The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  He bore her to the bed and flung her down, lowering himself on top of her before she could jump up. He flinched as she grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged viciously, the nails of her other hand reaching up to scratch his face.

  ‘You vixen!’ he exclaimed, grasping her flailing arms by both wrists and firmly holding her down. ‘Stop now, or you will hurt yourself!’

  She glared at him, frustration and disappointment provoking her anger. Troye straddled her hips and held her thrashing body between the muscular bulk of his thighs. As she struggled to free herself the bodice of her gown slipped from her shoulder and the hem of her skirts rode up past her knees. Suddenly she was aware of the maleness of his body, the masculinity of his broad shoulders, strong arms and musky smell. She ceased to struggle and lay back, her bosom heaving as she panted for air. He looked down at her, his glance falling to her lips as they parted, and down further, to the high full mound of her straining bosom. He released one of her wrists and boldly placed his hand on her breast, mastering her with his touch. When she made no move to protest or resist he leaned down and kissed her.

  Eleanor gasped, and relaxed, her lips parting as his tongue teased and probed. His jaw worked as he deepened the kiss, pressing his body down on hers, nudging her legs apart so that he lay between them. It seemed to her that they lay just so for ever, kissing and kissing. He manoeuvred her bodily into the middle of the vast mattress, lifting her skirts up higher, pushing them past her waist. Eleanor realised then what he was intent on, and she pressed her hand behind his neck, her other hand sliding down his back, settling on the taut muscles of his buttocks. Every muscle of his body felt so hard and lean, she gloried in the feel of him, entranced by his masculine strength. As he fumbled with the laces of his breeches she hoped that this time would be better, and she would not be left feeling…discontented.

  She thought he would undress her, tenderly kiss her breasts and her body, and take off his own clothes, but while he had kicked off his boots at some stage, he was still fully clothed as he spread her thighs and lowered himself between them. Eleanor tensed, accepting the hot, hard thrust of his manhood into her body, eager to please him, and yet vaguely aware that he made no effort to please her. He thrust, his eyes closed, as though he hardly noticed her existence, and again he made no sound. It did not seem to take very long, for which she was grateful, as she was still tender from the night before. She sensed that his joining with her was no more than male mating with female, an act of simple pleasure, not love, and she experienced again that empty feeling of numbness. There was something she needed to know, to think about, but what it was she had not yet discovered. When he had finished and withdrawn, she pulled down her skirts and rolled on to her side.

  He rose from the bed and began to strip off his clothes, dropping them carelessly on the floor. He went to the water jug and bowl set on a coffer in one corner of the room, and washed. Eleanor watched him, his back to her, the sleek, taut muscles of his body bulging and rippling at his every movement. He was very beautiful to behold. She turned away then, and began to tug at the laces of her gown, shrugging it off and climbing into bed dressed in her shift. She curled in one corner and waited. He blew out the candles one by one, then, naked, climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over both of them.

  ‘’Tis a chill in the air tonight. Most like we will have rain on the morrow.’

  ‘Aye,’ she quietly agreed.

  ‘Goodnight, Eleanor.’

  ‘Goodnight…Troye.’

  He was soon asleep, lying on his back, his breathing becoming heavy as he relaxed into deep slumber. Eleanor rolled over and faced him, her eyes gazing up at him and his bulk as he lay warm and heavy beside her, the hairs of his legs tickling her skin, but she could see nothing in the darkness. They were so close, and yet she could have been miles away for all the notice he took of her. At last, she snuggled her cheek into the palm of her hand, almost touching the muscular curve of his upper arm, and fell asleep.

  Spring eased into summer and though the days were warm Eleanor felt little warmth as they settled into a version of married life that left her disappointed, lost and unhappy. She had nothing to compare it with, except her parents’ own marriage, which to her mind had seemed full of warmth and affection and laughter. When the solitude of her own company became too unbearable she sought out the ladies of the court. The welcome into their circle was a cool one, for she held no great rank, her acceptance only in deference to her husband, although some pretended friendly intentions and were happy to cozen up to her out of a need to feed their insatiable appetite for gossip. Eleanor was no fool and when she resisted all attempts to draw from her intimate details of her marriage, the ladies drifted away and she was left alone again.

  One blazing hot afternoon Eleanor walked along the riverbank, safely within the Palace grounds, and settled down to catch a cooling breeze from the Thames. Troye was away on some errand to do with the King’s Own and had said he would not return this evening. Left to her own devices, Eleanor pondered on the strangeness of her life. She missed him when he was not here…and yet when he was she still felt lonely. Impatient at her own weakness she blinked back the sudden sting of tears.

  Idly she plucked at blades of grass and gazed at the river and the boats, the thatched and red-tiled rooftops, and the many church spires of London town. She watched while an ornate barge ploughed upriver, the oars dipping and rising with a steady rhythm, silver droplets glinting as the water splashed. Realising that it was the King’s own barge, swathed with ornate awnings to shade him from the sun and decked with guards both fore and aft, she followed its progress. Gliding gracefully to the jetty, the barge came to a halt and the King alighted, striding up the steps and across the lawn in that brisk manner he had. He turned his head slightly, and looked to the river with idle interest, and then he spotted Eleanor and he faltered, changed course and walked towards her.

  ‘Good day, Lady de Valois,’ he called out in greeting.

  Eleanor scrambled hastily to her feet, and sank into a deep curtsy, her head bowed. The King urged her to rise, and with one hand beneath her chin raised her face to look at him. He noticed at once the tell-tale spiky lashes fringing her reddened and damp eyes. It had not escaped his attention that Eleanor was much alone, and seemed a pale shadow of her former self.

  He waved away the officials and courtiers who always hovered close to his elbow, and they retreated. The King leaned towards Eleanor and asked, in a gentle tone for his usually gruff voice, ‘Tell me, child, what it is that ails you? Is Sir Troye unkind to you?’

  Eleanor felt her cheeks flush with colour, embarrassed beyond measure. It was not for a wife to criticise her husband, and yet once she had lied to the King and could not bring herself to do so again. ‘Your Majesty,’ Eleanor whispered, ‘he is my husband and I would be loyal and faithful to him, but I fear…he does not love me…as I love him.’

  There! She had said it, voiced at last the terrible thought that had been harboured at the back of her mind all these many weeks. Yet to her amazement the King’s response was to chuckle, hook his arm through her arm, and they began to stroll along the riverbank as he spoke, musing aloud.

  ‘Marriages are not made for love, my dear. They are for security and heirs and assets. When I first met my Eleanor, I was little impressed. Yet we were married for thirty-six years and I loved that woman more than life itself. And she loved me. Love does not always spring forth like a fountain. Sometimes it is more like a gentle stream. But…’ here he sighed, and looked about as he frowned ‘…I own that you have not had a fair chance. Sir Troye has too many duties at court to pay time and attention to his duties as husband. But never fear, that is a matter I will attend to at all speed. Now, come with me and let us have some refreshments.’ He mopped his brow with a fine white handkerchief. ‘’Tis a hot day indeed; no doubt we will have a storm tonight. What say you to a cup of cold lemonade?’

  There was indeed a storm that night, and Eleanor lay alone
in the great four-poster bed and listened to the boom of thunder and crack of lightning that licked across the roiling sky like a serpent’s tongue, followed by the noisy downpour of rain. She did not think she would sleep at all, and was still awake when the bedchamber door opened and Troye came in. She sat up, with a small cry of pleasure and surprise, and climbed quickly from the bed, tip-toeing on bare feet as she ran to him. He greeted her briefly, soaked to the skin and his hair plastered wet and shiny to his head. Rivulets of raindrops ran down his face and Eleanor exclaimed her concern, as he stood there sodden and shivering.

  ‘Look at you…’ she reached for his belt and unlatched it with unsteady fingers ‘…you should have waited till morning before returning.’

  He said nothing, only watched her with hooded eyes, as she worked quickly to help him remove the cold, heavy weight of his wet clothing. When he stood naked she fetched a linen cloth and began to rub him dry, but then he grasped her wrists and forced her to stop. He pulled her close as he bent his head and looked her in the eye.

  ‘The King summoned me to return at once. I was ordered to report to him as soon as I came in, and, though ’tis well past midnight, I obeyed. The King has ordered me to take a leave of absence from court and return home. He says I have neglected my wife. Have you been running to the King with tales of woe?’

  His voice was dull and flat, and he still shivered slightly, standing there naked, his skin brushing hers as she only wore her shift. And yet, despite the warmth of her body, and her longing to put her arms around him and hold him close to her heart, she did not dare to touch him. Between the two of them stood an invisible barrier.

  ‘I—I…’ She faltered, uncertain what to say. ‘I have not complained, or told tales, but I am…unhappy…and others may have noticed.’

  He frowned, his grasp on her wrists tightening, ‘Unhappy? What do you mean?’

  She shrugged and lowered her eyes, unable to look him in the eye as the cold hard truth threatened to drive a wedge between them.

  ‘Well—’ he let go of her, suddenly, and she stumbled ‘—thanks to you we have a long journey on the morrow. We ride for York as soon as you are packed. I will not stay another day at court when you have made such a fool of me.’

  He strode to the linen press and pulled out clean clothes, shrugging them on quickly, pulling on his boots. Eleanor watched, dazed and confused. He barked his instructions at her as though he were speaking to one of his subordinates.

  ‘We leave at dawn. I suggest you start packing your things now, as will I.’ He went to the door, and looked back at her over his shoulder. ‘I am going to the armoury to assist my squire, for it is no easy task. I will sleep there for what’s left of the night. Be sure that you are ready when I return as soon as day breaks.’

  The door banged shut behind him and Eleanor stood there for a few moments, bewildered. How dared he speak to her like that! She hovered between the desire to run after him and make protest, and tears. But no, she told herself firmly, she must not give in to either temptation. It would do her no good to argue with Troye, for a man could not love a woman he was constantly at war with, and it would do her no good to weep. Instead she hurried to pull out her clothes, slippers, cloak, hairbrush, a precious few bars of rose-scented soap, her books and tapestries, a basket of needles and thread, and make them all ready in linen bundles ready for the morrow.

  They departed as the sun rose in the east, simply dressed so as not to attract attention upon the roads, and accompanied only by Troye’s squire, Dylan. Troye intended to make swift time with Eleanor riding pillion, rather than the entire party being at the mercy of her riding her own horse, or a slow-moving cart to convey her. Their wedding gifts and Eleanor’s chattels for her new life as a married woman would be sent after them by wagon, together with Troye’s precious armour and the more cumbersome of his weapons such as crossbow and mace; he and his squire were only lightly armed.

  Troye vaulted astride his excited horse and quietened the creature before reaching for Eleanor as her brother lifted her up. He settled her pillion behind him and her slender arms slid around his waist, above the leather belt latched with sword and dagger. He felt the fragile bones press against his ribs, her body a slight weight leaning against the strong bastion of his back.

  ‘Fare thee well,’ Rupert bade them, from where he stood upon the steps, ‘and don’t forget to write to Mother, she will want to know how…things…are for you in York.’

  ‘I will.’ Eleanor smiled gently, reaching down with her fingers to clasp his. He kissed them and reluctantly they let go of one another, as Troye called a brusque goodbye and spurred his horse onward.

  Once they had left the cobbled streets of London behind them the roads were muddy after the recent rain, the horses slip-sliding on the deeply rutted tracks. Above them the trees crowded with thick leafy green canopies and the land was in full summer bloom, the fields rippling with crops; there was a sense of tranquillity as most of the hard labour for harvesting would not begin for several more weeks.

  Towards late afternoon it began to rain again and they made slow progress as the horses plodded with heads down. It was cold and uncomfortable, and Troye rode with care, making sure his squire kept close to his flank, frustrated at the slow pace. As Eleanor’s shivering intensified Troye decided to call it a day and stopped for the night at Berkhamsted, where they took refuge for the night safe within the castle, a stronghold of the King. Troye was well known and courteously welcome, although he did not hold sufficient rank to be afforded a private chamber. He and Dylan would sleep in bedrolls on the floor of the great hall, and Eleanor was assigned a cot in an elderly gentlewoman’s chamber. The tension between her and Troye was taut as a bowstring and Eleanor was eager to be alone with her husband, to talk with him, but he seemed just as eager to avoid her. She pondered on this, her gaze dwelling on him as they sat at the table in the hall and ate their evening meal. Was it her imagination, or did Troye deliberately look away every time their eyes met? When he rose from the table she rose too, and hurried after him.

  ‘Troye?’ she called.

  He halted in his tracks and turned towards her with a slight frown. ‘I am going to the privy. There is no need for you to accompany me.’

  Eleanor felt her lips tighten and the flush on her cheeks flagged her temper. ‘I am sorry if I have angered you—’

  ‘I am not angry,’ he replied, with a thunderous frown that belied his words. ‘Go you to bed. I will see you in the morn.’

  ‘Very well,’ Eleanor retorted. She would not beg him for his favour, and she turned sharply on her heel and flounced away towards the spiral of stairs that would lead her to her bedchamber for the night.

  Troye watched her go, his own emotions in turmoil. He had not asked for this marriage, and he certainly never felt any desire to bed a woman when the one he truly desired could not be his for the taking. He could not help resenting Eleanor for the emotions she was reawakening, and for not being the woman he truly loved. That night he lay awake and restless, brooding on this marriage that had so unexpectedly been forced upon him. In the chamber above stairs, Eleanor lay awake too.

  The next day they rode onwards, stopping only briefly to water the horses and partake of a meal at an inn along the way. The land was awash with bands of robbers, some of them mercenaries who had failed to secure war and coin for their services, as well as migrants of all sorts, ranging from expelled Jews to merchants taxed into bankruptcy. Troye was wary about fellow travellers and falling victim to any desperate marauders.

  That evening Troye had hoped to make the castle at Bedford, but the light faded too quickly and Eleanor wilted, hungry and thirsty, her arms aching from clinging to his belt for many hours, day after day. They came to a village scarcely a few miles from Bedford, and Troye guided his horse into the yard of the Black Swan. He hired a modest room and his squire, Dylan, would sleep close to the horses in the stables.

  Troye avoided Eleanor, keeping himself busy supervisi
ng Dylan in the stables until he was sure that Eleanor would, by now, be bathed and dressed in her nightshift and abed. When he returned to the chamber, he found Eleanor asleep, the remains of a meal upon the table by the fire. He helped himself to half a roast chicken, bread and a thick wedge of apple pie, sitting in a chair in front of the warm glow of the fire, one booted foot crooked against the hearth. He ate, drank wine, put aside his weapons and his boots, and lay down upon the floor, wrapped in his cloak, to sleep fully dressed, with one ear on alert. Such was the life of a knight.

  He was almost asleep when a sharp knock on the door stirred him. With silent care, so as not to wake Eleanor, he padded on bare feet to the door, his sword grasped in one hand.

  ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘’Tis I.’

  Troye unlocked the door and held it ajar, frowning at his squire, not at all pleased by the disturbance. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Master,’ Dylan whispered with an urgent tone to his voice, ‘there is sickness here. We must move on.’

  He had noticed several people coughing and spluttering with sneezes, but thought nothing more of it. With one glance over his shoulder at Eleanor asleep in the bed, he replied, ‘’Tis too late now to seek shelter elsewhere. We must abide, but stay you away from the others, and I will not leave this room tonight. We do not eat here in the morn, but be ready with the horses to depart as soon as daylight breaks.’

  ‘Aye, master.’ Dylan nodded his head in agreement, and then retreated from the festering inn to the stables, which, to his mind, represented a better and safer bed for the night than within the walls of the inn.

  The next morning they slipped away before anyone else was abroad and Troye hoped that they would not be affected by any ills. The weather had cleared and he was eager to press on. They had a long journey north ahead of them and he reckoned it would take the best part of six days, so on this the third day he forced the pace. Eleanor made no complaint, though her backside ached, and she was often thirsty as the sun blazed hot and burning from a cloudless cornflower-blue sky. Troye scarcely spoke a single word to her, despite the long hours they spent with her arms wrapped around him as the horses trotted and cantered and walked mile after many mile. He made it clear that he resented this journey and he was in no mood for forgiveness.