“I’ve never minced words with you, my lord.” Geoffrey met his stare evenly.
“You have no need to mince,” Richard replied. In the last day or two, his mind and his brain seemed to have synchronized, because he was able to understand more and more, and even speak more and more if he didn’t think too hard about what it was he wanted or needed to say. “Say what you will.”
“It’s foolish for you to go, to risk your life, your health—and now that we have both baited the Welsh, and with Fitzwilliam home—”
Richard held up his hands. “You’re right, old friend.” He clapped a hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. Immediately he wondered if that were out of character, but the other man didn’t look surprised. Even so, thought Richard, he had to be careful. “There’re a lot of reasons I should stay.” He glanced up, toward the tower keep. Through the nearly opaque pane of whatever served instead of glass, he thought he saw someone standing at the window overlooking the courtyard. Eleanor, he thought, with a pang. What kind of brute could’ve mistreated her, or done the things the old Richard was said to have done? If he were going to stay in this time and place, how was he ever going to reconcile who—or what—this body had done, with what he was. “But…” His voice trailed off. How to explain to Geoffrey that greater concerns were stirring without sounding like he knew what was going to happen?
“To tell you the truth, my lord, privately, betwixt you and me—tis not the Welsh so much that concerns me right now—‘tis Fitzwilliam and his return that coincides with the attack on you.”
Richard gave Geoffrey a long look. He well understood that Giscard coveted the lands and Eleanor. He didn’t understand why. “Fitzwilliam—the king’s man…” Richard’s voice trailed off. “Why does he continue to pursue…”
“A portion of his lands abuts yours, my lord.” Geoffrey’s expression was unreadable. “With you out of the way, Barland could well be his. Our little cock-robin thought it was Fitzwilliam whose men attacked us that day, not the Welsh.”
“Indeed…what made him think that?”
Geoffrey was watching him carefully. “The fact he escaped unscathed, for one—a point I hadn’t given much credence to, until he was taken hostage. I told you several weeks age—perhaps you were in too much pain to understand.”
“Perhaps.” Richard turned away, feeling his cheeks grow warm. He clutched the thick cloak around his shoulders as a cold wind gusted through the courtyard, fanning the blacksmith’s open flame. “There’s much I don’t recall. No matter now—what matters is that Fitzwilliam know that I am well again. And an appearance at the Marshal’s court will supply him with proof.”
“I agree, my lord. But what if he—or the Welsh—attack while you are on the road? Can you defend yourself, do you think?”
“You must come with me.”
“And what of Barland? What if Giscard—or the Welsh—attack here?”
Richard stared off into space, thinking furiously. Would it really be in Giscard’s best interest to attack while he was gone? “Giscard won’t attack—not while I am at Pembroke, in the house of the Marshal. Even if he won Barland, how would he hold it? You know as well as I that Lord William will send men to our aid. No,” he said as decisively as he possibly could, “the danger to Barland is not from Giscard. And as for the Welsh—” He wished Geoffrey would stop that ferocious stare. “They won’t attack so long as they hold Hugh. And even if the Welsh attack, they, too, will have to face the Marshal’s men—and more of the same treatment as what started all this.” Even as the words left his mouth, Richard was appalled with himself. Am I really insinuating that I would lead another assault on a defenseless village? “Besides, Llewellis and his main force have mostly gone into the mountains now that winter is nearly here. What do you think?” He looked Geoffrey straight in the eye, as if daring him to nay-say his words. He hoped he sounded enough like the old Richard to be convincing.
Finally the other man lowered his, and made a little sound of assent. “The only risk is to your life, my lord. If you truly believe you’re well enough to leave Barland—” He broke off and shrugged. “Listen to me. I sound like the old woman up there. Forgive me, my lord. ’Tis not for me to question. Will you join us in the morning for the drill, my lord?”
“I will be there,” Richard said carefully. The wound in his side was nearly healed; it was time he concentrated on learning to use the weapons he would be expected to know how to wield with expert precision. This body was fit and strong—although he had many qualms, he was confident he possessed the strength and agility necessary. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, he reflected grimly. He’d be dead. “We’ll practice, you and me,” he said.
Geoffrey nodded, with satisfaction, and maybe even relief, plain in his expression. “Something just to get the blood moving again?”
“Yes,” Richard said. A cold chill went down his back and he forced the fear out of his mind. He had to learn these things, he had no choice. He would never survive in the thirteenth century otherwise. He glanced up. The sun was high in the sky. It was nearly time for dinner. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over him. “I’m weak as a new—” he hesitated. Geoffrey looked at him. “Lamb,” he finished, as the word burst into his mind and he felt a tiny sense of relief. At least he was learning the language.
“Has the man gone mad?” Eleanor demanded of Ursula. The older woman only pursed her lips and shrugged, as she continued to fold linen. “What in the name of the Virgin can he be thinking? He’s only just up from his deathbed, and now he thinks he can go riding out—with winter approaching and make a journey of over a hundred miles? How can he even think of leaving us?” She placed her hands on her hips and stalked to the window The sky was gray and cold; she wouldn’t be surprised to see snow flurries before dusk. And Richard was adamant about leaving.
“He sees it as his duty, my lady,” said Ursula softly.
“I understand that,” Eleanor spoke without turning. She gazed out over the trees. Their bare branches groped for the sky like claws, and abruptly she turned her back on the window. “But doesn’t he understandh ow fragile his health is? How close he came to dying? Doesn’t he understand he risks—”
“My lady,” Ursula said with a puckered smile, “you almost sound as if you’d miss him when he leaves.”
Eleanor drew herself up. “Certainly not.” She felt the color rise in her cheeks. She knew she blushed and cursed herself for it. “It’s just—it’s just—he has responsibilities. He owes it to us all to stay alive.”
“It’s just you’re getting to know him all over again, and this time, you rather like what you are learning?”
Eleanor took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and closed it. Of course Ursula was right. But she wasn’t about to admit that, not to Ursula and most certainly not to herself. “That has nothing to do with it. You know as well as I that if Richard dies now, Giscard will swoop down on Barland like a crow on carrion.”
“My sweet child.” Ursula walked over and hugged her tightly. “It isn’t up to you to decide if Lord Richard should go or not. That is his decision, as the lord of the manor and the sworn man of Lord William.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Eleanor spoke from the comfort of Ursula’s shoulder. She pulled away, and sank down on the floor beside the hearth, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You’re right, Ursula. He’s so different now, it’s as if he were another man altogether. To tell you the truth, it almost frightens me. He’s not at all like he was before, he’s—” She broke off, unwilling to say the words which came to her mind. Kind. Gentle. Who could ever have thought of applying those words to Richard? “All that time we’ve spent nursing him, it will all be for naught if he leaves and dies on the road.”
Ursula patted the top of her head, as she used to when Eleanor had been very small, saying nothing.
“And yet,” Eleanor continued, “when he said he was going and Geoffrey challenged him, I could see that same look in his eyes—the one that meant he w
as going to have his own way or none at all. So has he changed, or hasn’t he?”
Ursula made a little soothing sound in her throat. “Only time will tell that. It’s best that you not interfere. These are men’s affairs, it isn’t for either you nor I to question.”
Eleanor moved restlessly under the gentle hand. “It would be just like him to die after all we’ve done to try and save—” The door opened and she broke off. Richard stepped inside, his face pale, his lips blanched. “My lord, are you all right?” She leapt to her feet.
He nodded, waving her away. “Only tired.”
“Come and sit. Would you like some wine?”
He sank into one of the chairs beside the fire. “No wine. We must talk—you and me.” He looked at Ursula and immediately the old woman curtsied.
“Of course, my lord. I will see to the rest of the laundry, my lady.” With a step that was practically a scamper, Ursula hastened from the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.
Eleanor sat down in the chair opposite Richard. She knotted her hands in her lap to keep from trembling. This was how it usually began—he’d seem so calm, and then little by little, his voice would change, until she could hear the sneer, the sarcasm and then the anger, long after she dared look up.
And yet, try as she would to deny it, she sensed something entirely different in the tone of his voice. She dared a peek beneath her lashes, and the intensity in his eyes took her breath away. A tingle of anticipation ran down her spine. Ursula was far more correct than Eleanor could admit to anyone else. Yet.
He took a deep breath and frowned a little, but he looked more confused than angry. “El—” He stopped. An expression of some deep emotion crossed his face, and incredibly, she thought he might weep. Then he cleared his throat, and began again. “Eleanor. I know you—I know you don’t want me to leave. But I don’t believe I can trust Geoffrey to press the Marshal to give us help on Hugh’s behalf.” He paused.
Eleanor looked at him in amazement. Richard…concerned about Hugh’s welfare enough to risk his own life? “You would do this? For Hugh?”
“Geoffrey is a good man…loyal,” he said. “But loyal to me, to what he believes are my interests, not Hugh’s. After what was done—” He paused once more. “After what we did to the Welsh—Hugh may be in…great jeopardy, great danger.” He picked up the goblet on the tray and poured himself a cup from the wineskin on the floor, while Eleanor watched dumbfounded. “Do you understand?”
She blinked, forcing herself to exhibit a calm she didn’t feel. Was Richard really taking some responsibility for the grievousness of his actions? And had he just picked up a wineskin and poured himself wine while she was present? “Forgive me, my lord—I don’t know what to say. I—I never knew you held Hugh in any regard at all.”
Richard took a long drink of wine, then poured himself more. He held the skin over the second goblet on the tray. “Do you want some?”
Eleanor shook her head. Was this the same man? “It’s not for me to say, my lord…I am of course beyond grateful that you esteem my brother so highly. But for you to risk your own life…you are my husband…you must be my first concern.”
“The Welsh are a threat to us all. But now—as everyone reminds me—that winter is coming and they have set a price on Hugh, it seems we have a window of time to reach some accord—some option.”
“I thought the only option acceptable to you, my lord, was a full return of all the lands ceded by my father in the last twenty years.”
His head jerked up. Her arrow had struck a nerve, one that clearly had something to do with why he was so suddenly concerned for her brother’s welfare. Eleanor got to her feet and straightened
her back. “If you believe this is what you must do, my lord, it is not for me to say otherwise. I’m grateful for your regard for my brother—I only beg you to take good care while you are gone…I would not wish to have all my nursing undone.”
Richard rose. He towered over her, nearly a foot taller than she, and she thought he looked as though he wanted to touch her. Involuntarily she shrank back, even while her heart pounded harder, and something else wished that he would take her in his arms. An unreadable expression crossed his face, the very flicker of a frown. His words surprised her, took her breath away. “I would like you to understand, even if you don’t agree.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I agree with all my lord’s decisions.” It was never wise to argue with Richard.
He let out a deep breath, and shook his head even as something that could’ve been disappointment washed across his face. “I said what I must. In three days, I will go. You must make ready.”
“Of course, my lord,” she curtsied as an obedient wife should, head bowed, eyes downcast. “Of course. Everything you require will be prepared for you.” And a shroud for you on your retum, she thought. If you return. Or if I wake, to find all this a dream.
CHAPTER 10
The lone candle flickered mournfully. The old bronze holder was so covered with runnels of wax, the metal was totally obscured. Eleanor cocked her head and laid the brush down beside the hearth, her fingers sorting her long hair into sections. She rocked back on the lumpy little pallet. She had been sleeping on it for so long she scarcely remembered what the big bed felt like.
She braided her hair, the long strands twining like silk through her rough, work-worn fingers, catching here and there in the roughened fingertips. Lumps or not, she was beginning to prefer the privacy of the solar. At least, that’s what she told herself over and over. Since his bandages had been removed, and his wounds were clearly healing, there was no reason she should not return to the bed they shared as man and wife.
And yet, Richard had made no suggestion or offered any invitation, and she saw no reason not to leave well enough alone. If his memory truly had been affected by the accident, perhaps it was best she didn’t bestir any memories until she had sorted out her feelings. This new Richard left her puzzled and unsure. He seemed so clearly vulnerable—something the old Richard never was—and yet, at times, there were flashes of that familiar fierceness, that same determination.
She finished braiding her hair and plumped the one pillow, pulling the worn quilt up to her shoulders. With a sigh, she lay down, staring into the red embers of the dying fire. It certainly was warmer in the big bed with Richard, she thought, as she drifted off to an uneasy sleep, curled in a tight ball against the cold that seemed to seep up through the thin pallet from the floor.
Her sleep was fitful. In her dreams, dark horsemen, dressed in the colors of both Richard and Fitzwilliam, hunted her through a black wood. She ran and ran, frantically holding her skirts up to her knees. She tripped over roots, her ankles twisting painfully as she tried to escape, knowing that if she could only reach her destination, she might be safe.
She dashed through the trees, hearing the crash of horses’ hooves, knowing that both her pursuers were hot on her heels, as the hanging limbs caught and twisted in her hair like skeletal fingers. She stumbled, her foot caught in the hem of her dress. She heard the fabric tear, and a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder. She turned, screaming.
“Eleanor, wake up—”
She opened her eyes, to find herself looking up at Richard, her whole body quivering and breathing hard. For a moment, she was confused and disoriented, and then she realized that Richard was staring down at her with an expression of genuine concern, an expression that made him appear so different from the person she was used to, it was as if she were staring up at a stranger. “My—my lord,” she managed.
“Are you all right? I heard you calling—you must have had a bad dream.” He shifted his position, so that he knelt beside her on one knee. Through the open collar of his bed gown, she saw the hair that curled in black clusters on his chest.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine. It was only a bad dream.”
He said nothing, and in the dim moonlight, she saw his eyes run down the length of her body, hidden as i
t was beneath the shift and the quilt. “Come,” he said, at last. “You’re cold.”
Without waiting for a response, he picked her up as if she were a child. His arms were warm, and his body gave off a radiant heat. She could feel his heart beating in his chest, and realized hers was pounding just as hard. He eased the door open and carried her to his—their bed. He placed her gently on one side, covered her carefully, and got in on the other.
She watched him, scarcely daring to breathe. Their eyes met and held, and for the space of one brief moment, time hung suspended. In the moonlight, the white linen glowed and the bed smelled of him—of masculine sweat and horses and leather and that indefinable scent that was uniquely him. Beneath the long linen shirt, she saw the outline of his erection.
Almost at once, they reached for each other. He wrapped his arms around her, and buried his
tongue in her mouth, fingers twining eagerly through her hair. He raked through the heavy braid, and the long locks tumbled free about her shoulders. Her breasts were crushed against the hard muscles of his chest.
She lashed his tongue eagerly with hers, sucking and tasting the deliciously soft flesh of his lips. She felt him tug at her shift, and she shrugged away from him, long enough for him to tear it over her head. She knelt naked before him on the bed, her body glowing in the silvery light. For another brief moment, he stared at her.
Then he tugged his own shirt off, and before she could even take in the sight of his long, lean body, the heavy muscled frame, he was on her, his hands cupped around her breasts, his mouth encircling one nipple so delicately it made her moan. He laid her back against the pillows, stretching out so that his body was pressed against hers, and she felt the hard length of him against her thighs.
Of their own volition, her legs spread. She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers tugging at his thick, black curls, pulling him closer. “Please,” she panted, as he lifted himself up and settled down in the cradle of her hips. She felt him press against her wet flesh.
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 9
