by Lisa Hendrix
Richard smiled, pleased at what he apparently assumed was her affection or interest. “Patience, wife. Only a little longer, and we can retire.”
She nodded. He had no idea how ill that thought made her, just as he had no idea that the archers her father lent him were there not for his convenience but to keep her prisoner, or that the smear of blood on his sheets two nights ago had come not from his earnest assault on her maidenhead but from a scrap of raw chicken liver she’d had Lucy filch from the kitchen. She could only hope she came up breeding quickly, so she didn’t have to suffer his attentions any longer than necessary. Produce an heir, her father had assured her, and his men would depart, leaving her free to deal with Richard however she chose.
Oh, and would she deal with him.
That she could bend him to her will, she had no doubt. She already understood that her father had chosen Richard as much for his weak nature as his prospects, intending, she was certain, to gain power over him and his fortunes through her.
Well, let him try. She was here and her father wasn’t. The last two nights beneath Richard had hardened her to the truth of her situation and sharpened her resolve to take something of value out of this devil’s bargain. Give her time. Her father would discover who had the true power at Burghersh. And then in Gloucester.
She nodded and spoke whatever words came to mind, and the miller and his wife moved on. The next man stepped up, a lean knight with hair so pale it was nearly white. He appeared to be more than a little drunk.
“My lord and my lady.” Ale fumes rose around them as he clumsily took a knee. “I come to offer my best wishes on your marriage and my thanks for your generous table.”
“Who are you, sir? I do not know you,” said Richard.
“A simple knight on his way to Portsmouth, who found his way to your door.” He slurred through his speech, swaying like a birch in the wind. “And to your generous table. And to your ale.”
“So I see.” The corners of Richard’s mouth twitched as he fought back a laugh. “Well, go back to my ale, and with my blessings.”
“Table and ale and blessings. You are a good and generous man, my lord. But now I must away.” The knight started to rise, tilted off-balance, and sprawled full across Eleanor’s lap. As he thrashed around in an effort to rise, he grabbed her hand. Eleanor felt something press into her palm, and he looked up at her and said plaintively, “To the garderobe.”
Richard was on his feet in a flash, grabbing the knight and flinging him to the floor so quickly his men had no time to react. Red-faced and no longer amused, he stood over the fellow, scowling down.
“I should have you lashed for assaulting my wife.” Richard squared his shoulders and got himself back in hand—something, Eleanor had to admit, he wouldn’t have been able to do as a boy. “But it is my wedding celebration, and so I will show some forbearance.”
He motioned two men-at-arms forward, and in the commotion of them hauling the man to his feet, Eleanor stole a peek at the scrap of parchment the man had pressed into her palm. Her heart squeezed at what she saw: a crude drawing of a tiny bull with a maid on his back.
He is here.
Her father’s grisly threat rushed up from the place she’d kept it buried these last weeks, nearly bringing her stomach with it. She closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to settle herself, and when she opened them, Gunnar was the first thing she saw, a figure in a monk’s robe that was so clearly him, even with that hood pulled low to hide his face, that she didn’t know how she’d missed it. Ten steps, and she could be in his arms. Ten steps.
She pulled her eyes away quickly so as not to give him away. She tugged down her sleeves, tucking the scrap of parchment out of sight as she did so, then smoothed her skirts and plucked away an invisible thread to further distract any watchers.
“Throw him in the trough,” Richard was saying. “Let the water and fresh air sober him.”
His men grabbed the knight, one on each arm. As they dragged him out the door on his heels, he was still shouting, “To the garderobe, men. To the garderobe.”
The hall roared in laughter. Richard’s steward stepped forward, a worried frown creasing his face. “Forgive me, my lord. I should never have granted him entrance.”
Richard waved off his apology. “I would not have you refuse my hospitality now of all times. But he’ll no doubt piss in the trough. Have it emptied and filled with fresh water tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord. At first light.” The steward backed away, clearly relieved.
“Are you all right, dearest?” asked Richard, turning to Eleanor. “Did he harm you?”
“No. No, I am fine,” she said as the monk who wasn’t a monk followed the others out the door. She saw him turn left. Toward the garderobe. “He was of merry spirit. He meant no harm.”
“You always did have patience, even when I inflicted toads on you at Richmond,” said Richard. “But you look pale now. His assault has wearied you. We should retire.”
“No! That is, all these good people still wait.” She motioned at the villagers bunched off to one side, waiting to greet her and do her honor as their new lady. “Give me a little to collect myself and get some fresh air and I will be fine. Perhaps our drunken friend had it right. A trip to the garderobe would do me well just now and save me the chamber pot later. Lucy?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Richard started to raise his hand. “I’ll send someone to—”
Eleanor grabbed his hand, stopping him with a smile she didn’t know she had. “I am within your walls, surrounded on all sides by your men, Richard, no harm can come to me. I need only Lucy to attend.” She took a steeling breath and pressed a kiss to his knuckles in an effort to charm him.
It worked. Richard relented with an easy smile. “Of course.”
To ensure no one suspected any connection between her and the drunken knight, Eleanor stopped to exchange a few words with several of the ladies who had come from neighboring manors to attend the wedding, marking time until the men-at-arms came back in. Once outside, she didn’t even glance toward the trough, and she took her time crossing the yard, too, so the men on the wall would lose interest in her progress.
No one can know, she told herself with every deliberate step. No one can suspect. As they entered the shadowy lane between buildings, Eleanor threaded her arm around Lucy’s waist and leaned close, putting her head against her cousin’s. “Lucy, do you love me?”
“Of course, but—”
“Shh. I am going to tell you something, and you cannot breathe a word. Not now. Not ever.”
“Of course, my lady. Your secrets are mine, as always.”
Eleanor lowered her voice even more. “Sir Gunnar is here.”
“Here?” Lucy squeaked.
Eleanor clamped her hand over Lucy’s mouth and shoved her into the darker shadows beneath the overhang of the smith’s shed. “Hush.”
Lucy nodded and slowly peeled her hand away. “Is he mad?” she whispered. “Are you? Lord Ralph’s men will kill him.”
It would be far, far worse than that, thought Eleanor. “He cannot be found out. You must stay here and remain quiet.”
“Oh, my lady, even I prayed he would come in time. I know how unhappy you are.” Lucy had seen tears no one else had these past weeks, most especially the ones the morning after the wedding. “But you are married now.”
“I know that far better than you. But I have to …” The words caught in Eleanor’s throat. “I beg you, keep silent, no matter what you see or hear. Swear it, on my life and his.”
Lucy hesitated, but in the end she drew a cross over her heart. “I do swear, my lady.”
She was clearly unhappy, but Eleanor had no choice but to trust her. With another warning to stay put, she left Lucy by the smithy and hurried down the alley, heading once more for the garderobe, knowing he waited there, someplace. As she passed the corner of the tack shed, a hand snaked out from the shadows and grabbed her wrist. She let him pull her into t
he darkness, into the narrow alley between the shed and the smaller barn.
And as she moved into his arms, the only arms in which she had ever belonged, she could think of only one thing to say.
“You are late, monsire.”
Eleanor’s bleak whisper tore at Gunnar’s heart and told him every thing he needed to know. He gathered her close.
“It is a terrible fault, my lady.” Surely she would not feel so right in his arms if the gods had not meant her for him. “But one I will correct. I will carry you away from here. From him.”
She pressed a kiss to his chest and slowly pushed out of his arms. “You cannot.”
“I know it looks impossible, but we will find a way.”
“You and your drunken friend? He is … like you, isn’t he?”
He nodded. “Torvald. And we brought another, Ari, who is man by day. He will keep you safe when I cannot. We need only—”
“I am married.” She blurted out the words as though they couldn’t be contained, then added more reluctantly, “And the marriage is consummated.”
Thinking it had been bad enough. Hearing it from her own lips made it ten hundred times worse. Gunnar gripped Eleanor’s shoulders and held her so he could make out her eyes in the wedge of moonlight that sliced between the buildings. “I saw the bruise on your cheek. Your nose. Did he strike you? Did he force himself on you?”
“No. The marks are from my father’s hand. Richard was … He was patient. Even kind. But he is fully my husband, and I am fully his wife.” Tears sparkled like stars on her lashes, refusing to spill over. “I should have told you I was betrothed, but I hoped … Forgive me. But I cannot go with you. I am bound.”
How could he have ever thought she was like Kolla? And yet he found himself acting exactly like Drengi. “Come with me. Once we are away from here, it will not matter. You are mine, Eleanor.”
“I cannot be,” she whispered. “You must leave now, before you are caught. Please. I could not bear it if you were caught.”
“We can—”
“Go!”
She wasn’t Kolla. She had honor, and she would never run away with him, and that left him only one choice, one chance to grasp at the deliverance she could offer. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why couldn’t you bear it if I were caught? Tell me, Eleanor.”
“Just go,” she said.
“Not until you tell me.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Do not make me say it. The answer will only pain us both.”
“I know, but I need to hear it. Why?”
She pressed her lips together and slowly shook her head, but in the end, she surrendered. “Because I love you.”
She loved him. Thank you, Freya, for this much, at least. Gunnar drew Eleanor’s hand up to press it over the amulet that hung beneath his shirt and braced for the pain. Brand had told him what it was like, the agony he would suffer as Cwen’s evil flowed out of him, far worse than the daily changing. “Even knowing what I am?”
“Even knowing, I do love you. And that is why you must go.”
Nothing happened.
Ah, she wasn’t actually touching the amulet. That must be it. Gunnar ripped open his shirt and pulled her hand into the opening, trapping the bull’s head firmly between her palm and his chest. “Tell me once more.”
“Ssst.” Torvald rounded the back end of the tack shed, still dripping trough water. He pointed toward the hall. “Someone comes.”
Eleanor started to pull away, but Gunnar wouldn’t let her go. Couldn’t. Not yet. “Tell me again that you love me.”
“I do love you,” she whispered. “But it is no use. I cannot go with you.”
Gunnar waited. Nothing.
A voice called out, “Eleanor!”
“Richard,” breathed Eleanor. “Oh, please go. If he sees you, if anyone realizes you are here …”
Torvald edged closer. “Gunnar. Now. Let her go.”
“Again.” Desperate, Gunnar mashed her hand against his chest, forcing the bull into his skin. “Say it again.”
“Go. Please go. I love you, but please go.” She shoved at him, her words dissolving into ragged panic as she fought to escape. “Please go. Please. Please go.” With a final effort, she wrenched free and backed away. Gunnar reached for her.
Torvald blocked him. “It is no use.”
“My lady? Are you there?” A wide-eyed Lucy appeared at the end of the passageway, her whisper urgent. “Your lord husband comes.”
“Go. Oh, God, make him go!” With a final plea to Torvald, Eleanor bolted toward Lucy.
“Lucy, is that you?” Burghersh was nearly on them. “Where is Lady Eleanor?”
Torvald grabbed Gunnar by the monk’s cowl and propelled him back into the shadows, flattening him against a wall with an arm across his throat and a low growl into his ear. “Quiet for her sake, if not your own.”
Burghersh appeared in the same instant that Eleanor burst out of the alley.
“Richard. Oh, thank goodness.” She grabbed his arm and clung, burying her face against his shoulder, the way a wife might with a husband she cared for. Gunnar clamped his jaw against the howl of outrage that would have betrayed them all, and looked skyward, silently begging the gods for the strength to bear this.
“God’s knees, Eleanor, why were you down there?” Burghersh squinted down the alley and both Torvald and Gunnar held their breath.
Her answer started out muffled, then cleared as she raised her head. “… separated from Lucy and took a wrong turn.”
“I was looking for her, my lord,” offered Lucy with a shaky voice.
“I have been groping around in the dark like a blind woman,” lied Eleanor, far too easily for Gunnar’s comfort. Kolla had been a good liar, too. “I fear I do not know the way as well as I thought.”
“It is a maze back here,” said Burghersh. “That’s why I wanted to send others with you.”
“I should have listened. Now I have left all those people waiting.”
“Never mind them. They can come back another day. It is you I am concerned about.”
He didn’t sound like a prick. Gunnar wanted Burghersh to sound like a prick, wanted some ready excuse to slit his throat now and carry her off, no matter what she said she wanted. Instead, the bastard put his arm around Eleanor, trying to comfort her, acting like a decent man, a good husband. Patient, she’d said. Kind. May Hel take him for being kind—but he’d damned well better stay kind.
“You’ve had a difficult evening, what with that drunkard and now this,” soothed Burghersh. “Come, I will take you to bed.”
There was the excuse. Gunnar reached for his knife. Torvald tightened his grip and braced to stop him.
“No,” said Eleanor, saving her husband’s life for the moment. “My foul sense of direction should not disappoint your people.”
“They are your people, too, Eleanor.”
“Which is why we must return to the hall. What would they think of their new lady if I abandon them now?”
“I care not.”
“But I care. They must respect me. I have a duty to them, just as they have a duty to me.” Her back grew straighter and her voice firmer with every word. She turned her head slightly, so her voice carried down the alley straight to Gunnar’s ears. “We cannot always do what we wish. None of us.”
“No. No, you’re right. Come, then, we will see to our people. Together.” Burghersh gently turned her toward the hall, Lucy falling in behind. “York was right, you are going to make me a very fine wife.”
She would, Gunnar thought as their footsteps grew faint. She would turn that half-grown lad into a man and fine lord, make him fit to be earl. And in time, she would be his countess, as she was born to be. He would be kind to her.
And she would lie with him and bear him children and…
He shoved Torvald off and started after them. Torvald’s quiet voice stopped him. “You cannot kill him. Not right now.”
Gunnar stood th
ere sucking at the air and rubbing at his breastbone, trying to rid himself of the rock that had formed in the center of his chest and which was growing larger by the minute. It wouldn’t go away, though, and eventually he gave up and stalked off toward the pen where the boy had put their horses. Torvald followed.
Working in silence, they readied their animals and rode out, letting the guards at the gate believe that Torvald’s supposed drunkenness had made them unwelcome—a notion bolstered when Torvald stripped off his cote and wrung out the last of the trough water over one man’s head before he rode out.
The guard joined his fellows in good-natured laughter, but as Torvald swayed off down the road, the man’s smile faded. “I don’t care if he is a knight, he’s a pig’s arse and I’m glad he’s going. Are you certain you want to go with him, Brother? You would still be welcome here.”
“I doubt that,” growled Gunnar and rode after him.
Torvald was waiting at the edge of the churchyard. He fell in alongside Gunnar. “I’m sorry, my friend. I must have been wrong. We’ll figure out how to get her away. She can have the marriage annulled and—”
“No,” said Gunnar. “It is done. She is wed, and ’tis clear she wishes to stay that way. She’s not the one.”
“But she is. She loves you.”
“No. She is young. What she thinks is love is only gratitude. Or simple lust.” That was his fault. He’d taught her of lust, just as he’d taught Kolla of it all those years ago. “Or perhaps I was right to begin with, and she was so set on getting away from Burghersh that she was willing to do anything to do it, even lie with a man who is a bull. But now that she knows her husband, she realizes he’s not as bad as she thought.” Kind … And now that twig would enjoy the lessons she’d learned so willingly.
“Gunnar …”
“It is done,” he repeated. He stripped off the monk’s robes and tossed them at Torvald, and rode on.
They were at the far edge of Etchingham when Gunnar spotted a torch-lit cottage from which poured a bawdy song and realized what he needed. He reined Ghost toward the tavern.
