The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  Eleanor stood transfixed, head bowed, staring at the gravestone, part of her trying to imagine the woman who now lay beneath the ground, nothing more than dust to dust. The other part of her cringed and wanted to flee from the terrible, painful thought, not only of a woman so greatly loved, but one who should still be alive. The thought made her weep, soundless tears coursing down her cheeks, grieving for a woman she had never known and yet one who so greatly influenced her life that she might well have been living and breathing at this very moment.

  ‘Did Troye tell you any of this?’

  Eleanor shook her head, sniffing and wiping her damp nose with the back of one hand.

  Lady Anne shook her head in disapproval of her son’s reticence. ‘Pardon me for asking, child, but I am perplexed as to why he married you.’

  Eleanor lifted her head then, pain tearing at her heart and opening the floodgates for more tears, ‘You mean, why did he marry me when he still loves her?’ She nodded towards the gravestone and sobbed, her eyes a bright glitter of unshed silver, ‘On the orders of the King. Why else? Troye would never do anything except his duty.’

  Picking up her skirts in both hands, Eleanor fled from the churchyard, running blindly as she sought to escape the truth and the pain that would now haunt her for ever. She ignored Lady Anne as she called out after her, and ran on, but in her weakened state she was soon forced to stop, gasping for breath, sinking down on to her knees on the path by the river. She lay there and wept, her heart aching inside of her with all the love that could never be: not only her love for Troye, but the love shared by Isabeau and Troye, so cruelly and unjustly ended. A shadow cast itself over her, and she yielded as Lady Anne gently urged her to rise and guided her back to the house.

  In the cool dim shadows of the bedchamber, Eleanor sank down on to the bed and confessed to being worn out. She was greatly relieved when Lady Anne withdrew and left her alone. Her tears had spent themselves and she felt numb, empty, as though the very heart had been torn out of her. How would she survive this? How could her marriage be anything except a sham and a lifetime of loneliness and disappointment?

  The afternoon waned, the golden light easing into the dark shadows of evening. She could hear the servants setting the table in the hall below, and she was sure she could hear the small, thin voice of a child, the patter of tiny feet. She remembered Lady Anne’s words, that Isabeau had been carrying their second child…so there was a child…but Troye had seen fit to keep them apart…Why, indeed, would he hasten to introduce her? A stepmother was as welcome to a child as a toothache, and she had no doubt that if Troye had his way they would never meet…yet to be fair, Eleanor grasped at straws, she had been ill and no father would endanger his child with another’s sickness.

  Eleanor turned over on to her side and gazed at the window, but it was dark now and she could see nothing. Then her glance fell to the coffer, and the cold hand of curiosity stirred and urged her to sit up. She rose from the bed and fumbled in the dark to find a candle on the table by the hearth, tiptoeing out into the hall and lighting it from a rush lamp, and then just as stealthily returning to her chamber and closing the door. She padded on bare soundless feet to the coffer and knelt.

  Eleanor unlatched the clasp; the lid was heavy and creaked as she lifted it slowly, her breath tensely held somewhere in her throat. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, some instinct making her tremble and fear Troye’s wrath. Whatever was contained in this chest, it was not something that Troye would share with her. He would not allow her questions, so she would have to find her own answers. And so she convinced herself of the justice of her quest as she propped the lid against the wall and held the candle closer.

  A smell of camphor and lavender rose to invade her nostrils. The chest seemed to be packed with clothes. She recognised the burgundy gown and dark blue cloak. Beneath them, at the bottom of the chest, lay what she could only surmise to be wedding gifts—silver candlesticks, goblets, sewing needles, and a pair of velvet slippers. Eleanor recoiled from investigating further. She could hear hoofbeats outside, and Troye giving instructions to Dylan as they arrived back from a trip to the bonding-house in York. Her heart began a nervous drumbeat. Gently, carefully, she tidied the contents, and then her fingers touched the hard edge of a picture frame and she could not resist. Holding the candle closer, she pulled out a small painted portrait, a miniature, framed in gilt. Goosebumps flared over her forearms. She stared at the beautiful, still, silent, serene image of a lovely face, dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin, perfect nose, lush, petal-soft mouth…the girl in her dream!

  Isabeau de Valois.

  For long moments she stared, and then she heard the main door open, and Troye call out a greeting to his mother. She could not hear the words of their conversation, but now she hastened to put away the portrait and close the chest, some instinct urging her that Troye would not be pleased to find her snooping. She could hear his footsteps ascend the wooden stairs and she hurried to sit upon the edge of the bed, busying herself with shaking fingers to pull on her hose.

  The bedchamber door clicked open and Troye looked around it. Seeing Eleanor was awake, he came in. He watched for a moment while she reached for a hairbrush and stroked it through the long skeins of her auburn hair. A distant memory stirred within him of…her…sat upon the edge of their bed brushing her hair, after they had…He forced the memory away, and stared hard at Eleanor, who had neither the smile nor the glow of a woman well content and satisfied.

  ‘You look tired,’ Troye commented, noting the dark circles and puffy redness of her eyes. ‘You must not try to do too much, too soon.’

  She lifted her wary gaze to his, and forced a smile. ‘I would not have your mother think I am lazy.’

  ‘No one thinks that of you.’ Troye turned away, always ready to retreat at any mention of personal matters, ‘Supper is ready.’

  Eleanor rose and slipped her feet into her shoes, straightened her gown, and he held the door open as together they left the bedchamber.

  In the hall below the long refectory table of dark oak had been set with trenchers and a bowl of steaming chicken stew. Lady Anne sat in her customary place at the head of the table and Eleanor took her seat to the left, while Troye sat opposite on his mother’s right. Had it been so with Isabeau? Eleanor wondered as she sat down.

  Mother and son conversed in an easy fashion as they each helped themselves to food, their talk mainly of the wool business and the weather and their neighbours. Eleanor listened, but it was all unfamiliar to her and she made no comment. With head bowed she ate in a desultory fashion, a nauseous wave of homesickness sweeping over her as she wondered what her parents might be doing and how they fared at Castle Ashton. She reached for the round loaf of bread and tore off a chunk, dipping it into the gravy of her stew and chewing with little enthusiasm. Is this how it would be, for all the days of her life? She raised her eyes and looked at Troye, seeing him in a different light now that she knew about his wife. Anger almost flared as some sensible part of her rushed to declare, ‘You are his wife!’ Yet her heart, which had never been overly keen on sense, knew full well that she was not. She watched him as he talked and imagined how he must have felt when news reached him of Isabeau’s death. The hairs on her forearms flared and she shivered, all too aware of the pain and the shock that he must have felt.

  Feeling her gaze upon his face Troye turned, and halted in his conversation on the merits of the High Sheriff and whether they should have him to dine. ‘Is there aught amiss?’ he asked Eleanor, noting her pale face and how quiet she had been. ‘Do you feel unwell?’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘Nay.’

  ‘You have not said a word all evening.’

  Lady Anne laid her hand upon Troye’s wrist, a discreet yet warning gesture. ‘Well, we are much remiss in that we have talked of nothing that Eleanor would be able to make comment upon.’

  ‘I am happy to sit and listen,’ Eleanor murmured.

  Troye observed her downcast
eyes. ‘I must go into York on the morrow. If you wish, you are welcome to accompany me. You have not yet seen the city. The market and the cathedral may interest you.’

  ‘We will go together,’ Lady Anne brooked Eleanor’s hesitation. ‘I need to see the cobbler about my winter shoes. Come now, child, have a slice of this plum cake. Fresh from the oven it is, and just looking at you, all skin and bone, we need to feed you up if you are to be strong and healthy again.’

  Eleanor had little choice but to accept the wedge of cake, and delicious it was, smothered in fresh cream. She smiled as Troye complained at the thick wedge that his mother had cut for him, sadly aware that even to watch him eat was a guilty pleasure. He wiped cream and cake from his mouth, laughing as he refused a second helping. He scraped back his chair, ‘I am off to see what Dylan is up to.’ He glanced at Eleanor in parting, ‘Until the morrow.’

  She realised then that he was bidding her goodnight, and the thought of another night without him sleeping by her side was unbearable. From the corner of her eye she watched as Lady Anne went to a basket in a far corner to fetch her embroidery, and while she was gone she hurried after Troye as he reached for his cloak.

  ‘Troye—’ She halted him with one hand upon his arm, and then coloured profusely as she stumbled on the words of her request.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, glancing down at her with a frown.

  ‘I—I—’ She glanced over her shoulder, and then whispered, ‘Where have you slept these nights past?’

  His face closed and he swung his cloak about his shoulders, giving himself a moment to consider his reply, which was, to her frustration, rather vague. ‘I have been comfortable enough.’

  She looked up at him then, blushing with a rosy hue. ‘I have missed you.’

  He made no comment and she was forced to make herself clearer. ‘I am well enough for you to return. If you wish.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then so be it. But do not wait up for me.’

  He strode away then, but it was with a happy glow that Eleanor spent the evening quietly darning his lambrequin, a cloth hood worn beneath his chain-mail coif. She sat and thought about the pleasure of having him return to her bed, and that it would be a good opportunity to ask about the child. She was sure that Lady Anne would have been willing to tell all, to introduce the child, but it was clearly obvious that she was under instructions from Troye not to. And yet she had her curiosity about Isabeau, much aware that Lady Anne had been fond of her.

  ‘Lady Anne?’

  ‘Hmm?’ She looked up as she bit off a thread.

  ‘Tell me about…Isabeau.’

  Her question was only met with silence, as Lady Anne rummaged through her silks for a particular colour with great attention.

  ‘Was she pretty?’ Eleanor persisted.

  Lady Anne squinted at a needle as she threaded a dark shade of green. ‘Aye. Very pretty.’

  ‘Was she…fair?’ Eleanor blushed at her deception.

  ‘Nay. She had dark hair, and dark brown eyes.’

  ‘Was she…tall?’

  ‘Nay, she was a little thing, smaller than you.’ Lady Anne gave her a hard, shrewd look with eyes as dark as Troye’s, peering into the depths of Eleanor’s soul as if she would pluck out the truth by the mere force of her gaze. ‘Now listen to my words, and heed you well. The past is a dangerous fellow—he can charm and beguile and poison, when in fact he has no existence except in our minds. Live for today, Eleanor. Forget the past. It can only hurt you if you allow it to stay with you.’

  Eleanor blushed. She set aside her sewing and, rising from her chair, murmured, ‘Lady Anne, it is not I who has trouble with the past.’

  She bid her goodnight, retiring to her bedchamber and taking with her a candle and her anxious thoughts. With great care she attended to her ablutions, washing with rose-scented water and brushing out her hair until it shone, soft to the touch. She chose a delicate nightshift, tied with pink ribbons, and then climbed beneath the covers of the bed and lay there to wait.

  After a time, bored with staring up at the tester’s canopy, she began to say her prayers, but her mind wandered and once again it returned to the thought uppermost: Isabeau. Again she wondered if Troye had shared this bed with her—it seemed very likely, but she questioned the wisdom of asking him such. What difference would it make? If he replied aye, then what could she do? Ask for a new bed? That would be unlikely! She had a feeling that though the de Valois manor was well kept and well run, they were not as wealthy as her own family. She chewed on her lip, surmising that she could appeal to her father to use her dowry for a new bed, and then smiled at the complete fool she would make of herself with such a request. The fact was, Isabeau had been here, but now she was gone. And Eleanor had to make the best of it. She rolled over on to her side, facing the door, wondering how late it would be before Troye returned. She sighed, her eyes closing, and though she tried to force them apart it had been a tiring day. She relaxed, burrowing down beneath the covers, snuggling into the pillow. It was a very comfortable bed indeed…

  A sudden draught and the feel of cold flesh against her warm skin woke Eleanor. Troye murmured an apology as he climbed into bed, naked and cold. Half-asleep, Eleanor lifted her arms and slid them around his broad back, urging him closer to her warmth. In silence, he complied. She held him, the masculine scent of his body tingling in her nose, awakening her senses. The muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged, firm and hard, the planes of his chest and midriff lean against the softness of her breasts and her woman’s body. He sighed, relaxing in her embrace, pressing the roughness of his jaw into the smooth crook of her neck. They said not a word to each other, and yet she sensed his need. With the fingertips of one hand she stroked the back of his neck, encouraging him.

  Fumbling almost like a callow youth, his lips moved across her face, seeking her mouth. He kissed her, his hands sliding down her back to grasp her buttocks. She made a sound, one of pleasure, without words trying to convey to him that she loved the way he kissed her and touched her. Eleanor pressed her body closer to his, her aching nipples taut against his chest, enjoying the rough tickle of the dark hairs that matted his torso. She could feel his arousal, pressing into her, hard and strong.

  With bold fingers Troye quickly removed her shift, tossing it aside and running his hands over her naked body. She moaned and groaned with lusty pleasure, hoping that he would echo her, but he was silent, as always. She felt heat on her skin at his touch, and though his manhood was hot as a fire-poker, his back was cool beneath the palm of her hand. Into her mind came an insidious thought, an image, of him and her…making love…Troye calling out her name…She drew back, but it was too late, Troye was intent on reaching his goal.

  He rolled her over on to her back and parted her thighs, moving to a position of dominance as he mounted her. She lay back, accepting him as he thrust into her body. He rose and fell, plunging faster and faster, and though his breath came slightly louder against her ear, he made no sound, no cries of pleasure, nor of love. She held on to his broad shoulders as he moved above her, in the dark unable to see his face, but certain that his eyes were closed, lost in his own world, a world that he would not allow her to follow him into. She enjoyed the feel of him and the power of her own body to give him pleasure, and yet she still yearned for more as his movements stopped, and she could only guess that he had done that inexplicable and mysterious act that left her moist with his seed. A small sound of disappointment escaped from her throat, and he raised himself on to his elbows. Though he, too, could not see her face in the dark, he looked upon her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘You…are not…well enough yet?’

  She hesitated with her reply, wondering at the wisdom of making an issue of something that she had no knowledge of in the first place, and for some strange reason she felt that Troye must not take the blame for her lack of satisfaction. Indeed, in her innocence she considered the fault to be
her own.

  ‘I am rather tired,’ she hedged, and softened her words by stroking his face and kissing his cheek. ‘But it is my duty to let you…have your way, is it not?’

  Troye snorted, well aware that duty and passion were not compatible, and yet had their couplings ever been anything except duty?

  ‘Eleanor—’

  She had no wish to discuss the matter further. Turning on her side, she bid him, ‘Good night, Troye.’

  Chapter Nine

  E leanor woke to the sound of birds twittering their sweet chorus in the trees. The sun rose very early and she expected, as always, to find herself alone, but as her senses gradually awakened she felt the warmth and heaviness of Troye, lying asleep alongside her. Remembering how he had been with her during the night, she was loath to face him in the cold light of day.

  Eleanor hunched over, curled on her side with knees drawn up, lying on the edge of the bed as far from him as possible. She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but a rooster crowed outside and below she could hear the household stirring—the cook, Jarvis, clattering pans, the soft voice of Meg conversing with Dylan. However much she longed to, escape into slumber eluded her.

  Troye stirred then; she heard his deep even breathing alter and she sensed that he was awake. He sighed and stretched, and then she felt the mattress move as he leaned towards her. His hand gently touched her shoulder.

  ‘Eleanor,’ he whispered, ‘are you awake?’

  ‘Hmm,’ she replied drowsily, not turning to face him, but his hand insisted and reluctantly she rolled over. Opening her eyes a little, she was met with the sight of his broad, muscular chest and shoulders towering above her, his long legs close to her own, yet not quite touching. The warmth and strength of his body was very seductive to her senses, she could feel her breasts ache in response, and further down, in that mysterious place between her legs, still damp and aching from his possession, she throbbed with a sudden stab of desire.