Troye studied her face, and her downcast eyes. It pained him to see the unhappiness written so clearly on her features, and yet he could not help but be the cause of it. Awkwardly, he murmured, ‘Last night…’ He struggled to find the words to express the thoughts and emotions that hammered like an unwanted visitor on the door of his mind. ‘It was no good for you, was it?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to agree with him, but she refrained, wondering at this change in Troye. He had never bothered before to speak of intimacy. Confusion warred with hope, and she hardly dared to lift her eyes to his, uncertain of what she would find written there.
‘Eleanor,’ he spoke softly, yet his voice firm and clear, ‘I know I have not been the best of husbands to you, and I do not mean to be so harsh. I am sorry. I cannot help but be the way I am—of that I warned you.’
A sigh escaped from between her lips, as hope faded and disappointment crushed her heart yet again. She nodded, unable to speak a word, fearing that if she did all that was now held tight and fast within her would burst forth in a torrent. He would only refuse to face anything other than his own sorrow and shut her out.
‘I promise that I will never again…take you, if you are unwilling.’
Her eyelashes flew up and she stared at him, the cold hand of fear gripping her. ‘What do you mean?’
He sat up, pushing aside the bedcovers as he swung his legs to the floor. ‘I mean you need have no more worries. I will refrain from…marital relations, unless you should have a need for it and ask me to, um…’ he hesitated delicately ‘…bed you.’
Eleanor almost gave a cry then, watching his beautiful body as he walked across the room and reached for his clothes, pulling on his breeches. He did not want her for his wife to love, and now he did not want her as a woman to hold! Her humiliation and disappointment was absolute.
‘We will go to York mid-morning. You are well enough to ride, or shall I ask Dylan to drive you in the cart?’
‘Nay,’ Eleanor croaked, then cleared her throat and tried again. ‘I can ride.’
‘Good.’ He fastened his tunic and tugged on his boots, reaching for his belt and sword, latching these about his waist as he smiled at her from the door. ‘I will see you anon.’
As soon as the door closed, Eleanor buried her face in the pillow and smothered the great sobs that tore from her, racked with a bout of weeping that left her drained and disconsolate. At last, the tears spent, she lay there and wondered how on earth she could manage to drag her body from the bed. Even to rise and dress was too much effort, let alone ride a horse the mile or so to York and spend all day with Troye and his mother. I cannot do it! Eleanor declared to herself, wiping her face and nose with the back of her hand. She imagined herself telling them excuses, anything, that she felt unwell, and staying here in the bed. Or, her resilient mind plotted further, while they were gone she would pack and run away! Aye! She could not live with this agony, it could not go on. She would leave…but for where? York was so very far from anywhere, she would never be able to ride alone on the roads for six days to reach London.
Eleanor subsided. Good sense told her it was impossible. This was her life, there was no other. She had no choice but to stay and endure the pain of being married to a man who did not love her, as she loved him. Mayhap it would not hurt so much as the years passed by. She would become accustomed to the pain and, like Troye, cease to feel anything at all.
Meg came in then, with a soft knock upon the door, bearing a tray set with a mug of warm milk spiced with nutmeg and honey, and fresh-baked curd cheese tarts thick with raisins. The maid greeted her and set the tray down, and Eleanor thanked her as she sat up in the bed and donned her shift.
‘Meg, I would bathe. Please bring the tub and lots of hot water. ’Tis a warm morning and I would take advantage of it.’
‘My lady.’ Meg bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to the kitchen to set water on the boil and call to Simon the house-serf and Dylan to bring the bathing tub upstairs.
The water would take some time and Eleanor made no hurry. She ate the tarts and drank the milk and then went to sit upon the coffer beneath the window and gaze out at the flat Yorkshire landscape. It was colder here, and very open, compared to the rolling hills and dales of Somerset. Had Isabeau sat here too? No doubt she had been well content. Eleanor heaved another sigh and reached for her brush, applying it to her hair, which she then tied with a wide ribbon in a knot upon her head.
A knock rapped on the door and she called enter. With grunts and sighs Simon and Dylan manoeuvred a beaten copper bathing tub into the room, no light weight, and set it down before the hearth.
‘Would my lady be wanting a fire?’ asked Simon, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Eleanor smiled and shook her head. ‘Nay, ’tis warm enough.’
His relief was almost palpable. ‘Very good. We’ll be bringing up the water now, if my lady is ready?’
‘Aye. Thank you.’
It took five trips each by Dylan and Simon to empty steaming copper jugs of water into the tub, and Eleanor felt much obliged for their exertions. She gave them her thanks and then dismissed Meg, assuring her that she could manage on her own. She wanted to be alone and lie in the warm water for as long as possible before it cooled, without the hovering maidservant to intrude upon her troublesome thoughts.
Eleanor untied the ribbons of her shift and let it fall to the ground about her ankles, stepping out of the soft folds of linen and into the bathing tub. With a sigh and a shiver of pleasure she sank down into the hot water. It felt wonderful and she relaxed into the water for some long moments. Then she reached for a bar of rose-scented soap and stood up, lathering it between her hands to wash her body.
Below in the hall, Troye waited impatiently. He was ready to ride for York, yet his mother informed him that Eleanor was making use of the bathing tub. With a frown he mounted the stairs and went up to their bedchamber to chivvy her along. As he opened the door he was all of a mind to give her sharp words, yet the sight that met his eyes quite took his words, and his breath, away.
Eleanor stood naked in the tub of water, the golden morning light streaming through the window and gilding her pale skin with an apricot glow. He could not help but look at her smooth, graceful back, tapering down to a narrow waist and the feminine curves of a bottom that was smooth and exquisite to his male gaze. Her hair was tied up and displayed the slender beauty of her neck and shoulders. He stood back and closed the door almost completely, but not quite, riveted by the sight of her body and realising that he had never seen her naked before. Always it had been dark or she had been covered by clothing when he had availed himself…Abruptly he turned his mind away from the memory of their coupling, and yet he could not help but stare when Eleanor half-turned. He gazed at her breasts as with the palm of her hand she soaped them, cupping and circling the small yet high mounds of firm flesh and dark pink nipples. Her hand moved down over her flat belly and lathered the dark patch of maidenhair between her legs. He felt heat rush through him, desire as he had not felt for a long while rising fiercely in all parts of him that were male. For a moment he was tempted to stride through the door, lift her from the bath and throw her down upon the bed, slaking his lust with the soft womanliness of her body. He had the right to, as her husband, she was his, to have and to hold, and yet…He closed the door carefully, aware that he was breathing hard and that a faint dew of sweat moistened his brow. He had promised her that he would not touch her, unless she asked him first, and somehow he doubted very much that she would. For a moment he stood there, staring at his boots, confused, perplexed, and then he turned away and went downstairs, treading softly.
Lady Anne looked at Troye as he passed, at the grim set of his mouth and the faint hint of colour beneath his tan. She smiled to herself, and made much of having lost a lace for her boot, calling for Meg to bring another. Troye grunted and sat down upon a chair, fists clenched on his knees, staring blankly at the cold grey stones of the empty fire h
earth.
‘Is Eleanor ready then?’ asked Lady Anne casually.
Troye cleared his throat before replying, ‘Not quite.’
‘I will send Meg to hurry her up.’
‘Aye. The day is passing.’ Troye rose abruptly from his seat, saying that he would be out by the stables checking that Dylan had the horses ready.
Lady Anne nodded, as Meg handed her a spare bootlace and she spoke quietly to the little maid, ‘Meg, go and see to Lady Eleanor. Make sure she is dressed in her prettiest gown and her hair is not tied back in a wimple—’
‘But—’ Meg was aghast that a married lady would go abroad with her hair loose, but she bit back her words as Lady Anne hushed her.
‘And then fetch your cloak, Meg, for you will accompany me this morn.’
Delighted, Meg dipped a curtsy, excited at the prospect of a morning in York. In the master’s bedchamber she found Eleanor washed, dried and slipping on her underclothes. Meg persuaded her to wear the green gown that looked so becoming with Eleanor’s auburn hair, and brushed her hair out until it gleamed. She wove two thin braids on either side of Eleanor’s temple and fastened them with gold ribbons.
‘There, my lady, you look a bonnie lass.’
Eleanor smiled, somewhat bemused by Meg’s ministrations.
‘The master be waiting.’ Meg promptly reminded her, sensing that Eleanor was about to question this sudden interest in her appearance, and the maid hurried away to fetch her boots and cloak, greatly looking forward to the outing, especially as the handsome young Dylan would go with them. She had been in love with Simon for many months but he was rather slow in his courtship—mayhap a little jealousy would hasten him along, or indeed Dylan might well prove to be the man for her.
The horses waited at the front door, and Dylan had chosen a quiet grey palfrey for Eleanor, a sweet little horse who gently nuzzled her palm as she approached and took the reins from Dylan.
‘They say her name is Luz. They bought her from a Spaniard and she’s a fine creature, my lady. Her mouth is light as a feather and fit for a queen. You’ll have no trouble with her.’
Eleanor smiled, stroked the pink nose and looked at the dark brown eyes of Luz. ‘Thank you, Dylan. Would you give me a boost up, please?’
The squire looked to his master, uncertain, as it was Troye’s place to assist his wife into the saddle, but Troye seemed much occupied with his own horse and tightening the girth. Dylan linked his hands and Eleanor placed her booted foot into them. With ease he threw her light weight up into the saddle, and Eleanor settled herself. While she sorted the reins Dylan vaulted on to his own horse, and leaned down to haul the maid Meg pillion behind him. Eleanor smiled as she noticed Meg blush and the way her arms settled around Dylan’s waist. He gasped and gruffly begged her to loosen her grip. Once Lady Anne was settled on her own horse, a thick-set dun gelding well accustomed to his mistress, they set off on the short journey to York.
They followed a path from Fulford alongside the River Ouse, fording it where it was shallow. On the far bank they rode past the Bar Convent and entered the city by the Mickelgate Bar. The arched stone gateway was set with gate and portcullis, ready at a moment’s notice to be closed in defence of the city, and the stout bartizans well positioned for archers to shoot their arrows through. It was guarded by several yeomanry soldiers, who checked all those who entered York, wary of Scots and Jews and lepers. Troye leaned over in his saddle towards Eleanor, quietly telling her not to look up, for there had been an execution recently and the head of the man guilty of rape and murder was displayed on the inner rampart, above the Bar.
Eleanor obeyed, and touched her heel to Luz as Troye urged the horses onwards down the cobbled road of Mickelgate. The Spanish horse proved true to her name and was indeed light. It was a pleasant day, sunny with a few clouds scudding against a pale blue sky and a soft breeze lifting the heat of summer; Eleanor felt her spirits lift. But with the breeze came the stench of the tanners and the dung heaps and the fish market alongside the quay on the river.
They crossed the river again over the Ouse Bridge and rode down the narrow streets until they came to a halt in Market-skyre. Here it was decided that Dylan would wait with the horses, much to Meg’s chagrin as Lady Anne bade her to take her basket and follow her to the Butcher’s Hall, where she would place an order for the feast to be held in honour of Troye and Eleanor’s marriage.
Lady Anne gave to Eleanor a list of spices that she wanted, and another of ribbons and threads from the haberdashers. They agreed they would meet on the steps of the Minster one stroke after the noon hour. Troye urged Dylan to keep a good watch on the horses and not to wander away, to which his squire had great difficulty replying in a civil tone, aggrieved to miss out on accompanying the pretty little Meg about her errands.
Eleanor fell into step with Troye, who guided her along the narrow lanes to the first port of call, the haberdasher’s. He waited outside while she went in and selected the items that Lady Anne wanted, pleasantly surprised by the choice and quality offered to her by the shopkeeper, a local lady who made polite enquiry and bade Eleanor welcome at the news that this was her first visit to York. With her purchases neatly wrapped in a square of felt, Eleanor bade farewell and went out the low door way into the street, where she found Troye conversing with a portly gentleman.
She stood at his elbow and waited, slowly becoming aware of the gentleman’s stare. She looked up, and then Troye too paused as he noticed the direction of his companion’s stare. Briskly he introduced them.
‘Sir Malcolm Rix, High Sheriff of York, my lady wife, Eleanor.’
With great gusto Sir Malcolm bowed and kissed her hand as she offered it in polite acknowledgement of their introduction. ‘Why, ’tis a great honour, my lady, to welcome you to our fine city, and what a privilege to meet such a beautiful lady. ’Tis lucky indeed you are, Sir Troye.’
‘Quite.’ Troye bowed, and then, grasping Eleanor’s elbow, he led her away, almost with unseemly haste, it seemed to Eleanor.
She glanced back over her shoulder as Sir Malcolm called out, ‘Adieu, Lady de Valois, until we meet again at the wedding feast.’
Eleanor smiled, and almost stumbled on the rough cobbles, glancing up at Troye as he scowled and pulled her along. ‘Is aught amiss, my lord?’
‘The old lecher,’ grunted Troye beneath his breath. ‘He’s had three wives already and killed them all. He’d do well to keep his eyes off the wives of other men.’
For several moments Eleanor was puzzled and a little embarrassed by Troye’s reaction. Was he ashamed of her? She felt an angry flush colour her cheeks and neck and before she could stop herself, she had exclaimed, ‘Mayhap my lord would prefer it if I wore a sack over my head?’
He glanced down at her, a speculative gleam in his dark eyes at this possibility, and then, realising her jest, he replied, ‘Don’t be facetious.’
Eleanor tossed her head, jerking her arm free from his grasp. ‘Well, I am very sorry that you are lumbered with such an ugly wife!’
Troye stopped in his tracks, and then, to her great surprise, he began to laugh, a soft, throaty sound that had been little used these few years past. ‘You silly goose. I am sure you well know that you are a comely woman.’
‘But—’ Eleanor almost exploded at this insinuation that she was fishing for compliments, and it took great restraint on her part not to poke him in the ribs.
‘I would prefer, however, if next time you go into the city your hair is covered. Such beauty is not for every Tom, Dick and Harry to look at.’
He had resumed his brisk stride and as they walked Eleanor suddenly realised, with a little glow that was most pleasant indeed, that Troye was jealous! Her heart suddenly lifted and the day seemed bright and full of hope. She much enjoyed the way Troye guided and protected her with his arm about her shoulders as they passed through the crowded streets, pushing aside any unsavoury characters that came too close. They walked out of the narrow confines of the shambles and
made their way to the stall in the market where the spice seller had set up his wares. It did not take long to purchase cinnamon and nutmeg and mace, but in the square beyond they met several people who knew Troye of old and introductions again had to be made. Eleanor at last felt like their marriage was almost real, as he introduced her as his ‘lady wife’.
Making their way to the Minster, they stopped to watch mummers performing a play in Sampson Square. It was all to do with fertility and was somewhat lewd, but Eleanor welcomed the way it made Troye smile, though her cheeks were quite blushing as they left the crowds standing about laughing and revelling in the story.
York was graced with over fifty churches, and now as one past the midday hour struck many bells clanged. The great, golden bulk of the Minster rose ahead of them and Eleanor waved as she spotted Lady Anne waiting on the steps.
‘Where’s Meg?’ asked Eleanor. ‘She is not lost, is she?’
‘Nay…’ Lady Anne smiled ‘…but I feel rather tired and I have sent her to fetch Dylan with the horses. It is so very hot today. Troye, I was not able to see the linen merchant, he has been delayed. Would you be so kind? He’s not paid for the last shipment to Holland and I am not of a mind to convey any more for him until he does. They say he will return after dinner. Mayhap you and Eleanor could partake of the noon meal while you wait. Meg and I will return home, with Dylan.’
Troye turned to Eleanor. ‘You may return home as well, if you wish. If you are tired?’
‘Nay, I am very well,’ assured Eleanor.
And Lady Anne added to her part in the scheme, insisting, ‘I thought you might wish to show Eleanor around the Minster. Such a fine cathedral it is and people come from miles around to worship here. The shrine of St William draws many pilgrims.’
Eleanor craned her neck and looked up at the high walls so beautifully and ornately decorated with intricate stone work, murmuring that she would very much like the opportunity to pray at such a famous church. Dylan rode up then, with Lady Anne’s horse on a lead rein and Meg pillion behind him. Troye was not best pleased to discover that the expensive Luz and his own destrier Merlin had been left in the stables of a nearby inn, and that he would have to pay a few marks for the services of the liveryman who kept a watchful eye on them. He sighed and muttered; his mother chided him for making fuss of nothing, but he had no choice other than to accept the situation, though he did so with little grace.
The King s Champion Page 16
