‘It is I, the High Sheriff, Sir Malcolm Rix.’
Eleanor’s heart sank, and she bit her thumb in vexation as she considered what to do. If only she had not called out! She could have pretended that no one was home. On his last visit, Sir Malcolm had been keen to remind her of the taxes that Lady Anne had owed, and also to impress upon her how eager he was to be of assistance ‘during her time of need’. He had laid his hand on her shoulder, squeezing in a most familiar fashion that had alarmed Eleanor, and she had vowed then to avoid him at all costs.
‘Lady Eleanor, ’tis snowing, and I have brought you and your household a gift of plum cake and brandy for the Yuletide.’
Oh, bother! Eleanor sighed, although she saw no help for it but to open up the door and smile as graciously as she could, standing on the doorstep and hoping that Sir Malcolm would soon depart. But she had not reckoned on him shouldering his way past her, and entering the hall without so much as a ‘by your leave’. The wintry wind was blowing away any warmth from the fire and quickly she shut the door upon the draught, turning slowly to face Sir Malcolm. He set his basket down upon the table and beamed a jovial smile as he pulled off his cloak and cap and went to warm his hands, and his vast backside, before the fire. Eleanor stood as far distant from him as politely possible.
‘Mayhap you would call your maid and have her take this basket to the kitchen.’
Eleanor avoided his glance, as she murmured a polite thanks and prevaricated, ‘She is attending to her babe at the moment. I will call her anon.’
With a few more questions, which Eleanor realised too late, he established that she was alone. And then he wasted no more time, indeed, seemed most eager, his hands trembling slightly and his face flushed, as he withdrew from the tunic that covered his protruding belly a sheaf of papers. He went to the table and laid them out, glancing over his shoulder at Eleanor.
‘As you will see, my dear, these are the taxes that are still outstanding to the City of York. They are for moorage on the river, the King’s tithe on wool, and other payments that are due. I am sure you do not wish me to go into all the dull details. But here…’ he pointed one finger ‘…here is the amount that has been long overdue.’
Eleanor gasped, for the sum was quite considerable. More than she possessed to hand, even with her dowry monies. ‘I—I don’t understand,’ Eleanor stammered. ‘This is a matter that you will have to settle with my husband.’
‘Ah…’ Sir Malcolm mused in a long, sarcastic drawl, ‘your husband. How long has he been gone now? Two months? Three?’
‘He will be home soon, I am sure. We have sent word.’
‘Indeed. But I hear the King fares badly in Scotland. Many have been killed and starvation is their greatest enemy.’
Eleanor was silent, her eyes downcast, but anger slowly mounting at his insinuations. ‘I am sorry, Sir Malcolm. There is nothing I can do at the moment.’
‘Well, now…’ he leaned towards her, one of his huge hands covering hers as it rested on the table, heavy and hot with damp sweat ‘…I am sure we can come to some…arrangement.’
Eleanor arched away from him, his breath repulsive on her cheek, and her heart suddenly fluttered with alarm. ‘I fear there is nothing to be done. I do not have that amount of money to pay the taxes.’
‘Mayhap you have something other than money to offer me,’ he murmured, looking down at her, his eyes heavy as they lowered to the swell of her bosom.
Eleanor tried to snatch her hand away, outraged at his implication. ‘Sir, I—I would never…and—and I—I am a married woman!’
He barked a short laugh. ‘Are you, Lady Eleanor? I think it much more likely that you are a widow, like myself. Life is very hard for a woman, left alone and penniless in this world. You would do well to accept offers of friendship where ever and whenever you can.’
‘Please go!’ Eleanor felt her temper, and her fear, rise and she tried again to free her hand from his grasp.
Yet he would not yield and she gave a small cry as suddenly his arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her towards him, pressing her down upon the table top as he sought to cover her mouth with his. Eleanor shuddered with revulsion as his wet, fleshy lips gobbled on her and she gave a mighty heave with her arms, trying to push the bulk of his corpulent body away, but he was heavy indeed.
From the corner of her eye she saw a shadow pass over the window, and she prayed that it was Simon returned from the woods. As Sir Malcolm placed his hand upon her breast and tried to spread her legs, she struggled desperately, her scream for help muffled by his slobbering face. The front door crashed open, and booted feet pounded on the flagstones as someone charged into the room. She heard the ringing hiss of steel and closed her eyes, knowing that her prayers had been more than just answered—she had been given a miracle.
The silver tip of a sword suddenly pricked Sir Malcolm upon his double chins. With a choked cry of dismay he levered himself away from Eleanor, with hands upraised as he turned to stare at Troye. Free of his crushing weight, Eleanor quickly rose and straightened her gown, she too turning to look upon the man who had so often been the one to rescue her from every predicament, her eyes taking in all aspects of his much-missed appearance.
Without speaking a word, using only the lethal point of his sword, Troye manoeuvred their unwanted visitor to the door, there bowing to him with a sardonic half-smile. ‘Be grateful, sir, that I have had my fill of killing in these weeks past. Now be gone, and never seek to lay a hand upon my wife, or to set foot on my land, again.’
Sir Malcolm needed no second bidding and he ran down the road, forgetting his cloak and cap, as fast as his tree-trunk legs would carry him.
Troye closed the door and sheathed his sword, then he turned to Eleanor. They stared at each other for long, silent moments; though his face was dirty and unshaven and he seemed so gaunt, to her eyes he was very dear and handsome. Yet their last parting was uppermost in her mind and she feared his thoughts, rushing to explain all in one breath.
‘Troye, I—I did nothing to encourage him, indeed I was trying my best to get rid of him, but he was very heavy, and—and these past few weeks all has been so difficult and I don’t know what to do, and Meg has had a babe, she and Simon are wed now, please don’t be angry—’
‘Shh,’ Troye smiled slightly and held up one hand, to halt her flow of words, ‘I am sorry that it has taken so long for me to return, and that you have been left alone to cope with it all. Yet before all other matters, first there is something I must do before the day is done.’
Eleanor frowned, her hands clasped pensively to her chest, her voice anxious, ‘What is it?’
‘Say goodbye to my mother.’
‘Of course,’ she murmured, although in her heart she feared that once again he would shut her out as he dealt with his grief, and she stood there uncertainly.
Troye could not find words or understand what it was that he felt or wanted, but he held out his hand to her, and said, ‘Show me, Eleanor.’
Gladly she went to fetch her cloak and threw up the hood upon the chill wind that swirled about on this winter afternoon. The snow crunched beneath their boots as they walked to the village, heads bowed against the fluttering flakes of snow. Each breath that she took burned with a sharp pain, so cold was the winter air, but Eleanor did not flinch, such was her inner joy to have Troye home.
They reached the churchyard and Eleanor led him to the new grave beside that of Isabeau. She hastily explained that a headstone had been commissioned, but the mason had not yet finished with it, but Troye only stood silent, staring at the mound of dark earth now rapidly turning white as the snow covered it.
‘She was no great age.’
‘Aye,’ Eleanor murmured, watching him from the corner of her eye, wondering what words of comfort she could offer.
‘What…how…?’ he floundered helplessly.
‘’Twas a seizure. One morning she awoke paralysed and then she became unconscious…’ Eleanor paused,
uncertain whether he wanted to hear all the grim details.
‘And then she died.’ His voice was sharp. ‘I never had the chance to say goodbye. Just like Isabeau.’
Troye’s face set in a hard grim line as the anger and the pain burst afresh within him. Eleanor reached out and laid her hand upon his forearm, but he shook her off and abruptly turned on his heel as he walked away. He grabbed a stick lying on the ground and flung it at the sky, shouting to the heavens at the top of his voice, ‘Why?’
Eleanor stared at him, surprised at this outburst from a man she had grown accustomed to being always so self-disciplined. ‘Mayhap—’ she offered tentatively, about to voice some words of comfort.
‘Don’t!’ he shouted, pointing one finger at her. ‘Don’t you dare give me any meaningless platitudes about it being God’s will!’
She stepped back, wide-eyed at the force of his anger. He turned away from her, kicking at the drifting snow, until his rage had ebbed to no more than a flicker. He turned then, and looked at her across the distance between them, and asked in a quiet voice, ‘What good has it done to take my mother, and my beloved Isabeau? Hmm? Can your God answer that one?’ He stared at her for a long, hard moment and replied to his own question in a dull voice, ‘No, of course not. I have asked that question a hundred times and never received an answer. Never.’ With a heavy sigh he turned away abruptly. ‘Come, let us return to the house.’
Eleanor paused as she made to follow. She read the inscription on Isabeau’s headstone: Loved and Cherished For Ever.
How lucky had Isabeau de Valois been! To have been loved by Troye, and now still cherished by him. How she wished that she was so loved.
Eleanor looked up at him, and saw the unshed tears that glittered like glass shards in his dark eyes that he tried to blink away. Suddenly, when grief for her own aching heart could not be countenanced, she ached with his. She felt his pain, a mirror of her own, and tears slid silent from her eyes. With a small sound that had no words she opened her arms, and after a moment of hesitation he turned and stepped into them. He stooped, pressing his face against the soft, smooth warmth of her neck, the wetness of his tears soon dampening her skin and the tendrils of her hair as she encircled the broad, muscular width of his shaking shoulders with her slender arms. He tried to pull away, to stop himself, but she would not let him. She held him and stroked the back of his neck with one hand, her soft voice soothing, encouraging the festering wound to open, to drain away all its venom. And the sorrow, so long pent up, was like a deep abscess that now burst forth.
‘How can it be so?’ he sobbed, his voice muffled. ‘How could God have let these things happen? To ones so good and so loved. There can be no God, for surely if He loved us He would not have cursed us so.’
She patted his shoulder. Neither she nor any human could have the answer to such questions. There was no reason, no explanation, nor logic. There was only the gift of comfort from one soul to another. They clung to each other while Troye wept, and silent tears streaked down Eleanor’s cheeks. Her heart ached for all things that had been loved and lost, that made each day a blackness that could scarce be born, and the despair of it robbed the soul of hope. She had felt so alone…so abandoned…but now, at last, Troye had come to her and that was a miracle in itself and must surely prove that there was a God, one who had love and mercy for the creatures he had created. The tears that washed her cheeks hurt, like splinters of ice that burst from behind her eyes.
Alone they stood, isolated in the graveyard as the winter wind and snow swirled around them, muffling the world beyond, shutting them into their own little domain. At last Troye lifted his face from her neck, sniffed and mopped at his eyes and nose with a corner of his cloak. He flushed and would not meet her stare.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, stiffly, gazing at the stark treetops. ‘Forgive me. I have never cried. Even when we buried her I did not cry.’
‘Why?’
He looked at her then, with a puzzled frown, ‘Why? I—I…’ He did not know how to answer that question, and he floundered for an explanation. ‘Because, then, at that time, I could not believe it…and…I am a man, a knight, I must be strong. ’Tis weakness to show one’s feelings.’
Eleanor laid her hand upon his chest, over his heart. ‘’Tis not a weakness.’ She felt a faint spark of anger, flickering within her mind. ‘How could it be weak to show that you loved someone? How could your grief earn anything but respect?’
His eyes were red and swollen from weeping, as he looked down at her, with a watery smile, and touched his fingertips gently to her cheek, chilled with frozen tears. ‘I live in a man’s world, Eleanor, a world very different from yours. Not everyone thinks as you do, with the soft kindness of a woman. Come now,’ he said briskly, cupping her cold face, ‘you are freezing and this is no weather to linger in. Let us go home.’
‘Aye,’ she agreed, returning the gesture by cupping Troye’s face with the palm of her hand.
For a moment they stood thus, man and woman, clasped hand to cheek, the only contact between their two separate bodies, and yet their eyes, mirrors of the soul, looked deeply one to the other. He knew the worst that had ever happened to her, and she knew the worst that had ever happened to him. And here they both stood, battered and bruised in body and soul, and yet they survived. Eleanor wondered why.
‘There must be a God,’ she whispered, ‘for He has given us each other.’
Troye made no reply, but abruptly turned away from the graves and walked away. She turned with him and fell into step at his side. As they neared the church Eleanor asked him to stop, and for the loan of his dagger. Troye yielded to both requests and watched as Eleanor went to the hedge of glossy dark green holly studded with red berries that crowded around the porch entrance. She cut several boughs and went back to the graves of Lady Anne and Isabeau. She knelt and laid a bough of holly on each of them.
As she had many times before Eleanor read the inscription: Loved and Cherished For Ever. Silently she prayed, with heartfelt earnestness, Please, let him go. I will love and care for him and never hurt him. Please, Isabeau. Please let him go and come to me.
They walked slowly home, as they had many times before, but on this late winter’s afternoon they both sensed a difference. There was a peace that surrounded them, no longer the swirling, burning, aching tension that had always been between them before. And yet when they entered the manor house, the presence between them returned. Eleanor looked about, sensing that Isabeau was everywhere in this house and that, as long as they stayed here, she would always be a reminder for Troye to cling to.
Dylan had been helping Simon with the chopping of wood and the house now roared with fires in every grate. In the kitchen Meg was busy, her babe asleep in a wooden cradle beneath the kitchen table, and that evening they sat down to eat a hot and hearty meal, master and squire, mistress and maid, altogether as one family at the scrubbed kitchen table. They exchanged their news, although there was one item that Troye kept to himself, and though he had been of a mind to take his entire household with him to Scotland, he now wondered at the wisdom of it.
After the meal had been enjoyed, and the table cleared, Troye went to look in on Joan, and Eleanor retired to the hall, closing the door to the kitchen and taking her sewing into her lap as she sat down before the warm, crackling flames of the hearth. Her gaze strayed to the empty chair opposite, where Lady Anne has so often sat and they had passed the evenings together. Yet before she had time to feel the ache of loneliness Troye came thumping down the stairs. He paused for a moment, glancing at Eleanor, and then he piled logs on the fire, checked the shutters were barred on all the windows, had a few words with Dylan before bidding him seek his bed in the kitchen, and then returned to stand awkwardly before the hearth. He warmed his hands, the silence stretching. Eleanor glanced up at him, and then down at her needle plying its way with uneven stitches through the soft linen of a tiny gown for Joan.
Troye cleared his throat. ‘The King…�
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Eleanor glanced up, aware of his hesitation, and then smiled gently, encouraging him to continue, ‘Aye? And what has the King to say for himself?’
Troye frowned at a spot on a distant wall. ‘The King has asked me to take lands in Scotland. Hold them for him. He sweetens the deal with a title and bounty,’ Troye stated boldly, and then he looked at her and asked, ‘What say you?’
Her sewing fell idle into her lap, as she considered his words. ‘Does the King ask, or does he order?’
Troye stared down at his boots for a moment, with a wry smile. ‘Well, it is a request that cannot be refused.’
‘And…’ She hesitated, uncertain what it was that he was trying to say. ‘You are eager to obey?’
His glance lifted quickly to meet hers, a slight frown creasing his brows. ‘I have no choice but to obey.’
‘I see.’ Eleanor felt her heart skip a few beats, fear rushing through her veins as she dreaded the words that he seemed reluctant to say. She voiced them in his stead. ‘Well, then, you must go. If it pleases, my lord, I would only ask that you provide for your family. There are taxes to be paid, and male serfs are needed to protect Joan and me from—’ Her voice broke suddenly, as her mind envisioned a future without Troye. ‘If…I—I would ask, then, that—that I might…’ she sniffed, angry with her weakness ‘…if I could please return to my family in Somerset.’
‘What?’ Troye stared at her.
‘I cannot stay here alone!’
It dawned on Troye that she had misunderstood, and he rushed to explain. ‘Nay, indeed, you may not return to your family.’ He ignored her gasp. ‘It is the King’s wish that I take my wife with me to Scotland. That we settle there and raise a family.’
The King s Champion Page 24
