The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  In Troye’s absence a fretful Joan had fallen into the habit of visiting Eleanor in the morn, before she rose. The child enjoyed the comfort of a cuddle as Eleanor lifted the covers and welcomed her into the bed. This morn was no different and Joan seemed not at all concerned by the fact that her father lay naked in the bed with Eleanor. They both roused at the click of the door opening, the patter of bare little feet on the wooden floor, Joan’s grunts as she pulled herself up onto the high tester bed, and launched herself in between the bodies of her father and stepmother.

  ‘What are you doing?’ groaned Troye, abruptly woken from his sleep, and peering at his daughter with heavy eyes, raking back his hair with one hand.

  Joan giggled, sitting on her heels and pointing mischievously at her father. ‘You look like a hedgehog.’

  ‘Do I?’ He grabbed hold of her and began to tickle her. ‘And you look like a little girl who should be banished to the chicken-coop.’

  Joan shrieked and laughed as her father tickled and wrestled with her, thrashing her little legs and arms about in a halfhearted attempt to evade him. Eleanor had woken at the first familiar sound of Joan’s feet pattering on the floor, but now she turned and flinched as small elbows collided with her head.

  ‘Enough,’ Troye announced, releasing her. ‘You do damage to Lady Eleanor.’

  At once Joan’s face became most earnest and she climbed up on to her knees, leaning on the curve of Eleanor’s hip as she peered anxiously into her face. ‘Lady Eleanor, you are not hurt, are you?’

  Eleanor shook her head, with a gentle smile. ‘Nay, your papa only teases.’

  Joan leaned forward and planted a moist kiss on her cheek. ‘Shall we go and walk Toby?’

  Eleanor glanced doubtfully at the grey clouds darkening the sky outside. ‘I think it will rain.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Troye, lifting Joan from the bed and setting her firmly on the floor, ‘Run along to your nurse and tell her that I say you are not to go beyond the gardens with Toby from now on.’

  Joan looked up at him with her large, innocent brown eyes, promptly asking, ‘Why?’

  Troye frowned at her. ‘Because I say so.’

  ‘Why?’

  Eleanor almost laughed at his expression, one of vexation and puzzlement. She sat up and turned towards Joan. ‘Your papa wants us to be safe because there are lots of bad men about at the moment. Now run along, dearling, and get dressed. We will be down anon to break our fast together.’

  Joan looked from one to other, but then she shrugged and trotted to the door, leaving it open, and she went off in search of her nurse, calling to Toby to follow her.

  Troye rose from the bed and crossed the room to close the door. Eleanor felt a blush steal over her cheeks at the sight of his masculine and beautiful male body, at the intimacies she had shared with him. He was so perfectly proportioned, she mused, her glance full of admiration, his shoulders and chest broad, covered with dark hair, now starting to grey, his waist tapering down to slim hips, his legs and arms bulging with muscle hard-earned on the battlefield. As he reached for his breeches his glance collided with hers, and he noticed her blush and the way her eyes warmly admired him.

  ‘Lady Eleanor…’ He smiled, walking towards the bed, leaning one knee upon the edge as he leaned down and murmured, ‘Shame on you, ogling a man with such lust.’

  Eleanor smiled too, though her eyes were modestly downcast, ‘But, sir, the man is my husband.’

  ‘Indeed. He had better be.’

  This jealous streak in Troye delighted her, yet just when she hoped that he would kiss her, there came a knock on the door and he sighed, rolling his eyes, pulling on his breeches and calling out, ‘What?’

  ‘Troye,’ Lady Anne called out, ‘come quickly, ’tis Dylan!’

  ‘What ails the lad?’ Troye retorted impatiently, shrugging on shirt and tunic, ‘Don’t tell me he has the stomachache again from eating too much plum cake…’ he reached for hose and boots ‘…for he’ll get no sympathy from me.’

  ‘Nay, nay, just come quickly, he has been badly beaten!’ Lady Anne sounded genuinely panic-stricken, she who always remained so calm and in control. ‘Is Eleanor with you?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Then tell her to bring her box of potions. We will have need of them. Come down to the kitchen as soon as may be.’

  Eleanor and Troye looked at each, and then quickly she pushed back the covers and hurried from the bed. ‘Go,’ she urged, ‘I will be there as soon as I have dressed.’

  He nodded, and left her then, his booted feet clattering down the staircase as he hurried to the kitchen. Eleanor dressed in a clean linen shift and kirtle of duck-egg blue, her fingers shaking as she tried to tighten the laces fastening the sleeves to the bodice. She abandoned her hose and merely slid her feet into kid slippers, reaching for her box of medicines that her Aunt Beatrice had instructed her in, and then following in Troye’s footsteps as she too made her hasty way to the kitchen.

  There were several people gathered about Dylan as he lay sprawled in a chair by the hearth—Lady Anne, Troye, Simon, Meg and the cook Jarvis. All made various suggestions and exclamations of concern, yet they parted as Eleanor approached, and made way for her. She placed the medicine box on the kitchen table, and turned to Dylan, smothering a gasp as she surveyed his battered face, rapidly swelling to purple about the eyes and nose. She laid a hand on his shoulder, but he seemed little aware.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, of no one in particular, but it was Troye who answered.

  ‘He was set upon by several fellows when he made his way back from the Castle last night. I had sent him there to hear news of the King’s arrival. But then he passed out before he could say who the fellows were.’ He exchanged a glance with Eleanor, ‘But I have my suspicions.’ He turned then to his mother. ‘No one is to go into the city, except Simon or Jarvis. I will speak to the High Sheriff about providing a guard to protect you while I am away to Scotland—’

  ‘Oh, but surely that is not necessary?’ protested Lady Anne. ‘We have never had any trouble before. Who would bother us? We are unimportant people and certainly have no great wealth.’

  Troye laid a hand on her arm, and drew her away from the kitchen and out into the hall. He lowered his voice, for though their servants had been with them many years, his soldier’s instinct insisted that no one could ever be trusted completely. He explained that Eleanor came from a very wealthy and titled family, that there had been some trouble in London with an overzealous suitor in the form of Casper von Eckhart.

  ‘Either that,’ he said grimly, ‘or Dylan has been unfortunate and ’twas merely a random attempt at robbery. Let us hope so.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Keep your eye on Joan, Mother. You know how she loves to run about in the garden and play hide and seek with Toby. You must be vigilant at all times. And with rebellion in Scotland there is every chance that the Scots will get beyond Berwick. If that happens, you are to take Eleanor and Joan and seek shelter at the castle at the first rumour of any attack.’

  ‘The Scots will surely not come this far south,’ Lady Anne scoffed, ‘would they?’

  Troye shrugged, ‘This time is different. It is not just landed knights who seek to rebel against the authority of King Edward, but the peasants and farmers themselves. I am confident that we will put the rebellion down, but it will do no harm to be cautious.’

  They returned to the kitchen and found that Dylan had been cleaned and tended to by Eleanor, and carried away to his bed to sleep off the worst of his injuries. Troye chafed with impatience as he waited for his squire to heal before being able to continue with their training and preparations.

  The following day he was vastly cheered when several riders came cantering into the stable yard, astride powerful destriers little seen by common countryfolk, and fully armoured beneath their swirling blue cloaks crested with the insignia of the King’s Own bodyguard. The three knights dismounted and tied their horses up, as
Troye came striding out of the house to see who they were, his sword latched firmly to his side.

  ‘What ho! And here is the bridegroom himself!’

  Troye grinned. ‘Austin, you old scoundrel, a sight for sore eyes!’

  They clasped hands and there was much back-slapping with Sir Austin Stratford, Sir Percy Warrender and Sir Lindsay Crawford. He urged them inside and in the hall introduced them to his mother, and waved a hand at Eleanor as she rose from her seat. ‘And of course you know my lady wife.’

  The three knights bowed to her, and Sir Lindsay smiled as he kissed her hand, well aware of Troye’s possessiveness and thinking it would do him only good to know that others appreciated the charms of his young wife. ‘I hope married life is suiting you well, Lady Eleanor. You look even more beautiful than I remember.’

  Eleanor blushed, casting a glance at a frowning Troye. She was only too aware that she was not looking her best from too many sleepless nights spent worrying about such things as married life, but she had the grace to smile at Sir Lindsay and thank him, murmuring a pleasantry in acceptance of his compliment.

  ‘Simon!’ Troye called to the kitchen. ‘Bring us a keg of that new ale from the Abbey.’ He turned to his friends and urged them to take their seats around the table, ‘I take it you are coming with us to Scotland—’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world!’

  ‘We’ll have Wallace running for the hills before you can say “sheep-stealer”.’

  The men laughed, and Eleanor returned to her seat, opposite Lady Anne. They exchanged glances and smiled. It felt good to have company, and they both enjoyed the sound of throaty male voices as the knights sat grouped around the refectory table. Meg served roasted pork and fresh bread, the men ate and drank, oblivious to all else as they talked of the forthcoming campaign that would see them cross the River Tweed at Coldstream and lay siege to Berwick, now occupied by the Scots.

  ‘Berwick is a small town, granted,’ insisted Sir Austin, ‘but the chief royal borough of Scotland and they do much trade with Europe and England in salmon, herrings, hides and imported wines and spirits. We cannot allow the Scots to take control of it, not with the state of the King’s finances.’

  ‘Indeed…’ Sir Austin nodded glumly ‘…are we not all taxed up to the gills to pay for Edward’s grand designs?’

  ‘Fear not, ’tis the Church that carries the greatest burden, so eager is Rome to keep Philip and Edward from tearing out each other’s Christian throats,’ Troye pointed out.

  Lady Anne and Eleanor sat in their chairs beside the fire hearth, ostensibly attending to their sewing, making for Troye extra shirts from fine wool, to keep him warm in the icy climes of the north. They listened to the conversation of the knights, and Eleanor’s exchanged glances with Lady Anne became increasingly anxious, as the talk of weapons and strategy alarmed her greatly. But Lady Anne merely smiled and shook her head, as though to say, ‘There is naught to fear. ’Tis merely mantalk.’

  Eleanor looked across the room to where Troye sat at the table with his fellow knights, nursing a mug of ale and animatedly discussing the merits of crossbow versus longbow and the tactics of William Wallace. His face was earnest, his voice firm and strong—a man trained from boyhood to fight, and to kill the King’s enemies. It crossed her mind that mayhap such a man was not willing or able to love a woman with tenderness, and yet she knew that not to be true, for he had loved Isabeau. With a heavy heart she realised that it was only her he had no tenderness for.

  Sir Percy took a deep draught of his ale before adding his thoughts. ‘And that’s another little spat no doubt we will be trudging off to sort out—Philip of France and Edward have long since been at war since Philip took a fancy to Gascony.’

  ‘Aye,’ mused Troye, ‘but not this year.’

  Sir Percy shook his head, the eldest of the three knights, his full head of hair and thick moustache almost entirely silver. ‘I am too old for this charging about. This will be my last campaign, and then I go home to Felicity and put my feet up on the hearth to enjoy my twilight years with her. The poor woman has long since suffered my absences. No matter what say the King, I for one have had enough of war.’

  They were all four silent for a moment, and Eleanor looked up to find Troye’s eyes upon her, his expression most thoughtful. The hour was growing late, but the knights showed no sign of retiring. Weariness tugged at her eyelids and she set aside her sewing as soon as Lady Anne did. They bade the menfolk goodnight and then climbed the stairs together. Outside her chamber door Lady Anne paused, detaining Eleanor with one hand upon her arm.

  ‘Do not over-concern yourself with what we have listened to this eve—’tis merely men’s talk. They thrive on the adventure of war, but eventually they all come home to put their feet up on the hearth, just as Sir Percy says. Be patient, Troye will come to you.’

  Eleanor could not believe in such a thing, not when Troye’s armour stood ready and waiting in the hall, and their marriage was a source of pain and unhappiness. ‘I can only pray that it will be so,’ she murmured.

  Lady Anne was not one to show great affection with hugs and kisses, her demeanour always rather dignified and aloof, but now, seeing the sorrow on Eleanor’s young face, she sighed and reached out, placing a kiss upon her brow, and urging her to have faith. Eleanor replied goodnight and then they parted and each went to their own bedchamber.

  Eleanor lay awake, wondering when Troye would seek his rest, but the hours waned and the talk from below in the hall did not abate; indeed, it seemed to only become louder, interspersed with laughter. Eleanor rolled on to her side, listening, pleased that Troye had been lifted from his doldrums and was enjoying the good company of his friends and fellow knights. She fell asleep long before he came to bed as the last of the stars faded at dawn.

  They saw little of Troye in the next few days. Eleanor spent much of her time with Joan. At first she had feared it would be difficult, for was she not the spitting image of her mother? But Eleanor was soon to discover that Joan was a little person in her own right, and one that craved company and love as all young and innocent creatures do. When the chores were done and the long summer afternoons stretched into twilit evenings, Eleanor and Joan could often be found playing in the garden, a game of hide and seek, or throwing a ball with Toby, or building ant houses from leaves and twigs.

  On one particularly hot afternoon she and Joan strolled down to the river, taking with them Toby, a bottle of lemonade and freshly baked raisin cakes. Together they sat in the shade of a weeping willow tree and dangled their feet in the cool green waters of the river. They made boats from leaves and sticks, and raced them, and Eleanor looked at Joan’s smiling little face, and wished that she too could give Troye such a beautiful child. Her smile faded a little, for they had been married now nearly three months and this morn, for the third time, her monthly flow had begun. How she longed to give Troye a son, but no babe had quickened in her womb. And soon, within the next week or so, Troye would be gone. But her heart lifted at the thought that things had been much easier between them of late. She hoped that when Troye returned all matters would somehow, miraculously, be resolved and he would be just as willing to give her a son as she was to conceive one. When Troye returned? If he returned…A sense of fear lurked at the back of her mind and now she knew how her Aunt Beatrice and her mother had felt every time that her Uncle Remy and her father had marched off to war.

  Joan became bored with sitting by the river, so hand in hand they strolled along the path that wound its way between the tall reeds and grasses fringing the bank, until they came to the village and Joan pointed at the tower of the church.

  ‘My mother is there. Shall we go and see her?’

  Eleanor was a little taken aback. She was not certain if Joan fully grasped the concept of the fact that her mother had died, but even though she had little experience with children Eleanor felt sure that a child as young as Joan could not understand the meaning
of death. But she merely smiled and nodded, for how could she ever refuse such a request?

  They walked through the village, calling to Toby to follow, and then Eleanor held open the gate to the churchyard, following Joan and Toby through the gravestones. As they rounded the corner of the church she heard Joan give a gleeful little shout, and Eleanor looked up to see Troye standing by the grave.

  He turned, on hearing Joan’s noisy greeting, and leaned down to hug her. Eleanor paused, halting in the shadow of the church, watching father and daughter from a distance. She felt as though she were intruding on something private, something not to be seen by the rest of the world. The ache of pain that swept through her came as a surprise, for she thought that, by now, she had grown well accustomed to the third person in their marriage. And yet it was not so. Troye’s love for Isabeau was still a source of anguish for them both.

  Quietly she slipped away, and walked back to the manor house alone. But as soon as she entered the front door and stood in the cool dimness of the hall, she felt the presence of Isabeau here too, most especially here, where she had lived, where she had lain in the bed upstairs, with Troye, and given birth to Joan, and where she had died. She was everywhere in this house, in this family. She seemed to permeate and emanate as surely as the smell of beeswax from the dark oak furniture. While Eleanor stood there, in a quandary, in the hall beyond she had a glimpse of Meg and Simon in the kitchen. The maid stood at the table beating the contents of a large bowl with a wooden spoon. Simon came up close behind her, and gently swept a tendril of hair from her eyes. Meg turned and smiled her thanks, and Simon leaned down and kissed her lips. It was such a simple gesture, and yet so tender and so loving that Eleanor felt a burst of envy. When had Troye ever looked at her with such a light of love in his eyes? Or ever given her the gift of tenderness? With a small, defeated cry Eleanor picked up her skirts and whirled about, running out of the door. She ran into the garden and beyond the high hedge to the orchard. She threw herself down in the lush green grass, amidst the fallen rosy apples, and hid her face in the crook of her arm, great sobs bursting from within her and tearing at her throat.