When at last all her tears had been wrung from her, she lay there for a long while, just staring, numb, unable to comprehend anything. Why did the thought of Troye visiting Isabeau’s grave upset her so much? Was it the fact that he went to see her first, before returning home? Or was it because she feared the hold that Isabeau still had on him? Or that he preferred the company of a grave to the company of his wife? And yet, in this marriage, who was the wife? It was sacrilege to think it, but it seemed to Eleanor that Troye had two wives, and that was a matter sooner or later they would have to resolve. But how? She had tried everything, she had tried being loving and patient, she had tried being cool and distant, and it seemed that either way Troye was not concerned about the wife who lived.
Lady Anne had invited all her neighbours, friends and acquaintances to a great feast to celebrate the marriage of Troye and Eleanor. The day of the great event was brought forward, and it was as much a farewell as a celebration of marriage, as Troye and some of the guests, including the King, would depart within a day or two for Berwick.
The feast was to be held in the garden, with important guests invited from amongst their neighbours and friends, and the merchants of the city, of whom Lady Anne was one, having inherited the cloth import and export business from her husband. The household was all astir with excitement, for it had been a long while since any celebration had been held.
Beneath the shade of oak trees long trestle tables were set up for a vast spread of delicious food, and several more to hold kegs of ale and wine and mead. An ox and a hog spit-roasted in a huge pit dug nearby, turned slowly and diligently by Simon as he watched the proceedings with interest, though his eyes never strayed far from Meg, as she threaded her way through the throng of gathering people, offering refreshments.
Through her bedroom window Eleanor could see that the tables and the trees had been decorated with garlands of flowers and colourful sashes. She could hear the musicians tuning their instruments as the first guests arrived. She turned away and surveyed the beautiful silk gown laid out upon the bed. It seemed that lately there had been little to smile about, but she smiled now as excitement and happiness stirred within her at the prospect of this evening. Troye had gifted her the gown, and it was the loveliest she had ever seen, an unusual shade of bright copper, the bodice and the sleeves held together with cream-coloured ribbons. She slipped it on, and set about fastening the ribbons. They were many and she struggled, calling out for Meg to help her, and then remembering that she was outside attending to the guests.
The bedchamber door opened then, and Troye poked his head around.
‘Is aught amiss?’ he asked.
Eleanor shrugged helplessly, the bodice of her gown sagging as she clutched it to her bosom, ‘I merely seek assistance with the lacings of this gown.’
‘Ah.’ Troye came in and closed the door. He strode across the room, stooped a little as he squinted at the intricate crisscrossings and eyelets of the cream ribbons, and then quickly set about fastening Eleanor into her gown.
Her skin seemed to prickle with a yearning to feel his lips brush the nape of her neck, his fingertips caress her collarbone, and she waited, hoping with tense-held breath, as they stood so close together, for a gesture from him. But none came. Briskly he laced her up; when done, he stepped back and said, ‘It looks very nice.’
‘Thank you.’ Eleanor turned swiftly away, pretending to reach for her hairbrush, so that he would not see the disappointment in her eyes.
But Troye had no inkling of the hurt he had caused, with his brisk manner, and he called out that he would see her downstairs, as he hurried away to greet his friends and offer them refreshments. Eleanor nodded, unable to utter a word, her lip trembling and her throat burning at the sudden breaking of her heart.
Stop! she admonished herself firmly. Stop this nonsense now! Yet as she stood at the window and brushed her hair, and looked upon Meg and Simon, and other couples who seemed to smile and touch and laugh together with that simple, effortless manner of people who loved, the tears rained hot and fast down her cheeks.
She felt so alone! So unwanted and unloved. How would she bear it?
Yet bear it she must, and with a cheerful face. Eleanor set aside the brush, wiped her face dry with her hands, blew her nose on a handkerchief that Lady Anne had embroidered for her with her initials, and then descended the stairs.
It was a memorable evening, a feast that was talked about for weeks to come. Eleanor enjoyed the dancing, for as a married woman she was allowed the liberty of greater freedom to join in. Troye was a competent dancer, though he showed little enthusiasm, and Eleanor watched him as he seemed to prefer to stand on the sidelines, conversing with Sirs Austin and Percy and Lindsay.
The High Sheriff claimed her hand several times, as did several other gentlemen, either neighbours or merchants who were well acquainted with Lady Anne and her family. She did enjoy herself, though it seemed to go on too long; on this long summer’s evening, daylight did not fade until very late. It was long past midnight when guests began to drift away, calling out their thanks and laughing as they stumbled home, merry with far too much good wine and ale and rich food.
On the morrow Troye would depart with the King for Berwick, and all his armour and weapons waited for him in the hall. Eleanor paused with one foot upon the stairs, and stared at the gleaming steel breastplate and the shield emblazoned with the heraldic banner of de Valois. Tonight was to be their last night for a long while, and she hoped that Troye was mindful of the fact. When she had made her goodnights, she had glanced at him with meaningful eyes, but he had said nothing beyond his usual, ‘I will be there anon.’
With a sigh Eleanor climbed the stairs and went to her bedchamber. She closed the door and made ready for bed, struggling with the intricate side-lacings beneath her arms. Her fingers fumbled with the laces that Troye had fastened too tightly and she was about to call for Meg to assist her when she heard the door below bang, and the thump of booted feet upon the stair. She stood as though frozen, her fingers twisted with laces as she watched wide-eyed while the door opened and Troye came into the room.
He snapped the door shut behind him, smiling at her as he said, ‘Well, that’s the last of them gone. God, but I could sleep for a week!’ He sat down upon the edge of the bed without looking at her, bending to pull off his boots.
For a moment her eyes lingered on the broad width of his shoulders, the sturdy column of his neck, dark hair curling at the nape. To her, he represented all that was strong, all that was good. She went to him then, with no thought other than to bridge the gulf between them, and he half-turned, to look up at her as she stood beside him.
Shyly, with eyes lowered, she lifted her arms, and whispered, ‘Please.’
Troye laughed, ‘Ah, those pesky laces.’ He was in no fit state to deal with the complexities of a woman’s clothing, having consumed his fair share of the wine, yet he obliged and took hold of the stubborn laces in the hollow of her armpit. He jerked her slender body about as he wrestled with the knots and then he muttered an oath, impatient and frustrated as they failed to yield. Before she realised what he was about, he had drawn his dagger from its sheath on his belt and deftly cut the knots. Her gown fell away, revealing the creamy, smooth skin of her shoulders and the swell of her bosom as she clutched the bodice to her.
‘Troye!’
‘I will buy you new laces. ’Tis a small price to pay to get you undressed.’
They looked at each other for an endless moment in time. She searched his familiar face, as his own gaze roamed over hers, and then lowered to her mouth, and to her breasts. They were strangers, yet they were man and wife; they were bonded by an intimacy born of events, and yet they had no real knowledge of each other. There were things that could not be spoken of, the memory of their pasts that existed and yet were forbidden and denied. She felt she would explode with the aching questions and doubts that burned in her heart. Yet she could not ask him for the answers she needed, for
her soul was petrified of the truth she would hear if she did.
Instead she yielded when his hands clasped her waist and he drew her body to him. She stood between his spread knees as he sat on the edge of the bed, and her breath was held tightly in her throat as he pressed his face between her breasts. Gently she stroked his hair, brushing the strands from his forehead. He pulled her close, and for a moment she hoped that all her fears and all her pain would soon be banished. His fingers parted the fine fabric of her shift. Her skin flared with goosebumps at the soft touch of his lips on her ribs, tasting her skin, his mouth grasping at the heavy weight of her breasts, his tongue circling and caressing her nipples until they hardened with arousal. She sighed, and her hips moved in a sensuous sway as he held them between his hands. The feel of him so close to her body made her weak and she trembled, eager for his touch, and yet unwilling, this time, to let him take without at least giving something in return. This time she was determined that she would have from him what was rightfully hers.
She leaned down and kissed his forehead as his mouth sucked on her breast, her voice a soft whisper. ‘I love you, Troye. I have loved you these many years.’
He stopped, his mouth abruptly freeing her breast, and his hands released her hips. He pushed her away, and she stumbled, reaching out blindly and clutching at a bedpost for support she pulled up her shift, shielding her nakedness, though her heart lay bare and vulnerable between them.
‘Don’t. Please don’t, Eleanor.’ He rose to his feet, towering over her, his eyes very dark and his handsome face set in a hard mask, ‘I cannot pretend, nor will I insult you with lies. I am your husband and I try to do the duties of a husband, but more than that I cannot give.’
‘But—’ Eleanor struggled to find words. ‘When we couple…’ she blushed, yet hastened on in her desperation ‘…do you not feel anything for me?’
He snorted then, defensive. ‘Most men are like that. They are not emotional creatures and do not require love and all that nonsense to bed a woman.’
She cried out suddenly, hot tears blazing in her eyes, bursting from her throat and her nose as the cruel truth leapt upon them. ‘Maybe you do not, but I do!’ She thumped her chest then, her heart, with the flat of her palm. ‘I want to be loved, I want you to love me, and not use me like you would any whore!’
He turned towards her with hand upraised, greatly tempted to slap her cheek, but he restrained himself as she flinched and wept.
‘Well, I cannot!’ he shouted, goaded beyond his endurance. ‘I cannot love you! I do not love you!’
‘Because of her!’ Eleanor retorted, her anger as swift as his. ‘Because of Isabeau?’
‘Aye. I will love her always.’
‘How can you, Troye? She’s dead!’
At that, he inhaled a sharp breath, glaring at her in rage, and Eleanor felt the fragile bond between them snap, shocked at the rejection that had reared its ugly head the moment she had mentioned the word ‘love’.
‘Go then,’ she shouted, ‘go to the graveyard and lie with your wife!’
Chapter Twelve
T heir raised voices had disturbed the household, yet neither of them took any notice of Lady Anne as she stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other.
‘Very well.’ Troye glared at Eleanor, pulling on his boots and his tunic, snatching up his sword and belt from the floor. He turned to her with a mocking bow, ‘’Tis best if I go. Goodbye.’
Eleanor watched, tears streaming down her pale face, as he shouldered past Lady Anne and walked out the door. Realising what she had done, what he meant, Eleanor cried out, ‘Troye!’
She made to rush after him, but Lady Anne stopped her with both hands restraining her shoulders, using all her strength to hold her back.
‘Troye! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!’ Eleanor sobbed, desperately trying to free herself.
‘Shh,’ Lady Anne hushed her cries as in the distance Joan’s wails grew louder. Gently yet firmly she bundled Eleanor back into the bedchamber, reaching with one hand to close the door behind them. ‘Let him go, child.’
‘Nay! I can’t let him go!’
‘He’ll be back, when his temper has cooled.’
Eleanor shook her head, shuddering with sobs and her face blotching crimson. ‘Nay, he will not be back. I have lost him forever!’ At the sound of horses’ hooves drumming outside, Eleanor rushed to the window, and fumbled with the catch to fling it open, lunging through as it swung forwards, shouting, ‘Troye!’
His cloak streamed out behind him as he galloped off down the road; whether or not he had heard her, he did not stop or look back.
‘Come now, Eleanor.’ Lady Anne drew her away from the window, closing it on the cool, fragrant night air, ‘What has happened? Why were you arguing?’
Eleanor subsided on the edge of the bed. She covered her face with both hands as she sobbed. Her voice was muffled as she gulped on a breath and said, ‘It is because of her. It’s always her. He does not love me. I cannot go on like this!’ Eleanor broke down then, sobbing with such loud force that she felt as though her ribs would crack.
Lady Anne stood, stroking her hair and silent—what could she say? She too feared that Eleanor was right.
They were all exhausted after the long day preparing for, and enjoying, the feasting to celebrate a marriage that seemed to have ended before it had even begun. Lady Anne stayed with Eleanor for a while, sending Meg, who hovered on the landing to see what all the fuss was about, to the kitchen to warm some milk spiced with soothing nutmeg and honey. Then she insisted that Eleanor get into bed and lie down, sitting in a chair alongside.
‘I shall write to my father,’ Eleanor whispered, lying on her side, curled up like a child, with the palm of her hand under one cheek. ‘I shall tell him the truth and beg him to seek for me an annulment.’
Lady Anne sighed, but she did not offer advice to the contrary. There were no words of encouragement from her mother-in-law and this brought fresh tears, silent and despairing as they slid from the corner of her eyes and splashed upon the pillow. The dream was over. It did not matter that at last she was Troye’s wife, for while his heart was committed elsewhere she could never be a true wife to him, nor he a true husband to her.
Yet in the morning, when she woke, she did not rush for pen and paper as she had vowed to herself during the night. She rose as soon as she wakened, and dressed, eager to leave the bed, to leave this house of sorrow. Outside the morning greeted her, soft and cool, the hem of her gown dampened by the dew, the birds singing their bright, cheerful songs. How can this be? she wondered. How can the world carry on so lovely and whole and peaceful when my own world has been totally shattered? Eleanor walked down to the river, and there sat in a favourite spot she had often shared with Joan, her knees drawn up and staring at the dark green waters of the tranquil river.
Mayhap Lady Anne was right, and Troye would return as soon as his temper had cooled and the heated words they had exchanged had dimmed in his memory. As before. She should not rush to her father with tales of woe too quickly. Had her mother and Aunt Beatrice not warned her that there were bound to be times when husband and wife were not in accord, but that she must remain calm throughout? How she missed them! How she longed to be home, with those who she could be sure truly loved her! She hated herself for the tears that came again, hot and burning behind her eyes, and yet her aching heart had to ease the burden of its pain.
After some while, when the well of her sadness was for the moment dry, she rose and walked back to the house, fearing that Joan would go in search of her and find her missing. She had grown very fond of the child in the weeks past, and she was deeply aware that the sudden and unexpected loss of her mother and the frequent absences of her father had left Joan feeling deeply insecure. She could not abandon the child now, not when she had so readily and easily accepted her as stepmother.
Later that morning, Dylan came with a cart and collected Troye’s armour, as well as victuals and monies f
or the road. Eleanor hastily penned a note, begging Troye to please meet with her before he left.
‘You will not forget?’ Eleanor urged Dylan, as she pressed the note into the squire’s hand. ‘Be sure that he reads this before you march.’
‘Aye, my lady.’ Dylan bowed, and then climbed aboard his cart, waving goodbye with a heavy heart. For the first time, he had no great wish for the campaign they were about to embark upon; somehow the comforts of home had become too dear.
All that day Eleanor stayed close to the house, waiting and listening anxiously for the sound of Merlin trotting up the path from the road. Once she thought she definitely heard a horse and rushed to the window, but there was no one there. Later that afternoon two riders appeared, but they were only wool merchants come to see Lady Anne about a shipment to Antwerp. Disappointment bit hard and it dawned slowly upon her that Troye would not come.
When the merchants had left, unhappy with the undertaking from Lady Anne that the shipment would only leave at the end of the month and not before, for it made no sense or profit to sail with half a cargo, she went to Eleanor and tried to soothe her fears.
‘Do not fret. He is surely very busy making ready with all the other knights. No doubt he will come this evening.’
Eleanor nodded, yet hope was soon to die as dusk came and went. They ate their evening meal, she listened to Joan chatter and helped the nurse to put her to bed, and then she sat with her sewing. As the hour grew late Eleanor fidgeted and fretted, until at last out of sheer frustration and disappointment she leapt to her feet, exclaiming, ‘Well, if he will not come to me, I will go to him!’
‘Nay, Eleanor!’ Lady Anne rose to her feet, setting aside her sewing, well aware of Eleanor’s impulsive nature. ‘’Tis too dangerous for you to be abroad at night.’
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