‘Are you sad, Lady Eleanor?’
Eleanor smiled wanly. ‘Aye.’
‘Will Grandmother wake up soon? She likes to walk with me and Toby in the garden.’
‘Nay, dearling, I do not think Grandmother will wake up today.’
‘Tomorrow?’
Tears burned hot and sudden behind her eyes, and Eleanor shook her head, her voice choked in her throat.
Joan was quick to pick up on Eleanor’s emotion and she turned to hug Eleanor with her fragile little arms, burying her face against Eleanor’s bosom. After a few moments she whispered, ‘Papa said my mother went to sleep. She went away to the church. He said she was very beautiful.’
‘Aye…’ Eleanor nodded, gently stroking Joan’s long braid of dark silky hair that hung down her back ‘…I believe she was.’
Then Joan looked up at her with wide brown eyes. ‘You won’t leave me, will you, Lady Eleanor?’
Eleanor sniffed and forced back the tears, smiling as she kissed Joan on her plump cheek and hugged her close. ‘Nay, my little sweetpea, I will never leave you.’
On a crisp day in October, Lady Anne died. As usual Eleanor had slept in a chair beside her bed, dozed more than slept, though just before dawn she was so greatly tired that her slumber had been deep. When she had awakened, just as the birds began to sing and the golden light glowed beyond the trees, she went to check on Lady Anne and found her to be cold and still. Eleanor crossed herself, and murmured a prayer for the departing soul. She leaned forwards and closed Lady Anne’s eyes, feeling a most peculiar sense of calm and quiet come over her.
Throughout the next few days, nothing seemed at all real. They buried Lady Anne in a grave alongside Isabeau. Many of the town’s dignitaries, merchants, and all their neighbours turned out for the funeral mass, but at the end of it all, Eleanor was left alone, with a bewildered Joan, and several servants who seemed sullen in the extreme, harbouring doubts for the future. That night she sat at the table, surrounded by papers and letters pertaining to the wool business, and requests for payment from creditors, feeling quite overwhelmed and bemused as to how she should deal with it all. The servants had gone off to bed, Joan was asleep, and without Lady Anne’s company the hall seemed suddenly rather menacing. The dark oak timbers creaked, the wind whistled through the rooftops. Eleanor gazed at the shadows, yet unafraid, for surely if there were spirits about they would be those of Isabeau and Lady Anne? The evenings were now chill as summer faded into autumn, and she shivered, finding the excuse to take herself off to bed.
Inside her chamber she resisted the urge to bar her door, for in the morning no doubt Joan would come pattering in. She undressed and climbed between the covers of the bed, lying down and turning on her side to face the empty space beside her. How she hated this lonely bed! Troye’s male scent had long since faded from the pillow, but she stretched out a hand and smoothed it over the space he had once occupied. Where was he now? What was he doing? Did he ever think of her, as she did of him? She closed her eyes and imagined him lying beside her, his warmth, the weight of his body, the feel of dark hair that downed his arms and legs rubbing against her own smooth skin. Her nipples hardened at the remembered sensation of his mouth upon them. She felt an unexpected stab of desire between her legs as the memory of his fingers parting her thighs, his body entering hers, possessing her totally in the only way that a man could possess a woman, flooded her mind. With a small moan she pressed her hand to her sex, surprised at the feelings that leapt to life within her, just at the mere imagining that her fingers were those of Troye. She closed her eyes and rolled over on to her back, her fingers sliding and stroking, pretending that she was telling him what she wanted him to do, pretending that his touch was one of tenderness and love and sweet passion. She gasped, her breath caught in pants between her teeth, and instinctively she continued along a path she had long suspected but never experienced with Troye. The pleasure was sweet, sweeter than anything she had ever experienced, and yet, afterwards, she wept silent tears, realising that Troye had never touched her like that, and how much she longed for him to do so, and how unlikely that he ever would.
In the morning, with Lady Anne scarce buried, there came a procession of people claiming that they were owed money. Eleanor did her best to search through the confusing mass of paperwork, willingly paying those whose claims were proved clearly enough by accounts written in Lady Anne’s own hand. But before the end of the week the money had all gone, and she began to delve into her own dowry merely to keep the peace. There were some that she had her suspicions about, and refused to pay, calling for Simon to show one particularly belligerent wool farmer from the door. Sir Malcolm Rix, the High Sheriff, had called twice, with offers of condolence and assistance, his manner both too familiar and rather intrusive, with his hints that mayhap she might be a widow by now and that serfs must be dealt with by a firm master. She had been much pressed to deal with him graciously, reminding him in cool tones that she expected her husband home at any moment, and that the serfs had given her no trouble.
Yet she was to rue her bold words, for one morning scarce a week later she came down to the kitchen to find the hearth fire cold and no food prepared. She called for Jarvis the Cook, but there came no reply. For a moment she feared that she had been abandoned by all the serfs, but Simon came stumbling from his room behind the larder, followed by a sleepy-eyed Meg hastily adjusting her bodice and tying on a linen apron.
‘Jarvis has fled,’ Eleanor stated.
Simon looked up, halting as he ran one hand through his blond hair. Then a sudden thought occurred to him and he ran out to the stables, only to find that all the horses, except Luz, the three cows and five pigs, had gone. Eleanor and Meg, standing in the doorway, exchanged a wry glance as his rude curses blackened the air.
‘Bastard!’ Simon returned to the kitchen, having securely bolted Luz in her stable. ‘We’ll have to keep our wits about us, my lady. They’ll be like a pack of vultures now, with Lady Anne gone and the master away.’
Eleanor raised her eyes to both Simon and Meg, asking in her plain and direct way, ‘And will I one morning find that you have also gone?’
Simon pulled himself to his full height, and replied firmly, ‘We’ll stand by you, my lady. We’ll not run.’
In support of his statement, Meg dipped a little curtsy, and then blushed as she elbowed Simon and urged him on with a little nod of her head.
‘I know ’tis not a good a time, my lady, but I would speak with you.’ Simon looked embarrassed, suddenly seizing a broom leaning against the wall and wringing its handle in both hands.
Eleanor smiled, encouraging him. ‘What is it, Simon? Please do not be shy to speak, for your loyalty and good service will not go unrewarded, I promise.’
Simon looked from Meg to his boots to Eleanor, and then said in a rush, ‘Please, my lady, I would ask permission for me and Meg to be wed.’
The maid’s cheeks coloured bright pink and she added, ‘I am with child, my lady.’
Eleanor felt a small jolt in her heart, not of shock, but of pure envy. Quickly she nodded. ‘Of course.’ And then she turned away, briskly urging Simon to fetch wood and get the kitchen fire going again, ‘And we will need to purchase another cow. Meg, is there enough milk in the larder for Joan this morn?’
‘Aye, my lady.’
‘Good. Then let us get on.’
But as the weeks wore on and Simon struggled with his chores—chopping wood, drawing water, walking into town and back bearing a sack of flour for bread, a barrel of wine to drink, keeping a watch at night—Eleanor wondered how much longer she could keep the household going. Meg, having kept her condition secret for these many months, now suddenly became heavy and cumbersome and weary, and Eleanor was anxious for the little maid not to overexert herself. She realised that without Simon and Meg, both of them young and strong, willing and cheerful, her troubles would be much worse. Joan’s nursemaid, Agnes, was a dour woman who considered her standing as nurse to
be above that of mere serfs, and refused to do any manual labour about the manor. She saw to Joan, and Eleanor had to admit that she could find no fault with Agnes there, but she was of little help with anything else.
As the first snows of December settled on the window sills, the workload increased and the monies dwindled. Small items about the manor began to disappear—a rake here, a barrel there, several chickens—as those unscrupulous in the neighbourhood took advantage of the fact that Eleanor had but one male serf for protection.
Lying awake at night, listening to every sound that now seemed so threatening, she thought of the contents of both hers and Isabeau’s coffers. The wedding gifts and the remains of her dowry might prove a great temptation for those who were not content with the stealing of mere implements and livestock. She began to realise that soon she would have to accept the offer of assistance from Lord Charteris, and seek shelter at the castle. She was much reluctant to abandon the manor house, for it was both Troye and Joan’s home, yet Joan’s life, and those of the serfs, even her own, were more valuable than mere bricks and mortar and the chattels contained within. She prayed that Troye would agree with her.
Chapter Thirteen
I n Scotland, Troye fought in battles far more violent and dangerous than any Eleanor would ever encounter, unaware of the events taking place at home. The first messenger that Lord Charteris had sent failed to find Troye, for his horse broke his leg crossing the Tweed and he passed his dispatches on to another, but the hastily penned note from Lady Eleanor to her husband lay crumpled and forgotten at the bottom of his satchel. Yet the second messenger, bearing news of Lady Anne’s death, reached Edinburgh early November, where the King and his army were stalled after a disastrous campaign.
Wallace had proved himself a formidable opponent, both a warrior upon the battlefield whose skill could not be doubted, and a tactical leader who inspired devotion with his command. Wallace had devised a fighting order known as schiltrons, and these he used to good effect against the much-feared English army, with its armoured cavalry and vast numbers of experienced infantry. The schiltrons consisted of triple tiers of twelve-foot spears facing outwards, which was very difficult for an attacking enemy to penetrate.
Troye, having experienced first hand the devastating effect of these schiltrons upon charging cavalry, nursed two broken ribs and lacerations to his arms and thighs. He felt weary, his focus on soldiering often interrupted by thoughts of home: how fared his mother, his daughter and his wife in his absence? It was difficult for him to think of Eleanor as his wife, for that place had always been held by Isabeau, but during the many miles of marching, and the long lonely nights sleeping in fields, he had recognised the fact that it was Eleanor who had exchanged holy vows with him, and now wore his ring upon her finger. It was Eleanor who shared his bed, and Eleanor who offered him the comfort of her love. He too was much troubled by their parting, the bitter words, the sound of her tears still echoing in his ears. He had never had any wish to hurt her, and though he held her in respect and had hoped their marriage would be based on mere friendship, he could no longer ignore the passion that warred and raged and fought for existence. And she had much endeared herself to him with the way she had taken care of Joan, and his mother, and her good humour with that rascal Toby always brought a smile to his lips. It seemed like a long while since there had been anything to smile about, his world had been so dark and cold and silent since Isabeau had died, but he could not deny that Eleanor had opened a window and let the sunshine in.
He was so brooding, sitting before a fire within the great stone halls of Edinburgh castle, when the King’s messenger arrived, and finally he learned of the tragic events at home. He opened the parchment note that Eleanor had written:
To my most dear and respected husband Sir Troye de Valois, greetings from your obedient wife Eleanor. This is to inform you that by divine mercy your Lady Mother Anne de Valois has passed from this world to the next. Her illness was sudden yet swift and her passing peaceful. We await your most urgent return.
He sat staring, his thumb and forefinger almost caressing the paper of Eleanor’s note, thinking of her sitting down to write it, considering her words, penning them in this elegant script that he now gazed upon. So it had been all those years ago, when he had been sent a message to say that Isabeau had died. His faith in God had long since faded, for what kind of a God took away those so loved and needed as Isabeau, and now his mother? With a sigh, Troye rose to his feet, carefully folded the note, placed it within his leather tunic, and then went in search of the King.
Edward stood with his advisors and commanders in a private chamber, poring over maps spread out upon the table, barking at millenars to know the whereabouts and numbers of all the men in his army, and faced with mighty decisions to be made. The provision ships had not reached them and they had only the most meagre of rations, and fighting had broken out amongst the ranks as some of the English men-at-arms and the Welsh archers seemed more interested in past feuds and settling old scores than anything else. The King was well aware, too, that desertion and mutiny were rife as hunger and exhaustion spread its evil.
‘We need provisions!’ Edward raged. ‘God damn it, we need to feed these men and take a firm hold of our gains before winter!’
Troye entered the chamber and stood to one side amongst the throng of courtiers and officials, the military commanders muddy and weary from the field, and at their centre towered King Edward, nicknamed Longshanks because of his great height. He bristled with his usual energy and impatience as he stabbed a finger at the map. ‘We must have trustworthy Englishmen hold Dirleton, as well as the two smaller castles at Lennoxmuir and Currie.’ He turned to his Chancellor. ‘Who do we have? What of Ruthven? He will do well enough for Lennoxmuir, but I’ll not be leaving Bishop Bek in Dirleton, he’s too soft and too weak!’
‘Ruthven was killed at Stirling Bridge, sire,’ a secretary informed the King quietly.
‘Well, then, what of Stratford? Or Talbot?’
‘They are both hereabouts. I will send for them at once, sire.’
‘They are neither of them married, as I recall,’ mused the King, ‘no doubt breeding with the Scots will do little harm to our blood and may well improve theirs.’
Glances were exchanged behind Edward’s back, though none dared to voice any objections to the policy of forging alliances with the enemy through marriage that had been in practice since William had first conquered Saxon shores. At that moment Edward looked up and espied Troye, as he manoeuvred himself forwards and hoped to gain the attention of a courtier, and ask for an audience with the King.
‘Ah, de Valois,’ Edward exclaimed, beckoning him forth, ‘what say you to taking Castle Currie? I believe you will do well to hold it for me, and I will sweeten the deal with a Scottish bride and title of laird, as well as a bounty for your good service.’
Troye bowed and murmured, ‘I am already married, sire.’
Edward frowned, stroking his white beard, and then his face cleared as he remembered, nodding his head. ‘Indeed, the lovely Eleanor.’ But his plan was not so easily thwarted. ‘Well, send for your wife and install her at Castle Currie. Is she breeding yet?’
Troye answered as calmly as he could, well used to his liege’s outspoken and forthright comments, ‘Not that I know of, sire.’
‘Excellent. You will find Currie to be most accommodating, a fine castle to raise a family in, and I have every faith that you will not let it fall back into the hands of Wallace.’
‘Sire—’ Troye looked at him askance as the King turned away, having to all intents and purposes settled the matter to his own satisfaction.
‘What is it, man? Spit it out, can’t you see how busy I am trying to run a war!’ He smiled, and there were a few chuckles of obliging laughter for his attempt at humour in the face of a grave situation.
‘Sire, my mother has recently died. I would humbly request that I might take a leave of absence to return to York.’
&nbs
p; ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Edward replied, yet for several moments he considered whether he was willing to release one of his most able and trustworthy soldiers. ‘Very well. But you will return as soon as possible. Before Christmas I want you at Castle Currie, accompanied by Lady Eleanor, for we will show these Scottish rebels that my word is law and the English are here to stay.’
Troye bowed. ‘Thank you, sire. It will be so.’
The day was waning, but before the sun had set Troye and Dylan had fastened on their armour, mounted their horses, and galloped south. Yet with Troye’s broken ribs and their horses much exhausted from the campaign, progress was slow. Along the way Troye had time to mull over the future, which now seemed to be in Scotland. What would Eleanor say to the news? Considering their bitter parting, he had a feeling that her plans for the future did not include the defence and holding of a castle in the wilds of Scotland.
Eleanor was indeed worrying about the future. As the cold of winter set in, the workload doubled as Simon struggled to collect enough timber and chop it up to keep the fires, hot water and the cooking for the manor house going. Meg had gone into labour several weeks too early, and though Eleanor was much relieved at her safe delivery, thanks to her experience as midwife to her Aunt Beatrice, they were short of a pair of hands about the house. And funds were very low. There was no income coming in, now that Lady Anne’s import-and-export wool business had fallen by the wayside upon her death. She was for ever dipping into her dowry, but with Troye gone, and no word as to his whereabouts or whether he had any intention of ever returning, she was indeed greatly concerned for the future.
One afternoon, as she sat huddled by a meagre fire darning Joan’s stockings, a knock sounded at the front door. Eleanor rose and peered cautiously from the window, but she could not see who it might be. She was reluctant to open the door as Simon was out foraging for timber, Meg lay in her room nursing her newborn babe, and Joan was belaboured by a cold and asleep with Agnes upstairs. Alone, she went to the door, now always barred, and called, ‘Who is there?’
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