'The marriage can be undone, surely?' Eleanor queried. She had a very good idea what Henry might have to say. 'It is not consummated?'
‘No, no, Megotta is far too young. Well, thank God for that at least. It must be annulled, for your brother will never permit it. He has no kind thoughts for old Hubert now for all he has restored his lands.'
'Henry has had enough of leading strings.'
'I know. Eleanor, will you speak to him for me? I would rather you did it than Richard. Although he is my husband and your brother, it would come better from a woman, I think. I told him I knew nothing of it, and God knows I want it undone – were William's wife and this is Marshal business.'
'Very well,' Eleanor agreed. 'I'll do what I can when I see Henry. Dearest Isabella, I am so sorry. But try to put it from your mind for a little and let us holiday together.'
During the spring and summer she and Isabella spent long and happy days furnishing and decorating hall and bedroom, setting painters to work to adorn the plain little chapel. Eleanor ordered guest chambers to be built in the courtyard, a falconry to be set up and larger stables erected under Finch's super vision. He was delighted to see his young mistress in her own castle and he and the falconer reported to her that there was excellent hawking to be had in the flat, rather marshy, surroundings. Further afield there was parkland well stocked with deer and wild boar.
At last, as there was no sign of the crusaders being able to depart yet, Richard of Cornwall came to claim his wife and little son and to congratulate his sister on all she had achieved in her new home. They spent an enjoyable evening together but late that night when Isabella came to share her bed for the last time, Richard having elected to use one of the half finished guest chambers, Eleanor felt suddenly alone, as if the loss of such a friend's company would mean more than she realized. There were ladies in her household, wives to the knights serving her, but they were not Isabella.
'I wish you had not to go,' she said.
Isabella laughed. 'If I did not I fear your brother would beat me soundly for being so poor a wife.'
Eleanor tried to smile in response. 'Oh, I know Richard loves you too well to beat you or to be too long away from you. He told me the time grew tedious in Germany without you, but –’ she paused, looking round the room, at the great bed, at little Henry's cradle where he slept soundly. Tomorrow he would be gone, his toys and little clothes no longer scattered here. She remembered the Maid's bedchamber, and how she had thought it solitary, pitying the ageing captive princess. Jesu, would she become like that? And tears rose and half choked her.
'What is it?' Isabella asked in sudden consternation. Then as Eleanor shook her head and stifled her desire to weep, she added, 'My dear, I know only too well what is the matter. Saintly old men and pious widows should hold their tongues. They would have us all in nunneries and then where would our menfolk be?'
Eleanor gasped out that it was not Archbishop Edmund's fault, that he had tried to dissuade her.
'Then it was that tiresome Cecily de Sanford. I wish the King had never sent her to you. Eleanor, my love, dry your tears and one day, please God, you will take a man to that bed – in wedlock too!'
Eleanor shook her head again. 'How can I? My vow – to our Lord – how can I break it?'
'The Churchmen take too much on themselves when they say they know His will for us,' Isabella returned crisply, 'Did He not break the Sabbath himself and shock the churchmen of His day?'
Eleanor's laugh was a little shaky. 'Dear Isabella, what am I going to do without you? But don't worry for me. I am well enough as I am.’
'Are you?' Isabella looked straightly at her, her eyes wandering over Eleanor's body sheathed in red velvet, her dusky hair freed from her veil and banging down in silky plaits, at the slender neck, the rounded breasts, the shapely hips. It was not right, she thought, that such womanhood should be wasted, but she said no more, returning to the anxiety on her own mind. 'Forgive me, Eleanor, but you will not forget to speak to the King for me, will you? About Gloucester?'
'No, no, of course not,' Eleanor answered, relieved to have something else to occupy her thoughts. 'As soon as I see him it shall be done.'
About a month after Isabella's departure, she decided she would carry out her promise and visit her brother at Windsor. Most of the work at Odiham was completed except for the decorating of her own bedroom and it seemed best to be away while that was done. And after a whole summer in residence the castle could be cleaned against her return. However, two days before her planned departure she was coming down the spiral stair when she heard a clattering of hooves outside that undoubtedly heralded visitors. The hall door was open to the afternoon sunshine and as a tall figure darkened it she saw to her astonishment a familiar blazon on a surcoat, a familiar black head, the hood of his mantle thrown back.
She came down the last few steps and across the hall, not even sure that this particular visitor was welcome. 'Sir Simon! I did not expect to see you.'
'Your pardon, lady,' he said in his cool voice but with a pleasant smile, 'but your brother has graciously given me a manor near Alton and as I am on my way to take seisin of it he asked me to bring you a cask of Rhenish with his greeting.'
'You are very kind; she said formally. 'My steward will see to its disposal. May I give you some refreshment before you go on your way?'
'Thank you, but I was wondering whether I might beg shelter for the night and proceed in the morning?'
'Willingly,' she agreed, but was aware he could have reached Alton before the late summer darkness. She clapped her hands, however, for an usher to take his mantle, a groom to give orders for the stabling of his horses and the entertaining of his retinue, while she led him to the dais and a page brought wine. For a while they sat and talked of the court and the latest news. He told her he had been to York to the Scottish King Alexander, and that he had been given the custodianship of Kenilworth Castle. He talked of the Archbishop of Canterbury's opposition to the Pope in the matter of 'Peter's Pence', of the grandeur of the growing church at Westminster, and he told her in witty terms of the latest scandal concerning the Queen's uncle Boniface and the daughter of the Seneschal at Winchester. Eleanor began to see why her brother found this man so attractive a companion, for though his conversation was amusing, and though he laughed at the latest gossip, it was when he referred to the saintly Edmund Rich that she glimpsed his true character. As they spoke of the Archbishop she felt the tension she had always been aware of in Simon's presence disappearing. She asked if he must ride on tomorrow or whether he would care to try the hunting in her park.
Gracefully he accepted her invitation and somehow a week of summer weather slipped by. They rode to the forest where he brought down a fine hart, and went hawking in the marshes, Finch leading the way through safe paths. She had always had a talent for handling the birds and as she let her merlin fly, crying out to it to 'Rake off! Rake off!' and then swinging her lure to bring it home to her wrist, the quarry seized, there was undisguised admiration in his eyes.
In the evenings they supped in the hall with the door wide still to the warm August evening and Eleanor discovered him to be well read and informed, a raconteur who kept her amused and whose tales she was often able to cap.
The weather broke at last on the first of September, a sudden storm of rain keeping them within doors and when she suggested a game of backgammon he came to her chamber where the board was set up. Doll arranged the counters and then sat sewing, her head bent over her embroidery, a little smile on her lips, while the two played with desultory talk and the rain beat against the new glass. It grew chill and Eleanor sent Doll to find a servant to light the fire.
For the first time they were alone and as soon as the door closed Simon reached out without hesitation and took her hand.
'Lady,' he said, and then stopped, his eyes fixed on her. At the touch of his fingers a sensation ran through her. It seemed to turn her stomach, to send the blood racing in a manner she did not reca
ll ever having felt before, even in the days of her marriage with William, and a flush ran up under her skin.
He lifted her hand and turning it put his lips into her palm. 'I adore you,' he said.
Some instinct, retreating from a situation rapidly slipping out of her control, made her turn his words with a flippancy she was far from feeling. 'Messire! You, to use a troubadour's tongue!'
His face darkened. 'I am no court fool to indulge in poet's talk. Do you not know me better than that?'
'I do not think I know you at all.'
'But I know you, my lady Eleanor.' He got up and coming round the table that separated them stood above her. He seemed very tall, blocking what light there was from the narrow window, his eyes holding hers. 'I believe I can make you love me.'
'Love you? Until this last week I was not sure I even liked you.'
'No?' He gave a low laugh. 'Liking has very little to do with it. I have desired you for a long time but until recently I was in no position to think I might ever win you.'
'And now?' She had not risen but sat tautly in her chair, every pulse throbbing, feeling utterly defenceless. She knew she had only to call and her page would come running. Yet she did not call.
He said, 'Now I have your brother's friendship, and I have an earldom to offer you. I have been making myself an Englishman as I said I would. I have even been studying your language that I might talk to my own people in their tongue. With you as a wife, and the King's sister into the bargain, what may I not –'
'Oh!' She sprang up and away from him. 'Is that it? Your protestations of love are all sham. You want me only because of who I am not what I am.'
'Eleanor!' He came close but sensing the rigidity of her body he did not touch her, only his voice was charged with the intensity of his feeling. 'Of course it would advance me to be the King's brother-in-law, but that is not what brought me here. I meant only that my position is now such that I dare attempt it. I think I have loved you from the moment when I lifted you into your saddle at St Malo.'
'You have sought other wives. There was the Count of Flanders' daughter, wasn't there?'
He gave a shrug. 'A man must marry and I thought after your lord died and you took that vow that you would retire to a convent. But when you did not do so, when you came back to court, all that was changed.'
'But it did not mean that I would forsake my promise.' Yet she was aware somehow that she was fighting a losing battle, that he was saying to her only what she knew herself.
He was smiling now. 'I have watched you for a long time. I have watched you sing and dance and hawk and enjoy all the pastimes of a great lady. You have your own establishment here now and a retinue fit for a Princess. You were not made for a nunnery, lady, for you have shed your grief and become a woman again. I think chastity is not for you.'
'You know nothing about it,' she fired up.
'I am a man,' he said, 'and when, do you recall, you told me you were not interested in bridals, there was that in your voice that revealed a great deal – to me, at least.'
She was stricken to silence, remembering how short a time ago she had wept in Isabella's arms, from sheer longing, from fear of the lonely path she had chosen. And now this man whom she had known since she was a young bride, yet whom she really knew so little, said he loved her and put an unerring finger on her innermost thoughts.
In a dulled voice she said, 'I cannot break my vow. It was a sacred promise, sworn before Almighty God. Do you not fear Him, His wrath if I should break it?'
'I fear God,' he said with natural reverence, 'but I also trust in His mercy. You were distraught at the time. I think you did not know what you were doing and you have never taken the final step. Do you not feel yourself turning further and further from it?'
'Yes,' she agreed, her voice scarcely above a whisper, 'but I wear this ring – '
He reached out for her hand and with one swift movement took it from her finger. 'I will give you another.'
She gave a startled gasp, but before either he or she could speak again there was a tap on the door and Doll came in with one servant bearing logs and another a torch and kindling. Eleanor turned away to the window and looked out towards the marshes, the tall bulrushes, the reeds swaying in the dying wind. A mallard rose, quacking, and flew out of her sight. The rain had stopped and there were all the signs of a golden sunset. She was too confused, her mind numb. If there was, after all, to be another man in her life, was it credible that it should be this one who hitherto had aroused only annoyance in her? And yet the fact that he had aroused emotion at all, told her something. Of the feelings of the last few minutes she dared not think.
When the fire was lit and Doll sat down again to her sewing, joined by Megonwy, she tried to concentrate once more on the game, but after a few careless moves was glad that supper was announced.
In the morning he rode away and when he took farewell of her m the hall he merely bowed over her hand, but his fingers held hers more tightly than was commanded by courtesy. He thanked her for her hospitality and added, 'I trust to see you again very soon, lady,' laying significant emphasis on the words.
She watched him ride away, attended by half a dozen young knights who clearly thought themselves fortunate to be in his service, a line of squires following, his banner of the lion with the forked tail floating over his head. And for the rest of the day she wandered aimlessly about, unable to give her attention to the carpenter who was making a screen to divide the buttery from the hall.
It was some time before she saw Simon again, for Henry kept him busy, and then it was in no degree of privacy. She rode to Windsor as planned and broached the subject of Gloucester's marriage with her brother. The King was angry, as she suspected he would be, swearing vengeance on Hubert de Burgh who stoutly denied any knowledge of the affair as he had been in hiding in Chepstow at the time. It seemed he had to be believed. His wife took full responsibility for the affair, but as she was a daughter of the Scottish King, Henry had no mind to quarrel with his neighbour over the border concerning it. Before, however, anything was decided, Megotta sickened of a fever and died and so the matter ended, but Henry delivered himself of a vitriolic attack on subjects whose rank made it an offence to marry or give in marriage without his consent and his Council's. Isabella was plainly relieved and Gloucester oddly unmoved; within a few months he was hastily married to Maud de Lacy, daughter of the Earl of Lincoln.
Sir Simon and the Princess Eleanor met occasionally at court and his eyes sought hers first among the crowds surrounding her brother, but always there were others present when they spoke. She began to wonder if he had meant what he said and if so why he was playing such a waiting game. He was always with Henry, riding out to hunt, or walking arm-in-arm with him to watch the new abbey church rising on the foundations of the old one, and she began to grow hungry for an answer to her questionings.
The man intrigued her, but he was not for her. No man was for her, yet the more time went by, the more her desire grew. Her vow, taken so ardently, now became a burden she longed to discard and she began to cast about in her mind how it might be done. She lit a candle to the Blessed Virgin and begged for release, for guidance to that end. She wanted to talk to someone, but she did not know whom to confide in. No priest would take her part in this, and Isabella, though she clearly wished to see her wed again, did not like Simon. Did she herself like him? Or did she love him? What was it he had said? 'Liking has little to do with it?' Perhaps he was right, for she knew she desired him, he disturbed her sleep, his face constantly in her mind.
So it was that all her defences were down, her nerves tense, when at Christmas time she went to Westminster where the King was to keep the feast. Her brother Richard, the other would-be crusader, was still in England and the feast was held with all the usual panoply of Christmas. There were mummers and minstrels, tumblers and a man with a performing bear to entertain them, and on Christmas morning, at the Mass of the Nativity, Eleanor kneeling beside her devout brother
was more aware than she would have thought proper at this moment, of Simon close by. His hands were clasped together, his attention only on the Holy Sacrifice and she saw that he was not like so many barons who shuffled their feet and whispered, some even laughing at a low-voiced joke throughout Mass or gossiping behind their hands.
She could trust him, she thought suddenly, with her life – her love! A stain of colour rose in her face and as a choir of boys in white surplices sang the Christmas paean of joy, 'Hodie Christus natus est . . .' she sent up an impassioned plea that she might be absolved from that vow of six years ago.
The day was mild and bright, a pale sun lightening the courtyard as they came from the chapel to prepare for the day's feast. Eleanor walked proudly, her head high. If she chose to re-marry who would dare to throw the first stone at her? If the churchmen called her an adulteress, let them! She had replaced the ring after Simon had gone, unwilling to excite gossip among her household, but what was it he had said? – I will give you another.
Yet he had not spoken and though she did not realize it, by not hurrying to do so he had gone the right way, the only way to win her.
In the evening a troop of acrobats from Hungary were to perform. Amid the laughter and the music and the overflowing of wine and ale, when the company was very merry, several noble gentlemen very drunk, and the noise rising to the roof, the trestles were cleared from the centre of the hall. Eleanor, who had been talking to the aged mother of the Earl of Lincoln, had moved away a little, intending to return to the dais in order to see more clearly, when she found her hand taken and she was drawn to the shelter of a pillar.
Simon released her hand almost at once and leaned negligently against the stone column that no one might think his talk anything but casual. 'Well?' he said and the grey eyes held hers. 'Have I given you time to consider?'
'Too long,' she answered, the words coming out with impulsive force. 'Too long, by the Holy Cross!'
The Royal Griffin (The Plantagenents Book 2) Page 8
