The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  Lady Anne, fearing for her well-laid plan for Eleanor to spend some carefree time with her husband, sweetened the deal with an offer to fetch the horses at once, leaving Eleanor and Troye free to stroll home, for it was no great distance. This appealed to Troye even less and he waved his hand, dismissing the subject and urging his mother to make tracks homewards and take her rest.

  ‘And be sure that Troye does not forget to feed you, Eleanor,’ called Lady Anne as they wheeled their horses and set off for Fulford.

  Eleanor smiled, waving as they departed and feeling a little nervous as she stood alone with Troye. She glanced cautiously up at his face, noting that his scowl had not lessened and inwardly full of trepidation for the afternoon. Clouds covered the sun and the wind lifted, whipping her cloak and her hair back. She shivered in its chill, and then asked softly, ‘Shall we go inside?’ nodding with her head towards the Minster.

  ‘Aye.’ He took her arm and together they mounted the steps and went in through the side door.

  Eleanor looked about with great interest. She had never seen such a vast expanse of nave before, rising up to stained-glass windows set high above.

  ‘The outside walls are some ninety feet,’ supplied Troye in a quiet voice, ‘and the interior is over five hundred feet long.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Eleanor murmured in reply, taking little heed of these facts and struck only by the painstaking workmanship and the wide, open, yet lofty space of the cathedral. It was very inspiring and she paused by a wrought-iron stand that held many candles. Here the faithful and the lost prayed for their tribulations, and Eleanor felt drawn to do the same. She knelt, and folded her palms together in prayer.

  Troye stood to one side, looking away, for he had lost all faith in God. The death of Isabeau had robbed him of any notion that God was loving and just, for where was the justice and the kindness in taking Isabeau? Yet he turned and looked at Eleanor as she knelt, her head slightly bent and her eyes closed as she prayed. The flickering of many candles cast a gentle glow over her profile, gilding her auburn hair with a burnished halo. She looked angelic indeed, and yet his thoughts were far more intimate, as he remembered how she had looked naked, bathing, and how her body had felt lying beneath him…But these were not decent thoughts to have within the walls of a church, and he admonished himself harshly. Abruptly he walked away and went out into the sunlight.

  Eleanor was lost in her own thoughts as she prayed. Within her mind she pleaded, ‘St Jude, worker of miracles, please pray for me. St Jude, helper of the hopeless, pray for me, who am so alone and helpless. Amen.’

  For a long while she stayed upon her knees, laying at God’s feet all the pain and difficulties that her love for Troye had brought into her life, and begging for assistance. ‘’Tis too much for me to bear alone, O Lord. Please come to me in my present and urgent need. Amen.’

  She opened her eyes then, crossed herself, and rose from her knees. She looked about, but could not see Troye. She would have liked to stay longer in the peace and grandeur of the cathedral, but, fearing that Troye might have abandoned her, went in search of him. Assuming that it was all too much for him, she rightly went to the main doors, out into the bright afternoon and down the steps, looking to left and to right. She found him leaning against the walls, eyes closed, waiting, though she doubted whether it was with any patience. She went up to him, and gently touched one of his arms, folded across his chest.

  His eyes opened, and he looked down at her. Within their dark depths she saw much pain, and with a smothered moan she stood on tiptoe and reached up to kiss him, her arms sliding around the bulk of his shoulders as she urged him into the comfort of her embrace.

  To her surprise, he yielded. His arms went around her slender back and they held each other. She pressed her cheek to his, the roughness of his shaven jaw harsh against her smooth skin, and then moved her head and blindly, tears crowding her eyes, found his mouth. She kissed him, with a gentleness that conveyed warmth and love and solace. His lips felt cool beneath her own, and did not respond to the pressure of her lips. Then, when she feared there was no hope, he relaxed, his hand sliding up to support the back of her neck as he opened his mouth to accept her kiss of comfort.

  Aware that they were in a public place, she broke free, and whispered, ‘Troye?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I am sorry about Isabeau.’

  She felt him stiffen in her arms, his muscles bunch and bulk as he grasped her arms and held her away from him, stooping as he glared into her eyes. ‘What do you know of Isabeau?’

  ‘I—I…only what your mother has told me.’ Warily she cringed, reluctant to recall the past and yet shrewdly aware that if they did not acknowledge it, talk about it, feel it, then the past would always stand as a barrier between them. ‘Please do not be angry. Surely I have the right to know?’

  ‘The right to know?’ he demanded, giving her a little shake. ‘Nay, you have no right. ’Tis none of your business. And I do not care for you to say her name.’

  Eleanor gasped, shocked by the harshness of his words, and the pain they inflicted upon her inner heart. Yet her love for him was true and she could understand that he spoke out of his own pain, and not out of any need to be cruel to her. Instead of holding fast to him, she let go, bowing her head as she murmured an apology.

  Troye felt the coolness of the wind swirl between them as Eleanor stepped away, and as he looked upon her bowed face, her eyes hidden from him as her tear-spiked lashes swept down, he felt a twinge of remorse. He had often treated her harshly, like a bull stomping about in blind rage at the brutal pain inflicted on him. It dawned on him slowly, through the haze of his own sorrow, that there was no honour and no need for his manner to be so harsh towards Eleanor.

  He placed thumb and forefinger beneath her chin and raised her face to him, smiling gently. ‘Come, let us find some dinner. I don’t know about you but I am starving.’

  With great effort Eleanor summoned a fragile smile in return, and gladly placed her hand in his proffered one, as they turned away from the vast walls of the Minster and plunged into the narrow streets of the shops and merchants crowding alongside. Troye mused on a suitable place for their midday meal, aware that many of the public houses were full of rough peasants and soldiers and harlots, but Eleanor insisted that she was happy to purchase pasties and they could find a quiet spot to eat their meal al fresco.

  They found a vendor in Coney Street and bought fresh-baked meat pies, and several smaller apple tarts, the pastry golden and crumbling and fragrant with cinnamon. Then Troye led her to a sheltered corner near St Mary’s Abbey and they sat upon the grass to eat their meal.

  Eleanor sat cross-legged like a girl, and Troye stretched out beside her. She laughed as dark gravy spilled from his meat pasty, and wiped his chin with her sleeve. He thanked her, and they ate in companionable quiet, making casual comment upon the weather and Eleanor’s impressions of the city of York. After-dinner lethargy set in and they lay on the grass in the warm summer sunshine, and Eleanor hoped that her fervent prayers would be answered. For a short while at least Troye did not shut her out.

  She was greatly tempted to seize the moment and ask him about the child, but then she feared to spoil the day with another bout of anger, so she held her tongue. At his urging she rose from the grass and followed him as they went to the linen merchant on the quay. She sat on an upturned barrel and watched the dark green, fast moving waters of the River Ouse slide by, while Troye went inside and talked business.

  ‘Good day to you, pretty lady.’

  Eleanor looked up as a shadow cast itself over her. Her eyes met shrewd black ones that darted about, inspecting Eleanor keenly, as well as their immediate surroundings. The nut-brown skin, hooped gold earrings and tiered skirts made of multi-coloured squares identified the woman as a gypsy, and she held out to Eleanor a sprig of white heather.

  ‘For luck,’ murmured the gypsy woman, with a beguiling smile.

  Eleanor knew full well that t
o refuse white heather from a gypsy would only invite curses and bad fortune, so she reached for the leather pouched attached to her girdle and withdrew the smallest coin. She pressed it into the gypsy’s hand and took the heather, hoping it would be enough to satisfy her and she would quietly depart, for Eleanor, like many English, had no great trust or fondness for gypsies.

  For a moment it seemed that the gypsy would depart, but then she paused and picked up Eleanor’s right hand and turned it over, gazing at her palm. She looked at Eleanor with eyes full of ancient wisdom.

  ‘Aye, ’tis as I thought, my pretty little lady. You carry a great burden, yet your heart is steadfast and true. There is much pain—’ She looked up quickly, as did Eleanor, at the sound of a deep male voice from the doorway of the building behind them.

  ‘Be off with you!’ called out the linen merchant. ‘We’ll not be having your sort round here to hassle good folks.’

  ‘Fear not, all will be well,’ the gypsy whispered urgently as she made to flee. ‘Pain will turn to pleasure, if you remain patient and loyal.’

  ‘Wait!’ Eleanor sought for another coin from her pouch, and furtively pressed it into her palm as Troye and the linen merchant approached, the latter shouting and looking about for a weapon to belabour the gypsy with.

  They exchanged a glance and a smile, and then Eleanor turned as Troye placed his hand on her shoulder in a protective gesture.

  ‘Did she cause you any harm?’ he asked, his eyes following the flashing heels and skirts of the gypsy woman as she ran away down the quayside. ‘You should have called me.’

  ‘Nay. Indeed, it was most interesting.’ Eleanor smiled, recalling the words of the old Romany and tucking them away in a safe place in her mind, to be mulled over later.

  Troye nodded, satisfied after a quick glance from head to toe that Eleanor was safe and sound, and then he turned his gaze to the lowering sun. ‘Let us make for home. It has been a busy day and you look tired.’

  Troye made his farewells to the linen merchant, and then led the way to the inn where the horses had been stabled. He was impatient to collect Luz and his own beloved Merlin and make sure that no harm had come to them either; Eleanor could not help but wonder if she rated above or below his concern for his animals. It had indeed been an eventful day for her and suddenly she longed to leave the noise and stench of the city and return to the peace and quiet of home. Eleanor acknowledged with a smile how quickly she had accepted the manor house in Fulford as her home.

  The horses were lively, trotting out with tails held high and snatching at the bit, their noses lifted and ears pricked as they scented home and the promise of a bucketful of feed. Luz pranced coyly beside the powerful destrier Merlin, forcing Eleanor to take a firm hand as the Spanish mare jibbed and broke into a canter without permission. When Eleanor pulled her back, Luz almost reared up on her back legs and she was hard pressed to keep her seat.

  ‘Can you manage?’ asked Troye with a frown. ‘Let me put a lead rein on her.’

  Eleanor laughed, and shook her head. ‘She means no harm. I can manage her well enough.’

  ‘Do not fall.’ Troye scowled, giving Merlin a sharp reprimand and pulling him away from the overexcited Luz.

  ‘I won’t. I’ve been riding since I was a child.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Eleanor glanced up at him, noticing his frown, and suddenly remembered Isabeau. She had taken a fall, and died. It was natural that Troye should fear such things happening again. Instead of enjoying the high spirits of Luz, she made it quite clear that her behaviour was not acceptable. Immediately the Spanish horse settled and dropped her nose, trotting along with docile submission. None the less, Eleanor was relieved when they reached the manor house and turned into the stable yard. Dylan came running out, Eleanor kicked her foot out of the stirrup and made ready to jump down, but instead of the squire, Troye came to assist her.

  Troye was taller and more muscular than Dylan and she had no qualms as she jumped down into his arms. He held her for a moment, their eyes meeting, and then he set her down upon her feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘It has been a very pleasant day.’

  He bowed, and smiled, and they both turned at the sound of raised voices, one most matronly and the other a high-pitched squeal. Around the hedge dividing the stable yard from the gardens came running at full speed a small child, her skirts lifted in both hands and a spaniel leaping at her side.

  ‘Come back here, you little scamp,’ panted the woman, who Eleanor concluded must be the nurse. ‘You know full well you are not allowed—’

  ‘Papa!’ shrieked the child, and flung herself into Troye’s arms.

  The stout nurse came to a halt, her wimple flapping and her cheeks quite reddened and wobbling from the unaccustomed exercise. She clucked her tongue and made an apology to Troye, her eyes sliding away in a most guilty manner as Eleanor tried to bestow upon her a smile.

  ‘No matter.’ Troye leaned down and caught the child about her tiny waist, throwing her up in the air, much to the little girl’s giggling delight. Then he settled her in the crook of his arm and turned to Eleanor. ‘There is someone I would like you to meet. This little baggage is my daughter, Joan.’

  Chapter Ten

  T he child stared back at Eleanor with doe-brown eyes, her long dark hair neatly braided into a single plait, tendrils escaping about her pretty little face.

  Eleanor smiled, but when she reached out to touch the child on her hand she wriggled and kicked to be free of Troye’s clasp. He set her down on her feet and at once she went to the dog, clutching his collar and holding him protectively to her. Eleanor recognised them both, the features of the little girl were the same as the woman in her dream and in the portrait, and the little dog, she was sure, must be the same spaniel.

  Troye cleared his throat, feeling awkward, uncertain how to explain Eleanor’s presence, nor her position in their lives, having little understanding of it himself. He proceeded with the facts, and naught else. ‘Joan, this is my wife. You may call her Lady Eleanor.’

  The little girl pouted and hugged her dog with one plump arm around his neck, and though Eleanor made to protest at so formal a title, by what other name could she be called? The child already had a mother, one that was much loved, and she had no wish to usurp that.

  She bent at the waist and held out her hand to the little girl. ‘How do you do, Lady Joan? I am very pleased to meet you.’ Joan stared at her solemnly, hiding her hands behind her back, so Eleanor knelt on one knee and fondled the silky golden ears of the spaniel, who welcomed her gentle touch, wagging his tail and licking her hand, ‘And what is the name of your companion?’

  ‘He’s Toby…’ she glanced up at her father ‘…he’s a very good dog.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’ Eleanor smiled, her frown directed at Troye and his mild snort of exasperation.

  Joan looked up at Eleanor, seeing in her childish innocence only a lady who was fair and kind. Toby reached out with a black twitching nose to sniff at Eleanor’s legs. He thumped his tail and the little girl grinned. ‘Toby likes you.’

  Eleanor patted the dog’s head and then stood up. ‘Shall we go inside? I believe Meg will have some nice cool milk for us to drink.’

  Joan hopped up and down at this pleasant thought, and then fell into step with Eleanor as they turned towards the kitchen door, ‘And cinnamon biscuits. Me helped make ’em.’

  ‘Hmm…’ Eleanor smiled ‘…my favourite.’ As they walked she wondered at Joan’s age, guessing that she must be at least five.

  As if sensing her query, Troye murmured, ‘She was a honeymoon baby.’ He stood back and let Eleanor and his daughter enter the house ahead of him, following in their wake into the hall and standing by the fire hearth to watch as Joan ran to her grandmother. Lady Anne sat in a chair by the light of a window with a pile of linen on her lap, sewing a new shift for the fast-growing young Joan.

  The tableau of his mother, his wife, and his daughter was o
ne so familiar to him that he felt the stirring of an ache in his chest. The pain of it was so great that he turned away and stared down at the cold, grey, silent stones of the hearth. But he could still hear them. His mother’s even, stoic tones, Joan’s piping, breathless chatter, and the soft voice of Eleanor. He listened to her voice, so gentle and sweet, yet aware there was a note of uncertainty. How could he have ever doubted that Eleanor would be anything except kind to his daughter? And how could he have doubted that to see another woman act as mother to Isabeau’s child was going to be anything less than agony?

  Glancing across the room, Eleanor noticed his stricken expression, and guessed the reason why he had kept Joan from her all this time. Her heart ached as she realised that he had not intended to hurt her by denying her the privileges of step-motherhood, but only to protect himself from pain.

  ‘Troye?’ Eleanor took a step towards him, but he turned away from her.

  He felt like he couldn’t breathe, that his heart and his lungs and his ribs were so constricted with a physical pain that he would surely die. Abruptly, without saying a word to anyone, he walked from the hall.

  ‘Troye!’ Eleanor called, and would have run after him, but Lady Anne urged her to leave him be.

  Troye went outside, into the garden, and breathed in great gulps of cool evening air. But still that was not enough. The hurt was burning and raw in his chest. He ran then, through the stable yard, and along the riverbank. His legs pounded, rising up and down, his hands thrashing aside long fronds of grass and reeds growing alongside the path. He ran and ran until he was far from the manor and too exhausted to run any more. His feet shuffled wearily as he slowed to a walk, little realising where it was that he went, until he came to the gate of the church yard. He moved as if in a dream, and went to the far corner where few ever paused. Panting and sweating, he flung himself down on the ground beside her grave, one word escaping in a choked whisper from his throat.