“But, my lady, you cannot fight. It’s dangerous, my lady—you saw what happened to Lord Richard’s men—to Lord Richard himself—in the dark I can’t guarantee your—”
“I’ll stay out of the way, in the back.”
“No, lady, this is madness. I cannot allow—”
“I’m not asking your permission,” Eleanor replied. She drew herself up as tall as she could. “I can shoot a bow, I can use a knife. I am not without skill, and I will not stew behind these walls while my brother’s fate hangs so heavy in the balance. Who knows how they’re treating him? Make the preparations. I’ll be down directly.”
She ignored his shocked astonishment and swept out of the room. No one would prevent her from doing everything possible to save her brother. No one.
The shadows were slanting across the road when at last Geoffrey called a halt. Richard slid out of his saddle eagerly. He was used to riding by now, but they’d been on the road for three days, and he was stiff and sore, and the muscles in his abdomen ached.
Geoffrey glanced in his direction. “Are you all right, my lord?”
Richard nodded. “I’m fine. More road weary than I thought I’d be, that’s all.”
Geoffrey nodded. “Rest, then, my lord. The men and I will see to the setting up of the camp.”
Richard sank to the ground and leaned against a tree. He felt slightly dizzy. He closed his eyes. He hoped he would survive long enough to see Lucy—Eleanor—again. He accepted a flask from one of the other men and allowed his head to rest against the rough tree trunk. Lifting the flask to his lips, he drank. The mead stung all the way down his throat, but the warmth that spread through his body revived him.
The men were well-trained and efficient. A noise from the forest had them all alert, drawing their swords and eying the surrounding wood suspiciously. Three moved in to protect him. Richard struggled to his feet. Geoffrey glanced in his direction, motioning him to silence. Richard gazed around, but in the falling dark, there wasn’t much to see within the thick forest.
And then the sound came again, and this time, Richard recognized it. It was the sound of a horse whinnying a protest. At once the horses tethered to the trees around them stamped and pawed the ground. Geoffrey motioned for the others to draw their weapons and Richard did likewise, the
sound of his sword sliding from its sheath uncomfortably loud. His heart began to pound in his chest, and his eyes darted from side to side. This was the first time he’d have to fight for real. Inside the leather gloves, his palms began to sweat.
He raised his sword in what he hoped was a credible imitation of the others’ fighting stances.
“Renaulf, Lanrac, guard the lord,” murmured Geoffrey.
The sound came again. Richard heard another sound—the snap of fallen twigs. And then they were upon them.
Later, Richard was never certain about what actually happened and in what order it happened.
It seemed that first a company of Normans was upon them—Normans who wore plain armor without any kind of mark, but who carried weapons similar to their own. Then another company swept down upon them, men who rode shaggy, short-legged ponies, and whooped and sang as they fought.
And then, finally, in the thick of the battle, as the darkness was closing all around them, and Richard swung his sword in desperate exhaustion, no longer knowing friend or foe, a hand came down, clad in mail, and he looked up into a vaguely familiar face. “Come with me, my lord,” said a voice, and Sir John Longshanks swept Richard up and behind his saddle and galloped with him to safety.
A little way off they paused in the road, and Sir John whipped off his helmet and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “Are you all right, my lord?”
“Yes,” Richard managed. “What of the others? What happened back there?”
Sir John shook his head. “My lord, it was only great fortune that led me to you. Great fortune and—” he paused, as another dozen or so riders cantered up. In the dim light, it was difficult to see them, but one detached itself from the rest, followed by another rider carrying a burning torch.
“Sir John?” Eleanor’s musical voice carried through the dark night. “Sir John, is it you?”
“It’s me, my lady. Me and—” He turned in his saddle as Richard slumped forward, at the very end of his endurance.
CHAPTER 14
The rising sun tickled his lids. Richard opened his eyes. A small fire hissed in the grate. In the chair beside the hearth, Eleanor leaned upon her hand. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply, her head nodding gently back and forth. He raised himself on one arrn and tried to remember the events of the previous night.
He remembered little but dark and cold and confusion, the shouts of charging men, the crack of steel hitting armor and bone. He remembered the way the horses had screamed, the way the light had glinted off the edges of weapons. And he remembered the sickening thuds and the moans of the wounded and dying.
He shook his head as if to clear it. How had Eleanor come to be there? Where were Geoffrey and the rest of his companions? And who had attacked them?
He swung his legs cautiously around the side of the bed, and reached for the robe at the foot. He belted the cloth sash around his waist and knelt in front of Eleanor. “Lady?” he whispered, loath to wake her. Beneath her eyes, dark circles smudged her pale cheeks. Her hair was tied back in a loose tail, and she wore only a shift and a ragged dressing gown.
She started awake. “My lord,” she murmured. She looked terrified.
He smiled. She had been very brave to risk herself like that and he was so glad to see her. But she looked back at him with such blatant fear, he hesitated to touch her. “How are you this morning?”
She straightened, undoing and then redoing her hair in just a few fast motions. “I’m well…How are you?”
He rocked backward and got to his feet. He was sore in all the old places, and quite a few new ones, too. “I’m all right—better than I probably should be. I was wondering how I got here—I don’t remember much. Can you tell me what happened last night? Was I dreaming that it was you in the wood? With—” He searched his memory. “Sir John?”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, my lord. That was me.”
“Eleanor? Are you mad? You could’ve been killed…in the dark, in the…what were you thinking?” He sank down beside her again, and tilted her chin up to his, reminded once more how different she was from Lucy. And yet…Lucy never shied away from a verbal fray…especially if someone she loved was threatened.
“I couldn’t sit back and do nothing.” She knotted her fingers together. “Not that I belonged there, I know that. Sir John said he’d never seen the like before. You killed at least a dozen of them by yourself. And when Geoffrey fell, you stood over his body until Sir John himself pulled you away—”
“Geoffrey fell? How is he? How badly was he wounded?” This was not good. He was relying on Geoffrey to maintain the interface between himself and the men at arms.
She dropped her eyes. “I—I am so sorry to be the one to tell you, my lord. Sir Geoffrey de Courville is dead.”
He stared into the fire, hoping his dismay was not as apparent as he felt. Now it would be left to him to manage the men at arms. Without Geoffrey, loyal Geoffrey, his charade would be much harder to maintain.
“I’m so sorry. You—you must feel his loss deeply.” She twisted her fingers in her gown, and a familiar, spicy-sweet scent rose from the folds of the fabric. He thought of that last day of his old life, of the flowers growing wild amongst all the trash in what he knew now to be the center of the hall. Lucy had loved gillyflowers for a long time.
Richard sighed again. If she only knew. “But what happened? Who attacked us? Welsh? Robbers?” Memories of Robin Hood ran through his mind. Wasn’t it evil Prince John whom Robin had fought?
Eleanor met his eyes reluctantly. “It appears that you were attacked by a troop of men who were probably sworn to Giscard Fitzwilliam.”
<
br /> “Are you sure of this?”
“No. They’re all dead or run off. The dead ones are obviously Norman men—it’s clear by the very look of them, as well as their arms and clothes. But in the midst of the attack on you, these men were then attacked in turn by the Welsh, possibly for crossing into their lands and breaching their borders. And the Welsh—” She paused and looked down. Color rose in her cheeks and Richard raised an eyebrow.
“Go on.”
“The Welsh were attacked by Sir John. And our men.”
“By chance?”
Eleanor squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “It’s part of my plan to rescue Hugh.”
Richard looked at her in disbelief. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. What plan?”
Eleanor pressed her lips into a thin line before answering. “I thought that by capturing some of the Welsh, we’d be in a better bargaining position and strike another deal for Hugh’s return.”
“So it was not an accident that you and Sir John and a troop of your men happened to be out riding in the wood so that you happened upon this band of Welshmen who happened to have followed a troop of Normans who were sent to attack me?” He could hardly believe his ears. And he could not help but reveal a smile.
“Well. No. Not exactly.” She looked as guilty as one of his sons, or Lucy, maybe, when she was trying to soften the blow of a big bill.
“Not an accident? Lady, I hope you didn’t deliberately risk your life so.”
She raised her chin. “We planned this, Sir John and I.”
“Planned it? When you knew I had gone to the Marshal, with one of the purposes being to get help for Hugh? Lady, are you mad?”
“I knew that, yes, and I thank you for it. But without a bargaining piece or two of our own, there’s no way even the Marshal could send us the money we need to ransom Hugh. And I can’t bear the thought of my brother held hostage and tortured any longer than necessary.” She leaped to her feet. “Richard, please, don’t be angry. It was lucky we were there. And it worked…my plan. It worked.”
He stared at her, not sure what to say or do. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, laughing at her audacity. But she’d risked her life…could he continue to condone that kind of behavior? She was a defenseless woman, after all…wasn’t she? “It was…” he hesitated. “Most fortunate for me. But what do you mean…it worked? What worked?”
“We captured a bargaining piece of our own last night…a most valuable piece, if not the most valuable piece of all.” She grinned, looking like a cat who got the cream, or Lucy, when she’d scored a great bargain. “We have confined, in your retiring room off the great hall, Prince Llewellis and three of his knights.”
At that Richard stepped back and began to laugh. He laughed and laughed until his eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them away. He looked at Eleanor to see her watching him with an expression that told him she was afraid he’d lost his mind. And which, he supposed, one could say he had. He reached for her, and was shocked out of his laughter by her initial slight pull back. She’s still afraid of me, he realized. He stopped laughing. “Oh, El, oh, Lu—” He caught himself just in time. “Oh, my lady. I’m so sorry…I…I’m not laughing at you, or at what you’ve done…I’m just…” He tried again, and this time she let herself be brought close. But he still wasn’t sure whether it was out of fear or her own volition. “Oh, my lady. I’m just…astonished.”
“You—you aren’t angry?”
Richard hesitated. Was he angry? Maybe he should be angry. She’d risked her life in a way he didn’t think Lucy would ever have tried. What if he had returned to find her wounded, or worse? What would life be like here, in the 13th century without her? And yet…he knew he had to be careful how he answered her. He drew back just a bit, so that she would understand he didn’t mean to threaten her. He felt sad and if he was angry at anyone it was the previous inhabitant of this body who apparently was such a bully the whole castle trembled at his step. He reached out and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “Why should I be angry? William the Marshal gave me a charge to make peace and I return to find that my wife has provided us with the most fortuitous opportunity imaginable. Tell me, were any of the Welsh killed or wounded?”
“A few. But it’s hard to say by whom. They could’ve died fighting Giscard’s men. We were after hostages—our intent was not to kill.”
He smiled down at her, extending one hand that he was glad she took. “Eleanor,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue. It was a pretty name, he thought, almost as pretty as Lucy. It was a name he was getting used to. “I’m not angry…but you know…you risked your life in a most…dangerous way. I thought of you so often while I was away. It would’ve pained me greatly to return and find you…hurt, or worse.”
She lowered her eyes, and pressed her lips together even color rose in her cheeks. “Forgive me, my lord, I…my thought was of my brother and…”
He tipped her chin up. “I understand and that’s kind and commendable. But it wasn’t…prudent.” She was staring at him as if she weren’t sure what he was saying, and he hoped he was making himself clear. “I need you to be prudent, Eleanor. You are very precious to me…I do not want to lose you.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss on her cheek. She startled, almost as if she expected him to hit her, and he drew back again, all thoughts of taking her in his arms obliterated. “If its not too much trouble,” he said, “I’d like a bath this morning.”
Eleanor blinked, uncertain as to how to respond to this so very different Richard. If the man who’d left seemed different in some way, she’d put it down to the extent of his injuries. But the man who’d returned had not only continued to heal, but had turned into someone who behaved so much differently from the way Richard behaved before it was as though he’d become someone else. When had he ever in the time she’d known him prefaced any request with “if it’s not too much trouble”? She shook her head and lowered her eyes. “Of course it’s not too much trouble, my lord. I’ll give the order now.”
She went to move past him, and he caught her forearm. “Eleanor,” he said. He hesitated, then swallowed hard. When he finally began to speak, he looked as terrified as she used to feel. But his words completely amazed her. “I know…I know…I know that before…I was…unkind to you, cruel, even. I’m sorry…I don’t remember what I might have done to you…but whatever it was, to make you look at me that way…I’m sorry. I apologize. I was wrong.”
Eleanor blinked. Was this really happening…that Richard was actually apologizing? She raised her face to his, searching his eyes, too shocked to speak.
In one fast motion, he was on one knee, one hand held to his cheek, the other pressed to his heart. “My lady,” he said. Even on his knees, he came to her shoulder. “Forgive me, and I will do all I can to be a better husband, a better friend.”
It was much later when Eleanor finally opened her eyes. Richard still slept, her body nestled against his in a firm embrace. How could it be possible that this was the same man who’d left Barland that wet September day, bent on ravaging the Welsh, and putting, as he said, the fear of something worse than the wrath of God into them? Even his lovemaking was different…he was kinder, gentler, more tender, about as different from the old Richard as she could imagine it possible to be.
And to think she’d almost killed him.
Her fingers brushed briefly over his angry red scars. They were so deep, so wide. She had thought it would be a long time before he had the same stamina, the same strength. And yet, Sir John had said he’d fought the way he’d always had, swinging the heavy broadsword as if it were an extension of his own body.
There was a light tap upon the door. Eleanor gently disengaged herself from Richard’s arms, pulled her robe around her body, and opened the door a crack.
Ursula stood outside. “My lady? Are you all right? He didn’t beat you, did he?”
&nb
sp; “No, Ursula, I’m fine, really. He…he was quite understanding, all things considered.”
On the other side of the door, Ursula made a noise that sounded like a combination of a snort and a giggle. “It’s nearly noon. Father Alphonse is here to say a mass and shrive the dead, and the Welshman—the one who calls himself a prince—is demanding to speak to Lord Richard.”
Eleanor pressed her hand to her mouth as she felt herself blush. “Go tell Father Alphonse I’ll be down directly. Extend every courtesy to our guests. Lord Richard is sleeping from his long trip and his exertions of last night.” And this morning, she thought to herself with a stifled giggle.
“Are you quite all right, my lady?” Ursula sounded suspicious.
“Absolutely, Ursula. I’m as all right as I can ever remember being.” She gave the woman a little smile and was about to push the door shut. Then she said, “Please send some water to the solar—I’ll dress and be down directly.”
“It’s waiting for you already, my lady.” And with a little sniff, Ursula turned away, her heavy skirts whispering after her down the stairs.
Richard found the household gathered in the hall. He’d managed to dress himself with only slight discomfort, certainly less than he’d felt on other occasions. He stepped into the great room and saw Eleanor sitting by the fire, accompanied by the long-nosed, stoop-shouldered priest. Father—Father Ambrose? Richard groaned inwardly. In his long-ago and faraway youth, he’d been raised by parents who were casually religious at best. He knew only the barest rudiments of Catholicism. Talking to the priest made him nervous. Ursula bustled amidst the men crowded at the long tables eating and drinking, and Richard recognized a few of those who had accompanied him on his journey to the Marshal. The rest must be the ones who’d come to his rescue last night.
Eleanor looked up and saw him. She beckoned and smiled. It was the first time he’d seen her smile at him in public. He smiled back, and started across the hall toward her. As he made his way through the rows of tables, the men nodded and called to him: “Greetings, my lord.” “God’s grace to you, my lord.” “Your health, my lord.” Goblets were raised and arms were extended in greeting.
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 12
