who was visiting his ill lady mother. The king’s eyes had gone over Joan with obvious approval more than once—more than twice—until Isabella had pulled her off to meet someone else. She was surprised the king had looked so young yet so vital. His handsome face was somehow vaguely familiar, and she later reasoned it must have been some sort of family resemblance to the portrait of her long-dead father which hung at Liddell.
    Aye, today, she would escape them all