Where others had drawn back from the old Richard, and deferred to him only out of courtesy to his rank, or out of fear—which was more likely—the new Richard’s opinion was usually sought out. But he only offered it if someone asked him for it.
She sank down further in the water.
Her long hair floated across the warm liquid, and her nipples broke the surface. She glanced down at her body. Her nipples seemed swollen. Gingerly she touched them and was surprised to feel how sensitive they were. And her breasts felt heavy and full. She sat up with a start, mentally counting back through the days. And then she realized she was with child. Richard’s child. A demon’s child? She felt cold all over, and she dropped her head on her knees and began to weep.
He found her like that a few minutes later, still sobbing, tears running down her face. He got a towel, and helped her out of the tub, wrapping her in a blanket he pulled from the bed. He held her until her tears stopped and then he whispered, “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She froze. How could she tell him she was afraid he was possessed by some demon? Who knew what had happened to his soul in the dark hours he’d lain as if dead in the hall? Hugh and Sir Geoffrey had both thought he was dead—everyone had thought he was dead. Maybe he had died, and a demon had stolen into his body.
She shut her eyes against such thoughts. He seemed so gentle as he caressed her hair, but didn’t the priests say that the devil frequently masqueraded in order to find souls?
“Eleanor?”
She moistened her lips. “I—I’m only tired, Richard.” She stumbled over his name. She couldn’t even begin to tell him about the child. “Just tired.”
He looked at her, forcing her chin up so she looked directly into his eyes. My God, she thought, they are so blue. “You worry me. I don’t want you to get sick. I think this journey has been very hard on you, and I feel very bad about bringing you. I thought you’d like to come with us—spend more time with Hugh—” He broke off and gazed into the fire. Finally he rose, tucking her into the bed. “I’ll be downstairs. Would you like something to eat?”
She nodded. She was desperately hungry.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “I’ll have a maid send something up.”
She nodded again and turned on her side, facing away from him. She heard him sigh deeply, and then the door clicked open. His footsteps faded down the hall, and she slept.
Richard made his way downstairs. The tavern was crowded with travelers and he found Sir Walter and Hugh among the other men, huddled around a rough-hewn table with barely enough room for their clay mugs. Walter pushed one in his direction. “I took the liberty, my lord.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Richard raised his mug in Walter’s direction and drank deeply.
“Is my sister all right?” Hugh asked, suspicion in his voice.
“She’s fine, lad. Tired from the journey. She’s not used to riding all day, every day.” Richard hoped Hugh would be satisfied with that explanation. He really didn’t want the boy challenging him tonight. He was tired, too.
But Hugh’s attention had been diverted. He raised his head, and gazed in the direction of the door. More travelers were crowding into the little tavern. As Richard gazed into space, nursing his ale, he saw Hugh’s expression change from mild curiosity to one of shocked recognition.
“What is it, Hugh?” he said, as he turned. And then he saw the reason for Hugh’s surprise. Giscard Fitzwilliam stood just inside the door, stripping off his gloves, rain dripping off his face.
Richard frowned.
“What’s he doing here?” whispered Hugh.
Richard shrugged. “He’s one of the king’s loyal men. Why wouldn’t he be here?”
Sir Walter looked over his shoulder, saw Giscard, and made a noise of disgust. “Loyal—ha! Men like that”—he lowered his voice—“are part of the reason His Grace is so unpopular.” He shook his head. “Your holdings are not so far from Fitzwilliam’s. You must know him.”
Richard nodded grimly. “Yes.”
“More than knows him,” Hugh said. “Fitzwilliam tried to kill him—”
“Hush!” Richard ordered, as heads turned in their direction. “Enough. Now is not the time.”
Sir Walter frowned and spoke in low tones. “Tried to kill who?”
Richard glanced around. The tavern was noisy. “Me.”
Sir Walter looked shocked. “You know this for sure?”
“As sure as—”
“I found an arrow,” Hugh said. “It was no Welsh arrow. It was of English make. And it happened twice—”
Richard held up his hands. The boy meant well but it was clear he spoke dangerously. “Not now, Hugh.”
Sir Walter looked from Hugh to Richard and back. “I understand, boy. If there is evidence, you should bring this to the Marshal’s attention.”
Richard nodded. “I intend to. But this is not a subject we should discuss here—”
“Where the walls could have ears.” Walter finished for him.
“Well, well.” The voice made Richard feel as though a cold hand had closed over the back of his neck. “Imagine meeting my good neighbor here.”
Richard turned and met Giscard’s eyes squarely. “Fitzwilliam. The king needs every loyal man.”
Giscard nodded, his little piggy eyes narrowed, and his cheeks flushed red with the cold. Water still trickled from his lank hair. He looked from Richard to Sir Walter and Hugh. “You’re well attended, I see, my lord. I hear you even brought your lady wife.”
“I didn’t want to leave her home. The times are too unsettled.”
Giscard smiled. “You speak the truth. If you will forgive me, I must see to rooms for my brother and his wife. I’m sure I will see you again soon.”
“Soon.” Richard agreed. He lifted his tankard once again as Giscard moved off. He looked immediately at Hugh, warning him silently to say nothing. The boy scowled, but remained quiet.
Walter glanced over his shoulder. “It may well be, my lord, that you and your wife would be better served to stay here. This inn is well within riding distance of Windsor—if the castle is overcrowded, you may be offered no more than a place by the hearth. And I think your lady will be more comfortable here.”
“Without question,” Richard agreed.
“But as for you, my young friend,” Walter said, grinning at Hugh, “you’ll have a place in my lord William’s household. You’ll be glad for a place by a hearth, soon enough.”
Hugh made a face but said nothing.
Richard smiled to himself. It would be good for the boy to get away from his sister, from the household where he felt himself to be a displaced outsider. He would speak further to the Marshal about the marriage negotiations. If it were possible that the Barland demesne could be split in some way or if some small parcel of land could be provided for Hugh—he wondered how Eleanor would react. He hoped she would be pleased, but in her present state, who knew?
She didn’t trust him now, that was sure. And how could he tell her the truth? He could think of no other plausible explanation. He drained his tankard to the dregs, and tapped the table with one hand. “Excuse me. I’m going to check on my lady.”
“I’m turning in,” said Walter. “You should too, lad. We’ll want to be at Windsor as early as possible tomorrow.”
Richard nodded. Who knew what tomorrow held? The presence of Giscard Fitzwilliam certainly added a new dimension to this situation he hadn’t expected.
CHAPTER 20
When Eleanor woke, the sun was streaming across the bed, and there was hardly any evidence that Richard had ever been in the room. The pillow beside her bore the impression of his head, and a pack on the floor had been opened. But everything else was gone, and for the briefest of moments, Eleanor was afraid. She sat up and scolded herself.
She was behaving like a foolish ninny. She should just ask Richard…Ask him what? She could only imagine their conversation. Are you possessed, my lord? Indeed, I am, my lady
. She shook her head. If only Ursula had come with her. She could have used the woman’s sympathetic ear.
She made her way to the common room after she washed and dressed. The room was quiet, and empty except for one lone lady sitting by the one window. She was bent over an embroidery hoop, and she looked up and smiled when Eleanor entered. “Good morning.” She spoke with an accent that told Eleanor she had been born in southern France.
“And to you, my lady. Is the landlord about?”
“He’s here and there and everywhere. Sit. He will be back soon, I’m sure.”
As if summoned by the lady’s words, the landlord appeared from a door that, by the sounds and smells that escaped from it, clearly led to the kitchens. “Greetings, my lady. Your lord left word that you were to have whatever you willed for breakfast. I have fresh bread and honey and new-made cheese.”
Eleanor’s mouth watered and her stomach rumbled alarmingly. She remembered she had not eaten dinner. Had Richard brought it up to her? She faintly remembered him gently shaking her, urging her to eat. But she’d been so tired last night, she had slept like one drugged. “That sounds fine,” she said.
“Bring it here.” The lady gestured to her table. “I would be so grateful for your company, lady. My lord and his brother have ridden off to Windsor, and who knows when they will return?” She pouted prettily.
“My name is Eleanor,” Eleanor said, as she sat. “I was educated in Rouen—at the Abbey St. Denys.”
“And my name is Marguerite—my husband is Guillaume Fitzwilliam. Ah, you know the name?” The lady saw the shock on Eleanor’s face.
“I—we have a neighbor by that name. But his first name is Giscard.”
“You know my brother-in-law, then!” The lady clapped her hands together, then wrinkled her nose. “He’s a pig. I don’t like him at all. He’s nothing like my Guillaume—nothing at all.”
Eleanor smiled cautiously. Lady Marguerite seemed friendly enough, and certainly nothing at all like Giscard herself. But the idea of making friends with a woman who was related to Giscard made her wary. Further conversation was interrupted by the landlord. He placed a platter laden with bread, a jar of honey, and a round circle of cheese before her, as well as a tankard of foamy ale.
“Anything else you need, my lady?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Not now. Thank you, sir.”
He glanced at Marguerite. “And you, my lady?”
She shrugged. “Passage home, perhaps?”
He looked confused.
“I suppose not,” she said. “No matter. Perhaps you will stay and help me while away some time—it seems we’ve been forever in this barbaric country. Tell me, how do you survive in such a place? Do you not miss Rouen?”
Eleanor hesitated. A week ago, she would have said no. Six months ago, her answer would have been a resounding yes. And now? She smiled and shrugged. “It’s a lovely place. The convent—my aunt is the abbess—I was happy there.”
“And now? How do you like—your husband’s estate?”
Eleanor broke off a bit of bread and dipped it in the honey. “It’s lovely there, as well. I was born there.”
“Ah.” Marguerite raised a delicate eyebrow.
Eleanor could see the questions in the other woman’s dark eyes. She busied herself with her food, gesturing to Marguerite. “Would you care for something?”
“Oh, my goodness, no.” She laughed a little. “I’m not hungry, only tired of waiting. We never expected to be here this long. The winter came so unexpectedly.”
Eleanor sat back, chewing, while the other woman told her story. By the time she’d finished, Eleanor was sure there was nothing sinister about Marguerite. She was bored and homesick, and it certainly was not her fault that Giscard was her brother-in-law.
The morning dragged on into the afternoon and Richard did not come. The two women walked outside, but the roads were muddy from yesterday’s rain, the villagers stared at them, and they soon decided they’d be better off inside. They shared a meal at noon, and by the time Eleanor had
broken up the last of her gravy-soaked trenches they were firm friends.
It had been so long since she’d had a woman of her own rank to talk to, she reflected, as she listened to Marguerite explain how it had happened that she and Guillaume were married. And it had been so long since she’d had a woman close to her age as a friend. That was something she missed about the convent, she realized—the company of the girls and the younger nuns, who weren’t very much older than the oldest of the girls.
They shared several glasses of wine as well, and the shadows in the courtyard were growing longer. There was still no sign of Richard. And somehow, by the time the landlord came in to light the fire in the great hearth, she found herself confiding in Marguerite about her deep fears concerning Richard. The other woman listened with a mixture of sympathy and grave concern.
“It is your own soul that is imperiled,” she declared, lowering her voice lest the innkeeper overhear. “You must be very, very careful. Who knows what wickedness he has worked upon you?”
“But that’s just it,” Eleanor said unhappily. The faintest regret about telling Marguerite was beginning to gnaw at her. “He isn’t wicked at all, just different. He’s changed so much, I scarcely think he’s the same man at all. But he’s not bad—if anything, he’s better than he ever was. Kinder, gentler.”
“Ah, but that is just what I am speaking about. The devil doesn’t woo us with hellfire. He woos us with honeyed words and pleasant faces. Do gluttons feast on garbage?” Marguerite waved her hand in the air. “Of course not. They want the finest of tidbits, the most savory of meats, the sweetest of subtleties. No, no, I think you are right to be concerned. You must talk to a priest.”
Eleanor stared. She knew that was the next step, and yet she hesitated to do anything that would make her fears concrete. “You don’t think I should just talk to Richard?”
“What good would that do?” asked Marguerite. “He would only deny it, of course.” She leaned forward and patted Eleanor’s arm. “He may not even realize it. I’m sure he’s a good man, at heart. If his body has been invaded by evil, he needs your help. How can he be the man you married without it?”
Well, thought Eleanor, that was part of the dilemma. She really didn’t want the man she married. She liked this new Richard. But what if he really were a demon in disguise?
Certainly he made her lust for his body. She twisted her hands in her skirts. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You must pray.” Marguerite nodded. “The men are busy. There will be many hours for you to reflect and think about how you can help you husband. It is your duty as his wife to save his soul. I know if you think on it, you will see what I say is true. Perhaps you can ask your husband to send you a priest from the castle. See what he says. If he is angry, or tries to dissuade you, you might think about that. Why would any good man not want his wife to see a priest? But”—she shrugged—“he may be perfectly willing. And that could be a sign that he is well. So you must think about this.”
Marguerite got to her feet and yawned. “I am going to rest. We cannot be here when the men start coming in, anyway. Perhaps I shall see you tomorrow?”
“I hope so,” Eleanor said. She stood up and hugged her new friend. “I had forgotten how nice it is to have a friend.”
The hour was late when Richard returned to find Eleanor curled up in the great bed. He undressed and blew out the one candle. He slid into bed, and touched her cheek tenderly with one finger. It had been a long time since he’d been so busy all day, but she had never been far from his thoughts. If only he knew some way to talk to her. If only he could think of some way to bridge the gap of time and understanding. It was impossible for him to imagine that she would understand him. He sighed and turned on his side, facing away from her.
The events of the day raced through his mind. Walter had taken him to William the Marshal, and that spry old soldier had welcomed him with words of praise
for his dealings with the Welsh, as well as words of hope for his counsel in dealing with the recalcitrant barons. And then he’d met the King.
King John. Dark, thin, but not an unpleasant-looking man, who reminded him of a peevish client who’d tried his best to meet the ever-increasing and unreasonable demands of the opposition. He’d spent most of the day listening, trying to gauge how best to help in the situation. Once or twice, he’d touched William’s arm, and offered a comment or an observation. And William had smiled, nodding in agreement. John was difficult at times, he saw that immediately.
He had to be cajoled and flattered. But then, thought Richard, in many ways he was in an impossible situation. He truly didn’t understand why the barons didn’t support his wars, or his causes. He truly believed he was doing his best as king, and that he had every right to impose whatever taxes he pleased, demand whatever services he required.
Richard sighed and turned on his back. Powerful men were like that. And John, a king and the son of kings, was probably the most powerful man he had ever met. Even a judge didn’t have the kind of power John wielded. Checks and balances, he thought as sleep overtook him. Checks and balances.
“I want to go to Windsor.” Marguerite pouted prettily, watching both her husband and his brother under her long dark lashes. “It’s dull here. I won’t be left behind every day while you men disappear. There’s nothing to do but sew.”
Guillaume leaned forward and patted his wife’s hand. “If you wish, my lady. But I must warn you, Windsor is not so festive either. The king has no time for feasting or other vain pursuits.”
Marguerite shrugged. “But at least there are people to talk to. I had nothing to do all day here but talk to the wife of that miserable knight who lives not far from you, Giscard.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “The one you’re always talking about—de Lambert.”
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 17
