‘I care not!’ Eleanor rushed for her cloak hung on the peg beside the door. ‘I must see him, I must know what we are to do.’
Lady Anne refrained from pointing out that from Troye’s very silence and absence there was nothing to be done. And yet she understood Eleanor’s desperation; spurred by a love that was all too obviously deep and true, Eleanor now had suffered the pain of rejection. She could see little hope for this marriage, but she realised that no words from her would have any effect on Eleanor.
‘Then I will come with you,’ said Lady Anne, for she was anxious to see her son and give him a piece of her mind too. ‘We will take Simon with us.’
She went off to rouse him, while Eleanor went to her bedchamber and fetched a gilt dagger from the large coffer standing at the foot of her bed that contained all her worldly goods, her marriage gifts and her dowry. As she closed the lid she glanced to that other coffer, the one beneath the window, and how she wished that someone would remove it! With pursed lips she turned away, tucking the dagger into a loop on her girdle.
Simon was not best pleased to be dragged from his bed at this late hour, but he voiced no complaint as he saddled the horses and brought them round to the front door. He carried a lantern to light their way, and a stout cudgel, praying all the while that they would encounter no ruffians. It was scarce a mile to the castle and, though the city gates stood open, they had to pay a fine to the keeper for passing by so late. Eleanor was not sure what she had expected to find, certainly not the heaving mass of humanity that spread itself all around the grounds surrounding the castle and the bailey itself within. Hundreds of Welsh archers and thousands more foot soldiers from all the shires had been mobilised into service, and had now gathered here en masse as they waited for the order to move.
At the gate to the castle the guard refused them entry. A local man of the York yeomanry, he knew Lady Anne well and was reluctant to admit her to the castle, seething with noisy, rough soldiers, peasants mainly who had no good care for the passing of a lady.
‘My good fellow,’ Lady Anne insisted, pressing a florin into his palm, ‘I must see the captain of the King’s Own Guard. You know who that is, do you not?’
The yeoman flushed and pressed the coin back into her hand, taking affront at the bribery. ‘’Tis for your own good now, Lady Anne. You don’t want to be going in there, believe you me.’
‘But we must!’ cried Eleanor. ‘I beg of you—’ she leaned down from the saddle and touched the guard upon his shoulder ‘—please, I must see my husband before he leaves for Scotland. Please!’
The guard looked up at her, and was moved by the desperation upon her young and lovely face. He called to one of several other guards standing on duty, and told him to show the visitors to the hall, and to fetch Sir Troye from the armoury.
‘Thank you,’ Eleanor murmured.
Lady Anne once again pressed the florin into his palm. ‘For your kindness.’
He turned a darker shade of lobster red and then stepped gruffly aside as he pocketed the coin and let them pass. They rode into the bailey and dismounted, leaving Simon clutching the reins of their horses in one hand and his cudgel in the other, as he looked about with a ferocious glare. Lady Anne and Eleanor mounted the steps of the keep and went inside to the hall. It was bedlam within, with knights and servants rushing all about, seeking food and wine and water, cleaning weapons, preparing chainmail, nursing wounds garnered on the way, poring over maps of the north and taking desperate tallies for soldiers that had arrived and for those that had not. For a moment they stood just over the threshold, staring about. Eleanor wondered how Troye would find them amongst the mêlée and at Lady Anne’s bidding she went with her to stand to one side. The King’s Exchequer and Parliament was here housed too, and there were many clerks and officials going about trying to keep a track of things and to issue writs for this and receipts for that.
After some while, when there was no sign of Troye, Lady Anne stopped a pageboy and asked him to go to the armoury with a message. As they waited on weary legs, the pageboy returned to say he could not find Sir Troye. Alarm was now beginning to ring its bells and together they set about stopping every knight they could to find Troye. At last, they came upon Lord Charteris, an old family friend of Eleanor’s father. After exchanging a kiss of greeting, he told them, gravely, and with much regret, that Sir Troye had already left at noon with the advance party, as they went to scout the route ahead for the army.
Eleanor felt crushed by disappointment. She had no way of knowing whether Troye had received her note, if he had ignored it, or whether he had just been unable to respond. She liked to think that he had gone to war harbouring no ill feeling or bitterness towards her, but it seemed unlikely. He had taken his armour that Dylan had collected, and therefore he must have taken her note too, for she was sure that Dylan would not have failed to give it to him.
‘Is there aught amiss?’ asked Lord Charteris, eyeing her shrewdly. Though he was now well past the age of marching with the army, he would remain in York to oversee the rear party and the provisioning by ship of the main body as it marched with Edward northwards, through the wild lands of the Scots. ‘Can I be of assistance, Lady Eleanor?’
Eleanor shook her head, her lip trembling, fighting hard not to let the ever-close tears reveal themselves. ‘I wished to speak with Troye, but now it seems I am too late.’
He stroked his beard thoughtfully, glancing to Lady Anne. ‘I fear we are not acquainted? Lord Charteris at your service, ma’am.’
Lady Anne, who thought herself long past her time for blushing, felt her cheeks colour as Lord Charteris bowed to her and she introduced herself, adding, ‘I am Troye de Valois’s mother.’
‘Ah.’ The mother-in-law. A widow, mayhap? Lord Charteris wondered, taking a keen interest in the situation, as he himself was widowed and understood the difficulties of dealing with grown-up children and their marriages. ‘Mayhap I can send a message to Sir Troye. Would that be of help to you, Lady Eleanor?’
In that moment, of gentle enquiry, Eleanor suddenly realised the futility of her quest, and felt utterly defeated. She shook her head, and turned away, her eyes downcast and her shoulders stooped. Lady Anne murmured her thanks to Lord Charteris and made a move to follow after Eleanor, but he stopped her with one hand about her elbow.
‘If I can be of any assistance, Lady Anne, please do feel free to come to me. I will do what I can, but you must appreciate the King is away to war, and his men with him. They are neither much concerned with marital matters at this time.’
‘Indeed.’
‘But I hate to see a young bride so troubled.’ He paused, waiting for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.
‘’Tis a private matter, my lord. Sadly, there is nothing to be done about it. What will be, will be.’
Lord Charteris bowed with regret in his world-weary eyes. He watched them depart and wondered what it was that so troubled the Ladies de Valois. Should he alert Lord Henry that all was not well in his daughter’s paradise?
They made their way home, in silence, and once there Simon was thankful to bed the horses and himself down for the night. Having seen for himself the hundreds of soldiers gathered in York and its surroundings, he went about making sure all the doors and windows were shut and barred, and the animals securely penned.
Eleanor hung up her cloak and bid Lady Anne goodnight as she made her way upstairs to her chamber. There she sat down upon the bed and stared vacantly into space for a long while. As exhaustion finally seeped into her bones and lowered her eyelids she lay down, her cheek resting on the pillow that normally Troye slept upon. She could still smell his scent. Where was he now? she wondered. How she ached within her heart to think of him gone, and with such bad feeling between them. What was she to do? Sit and wait for the return of a husband who could not bear to feel even the slightest emotion for her, and yet seemed to think it his right to use her body whenever he wished? She knew what had to be done, had known for
a long while, and yet her heart was shattering into tiny bits and pieces at the mere thought.
Eleanor realised that if she wrote to her father it would take many weeks for him to receive the letter, and she could not bear to disappoint him or anger him with her failure. Now she only wanted to escape, and she could not think beyond that. If she went away, far away, then she would be able to leave the past behind her, and forget that once she had ever loved Troye at all, as surely as he had forgotten her.
But where would she go? She could not go to Castle Ashton—it was too far away and she would never make the journey across a land so dangerous with villains who would find a lone female easy prey. For a moment she thought she could go to her grandmother, Lady Margaret, in Oxford, but that would be no easy journey either. And no guarantee that she would not be turned away, for her grandmother had staunch ideas about marriage: a wife must not abandon her husband, no matter what.
For some strange reason thoughts of Oxford brought to mind the conversation she’d had with her mother before her marriage to Troye. She remembered now the information about her father, her real father, the one who had died in Wales when she was still a babe. Had her mother not said that he came from Canterbury? Surely, if she went to the Blackthorns, and professed to being their kin, they would not turn her away? And it was unlikely that her own family would easily find her in such circumstances. It would be the last thing ever to occur to them. And that was what she wanted, never to be found, to cut away the past and become someone else. But how to get there? Eleanor mulled this over, realising that the best and easiest way to reach Kent would be by ship. There were many ships sailing from York to Europe and the south of England, on their way to Ireland and Spain. Why, she could easily sail for Calais, and then back from there to Dover. She sat up suddenly, remembering the wool merchants, and that Lady Anne had promised a ship would be sailing for Antwerp by the end of the month. Surely from Antwerp she would be able to find a passage to Dover?
Upon the side of a hill far to the north of York, Troye drew rein and paused. He looked back at the magnificent sight of King Edward’s army as it marched up the coast towards Edinburgh. Not since the Romans had so large a force invaded Scotland and there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the English King meant business. The ground trembled to the beat of over two thousand horses of the mounted cavalry knights, led by eight of the noble Earls, including the son of his old friend, Guy of Warwick, as well as Surrey, Gloucester, Arundel and the boy-Earls of Lancaster and Pembroke, eager to be blooded in their first battle and win the glory of their spurs. The bright afternoon sunlight shone on their chainmail, swords and lances, colourful pennons and heraldic banners raised aloft and streaming on the wind.
Behind the knights came the foot soldiers of the infantry, some twelve thousand in number, although the call had been for thirty thousand. Even from this distance, as the great train of the army rolled slowly onwards, he could hear the drums beating and the clink and clank of armour and harness. A great swell of pride stirred within him, his eyes seeking out the King who rode in their midst, surrounded by his bodyguard of the King’s Own. Picking up the reins of Merlin, Troye touched his heels to the great destrier’s flanks and urged him down the steep hillside, riding to join with his comrades and report on his findings for the route ahead.
They made camp as soon as dusk began to fall, and the commanders set a strict guard, not only to be vigilant for the Scots, but to prevent further desertion. Discipline was strictly enforced. They received word that the ships that were to provide rations for the army had been forced back to port by ill winds. Troye joined the other commanders in a tent, and they sat down to discuss how and where they would obtain enough fodder to keep them going. Providing for this great monster driving its way through the countryside became as important to her handlers as the war itself—victory would not be won on empty stomachs and hungry soldiers were much more likely to desert.
The old Earl of Surrey, a veteran campaigner, stabbed a finger at the map spread out on a trestle table. ‘Beyond the River Tweed we will not find much in the way of sustenance, but there is a Benedictine monastery here, and several farms there. We will pick up what we can from them.’
‘If Wallace has not laid them to waste first.’ The only Scottish Earl present, Angus, spoke gloomily, having given his oath of fealty to Edward, little impressed by the antics of rebels like William Wallace.
The others cast him a sour glance, and while plans were made for the morning to take Dirleton and two other smaller castles in their path to reach Edinburgh, they had the news from Troye that Wallace had fallen back into the forests of Selkirk.
‘Just like the Welsh,’ said Gloucester, ‘disappearing into hills and forests where we cannot find them, nor draw them down.’
King Edward stroked his beard, ‘Aye, but this time we will take the towns and castles, their kin and trade; without them they cannot survive for ever upon the land.’
Nor can we, thought Troye, but did not express this sentiment aloud, sharing it with exchanged glances only with the other serjeant-at-arms who stood in the background waiting for their orders. When they came, his were to go to the monastery and secure what provisions he could. At first light he would set out, taking with him several other knights and a score of archers for protection, but for now he was in much need of rest and food. He sought out Dylan, who had made a campfire and placed sheepskins upon Troye’s shield for him to lie upon. He ate rabbit roasted to a crisp over the fire, and stale bread, washed down with a skinful of wine. Then he lay down and fell instantly into sleep.
Hours later the cold, damp morning air and the apricot light of dawn roused him from the depths of his dreams, and he sat up, nudging Dylan awake with the toe of his boot.
Troye raked one hand through his shorn hair and shook the night from his head. All around him other men rose, coughing and spitting, yawning, moaning, chainmail clinking as they dragged it on, horses stamping in the lines beyond but ever close to hand should the call to arms come suddenly. He stood up and latched on his sword, mindful of his tasks for the day. Nevertheless, for a moment he paused, his companion of the night still with him, remembering her arms about his back as she had embraced his body against her own slender warmth and softness. Often he had dreamed this desperate dream, to feel her once again, to hold her, love her…and yet, somehow this time it had been different and when he had pushed aside the long swathe of flowing hair to reveal her face, it had not been Isabeau…
Eleanor made her plans to run away in great secrecy. Each day she hid an item in the bundle that she would take with her, clothes and a few coins, but the rest, contained within the great carved coffer at the foot of her bed, she would leave behind, mayhap for Joan. She gave no thought as to why she felt the need to be so furtive, why she could not openly say to Lady Anne that she intended to leave. She bided her time, enduring a heavy heart and loneliness, ignoring any doubts that she might have, until one morning, several weeks after Troye had marched away to war, Meg came tapping on her door and called her urgently to Lady Anne’s bedchamber.
Eleanor rose quickly, pushing aside the bedcovers and her feet into slippers. She ran with Meg down the passage, alarmed by the maid’s obvious distress.
‘Lady Anne?’ Eleanor leaned over her mother-in-law as she lay in the bed, and urged Meg to open the shutters so that she might better see. With one hand Eleanor clasped her wrist and felt for a pulse, which was faint and fluttering. ‘Lady Anne?’
There came no response, but her mother-in-law stared at her helplessly, her mouth slack and twisted to one side, the hand of her left arm peculiarly bent and stiff. Eleanor had seen the like before, and greatly feared that Lady Anne had suffered a seizure of some kind. Gently she brushed aside the strands of grey hair that clung to her forehead, and tried her best to make her comfortable in the bed, consumed with guilt at having been so absorbed in her own misery that she had not noticed the strain of Lady Anne’s burdens. She had seemed tired of late, an
d preferred to remain in her chair positioned by the window in the hall below, sewing or resting quietly, leaving the running of the household and the care of Joan to Eleanor. And though Lady Anne had been kept busy with the merchants, this had been a matter Eleanor was loathe to involve herself with, having no knowledge of the import and export of the wool business.
Over the next few days there was little improvement in Lady Anne’s condition, and Eleanor feared for the worst. She agonised over whether to send a message to Troye, urging him to return home, but wondered whether he would consider this merely a ploy to force him to see her and would simply ignore this summons as he had the other. And yet, as Lady Anne grew weaker and drifted in and out of consciousness, she felt she could not ignore the urgency of the situation, nor deprive Troye of his right to bid his mother farewell before she departed from this world.
Hastily she penned a brief note, stating merely that his mother was ill and he should return home as soon as ever possible. She sent Simon to Lord Charteris at the castle, and he sent the message north with a bearer taking military dispatches to the King; she had every hope that Troye would not fail to receive the news.
Night and day Eleanor sat in a chair beside Lady Anne’s bed. She cared for her as best she could, bathing her, feeding her, but there came a time when Lady Anne fell into a deep sleep, and Eleanor feared that from this she would never awaken again.
Late one afternoon Joan pushed open the door to her grandmother’s bedchamber and walked slowly into the room, followed by the ever-faithful Toby, who seemed just as aware of the sombre situation as the child, padding behind Joan with tail and head downcast. Reaching Eleanor, she scrambled up and Eleanor let her wriggle and settle upon her lap, while Toby flopped down with a sigh at her feet. For long moments Joan looked at her grandmother, to all intents and purposes asleep in the bed, and then she turned to Eleanor, and stroked her cheek with one tiny hand.
The King s Champion Page 22
