The Lord and Eleanor

by Lindsay Townsend

  They were now so close. She need only lean down to kiss his full lips, trace the deep scar on his right cheek that did not detract from his good looks but rather enhanced them, making him more vividly masculine.

  A warrior. Enchanted, she stared down at him then realized he was speaking.

  “Courage and kindness, care of others, should always be rewarded.”

  “Are you a priest?” she asked pertly. She had expected him to say something about her sharing his bed, favors exchanged… not to speak of deeper things. How did he know how much kindness mattered to her? “And since God made Adam and Eve equals, not lord and bondswoman, why should I obey you?”

  “Free, not bond, remember?” He patted her toes through the cloth, grinning at her verbal slip, then grew solemn again and as handsome as one of the stone angels in church. “As we are man and woman then, let me say this. You need my help, and before God and his saints, I need yours, I think.”

  By his stillness, by the way his gaze never faltered, by all of him, she knew he was deadly serious. Richard, lord of the manor, truly needed her aid.

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  Chapter Two

  But they were interrupted. Before the horse could begin to move, a long, rising scream issued from the small wood close to the edge of the great field.

  Richard—he was already Richard to Eleanor—twisted about. “Is that not—”

  “Close to my house, yes.” Eleanor could not yet see her family’s low, thatched cottage, set in the middle of the woods, but she clearly heard the scream and then shouts and shrieks. “Alice!” Her heart thumped and she tried to pitch herself off the horse.

  Richard blocked her with an arm. “Stay! I will bring her to you.”

  He sprinted off the track and into the copse, swerving round the oaks and hazel, his tall, sinewy frame a blur of blue and gold in the greens of the woodland.

  All the while the unearthly screams went on, and Eleanor could not bear it, could not wait. Somehow, she scrambled from Shadow, falling onto her hands and knees, grazing her leg on a tree stump.

  “Alice,” she cried, forcing herself to her feet. “I am coming!”

  She ran along the rough path through the woodland grasses that Richard had made, stumbling and far less nimble than him. Already he was several spear-lengths away from her and vanishing at great speed into a thicker undergrowth of hazel. Cold dread caught her burning lungs and limbs as the screaming stopped.

  My youngest sister, only three summers old. Please let her not be dead. Please let her not have fallen into the brook. I should never have left them.

  In a final effort, she ran harder, losing her hood somewhere, a bramble clawing her cheek, and then she saw the long low roof of her hut.

  “Alice!” She could see her other youngsters—Nigel, the thoughtful one, standing close to the hut door, stricken and white-faced, and, sitting beside her brother with her narrow back against the door-post, Freya, the dreamy one, rocking a pinecone she pretended was a doll. But where was the little one? “Alice!” she cried again, desperate to find her.

  “I have her,” called Richard, from within the hut. “She is safe.”

  “I was looking after her,” Nigel was explaining as Eleanor ran right through the garden beans and peas. “I had just turned away to feed the fire and then Alice screamed and her hair…” His voice began to hitch and he rammed a thin fist into his mouth. “On fire…her hair on fire and I could not put it out.”

  Burning and fire... the horror drove Eleanor to her knees and she stumbled the last few steps. “Alice,” she mouthed through shock-numbed lips.

  Nigel began to cry while Freya remained disturbingly blank.

  “She is with me,” called Richard again, a rock of calm in a sea of turmoil, “and quite unhurt. Look to the others while I bring her out.”

  The prompt broke her dreadful freezing state, and her frantic panic. Waves of clammy tingling heat broke over her as Eleanor wrapped her arms tenderly around her distraught younger brother. “You did your best, you did what was needful,” she said, soothing him, though her heart pounded.

  She gathered Freya, too, into a tight embrace, crouching now before both her little ones. Her breath stopped altogether as Richard emerged with Alice, her tiny figure wrapped in a blanket.

  “She is safe, thanks to this young man dragging her away from the flames,” he said, “and this lass shouting so clearly.” He nodded to Freya, who stared up at him then put her thumb in her mouth, her usual prelude to sleep.

  “The flames…” Nigel breathed, pulling himself away from Eleanor’s arms and taking a step closer to the tall, broad stranger.

  “I rolled her tight in the blanket and pressed the flames out. You may do the same, should it happen again.” Richard sat down in the middle of the vegetable patch with the bundled Alice on his lap and pulled the blanket down. “There she is.”

  He blew the toddler a kiss and Alice actually giggled. Her silver hair was fire-crinkled now and filthy but she was alive.

  Over her downy head, Richard’s eyes met Eleanor’s. “That trick with fire is one I learned from war, so do not blame yourself or the lad. Infants falling into the fire is a sadly common accident but all is well again.”

  Eleanor found she was laughing and could not stop. It was laugh or cry and she laughed until her shoulders shook and the blackbirds in the woodland scolded.

  She laughed until Richard observed coolly, “I suppose Shadow is off somewhere?”

  Guilt smothered her, as chilling as if she had fallen into the well. “I l-left him untethered,” she stammered.

  Richard waved aside her apology. “No matter, you did your best and what was needed,” he said, repeating her words back to her. “Shadow is a lazy brute. He will not go far, so all we need do is wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “For my reeve to find us.” He stretched out his long legs over the rows of growing onions and parsnips and Eleanor had not the heart to scold—how could she, since he had saved Alice.

  “And then?” she asked.

  “Then we talk.”

  * * * *

  Talking was the last thing on his mind—or the rest of him—but Richard knew Eleanor deserved an explanation and a true courtship, although when he had risen at cockcrow he would have boasted that any peasant girl should be grateful for his attentions.

  Eleanor’s sharp question concerning a reluctant bed partner had piqued his pride and now he had seen for himself how she and her youngsters lived.

  She deserves more.

  The youngsters, Richard noticed, were unnaturally quiet and still while they all waited for his reeve to arrive. This resigned acquiescence, more than anything else, made him understand sharply how frail and hungry the children were.

  “We shall eat soon,” he told them.

  Their dull eyes brightened a little, although Eleanor, rocking Alice and Freya on her knees in a game of “horsey,” still appeared stiff and wary.

  They watched the early swifts wheel and tumble overhead, listening to their chatter. Richard pointed out rabbit trails to Nigel, who peppered him with questions about the “bunnies.” The time passed steadily but did not drag. Indeed, it seemed that the sun had scarcely shifted in the sky above them as David, his reeve, brought a cart and loaded the sparse belongings of Eleanor and her family into it. While Eleanor fussed with closing the cottage window shutters and anxiously told her siblings to gather all their things, he chose to help David.

  “My lord, there is no need,” protested the reeve.

  Richard, sensing Eleanor listening closely, realized he wanted to please her. “It is quicker with two of us,” he answered simply. “I’m not a man who idles when others work.”

  This was no more than the truth and it took them just one armload each—a few spindles and pots, a basket, a couple of smoked hams, a few coarse blankets. No chest, he noted, for Eleanor and no playthings for the children, only that sad little pinecone of Freya’s.

  The th
ought pained him, the more so as he contrasted their lack with his children’s plenty. Isabella had her six dolls. Stephen, his balls and spinning tops and his puppies and chickens and frogs—any animal he could keep, in fact. Recalling Nigel’s interest in the rabbits, he wondered if those two would become friends, uncertain if he would approve or not.

  It would not change my actions, he decided, and instantly felt more settled.

  * * * *

  Richard was glad when David and the peasant children—all perfectly content and excited at the prospect of riding in the ox cart—trundled off in the direction of his manor.

  Trusting his reeve to collect Shadow, he dowsed the hearth fire and took Eleanor’s hand in his. You will not miss this place, he wanted to say, and you will be happy with me. Two soft statements that surprised him so much he went on the charge instead. “Do you still hate me?”

  Eleanor shot him a quizzical look—and after what she had been through he was glad to see it.

  “I did not say I did,” she began, “although we do not know each other. You may have strange habits.”

  “How so?” he challenged as they walked back toward the village.

  She was limping slightly but held her head very high, as if daring him to comment on her grazed leg or her rope-singed fingers.

  So he did not. “Joanna never complained that I snored or belched.”

  “Your breath may smell,” she answered, never lost for words when it came to jousting with him.

  They walked out from beneath the spreading canopy of trees and Richard’s breath hissed as he saw the true glory of her hair in the full sunlight. In her headlong dash to care for her youngsters, she had lost her ugly hood and her loosened hair fell down to her waist like a luxurious cloak. A cloak of gold and silver, finer than Eastern silk. The dream of wrapping himself in her hair, in having it tickle his belly and gild his arms and chest, aroused him in an instant.

  “Shall we find out?” He gathered her again into his arms, the shock of her slender frame molding against his—a familiar shock now, after he had carried her earlier along the track—but still delicious. “You need fattening up, my chick,” he murmured and then he was kissing her, claiming the kiss he had wanted since the moment she had hauled herself and a dead wolf to his manor court.

  * * * *

  His mouth was hot and fierce. He clearly sensed her innocence as he compelled his lips, changing the kiss to a tender one. She was tight within his arms, half-lifted so her whole body was stretched, her head tipped back, but she felt strangely at ease with it.

  He will not let me fall. Now curiosity won over maidenly shock and she kissed him in return, her lips fluttering against his.

  He grunted, “Naughty tease,” and brought his arms more comfortably across her back and waist. Trailing a hand up her flank to her shoulder and neck, he followed his sweeping fingers with his mouth and dropped light kisses onto the side of her throat.

  “More,” she found herself saying and his answering chuckle rumbled through her breast.

  “Later for sure.” He kissed the tip of her nose and then her mouth again, whispering, “One more.”

  Eleanor felt like a bird hovering between earth and heaven, floating and free.

  Richard slowly raised his head, as if reluctant to break the spell between them. “Sunset comes and we should be away or lose our suppers.”

  The idea of food made her stomach clench and growl.

  He laughed and released her. “Food first. We eat at the smith’s tonight and our youngsters too. David shall bring them all to Toft’s. I paid him this afternoon so he shall not suffer any lack from feeding us all.”

  “At Toft’s?” Eleanor queried before a cold dart of understanding pierced her. “This is a last-moment arrangement, is it not?”

  He nodded, his generous mouth settling into a grim line, and then he sighed, the glow fading utterly from his face. “Perhaps we should not do this other, the food taster matter.”

  Eleanor shivered. “You truly fear poison?”

  He gave her a look of horror. “And if I do, do you think I would expose you or your youngsters to such a thing? No. It was a fancy of mine to ask you to be my taster but I would never ask you, or anyone, to stand in for me. I fight my own wars.”

  She believed him at once, for it matched all she knew of him and yet… “But you asked after poisons. And if you have no concerns, why should I not be your taster?”

  He frowned and cracked his knuckles together as if longing to punch something. “I asked you before the court, yes, because it seemed good to do so, a public showing of my favor to you, but truly I would rather have you as a teacher, not taster.” He shook his head, scowling. “I do ill at explaining and I would not have you alarmed, you have been through enough.”

  “I am no weakling,” Eleanor snapped, irritated that he should think her so.

  “I must think of your safety and the children’s. I would not make a mistake in this.”

  He was seeking to protect her and it quenched her temper. She took his large hand in hers and turned toward the smith’s house, its thatched roof just visible through the trees.

  “Will you walk with me and explain as best you can?” she coaxed. “I am a good listener.”

  * * * *

  “I noticed a month ago,” Richard began and then cursed himself. Eleanor had lost both her parents a month ago.

  She did not flinch or scold but glanced at the horizon, where the sun was bleeding across the open strip fields, and gnawed briefly at her lower lip. “Danger?” she asked.

  “Nothing so definite,” he admitted, “but a start, I think, yes.”

  They had reached a place on the winding track through the village where carts had left deep ruts, churned and clogged with mud even after days of drought.

  “Do not carry me,” she warned, guessing his desire and tugging on his fingers to walk along the edge of the track. “What happened, my lord?”

  “Richard,” he said at once. “It was a dish of mushrooms. I like mushrooms and the cook knows this. He made me a special stew from some dried mushrooms he had carefully stored and prepared just for me, and he sent it out to my midday table in the great hall. Only a small pottage so no one else would dare to touch it, and my youngsters, thank God, do not like them.”

  He knew as he spoke that for Eleanor’s children the luxury of dislikes would be impossible and again was discomforted at the contrast between his youngsters and hers.

  That will be changing now.

  “There was an evil mushroom in the dish,” Eleanor prompted.

  “Not a mushroom but a flavor, or rather a scent, something off and sweetish where it should not be so. I took the dish out of the hall with me, watching people’s faces, but none seemed alarmed. Yet when I gave a little to one of the dogs, the poor beast was sick and only Stephen’s care brought it through.”

  “Stephen?”

  “My son. He is of an age with Nigel and most fond of all creatures.”

  “I see.” Eleanor stared at their still linked hands and he wondered if she would now protest at their strolling thus, but instead she said, “Have there been other incidents?”

  He was glad she was listening so closely and taking his suspicions seriously. For the past month he had wondered if he was starting at ghosts, or seeing things where there was really nothing, but now he had Eleanor to talk to. She makes an excellent confidant.

  Richard nodded agreement with her question. “One more—the flowers of foxglove, which as you know is a poisonous plant, mingled amidst some rose-petal water my Isabella had made for me to wash with and had left in my solar—my private chamber.”

  She clicked her tongue. “I know about the foxglove and even what a solar is but the rose water? Did your child mix the foxglove flowers in with the rose petals because they were pretty?”

  “No, she did not mix them at all,” he answered, chiding himself for assuming Eleanor would not know things and admiring the way she reasoned. “She did
think them pretty when I thanked her later but said she had put only rose petals into the water. We agreed the foxgloves must have blown in from the garden. I had to say something and I saw Isabella and others had again been in no danger.”

  “A piece of malice for you alone.” Eleanor nodded. “Who goes to your solar?”

  “My friends, my steward Matthew, most of my household.”

  “But no peasants,” Eleanor observed, a wicked smile lurking briefly around her kissable mouth. She grew serious again. “Yet twice in a month? Can you be sure evil is here?”

  “That is the devil of it, I cannot,” he admitted. “But if there is a poisoner, I do not want him moving against my children, or you, or yours, or anyone.” Frustrated by the creeping guile of the matter, he struck his fist against his thigh. “If any dislike me, why not challenge me? What is done here is cowardly, mean, niggardly—”

  “I will help you.” Eleanor’s clear, hard voice cut through his rising red rage. “I understand now what you mean by teaching. I can tell you which plants are dangerous and what signs would show that your food or clothes or bedding have been tampered with.”

  “Bedding? Clothes?” He had not considered those and the hugeness of the task made his thoughts blacker than the approaching night. The worst was the urgent question—who hated him so much? Who from his own household? And how could he stop them?

  Amidst the whirl of his thoughts and feelings, a small, warm hand squeezed his. “I can help,” Eleanor promised again. “It may all be mischance, nothing more, for people often sicken through careless mushroom gathering and a few flower petals in washing water—”

  “I asked my steward, letting Matthew think I found it pleasing, but no one claimed it.”

  “Even so.”

  A strand of long, silver-gold hair fell across Eleanor’s face, partly shielding her thoughtful expression. Concern for him. Richard was absurdly pleased by the notion, the more so when she frowned and made the sign of the cross with her free hand.

  “A poisoner is a wicked thing.”