The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  For several days she drifted in and out of consciousness, her body burning with a scorching fever, hair and skin drenched in sweat as she fought to overcome the sickness that attacked her. She had nightmares, and strange dreams. Sometimes she thought she heard the voice of a child, at others a dog barking, and though she was sure she called out for Troye, she was just as sure that he did not come to her. She cried and sobbed and begged…but still he did not come…she could not hear his voice, or feel the touch of his fingers…he was lost…drifting…and so was she.

  A bright glare woke Eleanor. She turned her head, very slowly, towards the light. For a moment she resisted, a desire so strong pulling at her to sink back into the dark oblivion of sleep, but some unknown, unseen force tugged and pulled with steely determination to bring her out of the fog and into the light once more. She could see a window, and beyond it white snowflakes fluttered against a grey sky. Outside all was covered in a thick layer of snow, the stark bare limbs of the trees dredged sugar-white. For a long while she lay still, watching the snow drifting silent and serene from the winter sky.

  Then she heard the sound of a dog barking, followed by laughter—a charming, happy, feminine laugh. She lifted her head from a thick pillow encased in stiff white linen, and looked out of the diamond-paned window.

  A girl stood outside, a slim girl of medium height with dark hair swirling around her waist. She wore a burgundy gown and a dark blue velvet cloak. She was very beautiful. Eleanor sat up, on one elbow, and stared at the girl, drawn to her for some inexplicable reason. She pushed aside the bedcovers and padded barefoot, in her nightshift, to the small square window and knelt with one knee on an ornately carved oak coffer set beneath it, topped with a cushion. Leaning against the mullion-panes, she peered out, hardly noticing how cold the glass felt beneath her palm.

  The girl laughed again, and turned towards the dog, a small spaniel that gambolled in the snow and cavorted around her skirts, playfully picking up and dropping a stick for her to throw. Eleanor could see that her skin was almost as pale as the snow, unblemished, suffused with the soft rose hue of a blush induced by the freezing weather, her breath pluming in a delicate mist upon the air as she laughed out loud. She called to the dog in a language Eleanor did not understand. The girl’s eyes were a very dark brown, fringed with thick, dark lashes. Her nose was straight and delicate, her mouth a dusky, dark pink and well shaped, the bottom lip full and generous. The girl swung round, her skirts swirling across the snow, and for a brief moment looked directly at Eleanor. She felt the urge to tap on the window, to call her attention, but the girl looked away and ran across the garden and behind a bay hedge, the dog following after her with a wild thrashing of his tail and eager yapping.

  With a small cry Eleanor turned quickly from the window and ran to the door. She tripped over the edge of a carpet laid upon the darkly polished wooden floor. Her knees banged hard as she fell, her body clumsy from so little use in the weeks past. But she scrambled up and continued. She had to find the girl, had to speak to her. She wrenched at the wrought-iron door-pull and ran out into the main hall of the house…her bare feet crunched on the icy snow….

  ‘Eleanor!’

  A voice called out, she struggled, and then suddenly she was awake, staring about her in wild confusion, panting, realising that she had been dreaming and yet…She gave an incoherent cry as she looked about. This was the very same room that had been in her dream, but when she turned her head and looked out of the same window there was no snow. It was still summer, the grass was green and the trees full of leaves, the sky blue. There was no fire in the hearth, but there was the coffer under the window, and she could have sworn that she had never been here before, had never seen this room before…was she going mad? She stared up at the woman leaning over her, a high-born lady judging by her dress. Eleanor peered at her, trying hard to remember. The woman spoke her name and then a maid came pattering into the room, staring at her with curious eyes, and the lady, her mistress, said, ‘Fetch my son.’

  The maid ran off to find her master, bursting with excitement to be the bearer of glad tidings. Her booted feet pattered on the wooden floorboards as she ran from room to room in search of him. But she could not find him.

  In the kitchen she tugged at the broad sleeve of their cook. ‘Master Jarvis, where be our young sir? His lady is awake!’

  He frowned, pink jowls wobbling as he turned, and looked out the window across the yard. ‘A wagon came in, not long ago. He may well be up at top barn, overseeing the unloading.’

  Without a word of thanks the little maid veered off, hair and cap all flying as she ran, picking up her skirts, pounding and slipping and sliding across the treacherous ground of the rutted track that led to the storage barns and pens to the rear of the manor house. There, to her relief, she found Troye, and she burst upon him, pulling and tugging, her explanation a garbled shriek of words he could barely grasp. But instinct knew that there could be only one source of such consternation. Without question or doubt he turned away from his task of checking the bales of wool ready to be shipped to Holland and ran to the house, his long, muscular legs leaving behind the maid as he outpaced her stumbling trot.

  Eleanor sat up in the bed, pushing back the long swathes of her hair, her eyes skimming about the room, taking careful note of the dark furniture, the canopied bed, the coffer under the window. How familiar it all seemed and yet she was sure she had never been here before…She looked up at the woman, and remembered, a slight smile breaking on her lips as she murmured, ‘Lady Anne.’

  Her mother-in-law sat down on the edge of the bed and took one of Eleanor’s hands into both of her own, clasping them gently yet with firm assurance.

  ‘You had me worried there for a time, child.’ Lady Anne was about to say that she thought it a cruel twist of fate that a second daughter-in-law should lie ill in the same bed as the first, but then she doubted the wisdom of it, not knowing what Troye had told Eleanor. So she merely smiled gently. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Weak as a kitten.’ Eleanor smiled.

  ‘You have been very ill. But I think the worst is over.’ Lady Anne pressed her fingers to Eleanor’s cheek. ‘Aye, you are cool now.’

  Eleanor smiled, and nodded her head, sagging back against the pillows and turning her face towards the window. Lady Anne rose and departed from the room, saying she would return with a tray of food, promising that she would find little morsels to tempt Eleanor’s appetite and build up her strength.

  ‘Thank you,’ Eleanor murmured, but as the door closed and she was left alone she again stared out the window, and at the coffer placed beneath it, strangely drawn to both.

  She listened to the sounds of the house, the creaking floorboards, the distant voices, the birds singing in the trees, and the sound of her own breathing, the steady thump-thump of her heart. There was something…she could not be sure what…but something that made her heart ache and her soul weep hot tears of sorrow…She smoothed the palm of her hand over the coverlet of the bed, glancing up at the emerald-green canopy of the great tester bed. This bed…had he lain here with…her? The thought caused a knife-sharp ache to pierce her heart and she sat up, trying to push back the covers, but she froze as the door clicked open.

  Footfalls echoed on the floorboards and the tread was so familiar to her that she scarcely had to turn and glance over her shoulder at him. Such was the emotion felt within her that tears stung her eyes as Troye approached. Somehow she had feared that she would never see him again, never touch him, or kiss him or tell him how much she loved him…Her teeth caught at her bottom lip as he came to a halt beside the bed, and slowly she raised her eyes to his.

  ‘I am told you are much recovered?’

  He spoke in that calm, clear voice that betrayed no emotion and yet touched her deeply just by its timbre. His enquiry, though, was hardly the tender concern of a loving husband, and the tears burned even sharper in her eyes. She turned away, so that he would not see them, and simply nodde
d her head. She made much of trying to push aside the covers, and he came and easily lifted them aside. Eleanor swung her legs out, and placed her feet carefully upon the cool, dark wooden floorboards. Her legs felt wobbly indeed as she rose, and Troye reached out and placed his hand under her elbow. She smiled her thanks and then, taking a few hesitant steps, walked to the window.

  He walked with her, and stood close at her side as Eleanor squinted against the light, looking to left and to right. She could not resist the temptation and asked him, as casually as she could, ‘There has not been snow, has there?’

  Troye stared at her, as though she were mad indeed, supporting her with one hand under her elbow, ‘Indeed not, ’tis the hottest summer we have had in a long while. Why do you ask?’

  Eleanor glanced down at the coffer, and then she shook her head. ‘No matter. I had strange dreams.’

  ‘’Tis common with delirious fevers.’ He followed the line of her gaze and abruptly urged her back to the bed. ‘You are weak still, you need to rest.’

  Eleanor could hear Lady Anne and the maid she called Meg as they came up the stairs, and though she longed to ask him the many questions in her mind, they both turned from the window and hurried with almost guilty haste to return Eleanor to the bed.

  For the next few days Eleanor gradually felt her strength return, as did her sense of smell and with it her appetite. She looked forward to when Troye would come to see her. Once he sat on the coffer under the window, staring at her with an expression on his face that she could not quite fathom.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked, his hands clasped between his spread knees, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

  ‘I am much recovered, thank you.’ Eleanor smiled at him then, and patted the edge of the bed, feeling that he was far too distant and too formal. ‘I am not contagious.’

  At her insistence he rose from the coffer and perched on the edge of the bed, and she held out her hand to him. He took it into the warmth of his and she drew strength from his strength, and yet she sensed his reluctance.

  Blushing a little, she murmured, ‘I miss you, Troye. This bed is far too big for just one person.’ She smiled, adding a soft little laugh to hide how earnest her loneliness.

  His glance strayed to the window, unable to find the words to admit that he had not been able to bring himself to sleep in this bed with her, the bed that he had shared with his first wife.

  ‘You must take as much time as you need to recover,’ he prevaricated, ‘you don’t need my snores keeping you awake.’

  ‘I like your snores.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He returned his glance to her, drawn by her smile and amused tone.

  ‘Aye, I find the sound very comforting.’

  He laughed, not believing her for a moment, pressing his point further by adding, ‘And ’tis very hot at the moment. I’m sweating like a pig all night long.’

  The thought of Troye lying beside her, hot and sweating, was more tantalising than she could bear, so demurely she lowered her eyes, with a slight smile and accepted that today she would not win this argument; but there would always be tomorrow. After a few moments of idle conversation, she freed her hand from his and let him go. He rose and at the door turned back to look at her. Their eyes met; Eleanor smiled gently, but her encouragement was not rewarded. Troye left and went about his business. With a sigh Eleanor snuggled down on to the pillow, still tired and weak and perplexed about how to bridge the widening gulf between her and Troye.

  By the end of the week Lady Anne encouraged her to dress and go outside to get some fresh air. They strolled together in the garden, and then sat upon a stone bench beside a fish pond, not far distant from the house. The golden light of late afternoon slanted across the grass and trees, the air sweet with roses and honeysuckle. Eleanor turned her face to the sunlight and closed her eyes, basking in the warmth and the soft sense of peace. She was aware of Lady Anne sitting beside her, watching her, though she pretended not to. Eleanor opened her eyes and turned her head, a question in her eyes.

  Lady Anne merely patted Eleanor’s hand as she leaned back on the bench. ‘What has he told you?’

  Eleanor looked away then, a chagrined smile turning down the corners of her mouth. There was no need to pretend. They both knew what her mother-in-law alluded to. Eleanor shook her head. ‘Nothing. He has said nothing.’

  ‘Come…’ Lady Anne rose ‘…do you feel strong enough for a short walk?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Eleanor welcomed the opportunity to stretch her legs and to escape the confines of the house.

  They followed a path between a high hedge. Eleanor had a peculiar feeling as though she had been here before. She remembered the dream, the one that had seemed so real, and the girl playing with the dog—they too had turned this way. Lady Anne led her along the banks of a river, the green delicate fronds of willow trees leaning down to weep into the cool, dark waters. After a short distance she turned away from the river and followed the path towards the village of Fulford. There was an inn and a blacksmith and several cottages, but on this dry afternoon there was no one about, all able bodies out in the fields beyond helping to reap the harvest of oats, wheat and barley. A church stood beyond a stand of copper beeches thick with dark brown leaves. The lych-gate creaked as Lady Anne opened it and they entered holy ground, their shadows mingling with the shadows thrown by gravestones on the grass. Eleanor followed her to a corner sheltered by trees and a hedgerow of wild rosehips and hawthorn. There was one small stone beneath the boughs, and here Lady Anne halted. Eleanor brushed aside the damp tendrils of hair that clung to her brow, tired from even this slight exertion, and looked down, reading the carved inscription:

  Isabeau de Valois

  Beloved Wife

  Loved and Cherished For Ever

  For a long moment all she could do was stand and stare. Here at last, she was confronted with all that stood between her and Troye. Again she read the inscription, each word and her tender age burning painfully into her senses, and then Eleanor murmured, ‘She was a mere score years. My age.’

  ‘Aye.’ Lady Anne folded her arms in a resigned gesture, glancing up to the sky, to the heavens, to a God she felt sure had deserted them on that dreadful day. ‘She was a young, beautiful woman.’

  ‘He loved her.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How…what happened?’

  They did not look at each other as she asked, and she was not sure if Lady Anne would reply. She had no right to ask, no desire to stir pain that lay dormant.

  ‘She slipped and fell, on an icy winter’s day just before Christmas, and hit her head.’

  Eleanor didn’t know what to say to that, all sorts of thoughts and questions running riot through her mind. She searched for something, some starting point for a matter that was so simple and yet too vast for her understanding. She asked as carefully as she could, ‘How did they meet one another?’

  ‘Isabeau was a Jewess; her father was a banker whom my husband sometimes borrowed money from when shipments were late. They had known each other since they were children. My husband used to take Troye with him into York, to visit the merchants, and sometimes the Jewish banker, Leo Samuels, in Jubbergate when finances were tight. Now and then I would go too, and we would see her sitting there, writing in a book, helping her father to keep his accounts. She always had a little dog and sometimes we would let the children go out in the yard and play with him while we talked business. Of course, Troye was older than Isabeau, and at first he grumbled, but her mother baked delicious sweet biscuits or poppy-seed cake and he made good use of Isabeau to purloin generous portions.’ Lady Anne smiled gently at the memory. ‘She was a very pretty child, so…serene, and clever. Yet always she was kind, and amusing—I remember how she made Troye smile. And her laugh was the prettiest sound.’ The remembrance of happy times made Lady Anne’s face light up fondly, but her eyes soon clouded over as other thoughts intruded. ‘But then the King expelled all Jews from the kingdom. My husband took
pity on them and gave the Samuels shelter, while they made arrangements to pack up and go to the Netherlands. It took some time and Isabeau and Troye spent a lot of it together, too much. They fell in love. Troye asked Leo Samuels for permission to marry his daughter, but he refused. He had betrothed her from birth to another, a Jew, a scholar of their faith. Her father insisted that Isabeau would go with her family to Antwerp and she would marry this…other man. So they ran away, and married in secret; then, when he thought it was safe, Troye brought her home to live with us here. My husband passed away shortly after that, and I welcomed Isabeau, loved her as the daughter I’d never had. Who could not love Isabeau? And then…’ here Lady Anne’s voice hardened as she struggled with the terrible truth and she fought the sorrow that threatened to overspill ‘…the King recalled Troye to Court, and after a year of banishment he could not refuse to return and make his peace with the King. Isabeau was expecting their second child, so she stayed at home. It was winter, we went out for a walk with Toby, her little spaniel, but along the way she slipped on some ice and fell.’ Lady Anne was silent for a long moment, and her throat worked painfully as she struggled to control the emotions that threatened to drown her voice. ‘Down there—’ she pointed back, to the opposite direction from which they had come, the shorter, quicker route from the manor house to the village, but one that she could not bear to tread ‘—by the river. She had no more than a small bruise on her forehead. None of us thought anything of it. But God in his great wisdom chose to take our fair Isabeau. I found her in the morning, lying still and pale in the bed, as though she were asleep.’