The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  Late that afternoon they came across several horsemen gathered at a crossroads. Troye and Dylan exchanged glances as they skirted them. Troye took careful note of their armour and the language they conversed in—Flemish—and he needed little convincing that they were mercenaries. He urged his horse into a canter, hoping to put some distance between them and such dubious characters.

  They kept to a steady canter for as long as possible, until the horses were blowing hard and needed to rest. They came to a halt by a river, dismounted and let the horses cool before allowing them to drink. Eleanor stepped away into the concealment of nearby bushes to attend to her needs, and Troye sat upon a fallen tree trunk, talking with Dylan about the proposed march next spring on Scotland. They had been on campaign there before—the fighting against the ruthless Scots had always been bloody and vile…

  Into the clearing trotted the four Flemings they had seen earlier, and Troye placed a cautionary hand on Dylan’s wrist as the boy would rise at once with sword drawn. Troye, however, murmured for him to be still, and he watched with an impassive face as the gang halted before him. He thanked God that Eleanor had disappeared into the woods and hoped that she had sense enough to stay there.

  The mercenaries milled about in a threatening manner on their horses, spurs jingling, and one of them, whom Troye took to be the leader of this sorry band, called out a greeting. He was a pock-marked, dirty-looking individual, with lank hair and unshaven jaw. Troye merely nodded a response, eyes narrowed.

  ‘You have a woman?’ the mercenary asked in rough-accented English.

  Troye said nothing, just stared at the fellow.

  The Fleming tried again. ‘We have gold. We pay for her.’

  Troye rose slowly to his feet. ‘She’s not for sale.’

  The Fleming laughed. ‘All women have a price.’

  ‘Not this one.’ His hand settled on the hilt of his sword. He calculated the odds and wished he’d armed himself with more than just his sword and pavade.

  Dylan rose too, and perhaps there would have been a fight, except from the other side of the river a party of travellers came, fording the shallow water and calling out loudly as they advised and encouraged one another over the rocks and swirling water to reach the far bank.

  ‘Good day.’ A jovial, ruddy-cheeked fellow built like an oak tree beamed, tipping his staff in friendly greeting to the group, unaware that violence had been imminent.

  ‘Good day.’ Troye replied loudly, ‘Have you come far, sir?’

  ‘Aye, indeed.’ The fellow halted, as Troye had hoped, leaning on his staff and ambling into a long-winded account of his day’s journey from Newmarket. The Flemings, having lost both patience and the odds, spurred their horses onwards and crashed through the river, galloping up the far bank and disappearing over the brow of the hill.

  Eleanor emerged then, peering cautiously from behind the trees where she had hidden. Troye spotted her and beckoned. His arm slid around her waist, a possessive gesture that was not lost on the party of travellers, farmers and their wives, as they gathered about.

  The big fellow introduced himself as Watt, and pondered, ‘Them fellows looked like trouble.’ He nodded his head in the direction the Flemings had taken.

  ‘I fear you may be right,’ Troye agreed.

  ‘You are welcome to join us.’

  ‘Thank you, but we are going north.’

  Watt offered his hand. ‘God speed.’

  Troye and Eleanor both murmured their thanks, and then they mounted up and rode onwards. But Troye did not follow in the wake of the Flemings, for fear of ambush. He knew the roads and paths well—for had he not traversed them many times over the years? He circled around, and diverted to Warwick.

  The master-at-arms of Warwick Castle was a personal and very old friend. The Earl of Warwick, William Beauchamp, had fostered them both many years before, and now Troye, together with his wife and squire, were made welcome for the night. They lingered there for a day, to be sure that the Flemings had cleared the area; Troye also announced that the horses were in need of respite. Eleanor was much chagrined as she wondered if he had even considered that she too might be in need of rest, but she was too tired to challenge him on the subject and loathe to aggravate already frosty relations.

  They set off again on the next bright morning, heading north for Leicester. But the weather did not hold; by afternoon it rained and a chill wind blew from the north, making matters very unpleasant for travellers on the roads. They spent another night at an inn, sleeping in a common room as all the private rooms were taken. It was an agonising night that Eleanor feared would never end, with her and Troye both sleeping in a narrow cot, Dylan on the floor stabling their horses. The air was close and fetid, and here too several travellers seemed unwell.

  It worried her there was sickness in the land and she murmured her concerns to Troye. He brushed them aside with a few brisk words, yet at the end of another day’s hard riding he sought refuge for the night at a monastery. Eleanor shared his hope that the monks kept a clean house and at least they did not have to share the bare cell assigned to them for the night with others.

  Troye washed and removed only his boots and belt, un-latching his sword and dagger, placing these on the floor close at hand as he lay down on the bed. She followed his example and washed only her face and removed her shoes, but also her gown, which was damp—this she laid out to dry on the back of a chair. She sat down on the edge of the bed, glancing over her shoulder at Troye as he lay on his side. How she hated his silence, his back turned to her! Reminding herself that she was his wife, gently she laid her hand on his hip. His eyes opened and he looked at her hand. She felt the colour rise hotly in her cheeks, uncertain as to how to approach him.

  ‘Is it very far still to York?’ she asked, her voice soft.

  ‘One day.’

  She could think of nothing else to say, so she lay down, wriggling and trying to make for herself a comfortable spot on the hard, narrow bed. The covers were thin and rough, so she pressed herself against the warmth of Troye’s body. It had been several weeks since they had last coupled, and though she found little pleasure in the act, she knew instinctively that it was a bond between husband and wife, which, if neglected, would be easily broken. She bit her lip, a puzzled frown creasing her brows, trying to think how to ask him without sounding like a harlot. Instead she thought actions would speak louder than words. She rolled over, facing the broad width of his back, snuggling against the taut curve of his buttocks, her hand stealing over his waist to settle on the flat, hard planes of his abdomen. She felt him tense.

  ‘Troye…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am sorry, if I have angered you…’

  ‘I am not angry.’

  She almost laughed at that, at the strange feeling of déjà vu as they repeated a previous conversation, for it was obvious from his manner and his taut body that he harboured ill feelings of some sort, and had for some while now. Her heart ached—she only wanted to share with him her love, to pleasure him, and comfort him. Greatly daring, breath tensely held, she let her hand move down, stroking the bulge of his manhood, dormant and yet powerfully masculine to her exploring fingers. She unlaced his breeches and slid her hand within, cupping the twin orbs of his male parts, never having touched him before. She felt his shoulders move as he drew in a breath, but he did not refuse her touch. Her fingers moved upwards, and she explored all parts of him, squeezing and stroking, until with a groan he rolled over on to his back and pulled her on top of him. He lifted the hem of her shift, pushing it up, and his hands grasped her hips, positioning her female sex on his male. He closed his eyes, his hands reaching up to grasp her breasts and squeeze them. Her breath came in quick gasps, yet she felt too far from him and uncomfortable, her thighs stretched as she kneeled astride him. She had not known that it was possible in this position…She felt heat flare across her skin as she leaned down and kissed him. He let her, opening his lips, and she slid her tongue within
his mouth, kissing him deeply. His body moved beneath her, straining and pushing, his hands on her hips manoeuvring her back and forth to match the rhythm of his movements. She thrilled to feel, for the first time, the heat in his skin, and then with one hand he grasped himself and guided his aching manhood to find the entrance to her body, inserting himself, thrusting, pushing. He felt very big and Eleanor gasped, arching back, resisting the bulk that stretched and invaded the tiny confines of her womanhood. She would have pulled away, but with a small growl he held her tight and thrust hard inside her. As his movements became more frantic she felt heat and pleasure flare between her legs, startling her with its fierceness. She dug her nails into his shoulders, rose and fell with him, for the first time experiencing the power of being a woman. She looked down at Troye, this muscular, powerful man, this knight and soldier of the battlefield, and gloried at his weakness. She leaned down and brushed her nipple against his mouth; he turned his head and grasped it with his lips, opening his mouth and closing it over the heavy flesh of her breast, sucking with a firm motion. Pleasure seared Eleanor and she clutched at Troye’s shoulders as he sat up, grasping her buttocks, in one fluid movement turning her until he was on top. His knee spread her thighs wide and he lunged with his hips, again and again, his fingers stroking her thighs, her softly-haired mound, silently urging her to take him. She did, swinging her hips in a frenzy to match his, her head arched back, until she felt a hot, aching need growing and straining. She thought she would burst with the pleasure of it, but then he stopped, having satisfied himself, and quickly withdrew. She stared at him, aching and wet with his seed and yet unfulfilled.

  In a choked voice, mystified and yet sure that there was more, she pleaded, ‘Troye…?’

  He looked at her then, with hard eyes, his glance lowering to her spread legs, to her womanhood, and almost with reluctance slid his fingers into the moist, tender space he had claimed for himself. He stroked her, and she shuddered, tender from the force of his possession and finding no pleasure in his touch. She pushed his hand away, confused and hurting in more ways than just physically. At her rejection, he shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Get some sleep, Eleanor. We rise early, as soon as day breaks.’

  Eleanor put her shift to rights and lay down on the pillow beside him. Her heart beat very hard and the heat of desire ebbed away to be replaced by the sudden, white-hot flare of anger. She stared at Troye, as he lay with his back to her and his heavy breathing gave evidence of his swift retreat into sleep. For a moment she was greatly tempted to shake him awake, to shout at him that he had no right to treat her like a whore, pleasuring himself as and when it suited him. Yet she feared to confront him, feared to hear the words spoken aloud from his lips that would confirm her suspicions that their marriage was doomed. Once again, she forced herself to keep silent, and closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would soon rescue her from the torment of her thoughts.

  Chapter Eight

  O n the morrow they reached the Vale of York. Through a haze of misty pink, as the glowing gold orb of the sun lowered, they could see the vast bulk of the Minster silhouetted on the far horizon. To the right were the smaller outlines of St Mary’s Cathedral and York Castle, and in between the thatched and shingled rooftops of the houses. Surrounding the city stretched golden limestone walls, banked by a high grassy mound that dropped into a steep ditch. Troye and Dylan discussed the merits of York’s fine defences, but they did not enter the city by any of the four stout barbicans.

  ‘It looks like a fairy tale from this distance,’ said Troye, ‘but within the city walls the streets are narrow and difficult to ride through. We would do well to avoid the noise and the stink.’

  Eleanor looked at the golden vision of York, doubting his word and thinking how like Troye to ruin all the romance of this, her first glimpse of her new home, but all day she had been plagued by a headache. She made no comment, longing only to lie down in a cool, dark place.

  Troye’s family home was in the small village of Fulford, a mile or so from the city walls. They rode up to a large timber-framed manor house, two-storied, the walls plastered and painted white and the windows paned with small leaded squares. It was set on a knoll and partly hidden from the road by oak and ash trees. Yet these details she scarcely took in, barely able to lift her head from where she leaned between Troye’s shoulder blades, a pillow that yielded little comfort. For Dylan, too, it had been a day best forgotten, with his master snapping and snarling at every opportunity; it had not gone unnoticed by Dylan that his master hardly spoke a single word to his lady wife. As a mere squire it was not his place to remonstrate, but it was no easy task for Dylan to bite his tongue. He, too, was heartily glad to reach their destination.

  As the weary travellers halted the front door opened and several people crowded on the step as they looked out curiously.

  ‘Troye!’ A tall woman, dressed in linen wimple and gown, her handsome features and dark eyes easily betraying her identity, called out his name.

  He dropped the reins of his horse and vaulted down, leaving Eleanor slumped precariously on the back of the unattended animal. Quickly Dylan dismounted and came to assist her in doing the same, holding out his arms for her to jump down into. Eleanor misjudged slightly, and the horse shifted just as she was about to descend, so that the slender Dylan was hard pressed and, with a smothered groan and grunt, they both fell to the ground.

  Troye exclaimed angrily and pulled Dylan to his feet with one hand and Eleanor with the other, applying little gentleness to either. Eleanor brushed the dirt from her skirts and hands, feeling the colour rise in her face as the woman asked who they were.

  ‘Mother, this is Dylan, my squire, and this…this…is…my wife, Eleanor,’ he introduced them to each other in a brisk manner. ‘My mother, the Lady Anne.’

  Eleanor dipped into a curtsy, her eyes lowered as the two servants crowding at Lady Anne’s shoulder failed to smother their gasps of surprise.

  ‘Well, you’d best come inside.’ Lady Anne peered in the gloom of dusk, but could see little of her son’s new and unexpected bride. She gathered her skirts in both hands and, in a firm manner that reminded Eleanor much of her son, she ordered her servants to go on and light the lamps. ‘And tell cook we have extra mouths for supper.’

  Dylan departed under Troye’s directions to the stables at the rear of the manor house, and Eleanor was sorry to see his familiar face depart. Though he had said little to her on the long, exhausting journey from London she had sensed his sympathy and his quiet presence had been a buffer between her and Troye. Now, she would be alone with him and his family. What would she make of them? More importantly, what would they make of her?

  As soon as she walked over the threshold of the de Valois family home, Eleanor sensed an atmosphere that she had never encountered before. She wondered why, and blamed it on her headache and sore throat, for she was sure by now that she had succumbed to sickness. But she did her best to smile for Troye’s mother, to answer her questions as politely as she could about her family and her home in Somerset, as Lady Anne led them to a settle before the hearth in the main hall. A maidservant came in with a tray and Eleanor drank thirstily of cool wine, but refused the honey cakes offered.

  ‘And when did this marriage take place?’ Lady Anne asked her son bluntly, as she poured wine and crumbled a cake in her palm.

  ‘A month or so ago.’

  ‘And you did not think to write and invite your mother to the wedding?’

  ‘There was no time,’ replied Troye in an evasive tone, un-latching his sword and laying it to one side, ‘but I wrote with news of the event.’

  ‘I have not received any missive.’

  Troye shrugged. ‘I did have my suspicions that the messenger was not trustworthy. ’Tis likely he pocketed the silver and never left London.’

  Lady Anne surveyed her son with sceptical raised brows, and then turned to Eleanor, glancing at her with shrewd eyes. In a more gentle tone than the one she had used
with Troye she asked, ‘And now my son has dragged you all the way from London in a matter of six days, sat on the back of his horse? No doubt you are exhausted.’

  Eleanor smiled weakly, her voice rasping painfully as she whispered, ‘Indeed, Lady Mother.’

  ‘You may call me Lady Anne. I much prefer it.’ Lady Anne rose from her chair, a slight frown on her brows. She went to Eleanor and placed a cool hand on her forehead. ‘Why, child, you are burning up!’ She glared accusingly at Troye over her shoulder.

  He replied with an aggrieved glare of his own, ‘’Tis not my fault if there was sickness on the road.’

  Lady Anne tutted under her breath and called for her maidservant. ‘Meg, bring warm and cold washing water to…the master’s bedchamber.’ For a moment she looked at Troye, and then at Eleanor, as though in some doubt, and then again at Troye. ‘Will you…she…have that chamber?’

  He shrugged and nodded. ‘There is no other.’

  ‘I will take it, and you may have mine.’

  ‘Nay.’ Troye’s reply was short and sharp. ‘’Twill make no difference.’

  ‘But—’

  They stared at each other for a very long moment, it seemed to Eleanor, and she rose to her feet, puzzled, anxious that no fuss be made because of her. ‘I am sorry if I have caused you inconvenience—’

  ‘Tush, child.’ Lady Anne turned to Eleanor, and then cried out in alarm, ‘Troye! Quickly, catch her!’

  The room seemed to spin in dizzy, whirling circles as Eleanor felt a wave of heat rush at her. One moment she felt Troye’s arms fasten about her waist, and the next her feet lift from the ground. She was vaguely aware of a swaying giddy motion as he carried her up the stairs, the thump of his booted feet on wooden floor boards, the creak of a door as it opened, and then the blessed relief of cool linen…and no more.