[1997] Once and Future Love

by Anne Kelleher

  Angharad drew herself up as she felt herself flush—from the heat of the fire, she told herself—and her shoulders were rigid. It was true she liked Hugh. It was true she’d found his company enjoyable, and their time together had made the long winter days and evenings far less dull than they were now. It was even true she missed him. But the thought of admitting that to her brother, not to mention her brother’s wife and all the other women in the household, made her cringe. “Well,” she said reluctantly, “I suppose you could entertain the idea. At least long enough to keep him dangling.”

  Llewellis raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Hmm. No, little sister. I think you mistake my meaning. De Lambert is no untried boy. A marriage with his wife’s brother, young though he might be, will go a long way—”

  “Wait,” interrupted Angharad. “This isn’t exactly what you said to me when it was Hugh himself.”

  Llewellis shrugged. “He is a boy yet. His brother-in-law is another matter. De Lambert has the ear of the Marshal of England—who holds quite a few estates in Wales, himself. It’s in our best interests to take this suit seriously, far more seriously than when it was Hugh trying to hatch silly plots against de Lambert. And so, I ask you again, would you be willing to wed the young Norman?”

  Angharad swallowed hard. “I—I suppose so. If it would help bring peace, of course.”

  “Of course,” Llewellis grinned behind his dark beard. “Your concern for your country is duly noted.” He rose to his feet. “I will respond to de Lambert immediately, then.”

  He winked at her as he walked past her, leaving her feeling ridiculously happy for what she was sure could only be some very foolish reason.

  “My lady?”

  Eleanor looked up from her sewing in surprise. The morning sun slanted through the small window of her solar, and she smiled in surprise. “Sir John?”

  The old soldier stood ramrod straight in the doorway. “If I disturb you, my lady—”

  “No, not at all.” She gestured with her needle. “Come in. What can I help you with? I think my lord is in the stables.”

  “So he is, my lady.” Sir John looked acutely uncomfortable. “I wanted a word with you, if I may.”

  She nodded, curious. “Of course, Sir John. Come speak your mind.”

  The old man stepped into the room, glanced over his shoulder, and walked to stand before Eleanor’s chair.

  “Will you sit?”

  He shook his head and pursed his lips. “It concerns Lord Richard.”

  She raised her brows. “Oh?”

  He drew a deep breath, clearly uncertain how to proceed. “The other evening—when our men were attacked—Lord Richard acquitted himself honorably and with great valor. But—” He broke off and stared into the fire. “Several of the men have come to me since that night. They tell me that in the heat of battle, Lord Richard spoke words that they did not know. He shouted in a language not known to them. My lady, they believed he was possessed.”

  Eleanor stared at the old man, shocked. “You cannot be serious, Sir John. Richard is in full possession of all his faculties. How can you say such a thing? I will not hear any of this nonsense. It’s well known he fought in the Holy Land. Perhaps there he learned words the other men know not. Perhaps in the heat of the moment, they misunderstood him. That is not unknown on the field, in the midst of battle, is it?” She drew herself up, her chin resolute. “How can you even dignify such a rumor by bringing it to me?”

  The old man had the grace to look sheepish. He spread his hands. “Forgive me, my lady. I—I know how foolish it sounds. The men are superstitious louts for the most part. Forgive me for intruding upon your time.” He bowed low from the waist and departed.

  Eleanor drew a deep breath. She stabbed at the fabric in her lap with her needle, and realized her hands were shaking. How could such things be said? Richard was—her mind reeled in full rejection of what a voice whispered could be true. For Richard was altogether different from the way he’d been before last autumn’s attack. There was no doubt, no question, that the man who was her husband now was a much more pleasant person, more fair and more just, man she’d married. How could that constitute possession, after all? Souls were possessed by demons—the old Richard was a demon. This new Richard, the man who gathered her in his arms every night, who’d made a peace with the Welsh, and now sought to strengthen it by negotiating for Hugh’s love, he was the farthest thing from a demon one could imagine.

  But he had changed, she couldn’t deny that. What could a change for the better mean?

  She wrinkled her brow and chewed on her lip. If the men would not fight with him, that could be dangerous. And the fact that Sir John had come to her was troubling. She sighed. Should she speak to Richard or not? What could she say? It was likely he’d remember. And what would he say in response?

  Yes, my lady, the devil is responsible for my miraculous recovery.

  She shook her head and picked up her needle once more. The winter was long. There would be plenty of time to observe Richard and see if he exhibited any signs of demonic possession. And if he did, she would speak to Father Alphonse. She hoped such a thing was never necessary. With luck, this was the end of all such foolishness.

  CHAPTER 18

  MARCH, 1215

  It was the wind that changed first, Richard noticed. One day the air was cold and biting, with winter’s unmistakable edge, and the next, there was a softness in it, like the back of Eleanor’s hand brushed against his cheek. The calendar said March but in reality it felt as if the winter had lasted a year.

  He shivered as he stared out over the still gray landscape. Although the temperature was noticeably higher, and the sunlight had the intensity of spring, the snow and the ice were slow to melt. The roads were still impassable, as his most recent attempt to venture outside the walls had shown him just a few days ago. Richard wondered what was happening in the outer world. It was impossible to imagine how many people had survived across the ages in such isolated hamlets as this.

  And, he thought ruefully, it was beginning to look more and more as if he were here for good. He could think of no way to approach the severe priest. Father Alphonse—he finally had the name right. The priest seemed to regard him as a necessary evil. He looked down his nose at Richard, and spoke to him mostly through Eleanor. Perhaps it was the way he’d stumbled through the sacraments that made the priest so contemptuous. Latin was proving beyond him.

  With a sigh, he shook his head and had decided to return to the warmth of the hall when movement outside the walls caught his attention. A horseman appeared and disappeared beneath the trees leading up to the gates. Richard took off down the stairs, eager for some news of the outer world at last.

  He stepped into the hall just as a flurry of activity told him the messenger had been spotted by the guards at the gates. Eleanor came hurrying in from the kitchens, her cheeks rosy from the cold, but her eyes bright with anticipation. We’re all suffering from cabin fever, he thought, and he felt a momentary pang for the twentieth century, when a snowstorn, even a blizzard, was usually nothing but a minor inconvenience.

  Eleanor smiled when she saw him. “My lord,” she cried, “a messenger is coming. The roads must be clear.”

  He smiled back. The change in Eleanor was remarkable. The scared-rabbit look was gone, for the most part, and only returned in fleeting moments when she thought she might have angered him. But those moments were few and far between, and the woman who stood confidently by his side, sending the servants scurrying for food and drink and more Iogs for the fire, was a very different woman from the one he’d seen when he’d first opened his eyes in the thirteenth century.

  She was cleaner, for one thing—her hair and skin glowing from the baths they often took together in the huge wooden tub before the fire in their room. And her clothes—although the long stretch of bad weather had meant that it was impossible to get anything like the silks and fine wools he’d like to see her wear, he’d insisted she use the best
of the homespun for herself. At least she no longer looked like a poor nun.

  He reached down for her hand, squeezed it gently and raised it to his lips. He was about to press a kiss into the palm, when one of the outer doors opened, and a man strode in, accompanied by one of the manor guards. His clothes were muddy and wet in places, and his face was rough with a matted beard.

  But he met Richard’s eyes squarely. “My lord de Lambert?” he asked. He crossed the distance between them with the long strides of one who was accustomed to traveling with purpose. “My lady.” He bowed to Eleanor. “I bring you greetings from William the Marshal of England, my lord. And a message.” From his belt he withdrew a sealed parchment packet.

  “Our thanks, sir,” said Eleanor. “Will you please sit, and refresh yourself?”

  “Gratefully, my lady. I’ve been on the road three weeks.”

  “Three weeks!” Eleanor signaled to the servant who stood beside the hearth, wineskin in hand, to pour the man a drink.

  The messenger sank down on the bench, and raised the goblet.

  “Are the roads so bad?”

  “No,” he shook his head after a long drink. “I’ve had many messages to deliver. Great doings are afoot in England. The barons, led by the archbishop, are on the move. There’s talk of rebellion from one end of the countrv to the other, but particularly in the South.”

  “You must tell us what you can, sir,” Eleanor said, “but first you must eat and drink.”

  Richard was examining the parchment. He gingerly plucked at the seals, carefully opening them so that the parchment would not be damaged. He unfolded the letter and looked at it carefully. Although his French was vastly improved, and Eleanor had spent many of the last months teaching him to read, the uncial or minuscule script—whatever it was called—was beyond him. He scanned the letter with impatience, and handed it to Eleanor.

  “If you will excuse us, sir,” he said.

  The messenger bowed, happily munching on oatcakes and cheese. Richard drew Eleanor a little way off and nodded at the letter. “What does it say?”

  She wrinkled her brow. “To Richard de Lambert, Lord of Barland, greetings. We trust this letter finds you and your lady in good health and—”

  “Yes, yes,” he interrupted her impatiently. “What does the letter say?”

  She frowned a little, reading quickly through a paragraph of formal courtly language. “It says that William is very pleased with the work you have done with the Welsh, and that he rewards you for your efforts with the gift of a manor—Bryn Addyn—” She paused here, and looked up at Richard in surprise. “This says—the manor’s revenues are thirty pounds a year—my lord, he’s doubled your wealth.”

  Richard nodded, surprised by the gift. Thirty pounds didn’t sound like quite so much to him, but he had no idea how much things were worth. But the reward was welcome. “Where is it?”

  “In Striguil—to the south. And he says he’s arranged for Hugh to join his own retinue as a squire. He’s to set out with the messenger for London, where he expects to be by the end of this month—” She broke off once more. “I didn’t expect Hugh would go so far away.” She bit her lip.

  Richard smiled down at her. “Eleanor, perhaps it’s for the best. If the country is as unsettled as our messenger tells us, it might be safer for Hugh to be with a man as powerful as the Marshal. At least for a while. Does he say anything about my proposal of a marriage between the Welsh princess and Hugh?”

  “He says he supports whatever actions you feel necessary to maintain and promote the peace along the border. So, no, not really, but it does not seem as if he would disapprove.”

  Richard nodded, thinking. “Well, then, it would seem you’d better make sure young Hugh is ready to leave when the messenger does.” He turned back to the messenger, who, having polished off the food, was now tipping back his goblet full of Eleanor’s cider with obvious relish. “I understand my brother is to accompany you?”

  The messenger belched. “I believe so, my lord. Can the young gentleman be ready to ride within a day or two? I have other messages to deliver on my way to London.”

  Richard looked down at Eleanor.

  “I—I shall see to it, directly,” she said. She bustled off, and Richard motioned for the man to sit once more.

  “Tell me more about the unrest in the country,” Richard said, as he settled into the chair opposite. “Would you like more to eat?”

  The man shook his head. “Thank you, but no, my lord. This is more than enough. And as for the country—” He spread his hands. “My lord William is at his wit’s end.” He paused, as if considering what his next words should be. Then the messenger leaned forward. “I have another message for you, my lord. This one Lord William did not wish to commit to paper.”

  Richard was startled. “May I know your name, sir?” He had the feeling that this man was no lackey.

  “Sir Walter of Banbury, sir.” The messenger inclined his head. “I’ve been a member of Lord William’s house for many years—since I was old enough to hold a sword. I was with Lord William in the autumn, though you perhaps don’t remember me.”

  Richard shook his head, frowning. There had been scores of young men, all about Sir Walter’s age in William’s household, all eager, hardened men in the prime of their lives. “Forgive me.”

  “No offense taken, my lord. You made quite an impression on Lord William. Which is why he sent me to you.”

  Richard leaned back in his chair. He remembered little but his own awkwardness in front of the great earl. “Oh?”

  “Forgive me if I speak frankly, my lord. But your reputation had preceded you—Lord William was fearful that your possession of the Barland demesnes, so close to the border of Wales, would only precipitate war.”

  Richard nodded, saying nothing. No wonder he’d made an impression on William. The original Richard was a barbarian, he could see that by the way the people here at Barland had reacted to him. William must have been surprised, indeed, to meet a man who believed implicitly in concepts William himself could scarcely give voice to.

  “But your words and your actions subsequently, have shown that you are a man of rare understanding. And that brings me to why Lord William sent me here.”

  “I’m at his service.” Richard inclined his head, wondering what the Marshal could possibly want.

  “Great doings are afoot. You are isolated in this small corner of the realm—forgive me if I seem to patronize. But there is much I must tell that has happened in the last months in order for you to understand what Lord William requires.”

  Richard gestured. “Go on.”

  Walter nodded. “At Epiphany this year, our king met with the barons of the northern counties, who, as you probably know, are the most vocal of all his critics. They demand certain things of him—you are familiar with some of this, I’m sure.”

  Richard shook his head. “Forgive me, Sir Walter. But my memory of the first part of last year was addled by the wounds I suffered in the autumn. Please, refresh me. I know the barons have quarreled with the king, but the specific issues themselves—I confess I am not familiar with them.”

  “In that, sir, you are not alone. There are so many demands, so many quarreling voices—you feel them little because our lord William is fair and just. But John is greedy. The wars he’s fought in France have seriously bankrupted his treasury time and again, and he has sought to tax his vassals. At any rate, there was a conference with these men at Epiphany, and John sought to have the matter put off until Easter. Easter is upon us, and the barons are gathering their forces in Stamford. My lord William sent me to ask you to join him and the king at Windsor.”

  Richard sat back, stunned. “Me? How can I be of assistance in this matter? I am the least of Lord William’s men—”

  Sir Walter waved his hand. “You negotiated a peace skillfully with the Welsh. You understood Lord William better than any man he’s ever seen. He needs men of your humor with him. Please, sir, will you come?”<
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  Richard got to his feet. It was flattering, of course, but hardly possible. He could barely speak the language. “Sir Walter, I’m flattered at the trust Lord William seems to have in me. But I’m only a soldier. I cannot even read and write, as you saw. My lady wife must read everything to me. I am not the man Lord William needs.”

  Walter rose as well. “My lord, one thing I have learned in all the days I have spent beneath Lord William’s roof is that he is a superb judge of both men and character. If he believes you can be of use to him in this matter, you must believe it, too. The land is poised on the brink of civil war. If the king falls, the barons will be free to do as they please. Here, you may have little concern of that. But if the barons turn against the king, they will most assuredly soon turn against each other. Blood will stain the rivers red. Lord William seeks to avert that.”

  Richard stared at the man before him. Perhaps this was why he’d been sent to the thirteenth century. Hadn’t there been a television show about a man who traveled through time, setting things right, and bouncing in and out of other bodies when his work in each was done? Richard looked down at his hands. They were strong hands, a soldier’s hands. Scars crisscrossed the backs in all directions.

  If he could bring Eleanor with him…‌to help him translate, to help him understand the undercurrents of the court, perhaps he could be of use, after all. “Very well, Sir Walter. I will accompany you as Lord William requests. I have one request of my own, however. I would like to bring my lady wife with me.”

  Sir Walter shrugged. “The roads are not so bad as they were. I’m sure Lord William will not mind. You may be gone for quite some time. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

  “I will have to speak to my wife about that,” Richard said. The words sounded very familiar. Some things didn’t change with the passage of centuries.

  “As you wish, my lord. I know Lord William is looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Go?” Eleanor echoed. She gazed up at Richard in disbelief. “To Windsor?”