[1997] Once and Future Love

by Anne Kelleher

  He smiled back. “I love you, too, Eleanor. I came to England because I lost my wife. She died. And I thought I would surely never love another woman the way I loved her. I still don’t. But you—you’re like her in some ways, and so much yourself in others. And you aren’t like any other woman I’ve ever met either.” They looked at each other and laughed.

  Then Eleanor looked around the sober little cell and sighed. “But now what?”

  He drew away from her. “I suppose I do what I must.”

  “But—but Richard,” she said a little dubiously. “Can you?”

  He shrugged. “I thought I did well enough when we were attacked that night in December. But then you came riding to the rescue. I don’t think I can expect that to happen again.” He grinned at her again.

  She could not help but grin back. There was such a cool determination about him, an unwillingness to accept defeat. He didn’t want to leave her. “Are you used to…‌to fighting?”

  He shook his head. “I’d laugh but it isn’t funny. There’s nothing like this in the twentieth century, even though I am a fighter of sorts. But I fight with words—I’m what’s called a lawyer there.”

  “Oh!” Suddenly so much more made sense. No wonder he was willing to talk and to listen. No wonder he understood the art of negotiation. “So that is why you think the Great Charter is important.”

  “Yes,” he said soberly. “I know it is. In more ways than anyone who signed it can possibly imagine.” He looked at her and smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Eleanor. Lord William has promised to come tonight and give me some ideas as to how Giscard may be defeated. He won’t let me down. And tomorrow—” He shrugged. “I felt I was brought here for a purpose. If my purpose is fulfilled by the Great Charter, then…”

  She looked up at him, her face stricken. “How can you say such a thing? You men are all alike. You talk about your own deaths so coolly, as if it were some little thing. I don’t want you to die. Does that make any difference? I’m carrying your child—and it is your child—don’t you want to see his face? How can you be so cruel?”

  “Oh, my dear.” He drew her close, stroked her hair. “Forgive me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound as if I wanted to leave you—I don’t—I’m as scared and worried about tomorrow as you are.” He tilted her chin up to his and gently kissed her lips. The kiss deepened and his arms tightened around her. She leaned against him, savoring the hard strength in his lean muscled body. Nothing could happen, nothing. It wouldn’t be fair, to leave her alone with a child, and a few months of happy memories, months that were marred by doubts. Now there would be no more secrets between them. She couldn’t lose him now.

  She raised her face. “God won’t let me lose you. I know He wouldn’t be so cruel.”

  He opened his mouth to answer when a hard knock sounded on the door. “Enough time, you two.”

  Richard kissed her head. “You should go.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow on the field.”

  “Eleanor—”

  “I won’t stay away.” She touched his face with the tip of one finger and was gone.

  He stared after her for a long time, the scent of her lingering in the air, the same fragrance that had haunted the meadow around the ruins of Barland. The lone candle had burned nearly to a nub when another knock came on his door. Richard sat up on his cot. “Yes?”

  William the Marshal peered around the door. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, my lord.” Richard started to rise, but William held out his hand. “Never mind ceremony now Richard. There is much we need to discuss.” William sat down on the one chair, which stood against the opposite wall. “Now. I sent several of my men to practice with Giscard, and each of them reported the same thing. When he attacks, he has a curious way of feinting first left, then right. The attack invariably comes from the left. But don’t forget the feint. You’ve got to be ready for it, because if you react too quickly to the first or even the second feint, he’ll have you right where he wants you. One of my men took a bad nick to his arm, but he was tired and not paying close attention.” William leaned back in his chair, eyeing Richard. “Are you ready?”

  “Does it matter, my lord? Tomorrow comes whether any of us is ready or not.”

  “That’s true, I suppose. Now. The best way to attack Giscard, and I observed this myself, is from the right, even while he attacks. If you can block his blow and immediately attack, you will be able to slip in while his side is unguarded. I think an old injury forces him to turn in a rather peculiar way. It’s the only explanation I can think of. He’s fast with the sword, but he doesn’t like to move. If you can move around him, you can force him into an attack, which will be to your advantage.”

  Richard wished he’d had a paper and pen. If only he could make notes. “You said you saw this attack, my lord? Could you demonstrate?”

  William rose. “Of course.” He stepped into a fighting stance. In a few fast motions he demonstrated what looked to Richard like an unbelievably complicated series of steps. “There. Did you catch it?”

  Richard looked dubious. “Could you do it again? It’s hard to see in this light.”

  “Ah, of course,” said William. He strode to the door. “Guard, bring another candle.”

  There was a muttered grumble.

  “Do it,” said William. “Watch now.” Fast as lightning, he did the same moves again. “Do you see?”

  “Yes,” said Richard. “I think so.”

  When the candle was brought, William went through the motions yet a third time, this time much more slowly.

  Richard felt something like a dunce. He had the sense that the Marshal expected something from him, something he wasn’t quite able to produce. After a few times, William had him go through the same motions, feinting and turning and striking. His muscles protested against the unfamiliar motions.

  “Yes,” William said, “I know it’s awkward. But now that you understand, I think there’s a good chance you’ll bring him down tomorrow, if you remember that.”

  “I don’t want to kill him.”

  William shook his head. “Then don’t. Just get him on the ground. The fight will be over. I wish I could say he’ll offer you the same quarter.”

  “If I lose tomorrow, I will be judged to be possessed,” Richard said. He sighed.

  William did not reply. At last he said, “I’m sorry. I know this was none of your making.”

  “There was nothing you could do to prevent it, my lord. Giscard has had his eye on Barland for a long time. He didn’t like the fact that I outbid him for the lands. I don’t think he’ll ever forget it.”

  William nodded grimly in agreement. “But if you beat him tomorrow, that will be the end of it, I think. Bullies like Giscard are mostly bluster.” He offered Richard his hand. “Good luck, my boy.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your help.”

  “And don’t worry about your lady wife. You have my word she’ll want for nothing if—” He broke off.

  The two men exchanged a look. “I understand, my lord. And I appreciate it.”

  “Get some rest.” With the briefest of nods, William, too, left him alone with his thoughts.

  CHAPTER 26

  The morning came much too quickly. Eleanor, lying sleepless for the most part, watched the light change from gray to gold, and she rose, finally, when the first rays of sun slanted across her pillow. She heard Hugh stirring in the outer room where he’d slept beside the empty grate. She dressed as quickly as she could and went to join him. “Good morning, Hugh.”

  He looked at her as if half afraid of what he might see. “Are you all right, Eleanor?”

  She managed a thin smile. “I’ll be all right. Do you think you could manage to find us some breakfast?”

  “Right away.” He took off, seemingly glad to have something to do. Eleanor paced the floor. The floorboards were bare and scratched, as if men in spurs had walked across them many times. She peeked out the window, but it was s
et high in the thick walls, and she could see nothing but a cloudless blue sky. Please don’t let him die, she prayed. She knelt down against a chair, closed her eyes and began to pray. Blessed Virgin, don’t let him die. Protect him, holy Jesus. She wished the words didn’t ring so hollow in her mind. She was still locked in prayer when Hugh returned.

  He saw her on her knees and placed the tray down. “Eleanor?” he asked hesitantly. “I brought breakfast.”

  Her stomach rumbled, but the thought of food was scarcely tempting. And yet, I must eat, she thought. I have to eat for the child. She rose to her feet with a heavy sigh.

  Hugh sliced bread and cheese and held out a mug of foamy milk, still warm from the cow. She drank it down, but it tasted like sawdust in her mouth. “Is it time?”

  “Not yet. It’s still early. I saw Father Caedmun in the hall. He asked how you slept.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  “It will be over soon, Eleanor.”

  “It’s so ironic. Here I thought of killing Richard so many times, and now…‌now he might actually die and it’s the last thing I want. The very last thing I want.”

  “I think he has a good chance against Giscard, who’s a clumsy fighter. He plants himself in one place and hacks away. Richard’s lighter on his feet. If he can move around him, I think there’s every possibility he can deal a good blow of his own before Giscard even knows what happened—”

  “Stop it, Hugh.” Eleanor covered her ears. “I don’t want to hear all this. Go find out what time it’s to begin. I want a seat in the front. Send Father Caedmun up to escort me when the time comes, all right?”

  Hugh downed the last of his breakfast in two huge swallows. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I’ll go now and find a place to sit.”

  When he was gone, she put down the crust of bread. Oh, God, she prayed, please, please, please, keep Richard safe.

  The summer sun beat down on the green field. Pennants flew from stakes around the marked quadrangle, giving the scene an almost festive air. Richard watched people filing in from all directions. It was a festival as far as they were concerned. He held out his arms as Hugh laced the vambraces into place on his wrists. The chain mail was a heavy weight across his shoulders, and beneath it, he was starting to perspire.

  On the other side of the field, he watched Giscard making the same kinds of preparations. He hefted his broadsword and swung it in wicked arcs. He looked over at Richard and grinned.

  “Don’t pay him any attention, my lord,” murmured Hugh, as he bent to adjust the greaves. “You’ll be fine.”

  Richard looked down, surprised to hear such words of encouragement from Hugh. “Thank you.” Hugh looked up and their eyes met and held.

  “I—I misjudged you, my lord,” Hugh said, his face flushing red. “You were kind to me—to arrange a marriage with Angharad. And my sister loves you.”

  Richard took a deep breath and scanned the field once more. He wondered if Eleanor would come today. In some ways he wished she wouldn’t. Despite the Marshal’s reassurances and advice, and despite the practices he’d had over the winter, he wasn’t a fighter and he knew it. But his body was. He had to remember that. This body—his body—was much stronger than his old one had ever been. His old body. That life was beginning to seem so very long ago and so very far away.

  The king and his entourage were filing onto the royal dais beneath a brightly colored canopy. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if Eleanor had been given a seat with the king. He saw the Marshal’s tall figure and on his arm, a small woman clad in sober blue. Yes. There she was, a black-robed priest following close behind her. That must be the priest she’d spoken with, who’d tried to reassure her. A procession of priests filed onto the field carrying a portable altar. Stephen Langton raised his miter from the dais, and a priest in a white surplice began to say the Mass.

  Richard crossed himself soberly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Giscard do the same. He knew people were watching his behavior during the ceremony, and he kept his eyes down and on Hugh for the most part, following the boy’s lead. The Communion bread was not distributed. The final blessing was given, and the celebrant blessed the two combatants and the crowd. Then, altar and accoutrements in tow, the priests left the field.

  A herald galloped out from the side on a black horse. “Hear ye, hear ye. We are gathered on this day to witness the mortal combat between Lord Richard de Lambert and his accuser Giscard Fitzwilliam. Victory to the innocent!” With a flash of tail and a brief whinny from the horse, the herald cantered off the field.

  The king got to his feet.

  Hugh put the helmet on Richard’s shoulders and settled it into place. He handed Richard his sword. “God bless you,” he choked. Richard was amazed to see tears in the boy’s eyes.

  He patted the boy awkwardly on the shoulder, and strode out onto the field with all the confidence he could muster. A shout arose from the crowd as Giscard walked out to meet him, and the king raised his arms. Instantly the crowd was still.

  “Victory to the innocent!” cried King John. “Begin!”

  Instantly Giscard rushed at him. Richard planted his feet and blocked the blow. He swung the heavy sword toward Giscard’s side and met the hard steel of the other man’s sword. Metal clashed and sparked. The two men pushed away from each other. Richard circled, watching how Giscard seemed to have picked his spot. He took one step forward, and, true to the Marshal’s words, feinted right then left, and attacked on the right. Richard tried to watch for the peculiar opening, but Giscard was too fast. He barely managed to evade the blow.

  He backed off. The crowd was not silent anymore. There were catcalls, boos, and hisses, along with cries of “Finish him—he’s a coward.”

  Giscard raised one hand, and in that moment Richard attacked. The two men swung and slashed. Steel thudded against steel, and sparks flew out as the blades rang together. Richard felt the force of the blows shudder along his arms to his shoulders. Perspiration streamed down his sides and down his back, and trickled down his neck. A blow to his thigh took him unaware, inflicting a flesh wound that stung like the bite of a thousand bees. The crowd roared.

  Richard tightened his grip and swung. Giscard blocked it, but the blade slipped, and landed instead on his shoulder. Richard heard the sickening thunk as the steel bit into flesh, crunching into the bone. More shouts went up as Giscard staggered back.

  Richard followed, knowing that he had no choice but to bring the man down. He swung again, attacking once more on the same side. His sword thudded into Giscard’s leg and the man fell, groaning, the wound in his leg fountaining blood. Instantly the crowd was on its feet, screaming for more.

  Richard paused. His face was slick with sweat and his blood pounded in his ears. His arms and shoulders reverberated with the force of the blows. He put his own sword down, threw off his helmet and walked over to the king’s dais. The wound in his side made him limp. He looked the King in the eye as he placed the sword in front of him. “I have no wish to kill, Your Grace. I’ve proved my innocence.”

  John stared from Richard to Giscard, who lay groaning and writhing on the field. “You don’t want to kill him?”

  “I’ve had enough killing,” said Richard. His eyes swept over the king’s entourage and found Eleanor. Her face was shining with happiness and love. “I want to go home.”

  “And so you shall,” said the Archbishop before John could answer. He raised his miter. “Go in peace, my son.”

  Richard looked at Eleanor. “Are you ready to go home, my lady?”

  She stood up, her whole body quivering with joy. “Oh, yes,” she said, her voice trembling. “Oh, yes.”

  He walked to the edge of the dais and held out his arms. She rushed to the side, and he swept her off the platform and set her gently on her feet. Hugh came running up and picked up his sword. “Come along,” said Richard. Together, the three walked off the field.

  It was much, much later when Eleanor opened her eyes. The light of dozens of c
andles made the room seem bright as day, and a gentle breeze blew through the opened window. A curious sound made her look around. Richard was crouched in front of the fire, parchment and pen in hand. “What are you doing?” she asked, shocked.

  He turned and looked at her. In the candlelight, his bandaged leg gleamed white against his darker skin. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners in the smile she loved. “Writing, of course.”

  “You can write?” she whispered, astonished. “And read?”

  “Of course. In the twentieth century nearly everyone can. The trouble is that I don’t know how to read and write in this language. But I think that if I practice hard enough, and if you will help teach me, I can learn.”

  Eleanor smiled and held out her hand. “And what other talents do you possess, my lord, that I know nothing about?”

  He rose and swiftly enfolded her in a strong embrace, nuzzling at her throat. “Oh, I think you know what most of them are.”

  She giggled and pushed him away. “Not those! I know all about those talents—I meant what else can you do in the twentieth century?”

  He sighed. “All sorts of things. But you can’t do them here, the tools don’t exist yet.” For a moment he looked sad and she was suddenly afraid he would want to leave her.

  “Do you miss them very much?” she asked softly.

  He raised his head, and gazed into the fireplace, staring into a time and place she could never see. “Some things,” he admitted. “There are some things I wish I could see again. But on balance,” he said, turning back to her with a smile, “there’re things here I could never see there. So it all evens out.” He placed his hand on her belly. “Or it will.”

  She covered his hand with hers, pressing it down against the gentle swell that soon would be the mound of their child. As he bent to kiss her, she wondered what the world he had left was like. There were so many things she was curious about. But, she thought, as he stretched out beside her, his body covering hers, there would be time enough to ask him. The future belonged to them both.