‘So dangereux,’ he said to Eloise, gesticulating. ‘Even with a trois teep…’ he held up three pronged fingers ‘…ees so dangereux. Sir Owain ees magnifique! My ’eart eet go…’ he pounded his chest ‘…when I fight with eem. I would trés rather fight weeth you, belle dame.’ His laugh was soft and genuinely charming, and Eloise was touched by his concern. He had brought apricots and a message from the king, whose prisoner he was.
The visitors’ talk invariably turned to the dangers of the sport, the risks and injuries. And had she not been so totally committed to saving Sir Owain’s life, this might have stimulated her resolution to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding the Windsor tournament of 1350. She came close to it during the long night hours as she and Father Janos talked quietly across the bed.
‘I know I’m asking the wrong person,’ she whispered to him, searching his compassionate face, ‘but there’s no one else for me to ask. You are his loyal friend. He is your employer. But there’s something I need to know.’
‘I am also his confessor,’ Father Janos replied, ‘and I know what it is that you need to know.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. The answer is that he was not involved in any conspiracy to kill your late husband. There was no conspiracy. Nor did Sir Phillip Cotterell intend to kill him, any more than Monsieur de Grise intended to kill Sir Owain. It’s a dangerous game. You know that.’
‘Yes, I do know. So what happened, Father? Why the mystery?’
‘He’ll tell you himself—’ he nodded to the sleeping patient ‘—in due course.’
But his assurance was not entirely the palliative it was meant to be, Eloise’s cynicism being not altogether relinquished. If Sir Owain had wanted her to know, he would surely have told her by now. It did, however, help her to cross one more hurdle to know that the man she loved, the one she had promised to marry, was in no way responsible for her becoming a widow.
That same night, while she was alone with Sir Owain, she whispered her love to him, over and over, in every permutation of words she could devise. She told him how long she had yearned for him, denied him, and yearned still more in secret. She told him of her dreams and how the reality had been far sweeter, more imaginative, more profound. She begged his forgiveness for her perverse behaviour due, she said, to anger, insecurity, and an increasing lack of confidence. She would not let him go. They needed each other, now more than ever. They had always needed each other.
She did not expect any response, sleep having claimed him long before the start of her confession.
The following week brought gradual but positive improvements to Sir Owain’s condition which convinced his guardians that he was now out of immediate danger. He had lost a great deal too much blood, and the blow to his head had concussed him, causing pain which they relieved with warm poultices of barley, betony and vervain. By mouth, they gave him the same powdered willow-bark they had used on Eloise’s brother, and hung a bag of periwinkle flowers around his neck to prevent a repetition of the dreaded nose-bleed. Eloise fed him sops of bread soaked in barley soup which, being cool and dry in the first degree, was excellent for dealing with the fever caused by his inflamed leg.
To his whispered request for, ‘Something that tastes of something,’ Eloise responded with spoonfuls of bone marrow from an ox, pounded together with an egg yolk and baked. ‘Anything,’ she whispered, when they were alone. ‘I will get anything you ask for. I’ll reach down the moon if you want me to. It’s made of green cheese, they say.’
‘Too far,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot spare you.’
So she had followed the suggestion of Father Janos that gold and gemstones, the more precious the better, should be cooked with the invalid’s food. A capon, he told her, cooked in a sealed dish to which had been added a little rosewater liquor and gold, in the form of coins.
‘The diamond?’ Eloise said. ‘Would that help, too?’
‘You have it, m’lady? Then why not? Put it to some use.’
It was remarkable, she thought, that the priest could even talk about food when he himself had fasted for a whole day as a penance for his burst of pride at St Bartholemew’s. But the diamond and gold obviously had a beneficial effect, for Sir Owain ate more of the tender capon, delicately spiced, than anything so far. And the next morning, when they removed the dressing from his head wound again, the healing showed clean and wholesome with no sign of inflammation. From then on, the diamond was hardly ever allowed to leave the kitchen, even though Sir Owain believed it still to be in his keeping.
Although the initial recovery period seemed to Eloise like an eternity, it was in fact only a few weeks before they were able to consider making the long journey to Derbyshire for Sir Owain’s recuperation. August had given way to September without her realising it, and once she did, it seemed somehow imperative that they should leave London behind and head for home without delay. Naturally, there were those who thought it folly to transport an injured man over rough roads, but there were others who agreed that to wait for the autumn rain and then try would be an even greater danger to him, with puddles and mud axle-deep. Only a handful of their friends and relatives knew the real reason for Eloise’s urgency, including Sir Owain himself.
‘I’m strong enough,’ he said, holding her hand. ‘Of course we must go. My head’s mending nicely, and it’s only this damn leg that’s stopping me riding a horse.’ It was far more than that, they both knew. He was weak, and still in some pain from the leg and collarbone. He could not have sat a horse for long. ‘Will you marry a cripple, sweetheart?’ he said.
‘Not any old cripple,’ she replied, kissing his hand. ‘Only this one.’
‘Then we have no time to lose. Let’s make a dash for it, eh?’
They were given every kind of assistance possible from the king downwards. He lent them his well-cushioned leather-covered wagon and a team of men to protect them on every stage of the journey, arranging for them to stay overnight at a succession of bishops’ palaces, castles and abbeys from London to Whitecliffe, sparing no expense for their comfort. Sir Owain lay for much of the journey with his sore head on Eloise’s lap, though it said much for his strong constitution and their care that he seemed no worse for the continual shaking his body was forced to endure each day. Each night, Eloise lay by his side, sleeping as lightly as a mother with a sick child, anticipating his needs and performing every task, no matter how intimate, rejoicing that he was alive to see each new day. Their arrival at Whitecliffe was ecstatic and without mishap, but that night Eloise wept quietly with relief, exhaustion and joy that Saskia’s prediction appeared to be confirmed. This time, it was different. This time, she had been able to do something about it.
Away from the noise and bustle of London, the pace of their lives softened and slowed to imbue each day with tranquillity. The sound of abbey bells was replaced by the rush of wind and the cooing of doves, the constant stream of visitors reduced to a trickle of family friends. It was now, during these days of regeneration, that Eloise discovered more about the man she had once referred to as a punch-drunk hooligan, that he could converse fluently with his studious brother and his chaplain in Latin, French and Greek, for instance, and that the books in the library on mathematics and astronomy had been annotated by his hand in the margins, not by Nathaniel’s.
Devoid of any lovemaking except mutual caresses, their days were passed contentedly in each other’s company, walking a few yards further each time, watching the squires at their training, reading poetry to each other, playing chess and Sir Owain’s musical instruments, often with Nathaniel and Father Janos joining in. Eloise and Saskia, apart from supervising the housekeeping and taking over the herb and vegetable plots, created a still-room where they introduced Father Janos to the art of making simples and distillations, unguents and electuaries. She was careful not to tell him that she had left the diamond in the kitchen at Cold Harbour, and he was equally careful to say nothing of the approaching deadline for the marriage.
/> Sir Owain was less restrained. ‘Time’s running out on us, sweetheart,’ he said that evening. ‘Are you not reconciled yet?’
‘Yes, sir. I am. We’ll decide on a day tomorrow, shall we? Sleep, now.’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘For your hair to grow over your wound. I didn’t agree to marry a monk, sir.’
He drew her softly into his arms. ‘Of that I shall leave you in no doubt, woman, believe me.’
There was a spate of guests on the next day that put such matters as dates well out of her mind. Jolita, Sir Henry and Lord Pace had decided to follow them from London to prepare for Jolita’s wedding, staying first at Whitecliffe before moving on to Handes. But there was another visitor far less sure of a welcome who waited on the other side of Whitecliffe village out of respect for Lady Eloise Gerrard’s feelings, for the man who had killed her husband could hardly expect a greeting of unrestrained joy, not even after a year’s exile.
Chapter Eleven
The two sisters were as near to quarrelling as they had ever been, Eloise being prevented from walking away only by a path that led nowhere except to a wall where a white rosebush was being shorn of its blooms. Shears in one hand and a basket in the other, Eloise was held at bay by a determined Jolita who was insisting, ‘You have to face up to it, Ellie.’
‘I don’t have to. How can you expect me to meet the man? How could he have the gall to come here? What am I supposed to say to him? How kind of you to call, Sir Phillip? Created any widows lately?’
‘Ellie! Stop it! Is that all you’ve learned in the last ten weeks? Sarcasm? For one thing, Sir Phillip is not the man you think he is. He’s devout. He’s been on a personal pilgrimage to Rome to ask for absolution and, for another thing, he’s here to ask your forgiveness. Are you going to deny him that, after all his efforts?’
‘His pilgrimage was his choice, Jollie, not mine. Including me in his penance puts the responsibility on me, doesn’t it, and I’ll not be held responsible. I have enough problems of my own.’
‘Which Sir Phillip could probably solve for you, if you’d only ask him.’
‘Huh! What’s the point of asking? I’d be given another batch of half-truths to add to the others I’ve collected.’
‘Ellie!’ Jolita’s tone softened, hoping to pacify. ‘You’ve been through a lot. Are you not able to forgive? Is it embarrassment prevents you? Are you going to pretend to him that you’re grief-stricken over Sir Piers’s death; that he’s ruined your life? You’ll have a hard time convincing him of that when he sees you and Sir Owain look at each other.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘It’s true. You know it is. Speak to him. He’s not what you think.’
‘So you tell me.’
‘Meet him, Ellie, for Sir Owain’s sake. They’re good friends, you know, and it’ll make it very hard for Sir Owain if you dislike his best friend. It’s a wife’s duty.’
‘Where is he now? With Sir Owain?’
‘Yes. He sent for him as soon as they came through the gatehouse. Shall I ask him to come and see you here, in private?’
Eloise sighed, glaring at a fat bumblebee. ‘If you must, though I can’t imagine what I shall find to say to him.’
‘You’ll find something.’ Relieved, Jolita pecked her sister on the cheek and tripped away, her loose brown hair swinging from side to side, sheening in the sunlight.
But it was Father Janos who came down the path next without any greeting, taking the rose basket out of her hand and leading her to a sunny wall where a bench was already warmed and inviting. He sat by her side, removing the shears from her fingers. ‘You’ll not need weapons,’ he said.
‘So you approve of this, do you Father?’
‘I approve of forgiveness when there’s true repentance, my lady. Yes, every time.’ He placed the shears in the basket. ‘Do you recall asking me what I know of Sir Piers’s death, and me saying that Sir Owain would tell you?’
‘Yes. I remember. I doubted you then, and I still do.’
‘Probably with good reason. Sir Owain finds it impossible to tell you. But now you have the chance to hear it from Sir Phillip instead. Owain’s always said that he should be the one to explain.’
‘Impossible, Father? Why?’
The priest regarded her at some length as if deciding what to say. ‘I think you’ll discover that for yourself. Your late husband doesn’t come well out of the story, and Sir Owain has not found a way to explain it without appearing to slander him. He feels very passionately about the matter.’
‘So he leaves it to Sir Phillip.’
‘My lady, he does not leave it to Sir Phillip. It is part of Sir Phillip’s penance, imposed on him by the Pope, no less, to acquaint you with the facts and to beg your understanding. And, yes, that does make you responsible, but is that such a bad thing? Were you not at one time craving some responsibility for your life?’
‘For myself, Father.’
‘But you’ve done that, my lady, haven’t you? What else have you been doing since Sir Owain’s accident? At every stage since the news reached you, you’ve made decisions, called the tune, treated him, brought him back, whole again. If that is not exactly what you had in mind at the beginning, then that’s to do with God’s plan rather than yours. And I’d say it’s made a better woman of you than merely deciding what you want for yourself. Which He has granted you, in a roundabout manner, albeit a more painful one. What’s more, in terms of personal effort, it takes far more to ask for forgiveness than it does to grant it, you know. If you think it’s difficult for you, think how much more so it is for Sir Phillip.’
‘I believe that, Father. I know that it would be false for me to pretend that he has robbed me of a happy marriage, for he has not. I didn’t know what true happiness was until I almost lost it these last few weeks. I have you to thank for taking much of the burden from me. I couldn’t have done it alone.’
‘It was no hardship, my lady. But if you wish to thank me, do this one thing. Receive Sir Phillip. He has a young wife, you know, whom he thinks he may already have lost. The man still has grief to bear.’
She felt the vibration of footsteps on the grassy path through the soles of her feet well before the guest appeared. ‘He’s coming, Father.’
‘Well then, this is your chance to kill two birds with one stone. A clumsy phrase, I fear, in the circumstances.’
They stood together to meet the tall knight who came striding up, hesitated some yards away, then approached more cautiously. Whatever image Eloise had conjured up during the past year or more of the man who killed her husband, no one could have appeared more affable than the one who regarded her now with pain and guilt showing so clearly in his blue eyes. Having passed that way herself so recently, she could feel nothing but pity for him and reproach for herself. She stretched out both hands towards him. ‘You are well come, Sir Phillip,’ she said, kindly.
Gravely, Father Janos introduced them, blessed them both, and left them alone.
Sir Phillip Cotterell was, she guessed, about Sir Owain’s age of thirty-three, some ten years older than herself, yet his sun-bleached brown hair, bronzed skin and pilgrim-lean frame dressed in plain browns and russets made him look older. Even so, she could imagine how, only a year ago, he and Sir Owain would have made an impressively good-looking pair. Had that same problem of hero-worship from which she herself had shrunk been one of the reasons why his wife had hoped to provoke him with an affaire? Was she, like herself, one for making statements? Had she been too jealous, too hurt, to think clearly? Like her.
‘Am I indeed well come, my lady?’ He spoke quietly, without any of the bluster she had feared. ‘It’s as though our lives have been closely linked without ever coming face to face until now. Which I regret.’ His voice was cultured and deeply attractive, though his inflections held a tone of hesitancy, almost shyness.
‘I have to admit, Sir Phillip, that I had not thought ever to meet you. But now you are here, we cannot let
the opportunity pass without making use of it, can we? I have learned that life is not quite as long or secure as I thought it was.’
‘You are referring to Sir Piers, my lady, or to Sir Owain?’
‘Both, I suppose, and well before that, too. You must have been surprised to hear of our betrothal.’
‘Not exactly. Owain and I have been friends for a long time, and I knew of his love for you well before your marriage to Sir Piers. Oh dear, have I said something to disturb you? Please…may we sit here, perhaps?’
Believing that she might have been hearing a figure of speech rather than the truth, Eloise sat on the bench she and Father Janos had just vacated and which the castle cat had hoped was to be his place in the sun. ‘Loved, Sir Phillip? Oh, no. I think that’s too strong a word in this case.’
‘No, lady. Not so. Owain has always loved you since that first meeting. He was never the same after that. We teased him, of course, but then he was sent by the king on an errand because of his good French, as you probably know. Sir Piers Gerrard took advantage of Owain’s absence, and his own so-called friendship with your brother, to persuade him that he would be a good choice of husband for you. Which, as you probably also know, had strings attached.’
‘Sir Phillip…’ Eloise looked at her hands, already floundering ‘…I think you may be assuming that I know more than I do. What strings are you talking about?’
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