The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  At Berwick-upon-Tweed they met with an escort that accompanied them to Edinburgh, heavily armoured, with cavalry knights riding to the fore, Welsh and Gascon archers on foot to the rear. Eleanor had to take a firm hand with Luz, skittish with all the warhorses, the clank of armour and lances, the general air of tense anticipation as they rode through dangerous territory. At any moment she expected to see wild Scotsmen in kilts running down from the surrounding hills to attack them, but they reached their destination without much ado. The fortress of Edinburgh Castle, towering on its solid mount of rock, was a forbidding sight and within its dark and draughty halls it was no better.

  They stayed for several days, while Troye organised the forces that he would take with them to Castle Currie. Situated a mere ten miles south-west of Edinburgh, the small castle was one of several that surrounded the capital, and of some strategic value. Eleanor was glad they would soon set out, for it had been no pleasure cooped up with a moaning nursemaid, a fretful child and hundreds of soldiers, who seemed as quick to fall out of sorts and pick a fight as young Joan.

  She felt that it boded well when the day of their departure for Currie dawned bright and clear. It was cold, and the snow lay sparkling diamond-white on the ground, but the sky was a bright blue and the sun shone. Her heart lifted as they travelled with their hearth knights and a large force of some fifty foot soldiers and archers, marching swiftly along the glens until at last she caught a glimpse of her new home. The castle was set beside a loch, close to a hillside that in summer would blaze yellow and purple with gorse and heather, but was now a gleaming background of white. At first glance she thought the sheer granite walls, ungraced by towers or battlements, very stern, but once they were within the courtyard, with the gates firmly closed, she thought there was some charm about the castle. A set of steps led up to the hall, and here she was most happily surprised, with the walls lined with oak panelling and tapestries, fires roaring in all the hearths, and the walls freshly whitewashed in those rooms that were not panelled. Her fears that there would be little of comfort were unfounded; indeed, there were enough chairs and tables, beds and chests, all of a handsome and carved dark oak.

  Troye had gone to great pains to send ahead a party to make the castle ready. His orders had been most firm, to clear away the debris and ruin of battle and make it habitable for his lady wife and child. The Laird and his sons had been killed, his wife and daughter taken as hostage by King Edward, his retainers and serfs fled into the hills to join with Wallace. Though he knew Eleanor to be greatly troubled by the conquest, Troye’s sworn loyalty was to his King. He had been entrusted with holding Currie, and hold it he would, his conscience little troubling him.

  On their arrival his first priority was to see to their defence. He posted guards night and day and sent out scouts to see what lurked in the countryside. No one was allowed to pass or enter the castle without careful inspection. All the servants taken on to work within it were the English camp-followers of his own English men, and mighty glad were these women and children for the chance to be out of the cruel grip of winter; he had no doubts of their loyalty.

  It was a busy time, and most nights he did not find his way to bed until the hour was very late. Eleanor would usually be asleep, with Joan snuggled up close against her back. As Troye undressed, he cast an eye over this tableau, and though at first it pleased him that Eleanor and Joan were so fond of one another, after a few weeks it began to irk him that there was a barrier between him and the soft warmth of Eleanor.

  The next day he summoned Agnes, and made it clear to her that Joan was to sleep in her nursery, and not in her stepmother’s bed. Agnes dipped a curtsy, blushing red like a lobster as she realised what it was that so vexed the master.

  All that day Troye struggled with his duties, his mind frequently wandering to the pleasant thought of lying this night with Eleanor, holding her in his arms and making love to her. He considered ways and means, surprising even himself at his imagination and ardour. He wondered where on her soft body she would most enjoy the feel of his lips, his fingers, his tongue…

  ‘My lord!’

  Troye started as one of the serjeant-at-arms called his attention, blushing as profusely as the nurse and striding across the bailey to attend to the summons. Yet at last the day was done and he sat down in the hall to enjoy his evening meal, with Eleanor at his side. He cast her a sideways glance, noting how her hair shone, rippling like a silken banner down her back, how winter-pale and soft her skin, the curve of her mouth shapely and inviting.

  Eleanor was anxious that Troye would approve of her housekeeping, for she had never had the responsibility of running such a large household before, though her mother had schooled her well and Castle Ashton had been busy with hearth knights and pages and squires and servants, as was Currie. It was strange how quickly she had felt at home within the walls of this austere Scottish castle, set in a glen miles from anywhere; indeed, much more than she ever had at the manor house in York.

  ‘Try this dish, my lord,’ Eleanor urged, ‘’tis called haggis and is most popular with the Scots.’

  Troye eyed it suspiciously. ‘Where does it come from? You know well enough we must be careful about all our supplies. The Scots would think nothing of poisoning the lot of us if they could.’

  ‘Have no fear, it comes from Edinburgh and the cooks assure me it is well made.’

  Troye sliced himself a chunk and chewed upon it, accepting a mug of heather ale from a servant hovering at his elbow. He nodded, and made approving noises to please Eleanor, though to be honest he thought it foul. His reward was her delighted smile, and his gaze roamed over her face, amazed anew that he had never noticed before just how lovely she was.

  He watched as Eleanor ate the ham and pheasant that he sliced for her, and drank the elderberry wine they had brought with them from England. Then his patience began to wear thin and he murmured in her ear, ‘Let us retire to our bedchamber.’

  Eleanor paused, setting aside her cup, a little bemused by the husky sound of his voice in her ear, and the warmth of his hand upon her thigh, beneath the table. She felt the heat of a blush rise up her neck, and cast her lashes down, wondering if Troye meant what she thought he meant.

  ‘Come, Eleanor,’ he urged, ‘it has been too long.’

  She was in no doubt then as to his meaning, and though her heart thumped in nervous anticipation, there was a glow of excitement too. Demurely she rose, not looking at him, and placed her hand on his arm as he escorted her from the table.

  Together they climbed the stairs, though it was a silent trek. When they reached their bedchamber Troye closed and barred the door behind them. Eleanor glanced to the bed, expecting to find Joan asleep, as usual, within its vast expanse. But the bed was empty, and she turned to Troye, who smiled slightly at the question in her eyes.

  ‘Aye, she is safe enough in the nursery. ’Tis my turn now—’ he came to stand before her, his hands reaching for her waist ‘—to sleep with you.’

  Aware of the doublemeaning to his words, she smiled, and yet had to force herself to stand still, beside the bed, and not shy away in self-conscious doubt. She loved Troye, she was his, and she had the right to touch him, to hold him, and he had just as much right to touch her, and yet if there was no love to sweeten his touch she had no wish for him to do so. Her glance fell to the broad width of his muscular chest, as he stood head and shoulders above her. The fire flames crackled in the hearth, and cast a golden glow about their chamber. He looked at her, and she at him.

  They hesitated, and then it was Eleanor who took the bold step forward and lifted her fingers to his tunic. With trembling hands she unbuttoned the rough fabric, sliding it from his shoulders, and likewise with his shirt. As she drew the material away she felt her lips part at the sight of his beautiful torso. The firm, sculptured bulk of his arms, the scattering of hair across his chest, arrowing down to his belly, the planes of his midriff…how beautiful he was to her eyes!

  Leaning for
wards, she pressed her lips to his chest, moving down to cover his flat, hard nipple, tease it with her teeth before kissing his ribs and opening her mouth to gently bite his hard-muscled flesh. She felt his indrawn breath, but still he stood there without touching her. Her fingers moved to unbutton his breeches, the palm of her hands brushing the solid length of his arousal. She pulled his breeches down, over his buttocks, and knelt upon the floor as she tugged them down the length of his legs and he stepped out of them. She glanced up, blushing fiercely at the sight of his naked male body, but such was her love and her desire to give him everything that was pleasure and comfort that she did not falter.

  As Eleanor kneeled at his feet, at the look of uncertainty and desire warring in her eyes, Troye leaned down and raised her up with both hands beneath her elbows. His fingers began to undo and remove her clothes, until they both stood naked in each other’s arms.

  Eleanor closed her eyes and surrendered to the sheer bliss of Troye’s kiss upon the vulnerable and tender skin of her shoulders. She arched back her neck, her breasts brushing against his chest as he kissed her ears. Her legs felt weak, she felt moist heat burning deep within her. His mouth closed over her nipple and she groaned with the pleasure of it. Her arms slid around his back and she pressed against the warmth and solid bulk of his body, glorying in the feel of his shoulders beneath her hands, then sliding them down the length of his back and cupping the taut half-moons of his buttocks. He moved closer, the length of his manhood straining against her belly. With one hand she stroked him, clasping her fingers around the thickness of him. He groaned, his mouth sucking harder on her nipple, and then he manoeuvred them to the bed and they both fell down upon it.

  Side by side they lay, and Troye slid his hand down the length of her body, and up again, his eyes following the path of his hand, the glow of the firelight revealing to him the sight of Eleanor’s body. He leaned down and kissed her, his fingers gently moving over the flatness of her belly. Slowly, gently, he explored her breasts, his mouth kissing and touching and tasting.

  Eleanor felt weak with dizzy waves of pleasure rippling through her veins, and her own fingers reached out to touch him, smoothing over the hard muscles of his shoulders and arms, and reaching down to stroke the back of his thighs, so muscular and powerful as he kneeled over her. There was no sound, except their sighs, and their gasps, that quickened to pants of pleasure and little cries of longing and delight. She was a little wary as Troye slid his hands beneath her buttocks and nudged her thighs apart, tensing as he knelt between them and reverently kissed her womanhood. Her hand strayed to his shoulder, wanting to push him away, but he whispered his reassurance, promising that he would not hurt her, but only give her pleasure like she had never known before. At his urging she relaxed, and his hands grasped her buttocks more firmly, lifting her slightly as his tongue delved and stroked. Eleanor gasped, her neck and back arching as ecstasy seared through her body like molten honey.

  He kissed the inside of her thighs, and then returned to her belly and her breasts, and her mouth, his fingers replacing his tongue as he explored her womanhood, encouraging, well aware that now she was hot and swollen and moist with aching desire. Yet still he held himself in check, wanting this to be as if it were their first time together, erasing all remembrance she might have of all the other times when he had taken her without care. He wanted her to experience fulfilment before he did, and so he waited.

  Eleanor strained and writhed beneath him, her fingers and lips touching him, enjoying the feel of his roughly haired chest brushing against her breasts, and the muscular weight of his body, his powerful thighs arched over hers. She sighed and moaned and gasped at the pleasure of his touch, and yet was puzzled that still he had not entered her. Yet now she only felt his finger, moving softly and slowly, and she felt goosebumps flare on her skin at the sound of his voice in her ear, a mere husky whisper asking her if she liked it here…there?

  ‘Aye.’ Eleanor sighed, blushing hotly, clinging to the width of his broad shoulders.

  He kissed her neck, her ears. ‘And now?’ he murmured, increasing the rhythm, the pressure, moving down, and then back up, teasing, feeling her body respond, opening, slick with passion’s dew and swelling like a raisin plumped in brandy. ‘Harder? Faster?’

  Eleanor could not speak, so she merely nodded, and then little cries came from between her lips as her body clenched with the most exquisite joy she had ever experienced. At that moment he spread her legs wider and entered her. He covered her mouth with his, muffling her joyous exclamations, penetrating carefully. He rested his weight on his elbows and controlled his response to match hers, his hips thrusting slowly and gently. Just when she thought it was over, her hips rose and fell with a swift and sudden urgency, and he thrust deeper, harder, until the great solid four-poster bed was shaking and creaking with the force of their union. He growled and groaned and then exclaimed, and Eleanor raked her nails into his back as yet another, and final, wave of ecstasy gripped her. At its end they were both sheened with hot sweat, their muscles and skin aching, Eleanor amazed at how her body had reacted to his lovemaking. She was sure that even though he had spoken no words of love, this time they had shared something that had been more than mere male mating with female.

  Troye rolled on to his back with a heavy, satisfied sigh, clasping her hand with his fingers linked intimately between hers. Then he became aware of her silence, and turned on his side to look at her, his glance skimming over the riot of her sweat-dampened hair and the rosy flush of her face and neck. Looking at her, the glow in her eyes and the swollen, dark red softness of her mouth, he had no doubts that she too had experienced satisfaction. Gently he stroked her ribs with his fingertips, and she shivered, turning to him with a soft smile.

  ‘Would it please you, Troye,’ she whispered, moving on to her side to entwine her legs with his and lie close against his chest, ‘if from this night I was to bear you a babe?’

  For a moment, he looked startled, for such a thought had not occurred to him, then seeing the look in her eyes, he leaned towards her and kissed her shoulder. ‘Aye, it would please me.’

  ‘I hope it is a boy.’ Eleanor pressed the palm of one hand to her belly, raising her glance shyly to his dark gaze as she smiled hopefully. ‘I would like to give you a son.’

  His large hand covered hers, and he smiled too. ‘At this very moment my seed may be bonding within you and creating new life.’

  Eleanor’s smile deepened, his hand moving on hers, stirring her, his lips pressing kisses to her neck, and she whispered mischievously, her body arching at his touch, ‘Does my lord wish to make sure with a…um…a second attempt?’

  Troye laughed, and gathered her in his arms, pulling her on top of him. ‘Aye, my lady, let us start our new life together. Again.’

  Epilogue

  London—three years later

  E leanor strolled through the garden, the summer sunshine slanting across the flowerbeds filled with pink roses and spiky lavender as the afternoon waned and a cooling breeze rose from the dark waters of the River Thames at the bottom of the lawn. Eleanor paused to gaze back at the façade of the house, hearing the faint cry of a baby through an upstairs open window. She turned and began to make her way back to the house, yet paused again as she heard the sound of voices, and the baby’s cries turned to soft, gleeful chortles.

  Through the open window she glimpsed Troye, holding their son in his arms. At the same moment he saw her too and lifted his hand in greeting. Eleanor waved and then she quickened her footsteps, looking up as a young girl came running from the door to the downstairs parlour.

  ‘Father is home!’ cried Joan, her long dark hair braided and flying back with her skirts as she ran towards Eleanor, fell into step with her and linked arms. ‘He went upstairs to pick up Harry—’ she pouted a little ‘—it was my turn to pick him up when he woke.’

  Eleanor laughed and hugged her stepdaughter closer. ‘There will be plenty more chances, he’s only five months
old.’

  Troye emerged from the door before they reached it, and with unspoken consent the family turned and went to sit upon the cool grass, beneath the spreading arms of a shady oak tree. Eleanor sat with baby Harry—christened Henry after her father—upon her lap, kissing his plump, milky cheek as he nuzzled against her, yet one arm open to give young Joan access to her side.

  Troye gazed at them, his lovely wife and daughter, his young son, and counted his blessings. He reached out one hand and stroked Eleanor’s cheek. ‘Is it warm enough for you today?’

  Eleanor looked up, with a smile, gazing into his eyes so tender with concern. She chuckled, for it was an old joke between them that the bitter cold of Scotland had plagued Eleanor. They had endured for as long as possible the hostile land of the Scots, and then when peace treaties had been made Troye had yielded to her pleas and begged the King for release. As quickly as maybe they had purchased this half-timbered house beside the river, not too far distant from the Palace of Westminster and the White Tower, where Troye had been gifted the task of training the young cadets and would never again march away to war.