The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

  Until this moment, investigating her late husband’s activities in London had been uppermost in Eloise’s mind. That, and the assertion of her independence. Now, the thought of hearing more disturbing revelations about what men got up to when they were on the loose began to lose its appeal. Her brother. Her father. The king. Sir Piers. ‘What?’ she said, softly.

  ‘Mistress,’ Saskia interrupted, ‘d’ye not think it might be better if—?’

  ‘Just tell me!’ said Eloise. ‘I know about his many women and Sir Phillip’s wife, I know about the brothels at Smithfield on Cock Lane. I know about the blackmailing. What else is there to know? That he cheated at jousting, too?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jolita said, ignoring Saskia’s warning looks. ‘He had a reputation for it.’

  Something that Sir Owain had once said about him not being able to tell the difference between jousting and warfare passed through her mind and then was lost. ‘Cheating? What do two gossipy broderers know about it?’

  Saskia came to sit on the rushes before them, cross-legged. ‘Not gossip, love,’ she said, gently. ‘They knew Sir Piers just as everyone else did at the armoury. They made some of his armour there, but he was not generally well liked.’

  ‘No, but that’s hardly a surprise any more, is it? He was a rotter, but how did his breaking of jousting rules—?’

  ‘No,’ Jolita said, ‘it was not so much rule-breaking as dirty tricks. You know how strict they are about rules, but Sir Piers’s reputation was for winning at any price, partly because he could not afford to lose. As you know, every time a man loses he forfeits his armour and horse to the winner, and Sir Piers’s debts had become more than he could handle. Because of his extravagances, mostly. And before he gained a reputation as a spendthrift, he seems to have borrowed from just about everybody. Later on, he even—’ Jolita stopped abruptly as Saskia’s warning frown caught her eye, but it was too late.

  ‘Even what? Come on, tell me the rest. It can’t be any worse.’ Premonition told Eloise that it could.

  Less enthusiastically, Jolita continued. ‘He even offered one man a night with his wife if he would release him from his obligations.’

  ‘What d’ye mean, a night with his…a night with his wife? Me? Is it me you mean? In return for a debt? Oh, no, Jollie…no, you must have misunderstood.’ Eloise held her face between her hands, unbelieving, shattered by this newest revelation. Yet while she denied it, she knew from his coarseness that it could be true, for how often in that brief time after their marriage had he boasted to her that he now possessed what every one of his acquaintances would kill for. He had not spared her the details of their so-called envy, either.

  ‘I feel sick,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry, love. Saskia was right. I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘Yes, you should. Who was this man?’

  ‘We didn’t ask. We didn’t want to stay any longer.’

  ‘But why did they think that my father’s mistress would be interested to know of his late son-in-law’s disgusting tactics? Were they hoping to put you off?’

  ‘I don’t know, love, but it was we who asked if they knew Sir Piers, and I don’t suppose it occurred to them that it might be tactless to gossip when they had chance to boast how well they knew what went on behind the scenes, just as men do.’

  ‘He offered me? For money? His own wife?’

  Saskia got up, far from pleased by Jolita’s candour. Her mistress had suffered enough without knowing every last sordid detail. ‘I think we should be away, m’lady,’ she said, formally. ‘Come, shall you let me put this cloak around you? You’re shivering.’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  Already feeling some remorse, Jolita enclosed her in an affectionate hug. ‘Don’t dwell on it, love. Whoever it was didn’t accept the offer, did he? So no real harm done.’

  Her words ran in Eloise’s ears as she rode at Sir Owain’s side across the countryside to Sheen and, although the air was heavily oppressive with a rumble of thunder, she shivered beneath her cloak of soft mulberry-dyed wool. Pale and silent, she mused upon the disclosures of the day, wishing at times she had not opened such an unsavoury can of worms, and wondering how much more there was to be revealed before she could discover the manner of his death.

  Keeping his thoughts to himself, Sir Owain was by no means sure that her morning’s expedition with Jolita had been as innocent as Eloise had suggested, for surely the discovery that her brother had a mistress would not have affected her as much as this. Was it, after all, Sir Piers’s trail she was following? If so, she had better be stopped.

  After the noise, smells and oppressive heat of London, the fresh greenness of Sheen rippled under a breeze that brought the gathering thunderclouds even nearer, dousing the travellers with the first heavy raindrops as they reached Sir Crispin’s rambling waterside dwelling. Now the surface of the darkening river was pelted with a pattern of overlapping circles. Thunder cracked open the sky, and Eloise was hauled out of the saddle and carried inside with the rain stinging her face.

  The ride to Sheen had done nothing to clarify the thoughts that jumbled ceaselessly through Eloise’s mind, thoughts that led her in countless directions and left her, rudderless and adrift. The state of her unease was more apparent to Sir Owain and Saskia than to Sir Crispin, who had matters of his own to occupy him, yet Sir Owain’s attempts to understand the cause of Eloise’s coolness were not appreciated.

  He followed her along the open balcony outside the upper rooms that overlooked the busy hall where servants were lighting candles set in iron brackets. White billows of linen were settled upon long tables, and the orders of the hall-steward were muffled by the heavy thud of rain upon the roof. ‘Eloise, wait!’ he said. ‘Where’s your chamber?’

  She shook her head, pretending not to hear him above the din, but he was prepared for her attempt at dismissal and, taking her by the waist, herded her along the balcony into an alcove where a large chest filled the space between two walls. ‘Sit here,’ he said, ‘if you please.’

  ‘Sir Owain, there are things—’

  ‘You have to attend to. Yes, I know, but there are things I have to attend to also which will not withstand another of my lady’s cold shoulders. Now, lass,’ he said, sitting close to her side, ‘you know what I’m talking about. What is it that’s put you into this chilling mood again? And don’t tell me it’s nothing.’

  ‘Then I have little to tell you. My brother, the woman and child. They concern me. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘And you’ve discovered something else since we met at the Tower? You were concerned then, but not shocked as you are now. What is it?’

  Her sigh was ragged and the tears that welled into her eyes were to do with the real reason for her anguish rather than for the one she used to sidetrack him. ‘My father,’ she said. ‘He has a mistress, too.’

  ‘And that has angered you?’

  ‘Well, of course it has,’ she replied, truthfully, ‘though I suppose you’re going to tell me that it’s of no consequence as long as my mother doesn’t find out. Well, I don’t agree. It does matter. He’s deceiving her. Did you know about it?’

  ‘Yes, I knew.’

  ‘And I expect you know whereabouts in London he keeps her.’

  ‘Not in London; here, at Sheen.’

  Suddenly immersed in a new angle to the affair, Eloise stood up as if to go in search of her. ‘Where? Who is she? The woman who comes—?’

  ‘Peace, lass!’ Sir Owain pulled her back to him, fiercely. ‘Not here in the house; your father’s not stupid enough for that. She lives and works at the palace here in the Royal Wardrobe department. Why d’ye think he wanted to get back here so fast, eh?’ He kissed her, lightly. ‘Don’t be angry with him, sweetheart. He’s done well for you. His best. As much as any father could. You’d not deny that, would you?’

  She could not trust herself to answer, her father’s unfaithfulness being yet another side to his inconsistencies that seemed a
lso to emphasise the notorious double standards that men carried. But at the same time, she had managed to evade Sir Owain’s curiosity enough to give her next question an air of less consequence.

  ‘Did you know that Rolph had lent money to Sir Piers?’

  ‘I suspected as much, sometimes.’

  ‘And did the king lend him money, too?’

  ‘The king? I very much doubt it. Why do you ask that?’

  ‘And what about Sir Walter de Mauny and Sir Phillip Cotterell? Did they lend my husband money? Did you?’

  ‘Eloise, what’s all this about? All Sir Piers’s debts would have been recorded, wouldn’t they? And paid off out of the estate? That’s always the first thing to be done. In which case you must already know the answers to your questions, surely. Or is there something you’ve just discovered?’

  He had not answered her directly. Perhaps she should not have asked. It was too direct. It would not do for him to know the extent of her enquiries. ‘No…no, not at all. I was not an executor of Sir Piers’s will so I have no way of knowing. It was a thought, no more than that.’

  ‘But presumably Rolph told you of his loans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And does Mistress O’Farrell know of them?’

  She knew what he was asking. The fact that he had already suspected such ‘loans’ suggested that he understood the true nature of the transaction. ‘If she did, she made no mention of it. I believe she’s honest. I liked her. I only wish I could help her more. That child will not survive if he’s not taken out of that filthy place. He’s my nephew, isn’t he?’

  She stayed within his arms, longing for his protection yet more confused than ever by inexplicable fears and emotions. The only facts of which she could be sure were that Sir Piers had been disliked enough to make him a target, that he had misused her brother’s friendship by blackmail, that he took other men’s wives including Sir Phillip’s, and that his debts had reached such proportions that he had offered to barter his own wife for his release. Another more personal consequence of this shameful offer was that the man, whoever he was, had not accepted it, either because he had felt the bargain to be a poor one, or because he believed he could obtain her by a cheaper method, or because the repayment of money meant more to him, or because he was too sorry for her to accept. Whatever the reasons, the discovery had severely dented Eloise’s self-esteem, threatening to obliterate the events of the past few days which had helped her to begin trusting again. And still the spectre of Sir Owain’s involvement in the affair loomed over it all. She longed to ask him and be given a whitewashed version of the truth, but that was not the way to a clear conscience for either of them.

  ‘I’d like to visit Sheen Palace tomorrow,’ she said into the darkness.

  ‘Yes, my avenging angel,’ he smiled, ‘I’m sure you would.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Janos. I cannot accept your advice, though I know it’s sound. She’s getting too close.’ Sir Owain slipped his arms into the fur-lined dressing-gown that his squire held open, tyeing the leather girdle with more energy than was necessary. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘Then I fear you do the lady a disservice, sir. She’s intelligent. Do you think taking her back to Derbyshire will stop her enquiries? Do you think she’ll agree to go back with you?’

  The reply was grim and uncompromising. ‘Do I think she’ll do as she’s told? Not if she can help it, certainly, but my methods are quite effective, as a rule.’

  ‘Be careful. You don’t know your own strength.’

  ‘Yes, I do, Janos, and you know my weaknesses, so no one will come to more harm than they have already. You’re not concerned for my bruises, then?’

  Father Janos closed the lid of his physic-chest and smiled. ‘No, I’m far more concerned for the lady’s. She left her chaplain behind at Handes, you know.’

  ‘Best place for him,’ Sir Owain muttered. ‘And, Michael…’ he turned to his eldest squire ‘…don’t unpack everything. We shall be off again tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Shall I tell Mistress Saskia?’

  ‘No, I’ll tell her myself. And say your prayers before you sleep, lad. Father Janos needs someone to approve of.’ He went out and closed the door silently behind him, his leather sandals making no sound upon the wooden floor that led to Eloise’s chamber.

  His discreet knock was answered immediately by Saskia, whose arms were full of clothes. ‘My lady’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m really not sure, sir. She went out a while ago. Said she needed some fresh air before bed. Probably in the garden.’

  ‘Are you unpacking, Saskia, or packing?’

  ‘Unpacking, sir.’

  ‘Then put them back. We’re going up to Derbyshire tomorrow.’

  Saskia’s arms lowered. ‘Oh, sir. My lady will not be best pleased.’

  ‘All the same, mistress, we shall be going, pleased or not.’

  The thunderstorm had passed over during supper when few had noticed how the pounding on the roof had softened and then ceased. The air smelt fragrant and fresh, and the grass squeaked beneath Sir Owain’s sandals while heavy droplets bombarded his hair that caught at the low boughs of apple and walnut trees.

  He wiped the water off his face and waited, listening, straining his eyes into the last lingering light, watching for any sign. Then, like a hound on a scent, he moved carefully towards the gate that led to the field beyond where a donkey had just snorted in greeting.

  Quickly, Eloise dodged to one side, hoping to merge into the shadows, to become invisible, transparent. The donkey’s head followed her, jaws crunching noisily, nose nudging her for the next mouthful. Recklessly, and with mounting annoyance, she slid the wooden bolt out of its socket and, pushing the creature aside, bolted through the semi-darkness into the long wet grass, leaving the donkey as a temporary obstruction. She ran, but stood no chance against her pursuer’s speed. His hand scooped around her waist, throwing her sideways to land on top of him, then over and over in a sea of cool wetness that soaked instantly through her kirtle and chemise.

  ‘Leave me be!’ she yelped, struggling. ‘Let go!’

  But his arms and body held her, and she was no match for the man who had beaten all-comers to hold her. ‘That I shall not do, my beauty,’ he said. ‘I have you and I shall not let you go. Ever. Do you hear?’

  His words found one of her worst bruises. ‘Lies,’ she cried, weeping into the grass. ‘Men are liars, cheats…deceivers…weaklings…let me go…I want no man…let me be!’ The storm of tears raged while, hardly noticed by her, Sir Owain hauled her into his arms and began to undo her hair, letting it fall like a dark shadow into the long stalks of meadowsweet.

  ‘Stop,’ she sobbed. ‘Just go home and leave me alone.’ Held against his chest, her protests were absorbed against his warmth, her back-lacings nimbly undone, her kirtle peeled away with expert hands. ‘You’ve done this before!’ she snarled, between sobs.

  ‘Never with such purpose, my beauty, and never in a field of soaking wet grass.’ Undeterred by her lack of co-operation, he pulled her arms out of her long sleeves and held her immobile as the kirtle and chemise were tucked in a damp pile beneath her buttocks, by which time both of them were slippery with rain and tears, her squeals long since overtaken by sobs of helpless anger.

  She sat against him, her wrists held behind her in one of his while, with his other hand, he gathered together the stalks of lady’s-mantle in which rain had gathered in the cup-shaped leaves, tipping the rain-water on to her and washing her down with slow sweeping strokes as if he was grooming her. Over her neck and breasts his hands bathed and caressed, lingering provocatively when she arched her back in a wave of ecstasy that transformed her sobs into gasps.

  ‘That’s better, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘It’s been a long hot day and then a thunderstorm, and this is what you need more than tears and arguments.’ He released her hands and let them push the fur-lined gown off his shoulders, and she clung
to him as he bent her backwards, presenting her beautiful full breasts to the exploration of his lips.

  Her mind blurred as something inside her stirred and ached, triggered by the warm tugging of his mouth. This was still new to her, this tenderness. It was all so new, even what she did next, instinctively. ‘Let me…’ she murmured, straddling him as he sat, guiding him into her but then, wet and slippery, fell off again, laughing, because she was unused to it. They toppled sideways into a new patch of cool wet grass, still joined and pulsing, laughing as another shower of water shocked them into urgent and forceful action that took them by surprise with its incredible power.

  Bathed, cleansed, and oblivious to the donkey grazing nearby, they lost themselves in each other, in the earth and in the night, drowning in pleasure and release. Later, Eloise could not tell whether the muffled roar she heard was herself or her lover, nor could she answer him when, wrapped inside his embrace, he lifted the wet hair from her face and whispered. ‘Was that too rough for you, sweetheart? You’re not hurt?’

  The gentle wandering of her hands assured him that nothing less would have done, that his lovemaking was unique, his kisses sheer bliss, his aftercare remarkable. He washed her down again over the lower reaches which had escaped his attention before, rolling her on to her face, turning a deaf ear to her half-protests and washing her back and thighs with long watery fingers. He parted her legs to reach the tenderest places that, despite their fierce encounter, still ached for his touch. His ablutions lingered there as they had done before, and now Eloise held his wrist, silently pleading with him to continue.

  Boldly, he swept his hand over her. ‘To make up for all those times when you should have been by my side, as my woman? You’ll never find me wanting, my beauty, not in any department, I swear it. We’ll have sons and daughters, beautiful thoroughbred creatures, dark chestnuts, wild and wilful like their mother. Shall we?’