Читать книгу The King's Champion - Catherine March - Страница 13

News of Troye de Valois’s disgrace swept through London like fire leaping across dry summer fields. It crossed all boundaries and both commonfolk and nobles of the Court knew of his downfall. The final contest of the tournament had to be cancelled. Tents were uprooted, the lists dismantled, and disgruntled traders relying on the rich pickings of the tournament day muttered darkly. Lord Henry Raven supervised the packing of his own pavilion and bid his son farewell.

‘Send word to us,’ he said to Rupert, ‘should you need anything.’

‘And let us know when there is any news on de Valois,’ added Remy St Leger, his fondness for the younger knight growing as his foolishness, all for the love of a woman, became apparent. ‘I would know how the idiot fares.’

Rupert nodded his agreement, and stooped to kiss his mother and hug his sister farewell. He noted the pale silence of the latter, and clasped Ellie’s shoulder with one hand as he asked her, ‘Is there aught amiss?’

Ellie shook her head, and reached for the reins of her horse as she prepared to mount. ‘Give me a boost up, please.’

Her brother ably lifted her into the side-saddle and watched as she fussed with her skirts, avoiding his eye. She gripped the reins firmly and then forced a smile as he patted her horse and wished her goodbye.

‘Fare thee well, Rupert.’

‘And you, little sister.’

She turned her horse about, ready to fall in beside her mother and aunt as they rode behind their menfolk, and then she paused and called out to Rupert, ‘He will be all right, won’t he? Troye de Valois.’

Rupert realised then where her sorrow lay, and he smiled gently. ‘Aye, he will be all right.’ He came up closer and beckoned for her to lean down, so that he might whisper close to her ear a private confidence. ‘The King’s anger was only for show, to save face. I hear from an aide close to him that he already knew of the marriage but he waited for Troye to confess. At worst he will spend thirty days in the Tower and be fined for his misdemeanour, but for his honesty and his courage the King holds him in high esteem and no doubt it will all soon blow over. Have no fear for him.’

Ellie nodded, relieved for Troye’s sake, but this news did nothing to ease the pain in her heart. Then she said goodbye and touched her heel to her horse’s flank, cantering off as her father called out for her to hurry along.

The journey home to Castle Ashton in Somerset took four days, and while they seemed the longest days of her life, as she struggled to come to terms with the empty space within her heart, she valued the time spent in the saddle that kept her busy. When they reached home there would be time enough to be alone with her thoughts. The prospect filled her with a dull gloom, for always she’d had hope for the future, a future that she would spend with Troye, but now all hope had been taken from her and she was left with…nothing.

Tired as she was by the long hours of riding on country roads, the summer heat and dust almost unbearable, she lay awake at night. She slept in a tent with her parents, and listened to her father snore, her mother occasionally moaning at him to turn over. She wondered where Troye was sleeping tonight, if he was still in the Tower, if he had a comfortable bed and had been given a meal…and then tears slipped silently from the corners of her eyes as she realised that she must banish all thoughts of Troye, for he belonged to another.

Yet as the days and the weeks passed, and still she continued to think of Troye, her heart would not easily accept the firm advice of her mind. The stubborn creature insisted that all its love was reserved for only one man—Troye. No matter what she was doing, whether it was working on a tapestry with her mother, distilling herbs with her Aunt Beatrice, hunting with hawks in the fields with her father, always thoughts of Troye came to her unbidden. At night he was still the last image on her mind, and the first when she awoke.

To make matters even harder to bear, she could tell no one of her feelings. How could she confess to even one as understanding as her own mother that she loved a man she barely knew? A man that had never so much as kissed her and one that was married to another. It hurt beyond measure, to think of him with this unknown woman, that all this time he had loved her and there had never been any hope that she, Ellie, would be the one he would love. She wondered what his wife was like, this Jewess, and concluded that she must be very beautiful and very clever indeed to have captured the heart of the King’s champion.

Summer faded into autumn and the leaves dried upon the trees to gold and bronze, fluttering down to the ground all around Castle Ashton. The wind rose and the dark grey clouds of winter came down from the north and brought with them flurries of early snow. Ellie retreated into silence and, though it was noted that she seemed to be pining, her appetite greatly diminished and her eyes having lost their bold sparkle, it was assumed by her family that she missed her brother and she merely passed through the moods and vagaries that afflicted youths as they evolved from child to adult, from girl to woman.

Ellie indeed wrestled with her emotions, swinging from one day to the next with a determination to forget all about Troye and then desperately longing for a miracle that would somehow bring them together. Quite how this would happen she had no idea. On days when she was determined to break the hold Troye had upon her heart, she flirted outrageously with any young man that came to Castle Ashton, arousing her mother’s alarm and her father’s ire. And yet when these young men departed, having gained not so much as a kiss from the saucy little Ashton girl, Ellie would retire to her chamber. There she would fling herself down upon her bed, racked with such great sobs of tears that she feared her ribs would crack. However hard she tried, her heart compared all men to Troye and found them sorely lacking. They did not look like Troye, or smile like him, or have the timbre of his voice, or his manly smell.

Her attempts to find new love failed and she lapsed into solitude, seeking balm for her soul, convinced that she would never love again. Convinced that for some unknown reason she must wait. She could not fathom why she felt this stubborn need to wait. Wait for what? For Troye? How could that be? she demanded of the stars in the sky, as she stood at the open window of her chamber and gazed up at the heavens, with an aching heart.

When spring came, her father insisted on a grand feast with music and dancing to celebrate her seventeenth birthday on St George’s Day. He invited all the local gentry, especially those with eligible sons. But by now Ellie had resigned herself to loneliness and unrequited love and would have nothing to do with any of them. Lord Henry was incensed at the waste of time and coin, as she refused to even hear of any offers made for her hand in the days following.

It was Lady Beatrice who noticed how eagerly her little niece ran to any messenger with a letter from Rupert in far-off London. It did not escape her attention that it was news of Troye de Valois that Ellie so eagerly sought. They had heard, of course, that Troye was released from prison, having spent a mere ten days within its confines. The King fined him five hundred marks for his insolence and then banished him from Court for a year. In effect, he sent him home to spend time with the wife he so dearly loved and for whom he had been prepared to risk all. When Ellie had heard this she was at once relieved that Troye was out of prison and safely home, and yet a twinge of jealousy warred with admiration for a man who could so dearly love a woman, even if that woman was not herself.

Lady Beatrice tried to talk to her niece and explain that time was a healer and that her feelings of pain and rejection would pass; that one day Ellie would meet another and all would be well. Ellie simply nodded, and smiled, and turned away. There came little news after that, except that Rupert, and therefore Troye, went away on campaign to Scotland. She shuddered to think of the experiences they would have fighting against the Scots, who, from all accounts, were barbaric savages. After some months Rupert sent a note to say that Troye had been grievously injured, had been relieved of his duties and sent home to his family in York to recover.

Eleanor was surprised at the pang she felt, after all this time, her concern for him, for his pain and suffering, and to think of him with the wife who nursed and cared for him. She could not endure any such thoughts. She tried to banish them by devoting herself to occupations of one kind or another: tending plants in the herb garden that she and her aunt had created at Castle Ashton, and on rainy days she stayed in her chamber writing out a transcript of the Bible, each page beautifully and painstakingly decorated with intricate illustrations. Under the guidance of their priest, Friar Thomas, she worked diligently and he announced how pleased he was with her devotion and even began to drop hints to Lord Henry that he had fine hopes of Ellie finding her vocation as a nun, much to his lord’s displeasure.

Yet another winter and another spring passed and then came a surprising change to her solitary existence. Remy St Leger rode over from Hepple Hill with glorious and most unexpected news—Beatrice was with child. There was great celebration, for they had kept the news quiet until they were certain that this time Beatrice would carry the child and already she was well into her second trimester. They were all overjoyed, for a child of their own had been the one perfect blessing to crown the love that Remy and Beatrice had shared these many years. Bearing a child so late in years for a woman of Beatrice’s age was a risky matter, but all was being done to safeguard the health of both mother and child and she would remain at Hepple Hill until after the birth.

Ellie decided that she would be of more use to her aunt if she went to stay with her at Hepple Hill, and with the blessings of both her parents she set off a few weeks before the baby was due to be born. While Beatrice was forced to lie abed, bored and frustrated and yet desperate to sustain the life of her unborn child, Ellie assumed the day-to-day tasks of running the keep. She made sure that her aunt received fresh, nutritious meals every day and supervised all the preparations and accoutrements needed for the birth, and for the baby. It kept her busy, and helped to pass the time, time being the essential element needed to help heal the heartache she suffered.

When the birthing day came, despite Beatrice’s fears and Ellie’s inexperience as midwife, the baby was born with little trouble, a beautiful lusty boy, healthy and fair like his father. The ecstatic parents named him Tristan.

Ellie could scarce bring herself to leave Hepple Hill and her soft, sweet-smelling, cuddly baby cousin until, on St George’s Day, Lord Henry realised with a shock that his daughter would be twenty and she was still unwed. He summoned her home at once.

Almost at the same time a messenger arrived from London, with a short and yet commanding missive from the King. It seemed he had the need to take another wife and all unwed, eligible maidens were ordered to pay their respects at Court. Herewith, and forthwith, Lord Henry was ordered to bring his daughter Eleanor.

Eleanor noticed that her father was plagued by the delivery of several more letters, and he seemed most thoughtful, a slight frown between his brows as he gazed in silence upon the letters before him. Something was afoot, she was sure, and her suspicions were only deepened when that afternoon her father rode off to Hepple Hill, clearly to consult with her uncle.

Lord Henry engaged in idle chit-chat with Beatrice, praised her honey cakes and sipped the mulled wine she offered, admired his new nephew, but eventually she sensed her brother’s distraction and withdrew, leaving the two men seated with their wine, in warm and trusting companionship.

Remy leaned one ankle on the other, legs outstretched, and gave Henry a shrewd look. ‘Come now,’ he said with a smile, nodding his head at the four scrolls of parchment that Henry clutched in one hand, ‘what is it that troubles you, my brother?’

Henry sighed, rose from his seat and paced about for several yards, tapping the letters against his thigh before turning and waving them aloft. ‘I have received no less than four marriage offers for Eleanor.’

Remy sat up. ‘Indeed? Well, that is good news for ’tis surely time for Eleanor to wed. And no surprise to me, considering that Eleanor is a pretty and wealthy young woman. Why, then, are you so troubled, friend? Whatever it is that grieves Ellie, surely this nonsense has gone on for long enough?’

‘Aye, I could not agree with you more. I know my duty to Eleanor, and that she needs to make a good marriage, before it is too late and she has past the age when offers will still be made.’ Henry sighed, ‘Today I have no less than four, five if you include the King, yet…I find none of them suitable.’

Eyebrows raised in question, Remy waited patiently for an explanation.

‘The first offer,’ continued Henry, raising the first letter, ‘came from Taddeo Visconti, the Italian count from Florence. A wealthy and titled man, a handsome fellow and neither too young nor too old.’

‘But?’

‘But…but there is something I greatly mislike about him…something brutal. And I would not have my…daughter live so far away from me.’

‘Then we strike him off. He is refused.’

Henry sighed, and then nodded. ‘Aye. He is refused. The second offer came from Austin Stratford, a very likeable and amiable chap, but without a title and no means other than what he earns upon the tournament field and the King’s pay. I fear he is looking for a rich heiress, and though that alone holds no blame, I doubt he would make my Eleanor happy. He has no means with which to protect her and his personality is such that no doubt she would lead him a merry dance.’

‘Then he too is refused. Who’s next?’

‘Casper von Eckhart, the Hun.’

Remy sat up and snorted. ‘The devil take him! He will break her within days and I have no liking for his sort in our family line.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Henry. He sat down then, a pensive frown upon his brow. ‘And then there is Neville Talbot, who to all intents and purposes would make an excellent match. He has a fine estate and his own fortune. He seems of fine character and yet…’

His finely sculptured nostrils flared and Remy murmured, ‘And yet I have heard that his liking is for boys.’

Henry met his brother-in-law’s eyes and looked away. It was a subject difficult to prove and to cast such aspersions upon a knight would be a grave offence if proven false. But still there were rumours, and Henry could not be deaf to them, for Eleanor’s sake.

‘You are between a rock and a hard place.’ Remy leaned forwards earnestly, elbows on his knees, ‘I would be most careful of Casper von Eckhart. He is a dangerous fellow and takes insult far too easily. Your refusal should be made in the sweetest of terms.’

Henry spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I heartily agree with you. Let us not forget the fate of his last bride.’

For long moments they sat in silence, staring at the crackling fire flames, pondering, both of them remembering the tale of a young woman from Kent that von Eckhart had taken a fancy to, yet he had been refused by her wealthy landowner father. Von Eckhart had then kidnapped his intended bride, had used her so badly that the maid had thrown herself from a cliff and into the sea before he could drag her to the altar. The Hun was reputed to have in his pay a formidable force of free lancers, soldiers no longer in the employ of the King and thus free to be engaged as paid soldiers by anyone who had enough gold coin to buy the use of their lances. Henry worried that his own garrison, depleted by recent wars in Wales and Scotland, was not sufficient to withstand an outright attack upon Ashton, or even an ambush. He needed Eleanor to be united in marriage with a knight powerful enough to hold both her and Ashton safely. Rupert would inherit the title and estates, but it would be to their advantage if his sister was married to someone others would brook no argument with, and who would come to Ashton’s aid if ever such a need arose.

Henry frowned over the four letters he held, offering marriage to Eleanor. None of them were what he hoped for, and Remy could offer little advice. All he could say to Henry was, ‘A husband must be found for Eleanor, soon, but be on your guard.’

‘Aye, I agree wholeheartedly with you there. And you are quite right in saying this nonsense has gone on for long enough. I cannot for the life of me fathom what ails the girl, but I will see her wed before the summer is out!’

They were each silent for a few moments, and then Remy stated the obvious, ‘Then it is to Court you go.’

Lord Henry groaned, little eager for the expense and inconvenience of removing his household to London. But Remy was right. Eleanor would attract no suitable offers tucked away in the country. By God, the girl was twenty years of age and still an unwed maiden! He would be failing in his duty of care if he did not with all haste see her settled into a suitable marriage. He rode home to Castle Ashton in deep thought, and on his arrival surprised his wife by announcing that she should prepare and pack the necessaries for a visit to the capital by the end of the week.

There was a great flurry of activity. Lady Joanna was as determined as her husband that this time a match would be found for Eleanor. She set all her seamstresses to work night and day sewing several new and very elegant velvet gowns for her daughter, in beguiling shades of sapphire and emerald that would, surely, attract some notice. From a locked chest under her bed Lady Joanna took out several pieces of jewellery, fine necklaces and delicate bracelets of gold that would proclaim Eleanor’s standing as a young woman of noble and wealthy family, as well as enhancing her natural beauty.

They arrived in London late on a damp, dismal afternoon early in May. As guests of the King they had been allocated a suite of rooms in the Palace of Westminster, and as the parents of one who served in the King’s Own Guard these rooms had been finely furnished and servants allocated to see to their every need. Eleanor’s maid unpacked for her in the bedchamber she would use, while her parents retired to their more sumptuous room on the far side of the antechamber where they would gather during the day, when not in the great hall. She stood by the mullion-paned window of her bedchamber and looked out beyond the sweep of green lawn of the embankment to the grey shimmer of the Thames. Beyond she could see the rooftops of the city of London, but it all seemed remote to her. She would much rather have been at home, working in her herb garden or on her calligraphy. But to please her father she had succumbed to his will, or, at least, allowed him to think that she had succumbed.

Eleanor was well aware that her father intended to find her a bridegroom; though she would put no obstacles in his way, and she would be obedient to his wishes and willingly marry the fellow chosen, she would find neither joy nor purpose in so doing. With a sigh, Eleanor turned away from the window, and washed her hands in the bowl of warm water the little maid held out to her. Then she sat down as her hair was brushed and tidied, a veil placed over the long, shining auburn tresses and fastened in place with a gold circlet.

A knock roused her from her reverie and she looked up as the door swung inwards.

‘Rupert!’

Eleanor leapt from her chair and hurried towards him. Brother and sister embraced and then she leaned back and looked up at him. It had been over a year since they had last seen each other. He seemed much older, to her eyes, than his mere two-and-twenty. She asked him how he fared and he nodded, murmured briefly that he was well, but she knew her brother and could sense the soul-sick weariness that plagued him. She gave him a final embrace and then stepped to one side as they walked arm-in-arm to the antechamber adjoining. Here her parents rose with cries of joy as their son approached, and a manservant set about pouring wine and offering cakes while the reunion ensued. They sat together, Eleanor perched on the arm of Rupert’s chair, her hand affectionate and reassuring on his shoulder, once again a family. They laughed and talked and then Lord Henry suddenly realised that the evening meal would soon be served in the hall. As their parents made ready and fussed over a loose ribbon here and a tardy lace there, Rupert stopped Eleanor with a hand on her arm, whispering urgently by her ear, ‘There is something I must tell you.’

But time was not on his side and Lord Henry chivvied them along, anxious not to offend the King by appearing late at his table. The moment was lost and they made their way along the wide, stone-flagged corridors that led to the main banqueting hall. They passed many other guests and residents of the court—not only privileged lords and ladies, courtiers and those in waiting, but members of the King’s Counsel and men of military bearing who served in the King’s army. There were many guards in their smart uniforms and gleaming swords, who thronged the hall in ever-ready watchfulness. Eleanor eyed them, but they were all young and unfamiliar, there were none that she knew or remembered. Rupert had advanced to the rank of lieutenant and his duties were many and varied. Eleanor resolved to ask him about these, to encourage him to confide in her whatever it was that so burdened him. She had some inkling of the stresses and strains of a soldier’s life from his letters, but still she sensed there was something more.

At the end of the meal Lord Henry and Lady Joanna enjoyed making re-acquaintance with friends they had not seen in some while, and Eleanor excused herself, feigning a headache and asking Rupert to escort her back to her chamber. He readily agreed and they left the hot, noisy clamour of the brightly lit hall and walked together down a long corridor, cool and dim, intermittently lit by flaring wall sconces that threw vast shadows upon the walls and whose flames danced at every passing movement of air.

‘Are you truly well?’ Eleanor asked her brother gently as their footsteps tapped in unison and they had a moment of quiet to themselves. ‘I sense that…’

She paused, as they approached three people, deep in conversation, their voices hushed, standing to one side of the corridor and just below the flickering light of a wall sconce. As they passed, Eleanor noted that one of the group was a knight in the uniform of the King’s Own, and she looked at his face. Their eyes met, a swift stab of recognition passing between them. He was familiar and yet much changed. The black eyes were still the same, and the handsome face, yet there were subtle differences. His dark hair was liberally peppered with silver. His face seemed worn, but she knew not if by time, the weather, or some other force, yet certainly he seemed much aged. Even though it felt as though her body moved with infinite slowness, she did not stop. In her mind’s eye she could see herself cry out, lift her skirts in both hands as they billowed about her ankles while she turned and ran to him, but in reality all she did was look back over her shoulder as she kept on walking. He too looked, turning his head slightly, his dark eyes following her as she passed, but Troye de Valois made no move, nor sign, towards her.

As though from afar she felt Rupert’s hand beneath her elbow, guiding her, supporting, and he must have heard her swift intake of breath, seen the expression on her face as she turned to him, her eyes wide as she lifted her gaze to his.

‘I—I did not know,’ she stammered, suddenly feeling her cheeks and neck flare with the rush of hot colour and emotion that poured in a torrent through her, ‘that he would be here…I thought—’ She did not know what thoughts she’d had about Troye, for while she had never forgotten him she had tried not to remember.

Rupert hurried her along now, moving swiftly towards the privacy of the Raven chambers. As soon as the door closed he turned to her and said, ‘I tried to tell you, earlier, to warn you, that Troye had returned to court.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘About a year.’

‘A year?’ Her head jerked up and she stared at him. ‘Why did you not write and tell me?’

‘Because…’ Rupert hesitated, anxious not to hurt his sister and yet mindful of the fact that she must face up to the truth ‘…because I feared that if I did you would not come to London.’

‘But why did you not write a year ago and tell me he was here? Tell me that he was well and healed from his injuries?’

‘Why?’ he asked, his gaze direct and his voice firm, yet soft. ‘Surely you harbour no feelings for him after all this time?’

Eleanor looked away, her fingers laced tightly together, suddenly feeling exhausted. She steeled herself and asked a question, the answer to which she dreaded, ‘And his wife? Is she here too?’

Abruptly Rupert took two steps towards her and gripped her arms with both hands, staring at her keenly. ‘Eleanor, do you not know?’

Alarmed at his reaction, she looked up at him with a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘His wife—she died. Two years ago. I wrote and told Mother. She wrote back and said that I was never to mention it to you. But I assumed that you had at least been informed.’

Suddenly it all became clear to Eleanor. The need deep within her, the patient and yet inexplicable insistence from her heart that she wait. And now, surely, at last the waiting was over. She struggled to free herself from Rupert’s grasp and ran to the door, her skirts indeed billowing in her haste. She wrenched the door open, uncertain of where to go or what she would say, but her only purpose now was to find Troye and speak with him.

‘Eleanor!’ Rupert called out to her, running hard on her heels.

She took no heed, her feet drumming, her heart pounding as she ran down the corridor. But Rupert, taller and faster than his slender sister, caught up with her in a few moments and stopped her headlong flight with one arm about her waist. She cried out and struggled and fought against him, but firmly he dragged her back to her chamber and shut the door. Incoherently she shouted at him and tried to reach for the door handle and pull it open, but he blocked her path, grabbed hold of her by both shoulders and shook her until she was forced to yield.

‘Stop! It will do you no good, Ellie. He is just as far beyond your reach now as he ever was years ago.’

Eleanor sagged, her chin dropping upon her chest as warm, wet tears glowed in her eyes. ‘I would only speak with him. Comfort him.’

‘It would make no difference what you say or do.’ He held her as she leaned against his chest, patting her back as he would a child, and felt how slender she had become, how frail, ‘His wife’s death destroyed him. I am certain he will never love anyone again. Forget about him, Ellie, it will do you no good to yearn for him.’

Eleanor wept then, not for herself, not for a love that could never be, but for the wife that had been lost, and for Troye. She felt his pain and the moment it entered her heart she knew that she had never stopped loving him and she could never abandon that love again.

Rupert held her while she sobbed, and then gently wiped her face with his thumbs and murmured words of comfort and encouragement. She tried to absorb them, but the truth was they did not touch nor sway her, and when Rupert, with regret, departed to return to his duties, she sat in a chair beside the glowing hearth fire and stared blankly. She was still sitting thus when her parents returned, but she merely hid behind the excuses of headache and exhaustion. Her mother looked at her for a long moment, always able to detect the slightest falsehood, but whether she was aware or guessed at what ailed Eleanor, she made no comment and kissed her goodnight, withdrawing as Lord Henry impatiently called his wife to their bedchamber.