She curtseyed, and he sketched a benedicite over her head.
“Lord Richard?” he asked.
“Come, Father.” She led him to the body and withdrew a little way off. She slumped down on one of the long benches that lined the walls of the hall and watched as the priest bent over the body, holy water in hand. The serving women whispered amongst themselves and stole furtive glances in her direction. She knew what they whispered. She, too, doubted there was anything he could do to save her husband’s soul.
The priest’s shout startled her out of her detachment. “My lady!” He was standing upright, one bony hand against Richard’s chest. “My lady, a miracle! God has wrought a miracle this day! Lord Richard lives, thanks be to God! He lives!”
Hugh bolted out of his chair, and charged down the length of the hall. “You lying crow—he’s dead. He’s dead—or I’ll kill him!”
Before Eleanor or any of the others could react, Hugh was standing over the body, dagger raised. Father Alphonse stepped in front of the pallet.
“My son!” His deep voice boomed through the cavernous hall, echoed off the high roof. “You imperil your immortal soul with such threats! Have a care, lest you be damned.”
Hugh hesitated and met the priest’s unwavering eyes with raised chin and sullen mouth. When Alphonse did not flinch, Hugh dropped his arm, then turned away.
Eleanor rose to her feet, feeling light-headed from shock and disbelief. Her voice shook. “Father. You say he lives?”
“Yes, praise be to God! Are you deaf, woman? Your husband lives and you stand gaping like a sheep? You, there—” Alphonse looked at Ursula. “Bring wine—bring bandages—bring men to carry Lord Richard to his bed.”
Hugh had come to stand beside Eleanor, his face flushed, his lips pressed together. He still gripped the hilt of his dagger in its sheath, and Eleanor reached for his arm, as much to steady herself as to restrain him.
“Don’t worry, Eleanor. We’ll rid ourselves of the bastard, I promise you. On our father’s grave, I promise.”
As though in a dream, Eleanor watched as the women scurried to do the priest’s bidding, and Ralph directed the men carrying her husband from the hall. This was no dream, she reflected. This was a nightmare, and from it there would be no waking.
CHAPTER 3
Pain. It came in different intensities and shadings, like a hellish symphony playing through his body. There were the acute white-hot stabs, which radiated from his side and chest every time he tried to move, the rippling edges sharp as razors as his breathing drew air down his throat, and underneath it all, a dull ache throbbing steadily through his body like the beat of a great drum.
He guessed he couldn’t expect to fall the equivalent of two or three stories and not be hurt. But couldn’t they give him more morphine or Demerol or whatever they used for pain? As consciousness returned, he gradually became aware of another sensation, a prickly, lumpish feeling under his back, as though the bed on which he lay was not the cool, firm hospital bed he expected. It almost felt as though he were lying on piled blankets full of straw. The sheet that covered him felt coarser than even the cheapest percale.
There was something else—a stink stronger than anything he’d ever encountered in his life, a smell that made the memory of Mr. Powell’s cows almost seem fragrant by comparison. This was a human stench, vaguely reminiscent of adolescent locker rooms.
As his vision cleared, he realized that the flickering light was made by the candle placed by his bedside. Candle? What kind of place was this? Richard shut his eyes tightly and mentally counted to ten, trying to put the pieces together in some semblance of order that made sense.
He knew he had fallen on the stairs in the ruins—stupid thing to do, really. He should have had better sense than to try climbing thousand-year-old stairs, which were so obviously unsafe. He could remember nothing of a rescue, but considering that his body hurt so much just lying still, it was probably a blessing he was unconscious when they’d moved him.
But moved him where? Surely this was no hospital. This seemed more like a barn. There was a sound from some darkened corner of the room as though someone or something moved in the shadows. He held his breath to minimize the pain, and, careful not to move any other part of his body, opened his eyes.
The sight of the woman who bent over him as she lowered a pillow over his face and the pain from his involuntary gasp shocked him into unconsciousness. Was his Lucy trying to kill him?
“My lady, you mustn’t!” Ursula seized the pillow out of her hand and wrenched it away as Eleanor sagged against the bed, sobbing.
“Let me alone, Ursula, you don’t understand—”
“Oh, yes, I do indeed, my dear.” The older woman threw the pillow aside and reached for Eleanor, drawing her into an embrace as though she were a child. “I do, indeed. I know what Lord Richard is—but believe me, I’ve seen worse.”
“Then leave me alone…leave the room, just for a few minutes—” Eleanor knew she raved, but she was past caring. This was the solution to the problem.
“I will not. Because I love you as if you were my own, and I won’t have you damned for all eternity. Especially when…Let’s be honest. He’s not likely to survive for much longer.” Ursula smoothed the fine, pale hair back from Eleanor’s damp face, then hugged her close. “There, there, child. There, there. Why don’t you lie down in the solar? I told Mag to make a bed for you. I’ll stay with Lord Richard. You go get some rest. Ralph is sending up the men in a little while.”
“Men? What for?”
“To hold him while I push the arrow through his side. It must be done that way, for there’s no way to pull it out without causing more harm. There’s no need for you to stay for that.”
Reluctantly Eleanor withdrew from the comforting embrace. She looked at the man lying still on the bed, naked and vulnerable beneath the bloodstained bandages and unbleached linen sheets. In the candle’s wavering light, he looked gentler than she had ever seen him, all the harsh lines smoothed away, the chiseled mouth relaxed, his long lashes brushing his pale cheeks. “Call for me if you need me.”
Ursula nodded her out of the room. Eleanor shut the door of the bedroom and leaned against the wooden frame as hot tears leaked down her face. What had possessed her? Had she stooped so low that she would even contemplate murder? She shuddered at the memory of what she had nearly done. Thank God Ursula had stopped her. No matter what Richard was, or had done, he would not die by her hand. She would not stoop to his level—never. How could she have thought to live with such a deed on her soul?
A cold gust of wind blew through the hall, and the rushlight flickered. She wiped her eyes on her much-stained sleeve, shivered and went to seek refuge in the solar. There she found a clean shift spread out before the fire, a pot of water steaming on the hearth, and a ragged linen towel beneath her brushes. Wearily she stripped off her grimy gown and chemise and stood shivering as she dabbed at her body with the rag and the warm water. If only she could have had a bath. If Richard were lying dead in the hall instead of sick in the bedroom, she might have ordered the heavy wooden tub filled with hot water and lavender.
But the hour was late, and there had been enough demands made on the overworked servants for one day. Perhaps tomorrow.
After all, Ursula was right. Richard was wounded so badly, he might still die. Another draft blew through the room, cold as the grave. She shook herself, refusing to have even the wish of his death on her soul. She was better than that, even if he wasn’t.
She put on the clean shift, then wrapped herself in the loose green robe that had been her mother’s. The heavy silk was worn, the hem was ragged, but something of her mother’s scent, roses and gillyflowers, lingered, and Eleanor fancied something of the feel of her mother’s arms lingered too, warm as sunlight, soft as a butterfly’s touch.
She unbraided her hair, and the mass fell straight, nearly to her waist. The strands felt lank and greasy between her fingers. Yes, tomorrow, she would
bathe and wash her hair, and feel clean for the first time since her marriage. A knock on the door startled her as she was finishing rebraiding her hair. “Come in.”
She was even more surprised when Hugh peered tentatively into the room. “Eleanor?”
“Come in. Are you all right?” In all the confusion, she had not had a chance to make sure.
“I’m fine. I was better when I thought the bastard was dead.” He walked over to the fire and sank down beside her on the floor.
Eleanor’s mouth twitched as she repressed the wish that came all too easily to her mind. “We mustn’t think like that, Hugh. Richard is my husband, no matter what, and he lives…by the will of God. If God wills it, then…“
“He lives by mistake.” Hugh still had a boy’s face but it was twisted in a man’s expression of hatred. “He was dead, Eleanor, admit it. It was no miracle brought him back. More like the devil kicked him out of hell.”
“Hush. You mustn’t say such things.” But she grinned in spite of herself at the image Hugh conjured in her mind’s eye.
“See…you feel the same way, only you won’t admit it, even to yourself. Do you know what he did today? How many innocent people are dead because of him? There was no reason to do what he did today…he could’ve forced those people off the land, perhaps, burned the village, but he didn’t have to kill all the people. And he killed them all, Eleanor…even the children, the little ones. There’s a little girl, not five years old…lying dead with her baby brother. He’s a murderer, Eleanor—he lives by the sword; let him die by it, and the sooner the better.”
Eleanor stared at Hugh. This was the Richard she hated, the one she wished were dead. Her stomach twisted in a knot, at the thought of Richard’s hands touching her, at the thought of touching him. She shook her head, closed her eyes. This was why war was a man’s affair. “He has…his reasons.”
The look he gave her was pure disgust. “You defend him? You know his reasons…he intends to reclaim Barland land our father ceded years ago. And don’t try to pretend to me…you were glad he was dead.”
Eleanor looked up into Hugh’s hazel green eyes, the thick brows that swooped across his forehead so like her father’s. He was built like her father, too, long and wiry. He had suffered at de Lambert’s hands, there was no doubt of that. But he was a boy. He had value and worth…some day soon he’d be set free, to make his own way in the world. While her place was to stay, and endure. Her eyes filled with tears. “You must go away, Hugh.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Eleanor. I wish I were older—I wish I weren’t a bastard. Why couldn’t Father have married my mother, not yours?” At the stricken look on Eleanor’s face, he was instantly contrite. “Oh, Eleanor, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’d take care of you, you know that. But if these were my lands, de Lambert would never have come.”
From the bedroom on the lower level, a series of ragged screams erupted before Eleanor could reply.
Hugh gave a satisfied grunt. “He’s paying for his sins with his flesh tonight. Maybe that’s why God sent him back. He died too quickly.”
Eleanor closed her eyes, as though that could block the sound. In spite of everything de Lambert had ever done, she pitied him at that moment. Nothing living, no matter how cruel, should ever be forced to make such a sound.
“He still might die,” Hugh whispered as the scream faded away.
“Maybe you’re right…maybe that’s why he’s sent back…to answer here for what he’s done, rather than in the courts of Heaven. That could have been you lying there with an arrow stuck in your side—by the grace of God, you weren’t even hurt. Beware for what you wish, lest you call evil on yourself.” Hugh merely shrugged, and Eleanor sighed. “Even if you had been Father’s heir, the king would still have sold your wardship. You’re still a minor, even now. It profits us nothing to wonder what might have been, had things been different.” What a stupid, foolish child I was, she thought…to ever believe that anyone raised to do the things Richard thinks necessary to do could ever be more than a brute.
“That reminds me.” Hugh sat back, arms clasped around his knees. “De Courville thought it was the Welsh who attacked us, because of the arrows. But I think it may have been Giscard—Giscard Fitzwilliam. I think he’s back.”
Eleanor stared at her brother, a pang of fear beginning to tighten in her stomach. Their closest neighbor, whose lands abutted theirs in more than one location, had been gone to the Continent since shortly before her father’s death. She had dared to hope that he had found a Norman—or even Aquitainian—lady to love. “Why do you say that?”
“Because just as you noticed, sister, I escaped completely unscathed. They let me go. If it really were the Welsh, they would have pursued me. I think it was Giscard’s men—with orders to kill de Lambert.”
Despite the warm fire, Eleanor shivered. Giscard was an example of what Ursula meant when she referred to “worse.” Of the same breed as Richard, as cunning and even more brutal, and an open enemy of her father from the first time her father had refused Giscard’s petition to marry Eleanor. He was one of John’s most loyal supporters, even before John had assumed the throne.
He had been vassal to William de Braose, who, it was whispered, had a hand along with his wife in the disappearance of Prince Arthur of Brittany. Prince Arthur, who was John’s nephew, had what many believed to be a better claim to the throne of England than John himself. Although de Braose had fallen from favor as the King sought to distance himself from any suspicion of murder, Giscard remained the king’s familiar. He had coveted the Barland demesne for as long as Eleanor could remember. He had approached her father for her hand when she was only a baby, and then periodically over the years.
Each time, Hugh St. Clair scornfully sent Giscard on his way, even writing to her aunt at the abbey that he would never see his daughter wed to such a greedy toad-face. The sisters had all shared a good laugh over that one, and more than one told her what a kind father Eleanor was blessed to have.
Then Giscard had bid for her wardship, and seemed like to get it, when Richard had bid higher. John, swayed as always by the need for money, promptly set aside his favorite. Was it possible that Giscard had gone to the Continent not, as she assumed, for a consolation prize, but to lick his wounds and plot Richard’s demise?
Eleanor remembered how relieved she had been to learn that Giscard was not to be her guardian. “But you have no proof?”
“No,” admitted Hugh. “No proof. Just a feeling.” He turned to face her. “You know, Eleanor, if de Lambert does die, we may be vulnerable to Fitzwilliam. He will most assuredly go to the king and petition him for your hand. Given that John turned him down the first time—and considering that he’s been so loyal—unless he outright kills Richard, it seems to me he’s like to get it.”
Hugh’s logic was inescapable. Eleanor raised her chin. “What if he does? He cannot force me—the king himself cannot—”
“Not in theory, perhaps. But in reality…” Hugh let his voice trail off.
“We must appeal to the Marshal.” Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself as though to ward off cold. William the Marshal of England, Earl of Pembroke and Striguil, was one of the most powerful men in England, and one of the most honorable. The Barland demesne was part of his fief. “Father was his vassal…” It was her turn to fall silent.
The Marshal might not even be in England, and who knows how long it would take to find him? Meanwhile, Giscard could attack the keep, kidnap her, force her to marry him…She quivered. If it really were Giscard’s men who had attacked Richard, it was better that Richard lived. At least for a while.
Another knock on the door ended further speculation. Before Eleanor could respond, the door opened a crack and Ursula peered inside. “My lady, it’s Lord Richard. He’s awake, and I think he’s calling for you.”
“Me?” Eleanor glanced at Hugh. It would never do for Hugh to learn what she had
attempted. He might take it as tacit permission to end Richard’s life, and she had no wish to see her young half brother punished in this life or the next. And she was no longer so certain she wanted Richard dead.
Yet.
“Will you come?” Ursula held the door open wider.
“All right.” She gathered a shawl around her shoulders and followed Ursula back down the short corridor and the winding stairs to the bedroom below. The candle by the bedside flickered in the draft. A bowl of bloody water and a pile of bloody bandages lay discarded beside the bed. “How is he?”
“He’s very bad, my lady. I thought when I pushed the arrow shaft through, I might have killed him, but he only swooned from the pain. And I doubt he’ll be able to speak much until his throat heals—if he gets his voice back at all.”
Eleanor looked down at her husband, and was struck once more by his vulnerability. His hands rested on the coverlet, and she noticed for the first time how long the fingers were. The hands, despite their webs of scars, looked far more sensitive than their owner. It was difficult to imagine he had done all the horrible things Hugh said, although she absolutely believed her brother.
She thought of her childish fantasy that some day a knight would come, the epitome of everything a knight should be, who would love and cherish her throughout time. This Richard, while he looked the part, had certainly turned out to be nothing like she’d dreamed.
He stirred, and his eyelids fluttered open. In the flickering light, she caught a glimpse of his eyes, bright with fever. Automatically she touched his damp forehead, and smoothed the dark waves back from his face. “I’ll stay with him awhile, Ursula. You rest. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“My lady, you won’t…?” The older woman let her voice trail off.
“No,” Eleanor shook her head as she drew a chair beside the bed. “I may live to regret it, but he’ll not die this night—not by my hand, at least.” She sat down beside him. A low moan escaped his lips, and she dampened a rag in clean water, and held it to his lips.
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 3
