She paced to the window and gazed out over the November landscape. The heavy clouds massed over the trees, and wind was rushing through the bare branches. Even the courtyard was deserted, except for the fire in the smithy and the odd scullion here and there engaged in their miserable occupations.
“El—” he began, then stopped. She turned back to see him holding out his hand. “Come—” He beckoned.
Like a woman in a dream she stared. Surely this couldn’t be true. This wasn’t the same man, the Richard who had ridden out that September day, eager for conquest and the joy of the kill. This man’s eyes were soft, his expression kind, and his hand was raised, not in anger, but almost in supplication, as though he invited her to allow him to help her.
She shook her head as if to clear it and took one wary step backward, her hip flat against the windowsill. There was a sharp knock and Ursula peered around the door.
“My lady, my lord,” she said, when she saw Richard sitting up. “Giscard Fitzwilliam has just ridden up to the gates and asks for admittance. He brings a message or so he says from His Grace, King John.”
The change in Eleanor’s expression was startling, thought Richard, as he watched her reaction flicker across her face. Giscard Fitzwilliam—the name meant something to her, something she didn’t like. He saw the revulsion flicker across her features as clearly as it had when he had beckoned. So, he thought, with a grim sort of satisfaction, someone she hates more than me.
He understood the words King John. There was one certain way to find out who this Giscard was and why Eleanor was so frightened of him. He beckoned to Ursula and nodded. “Yes,” he managed. “I see.”
As he fell back against the pillows, he thanked God that the neck wound prevented better speech. The arrow that had wounded his throat must have caused damage to his vocal cords, he reasoned. He was thankful that so far, no one appeared to think it odd that what few words he did utter were ungrammatical. He heard the heavy feet on the steps, and as Eleanor took a chair by the fire, the door opened once more, and Ursula curtseyed as she admitted the newcomer.
“Giscard Fitzwilliam, my lord.”
Eleanor got up to leave, and Richard looked at her. “Stay.” He glanced up to see what could almost be a walking pig. He had to control the urge to laugh. The man who strode into the room looked like a cross between Friar Tuck and one of the Three Little Pigs. And then he realized that the look in the man’s eyes was as dangerous as anything he’d ever seen on the face of a felon: cold and flat and dead.
“So, my lord,” drawled the newcomer, his voice a high pitched whine, which immediately set Richard’s nerves on edge, “I see you mend against every expectation.”
Richard met the newcomer’s gaze evenly. This was an enemy—Eleanor, and her younger brother, had been right. There were no good intentions on the part of this man, he had come solely to satisfy his curiosity.
Richard glanced at the dagger hanging from the belt, at the sword in the sheath. Giscard carried his weapons with the same calculated insolence street-wise youths did—or would, in the far-distant future.
Richard inclined his head in a gesture of greeting, never breaking eye contact. He was gratified when Giscard dropped his eyes and turned away, under the pretext of accepting the goblet and plate of cakes Ursula offered.
“Our royal master bids you heal quickly—I shall be certain to assure him you heed his command.”
Richard smiled, pulling his lips up, keeping his eyes steady.
“But I hear, my lady,” Giscard looked at Eleanor, who automatically took a step backward, holding her hands out of the way as though she feared contamination. “I hear young Hugh has purchased a mort of trouble. Will you meet the ransom, my lord?”
Richard only shrugged and Giscard grinned. “The whelp’s not worth the trouble, really, bastard son and all that he is. But to please you, my lady, perhaps I could be of assistance in raising the ransom. I hear it’s quite high.”
Eleanor made a little sound that sounded like a hiss. Richard only nodded, as though he might consider such a thing. Eleanor’s face was white, and her mouth was pinched tight. Two spots of color had appeared on her cheeks. Poor thing, he thought. She looks as though she’s trapped. It only gratified him a little to think that here was someone she hated more than him.
“Well.” Giscard took a long quaff of ale, and wiped his mouth across his sleeve. “I only came to offer my good wishes, my lord, and those of our liege. We were most lucky at the hunt—I’ve brought you a fine stag, a gift of His Grace.”
“You’re most kind, my lord,” murmured Eleanor. She kept her hands clenched in her skirt, and Richard understood that she would rather starve than accept a gift—even from the King—offered by Giscard’s hands.
“I look forward to riding out with you, my lord.” Giscard plunked the empty goblet back on the tray. “And don’t forget, my offer of assistance stands.”
As Ursula ushered Fitzwilliam from the sickroom, Richard looked at Eleanor. She was staring into the hearth. “El—” he managed. “Please—”
She raised her head. Never, in all the months of their marriage, never once in all the time since Richard had come to Barland had she ever heard him use the word “please.” Never. It simply wasn’t a part of his vocabulary.
“Hugh—” he croaked. “Fitz—” He nodded toward the door. “You must—talk.”
“Talk, my lord?” She shook her head as if to clear it. “You want me to talk to Fitzwilliam, about ransoming Hugh?”
“No.” He meant to be emphatic, but the word that came out was still a whisper. He hit his chest with his thumb. “Me. Talk me.”
Angharad paused at the stable entrance, listening. Above the stamp and pawing of the horses, she could hear her brother’s voice as it rose, berating one of the grooms for treating his prized stallion carelessly. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps now was not the best time to discuss the matter she had in mind.
But the cold wind gusted hard about her skirts, and she shivered. Better to do it now, while they had privacy. There was no point in discussing such a thing before her brother’s men. She would only make herself the laughingstock of the entire castle.
Heavy footsteps pounded down the long row of stalls, and Angharad saw her brother’s dark head over the high rails. He was frowning, and his mouth was pressed tight in the expression he wore when it was best to stay away from him.
But he was alone. She held her ground.
He was almost upon her when he spied her, standing in the door, and his expression changed from annoyance to surprise. “What are you doing here, Angharad? Not riding out again alone, were you?”
“No,” she shook her head and clutched her shawl more tightly about herself, more from sudden nervousness than from cold. In all the years she had spent listening to the men speak beside the long hearths, she had never taken so much upon herself. “I wanted to talk to you.” But she remembered how he used to let her climb up his back and onto his shoulders, and feed her raisins and comfits, and she dared to hope he might still remember that child now.
His expression changed back to annoyance. “Now what?”
“It isn’t anything bad,” she said, feeling mildly annoyed herself. Why did so much have to depend on whether or not the men were in a good humor?
“What then?” He didn’t pause in his stride, only gestured with his head to let her know she should follow him out the door and across the wide yard.
“I wanted to talk to you about Hugh—about the hostage.” She corrected herself and wondered if her brother had noticed her use of the boy’s Christian name.
Of course he had, for he stopped short, and stared down at her, suspicion curling his lip and narrowing his eyes. “If that young bastard has made any improper advances—” Llewellis put his hands on his hips and swore softly beneath his breath.
“No.” Angharad was disgusted. And why did men think of improper advances before anything else?
“Angharad, I’m busy.�
�� Llewellis glanced impatiently about the yard. Just beyond the walls, she could hear the shouts and the thuds as the men at arms practiced their archery.
“I’ve spoken with him,” she began, wondering how to convince her brother that the Norman bastard might be of some use.
“Oh? And have you made improper advances?”
“Brother!” Angharad was shocked.
“Say on, little sister.” He grinned down at her, and then glanced up, as though eager to be away.
“I—I was thinking he might be of use to us.”
Llewellis raised one brow. “The hostage? Other than for ransom?”
Angharad nodded. “Yes, of course other than for ransom. After all, you’ve asked for such a high price, it’s unlikely you’ll ever see it.”
Llewellis tapped his booted foot impatiently on the ground and rubbed one hand across his bearded chin. “Little sister, why must you meddle in the affairs of men?”
Angharad ignored that. “He hates de Lambert…hates him more than even you or I or any of us do.”
Llewellis narrowed his eyes at her once more, as though he doubted such a thing were possible, but she could tell he was listening.
Angharad went on. “And anyone who hates de Lambert—and distrusts Fitzwilliam as much as Hugh does—” She broke off, letting the thought sink into her brother’s mind. She didn’t even notice that this time she had used his Christian name again.
Llewellis raised his head and nodded, staring off into the distance, and Angharad knew he was turning the idea over in his mind. She had been right to come to him when he was alone and relatively unburdened by the expectations of the household as to how he should behave. “I am not certain…” His voice trailed off, but he continued to stare into the distance.
“Maybe not,” said Angharad. “Maybe you don’t see a way in which this can be helpful to us. But you should speak to him yourself. If you see and hear for yourself how much he hates de Lambert, you’ll know he means it. And anyone who hates someone as much as he hates de Lambert—”
Llewellis shrugged. “That might be, little sister. But an enemy of de Lambert is not necessarily a friend to us. Remember that.” He turned on his heel as if to go, then paused. “But you might speak to him—from time to time. Garner as much information as you can—about the keep, about de Lambert’s men. Tell me everything he tells you—who knows what we might find to be of use? After all,” he smiledas a gust of wind blew dead leaves across his boots, “we’ve time. A winter’s worth of time.”
CHAPTER 8
Another week passed. No word came from the Marshal, and Eleanor fretted silently every time she found herself thinking of her little brother in the clutches of the Welsh. Fitzwilliam paid no more visits, and de Courville subsided into a grim silence, speaking to her only when absolutely necessary.
But was that so very different from the way it had always been? she wondered. Or had the change in Richard made Geoffrey’s disdain of her all the more clear?
The changes in Richard—changes that at first she thought only she had noticed—were increasingly apparent, and she soon realized that Ursula had marked it too. Who would ever have believed that now every evening, as the room grew dark, Richard insisted upon candles—a dozen or more—so that the room was lit so brightly it seemed nearly day. Or that he seemed to expect her to spend her time with him, sewing, or reading, or simply talking to him about the day’s events? He seemed insatiably curious about every aspect of the castle life. He asked halting questions about the sorts of things she had never thought to tell him, or would never have thought he would have noticed or cared about.
And it even seemed, to her complete astonishment, that he was interested in learning to read. Eleanor wondered if such a change ever came over other men who found themselves close to death and yet lived.
As if hearing the echo of Eleanor’s thoughts, Ursula leaned forward on the other side of the hearth. Richard slept, snoring softly, the rasping breathing evidence of his healing wound. In his sleep, a long lock of dark hair had fallen across his face. His mouth was slack, his hands relaxed by his side. Eleanor watched him, entranced in spite of herself, by the contrast between the implicit strength in the heavy muscles of his chest and arms and the soft full curves of his lips. How was it possible a man so beautiful could be so cruel?
She jumped when Ursula said, “He’s very different now.”
“Yes,” answered Eleanor, flushing a little and telling herself it was the heat of the fire that made her cheeks red.
“Who knows what he saw, in the time he lay as if in death?” Ursula glanced from Eleanor to the bed.
“Saw?” Eleanor frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps he was dead, my lady. He had no signs of life. Perhaps he went to hell, and met the devil”—here Ursula crossed herself—“or even met the Lord and learned the error of his ways.”
Eleanor smiled in spite of herself. Although she wanted to believe that a miraculous transformation had occurred, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. And yet…She cocked her head, watching Richard sleep. There was something undeniably different about him—in his eyes, in his expression, something she had never seen before. It was especially noticeable when he looked at her. He clearly wanted her to spend time with him—it was almost as if he wanted her to like him. But that was impossible, thought Eleanor, even as she gazed at his face. No one changed so dramatically.
Richard was too cruel, too demanding, too harsh. And even if some miracle had occurred, and he had changed overnight from a beast to a veritable prince, how could she ever forget or think of forgiving everything that had gone before?
But even as her mental resolve strengthened, the memory of Richard’s mouth on hers stirred her desires. The very thought of those long nights, when he’d reached for her time after time, using her until every fiber of her body drooped with exhaustion and satiation, made her body ache for his touch. She pressed her lips together in a firm line, but she could no more will herself to forget such dark pleasures than she could will herself not to breathe.
“Stranger things have happened, my lady,” whispered Ursula, over the snap of the flames. “When did Lord Richard ever ask for so much light in the evenings before?”
“Are you saying he tasted the darkness of hell, and now is afraid of the dark?”
“No, my lady,” said Ursula with a little sniff. “I’m saying he tasted the darkness of hell and now wants no more part of it. I’m saying he’s not the man he was when he rode out that day. And you, my lady, will be the first to know it.”
“Me?” Eleanor stared at Ursula. “Why me?”
“I’ve seen how he looks at you—follows you with his eyes as you move about the room. He listens for your step, and his face lights up when you walk into the room. Mark my words, my lady—he looks like a man in love.”
“Love?” This time Eleanor had to laugh. “What did Richard ever know of love?”
Ursula shrugged and rose to her feet. “It must be close to noon. I’d better fetch Lord Richard’s dinner. You laugh now, my lady—but you’ll see.” Shaking her head and still muttering, Ursula left the room, closing the door firmly.
Eleanor went back to her sewing, shaking her head at the foolish fancies of an old woman. Who would ever have thought that Ursula of all people would entertain such hopes?
A little sound made her look up. Richard was awake, his eyes a brilliant blue in the sunlight. Her heart did a little jig in her chest. There was no question that Richard was the fairest man she had ever seen in her life. She remembered how her body had responded the first time she’d seen him pull his shirt over his head. The massive muscles of his chest and shoulders had flexed and rippled beneath his skin, and in the glow of the firelight, a sheen of sweat had made him gleam like some pagan god. How she had trembled when he’d reached for her, and how her heart had pounded as he’d kissed her. He’d reached beneath her modest virginal nightgown, and begun a slow exploration of every inch of her
body…
She startled. With effort, she dragged herself back to the present and looked back at the sewing on her lap. She was falling into Ursula’s trap. The woman wanted her to be happy so much that Ursula was willing to fit her wish to hope. From beneath her lids, she glanced back at him. He beckoned her, and she was shocked to see a little smile lift the corners of his mouth. Or was it a grimace of pain?
She rose and walked to stand beside him. “My lord? Is there anything you require?”
He shifted on the pillows, and reached for her hand. This time he caught it, and held it, not tightly, but gently, as though he thought she might snatch it away.
Almost of their own volition, she felt her fingers begin to curl around his, and she stiffened, forcing her hand to remain loose and limp in his. He’s a murderer, she told herself. “My lord?”
“Thirsty,” he managed. “Please.”
There was that “please” again. She had heard him use it so frequently in the last few weeks, it nearly sounded natural for him to say it. She dropped her eyes, unwilling and somehow unable to meet the intensity in his. She gently extricated her hand and poured water from the pitcher into the goblet by the bed. He sat up, took the goblet she offered, and drank it down, with noticeably less difficulty than he’d had before.
She noted that his color was much better and that he moved restlessly. Soon he would be up and about. And then, she wondered, would the old Richard return? He did not slump back against the pillows as he had before. “Must dress.”
“Now?” she asked, startled by what seemed to be the silent communication between them.
“Tomorrow. Dress tomorrow. In bed too long. Am weak.”
Ah, she thought, of course. Richard would feel the lack of exercise, the lack of activity. Last winter he cursed and chafed when the heavy snows made it impossible for him to ride out. “Would you like to sit by the fire, my lord?” She gestured to Ursula’s abandoned chair, where the light of the late autumn sun pooled on the seat, making the warmth of the fire doubly pleasant.
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 7
