‘Not pliant and obedient?’
‘Nay, not that. That was said only to rile you, lass.’
‘Then love me again, Owain. Once more, before they lock the doors on us.’
Hours later, relaxed in body and in spirit, they lay at peace in the candlelit warmth of Eloise’s bed as if their wild and earthy coupling had worn the edges off all fears as a torrent does with boulders. The fears still lurked, but now she could live with them.
Stroking his chest and tenderly following the pattern of hair with her fingertips, she noted how his bruises were changing colour from purple to green. ‘Why has Saskia not unpacked, I wonder?’ she said. ‘What was she doing when you saw her?’
‘Unpacking,’ he said, drowsily. ‘I told her to repack.’
Her hand stopped. ‘To repack? Why?’
‘Because I’m taking you up to Whitecliffe later tomorrow.’
‘No! No, Owain! I cannot do that, not so soon.’ She squirmed away, trying to sit up. ‘I cannot go tomorrow, not even this week. I haven’t finished—’ She stopped, just in time.
He pulled her down, pinning her to the pillow. ‘Finished what?’
‘My…er…visiting. I’ve not finished seeing London, the palaces. I wanted to visit Sheen Palace, and Windsor, too.’ Her eyes clouded with anger again. ‘And the merchants. I’ve bought no new clothes or any physics from the apothecaries. No, Owain…please…not tomorrow.’
‘Leave it,’ he whispered, holding her fierceness with one quelling look. ‘I understand how brief the stay has been, but enough is enough, Eloise, at least for the time being. What we need now is some time to get to know each other and for you to see what you’ll be marrying into. Anything else can wait. I was made to give the king my assurance that we’d be wed before September is out, and he won’t tolerate any more delays.’
‘September? Three months?’
‘Three months. Now, I’ve done something to make the idea of our departure easier for you to digest.’
She frowned. He was wrong. Enough was not enough when she had not done all that she had meant to do, particularly at Windsor, and now there would be no more opportunities left to her.
‘About Mistress O’Farrell,’ Sir Owain said, watching the frown clear.
‘Rolph’s mistress? What about her?’
‘I’ve sent a wagon and escorts for her and her child, her goods and chattels, and I’ve sent money and a note to Sister Anna at St Katherine’s telling her that, from now on, Mistress O’Farrell will be living in Derbyshire in the household of Sir Owain of Whitecliffe and his wife-to-be. Does that help?’
A slow blink and a smile changed Eloise’s expression to the softness he had hoped to see. Her hands reached up to caress the soft skin of his ears and the short hair in front of them. His eyes were almost closed with tiredness.
‘Thank you…thank you,’ she said. ‘You think of everything.’
‘I think of you, mostly,’ he said before he kissed her. ‘Now, lady. Shall we go home tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir. If you wish it.’
In the weeks that followed, Eloise took every opportunity to put aside the bittersweet sense of foreboding that had stubbornly pervaded all her thoughts since Sir Owain’s claim on her had begun to materialise. After what he had been through to win her, she could no longer doubt his determination, nor could she continually repeat her objections to him when he had assured her they were unfounded. She must now look forward, as he had prescribed, though it was not easy to release the control and to set off in a different direction after all her well-laid plans had failed.
The new location made things easier, in one sense, for the castle at Whitecliffe was far more beautiful than she had imagined it to be, and there was much concerning Sir Owain’s life that she had so far made no effort to discover. That he was the eldest of four, for instance, a brother and a sister married, the youngest brother living at Whitecliffe and, according to Sir Owain, never likely to leave.
At seventeen, Nathaniel was already a brilliant scholar who was happiest with pen, paper and books, tutor and music-master. He was shy, delightful, and physically not unlike his eldest brother except for a deformed foot that turned badly inwards. And while he hero-worshipped Sir Owain, he also admired Father Janos and fell in love with Eloise at first sight, which he could do nothing to conceal.
Other relationships had begun to form that indicated how the pattern of life was, at last, falling into place. Father Janos, after discovering that he had known Saskia’s father, had found more in common with the down-to-earth Flemish maid than either of them had thought possible, and though they had no physical relationship in mind, the pleasure they derived from each other’s company was obvious to everyone, especially when they spoke Flemish together. It would be a pity indeed if any calamity should bring that to an end.
Then there was Mistress Marie O’Farrell who, contrary to Eloise’s expectations, showed more interest in expressing her gratitude for her deliverance from hard times than in re-establishing contact with the father of her child. ‘No, I thank you,’ she said to Eloise who prepared to ride over to Handes Castle with Sir Owain, ‘I’d be obliged if you would tell Sir Rolph that we’re here, safe and well, and that’s all. It would be far better if we left things like that, especially when Lady Griselle will need his attention more than I do. I’m more content to watch the bloom return to my Christopher’s cheeks and to see him wolf a meal down as he did this morning. I feel I’m doing less than I ought to earn our keep, my lady. This seems too much like heaven to last.’
Eloise had made her an infusion of calendula and chamomile petals for her hands and another of juniper berries and verjuice for Christopher’s head-lice. ‘Marie,’ she said, ‘Saskia is glad to have your help, and so am I. I never thought to have two ladies to wait on me and, in a place this size, there’s far more to be done than there is at Haughton Manor.’
Too much like heaven to last. So, she was not the only one to feel it. At Handes Castle, Eloise imparted no such fears to her mother, only her happiness to have come this close to heaven, which was more than many women did. Feeling like a conspirator, she passed on loving messages from her father and, to her brother, she related how Marie was content to be liberated and well-tended without making any further demands upon him. Which appeared to do little for his sore conscience.
Sir Rolph had recovered well from his injuries and would be returning home to Staffordshire within the next few days. Did Eloise intend to return to Haughton Manor soon?
‘I must, you know,’ she said to Sir Owain as they rode back to Whitecliffe that evening. ‘It’ll be August next week, and nearly Lammas, and so far I’ve sent only messages to Master atte Welle. It’s time I went home.’
‘Home?’ He regarded her from beneath lowered brows.
‘Well, yes. For a few days, at least.’ She smiled, keeping her eyes fixed between the palfrey’s grey ears. She had purposely used her steward’s title rather than his Christian name. ‘Shall you come with me?’
‘I’ll come, my lady, if only to check out this steward of yours who had such high and mighty designs upon my woman. The place will soon belong to me, so I’d better take a look at it, I suppose. Will next week do?’
‘Well enough, sir. But I must insist that you don’t gloat all over the place. I shall have a hard enough job to explain to him what happens next without you looking like the cat that’s swallowed the song-thrush.’
His mouth twitched at the corners. ‘I shall gloat,’ he said, perversely. ‘What else would he expect of me after this performance?’
With Sir Owain to take command, the forthcoming visit to Haughton Manor in Staffordshire would hold none of the problems she had implied, Stephen atte Welle having been well aware of the possible failure of her London mission. He had received her messages with equanimity, having been assured that his position as steward was safe, with or without a wife, and his former master’s relatives who had once tried every device to interfere in Lady Eloise�
��s affairs had now gone quiet at the news of Sir Owain of Whitecliffe’s involvement. In that respect, Eloise’s future had a more settled outlook than ever before.
Meanwhile, Sir Owain took her hawking up beyond the limestone crags where Whitecliffe sprawled against a forested hillside. At times, they went off alone into secluded dells to make love, unable to wait for the night, and Eloise made daisy-chains for his head, and for other parts too, with more joy than either of them had known for years. Watching him practice at the quintain and school his squires in the tiltyard, she discovered that the condemnation she had once voiced so loudly had turned instead to shouts of approval and even unwanted advice which he deliberately took amiss and made her forfeit a kiss when it failed. Never had she been so happy, so proud, so much in love.
Their nights were never long enough, their days too short; any thoughts of losing even the smallest part of this new happiness bringing a steeliness to her heart, a resolve that had been lacking before. Stronger and more confident, less defensive, she began to prepare a place for optimism to grow like a delicate and rare healing herb.
They saw it as little more than an ill-timed interruption to their idyll when, two days before they were due to set out for Staffordshire, a message came from Westminster commanding Sir Owain to attend a special tournament at Smithfield in London.
‘Do you have to go?’ Eloise whispered into his soapy ear as he sat in the wooden bathtub. His hair was damp and smelt of hay.
‘Yes, I do, sweetheart. It’s a contest against his Grace’s prestigious prisoners-of-war. He wants me to lead a team and I cannot refuse. Only a few days, then I’ll be back.’
‘We could go as far as Staffordshire together. It’s on the way.’
He kissed her arms that linked around his shoulders. ‘M-m-m. I’ll come with you as far as your manor and go on to London the next day. How will that do?’
‘Perhaps I should come with you to protect you from all those audacious women.’
‘I only know one audacious woman, and she’s here.’ Inch by inch he hauled her round until she lost her balance and fell sideways on to his lap, still half-dressed, laughing and protesting at the wet.
‘Pliant,’ he chuckled, ‘but not yet obedient. Hold your noise and kiss me, woman!’
The fight that ensued was messy, and weighted heavily against Eloise.
Chapter Ten
Eloise’s marital home at Haughton Manor was small compared to Whitecliffe, a problem which Sir Piers Gerrard had tried to solve by adding extensions, most of which he could not afford. Building work had been suspended, leaving piles of stone, scaffolding, rubble and timber at every corner, much of which had since been stolen by villagers for their own more modest dwellings. The stables where Sir Piers had kept his expensive destriers were now being used as grain stores, and Eloise had made a convenient distillery for her medications in the mews where he had once bred the rarest falcons.
Her three Irish wolfhounds were overjoyed to see their mistress once more; her reception from Master Stephen atte Welle, whilst more restrained, was just as warm. There was no resentment of Sir Owain’s success either, only genuine congratulations, the two men spending much of the day in amicable discussion about the affairs of the manor.
The night before Sir Owain’s departure for London was both passionate and tearful, though even at this stage Eloise could not bring herself to tempt Fate further by telling him of her overpowering love for him. Still fearfully hearing the last whispered warnings of cynicism, she had to agree that that would be foolish indeed.
‘Don’t weep, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not for long. Do you not recall how you wept, only a few weeks ago, when I got too close to you? Eh?’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she croaked. ‘Hurry back to me.’
‘As soon as it’s over. Nothing will keep me there, I promise. And I’ll leave Father Janos with you, if you like. Since you let Father Eamonn go to Lady Griselle, I’d feel happier if you kept Janos here for support.’
‘Thank you, dearest. But won’t you need him?’
‘Not before my return. I shall have nought to confess.’
‘Owain, will you take something with you? To bring good fortune?’
‘If you wish. What is it?’
‘The diamond. Keep it by you and bring it back to me.’
Next morning at dawn, Sir Owain had placed the blue velvet pouch in his luggage, promising to keep it safe and kissing Eloise with a fierceness that lingered on her lips as she watched his departure, waving to the retinue of men, horses and pack-mules until they disappeared into the haze.
With Sir Owain’s departure and the return of Sir Rolph to his nearby home at Coven Hall in Staffordshire, the possibility of Eloise furthering her enquiries about Sir Piers’s death seemed once more to be within her grasp, for now she could visit her brother alone to question him without opposition. But days passed in which there were more attractive tasks needing her attention at Haughton Manor, for the rich summer pickings from the garden and fields would not wait. Soon, all three women were involved from morn till night in the herb-plots and still-room, hanging bundles to dry on the racks above them, decanting rosewater from the glass alembics, filling bottles, jars and boxes with lotions and ointments. The shelves began to fill and, as word got round, a queue of villagers began to wait at her door for her ministrations, as they had done before.
Each night, Eloise half-decided to use the next day for her visit, and each night she fell asleep with the memory of his arms and the opposing half-decision to leave things as they were, in case something should be revealed that would wreck her happiness unnecessarily early. Leave it, he had told her. Enough is enough. He was right.
Others had found fulfilment in the daily tasks at Haughton. Both Marie O’Farrell and Saskia had noticed how young Christopher and Stephen atte Welle had taken to each other like long-lost father and son, both being gentle mannerly souls. Stephen had found a pony of three times the lad’s age, given him some lessons in how to stay in the saddle, and taken him several times to market in the nearby town.
‘Aye,’ Saskia said, pushing down a white sticky mess into a jar with a stick. ‘Master atte Welle’s been eyeing you since you arrived, Marie lass. Did you not know that?’
‘Me? Rubbish! He’d not be—’
‘Yes, he would. He’s a man and he knows how to reach a woman’s heart as well as a woman does a man’s. Different route, same strategy.’
‘Christopher thinks he’s wonderful,’ Marie said, thoughtfully.
‘He’s a good man,’ said Eloise, ‘and you two could run this place between you. Take the chance if it’s offered, Marie. Don’t be too proud.’
‘Christopher needs a father,’ Marie said, ‘otherwise he’ll be a bastard all his life.’
‘And Marie needs a husband,’ said Saskia. ‘Your life has moved on, love. Keep up with it.’ She tied a waxed linen lid over a pot. ‘And pass me those bits of parchment, if you will. This’ll need a label on it.’
Whether it was the talk of the future or whether because she was concerned that her courses had not appeared on time, Eloise could not sleep that night. Dark fears bore down on her, unnamed, irrational, her mind delving into every depressing crevice of her negativity which she thought had been replaced over the last few joyous weeks. She wept, unable to say why, unable to hold herself together. ‘God in heaven,’ she whispered to Saskia, ‘keep him safe. For pity’s sake, keep him safe, for I cannot do without him now.’
‘Oh come, love, that’s foolish talk. There’s no reason to believe that he’s not safe. He’ll be back here by the end of the week, most likely.’
But three days later, that prediction was proved wrong when Father Janos strode across to the still-room in the old mews accompanied by a very breathless and red-faced messenger, one of her father’s men, who looked ready to drop. The priest’s expression was grave. ‘My lady, there’s news from London,’ he said. ‘From Sir Crispin.’
Elois
e was able to remember those words for the rest of her life. And her own that followed. ‘Bad news,’ she whispered. ‘I know it. Don’t tell me.’
‘A stool for my lady,’ Father Janos said to Saskia. ‘Here. Sit down here.’
The messenger leaned against the bench, gulping down the ale that Marie offered him. His clothes and face were streaked with dust from the road.
‘Just tell me, Father,’ Eloise said. ‘It’s Sir Owain, isn’t it? Is he…?’
‘No, he’s not. Sir Owain was still alive when this man left London.’
‘Where? At Cold Harbour?’
‘No, he’s at St Bartholemew’s Hospital. You know, the one at Smithfield on the way to—’
‘Yes, I know the one. But what of his injuries? They’re serious, then?’ She knew that they were, if they had not taken him further than Smithfield itself.
The messenger was clearly upset. ‘Yes, m’lady. At the jousts. A chance blow by one of the Frenchies. He was winning, was Sir Owain, but a blow to his helm, a chance blow…’ he repeated, ‘an accident…and he fell…lost a lot of blood. They carried him off, but…’
‘But what?’
‘But he didn’t wake. They say he’ll not…’ For all his size and strength, the young man held his head in his hands and sobbed. ‘He’ll not…not…’
Cold fear flooded over Eloise. ‘When was this?’ she snapped.
‘Three days,’ the messenger gasped. ‘I came straight from Smithfield. Sir Crispin sent me with two others. Michael his squire is with him. The brothers are tending him. They say he cannot be moved. Gave him the last rites—’
‘That’s enough!’ Father Janos said, firmly. ‘Mistress O’Farrell, would you take the messengers into the hall and tend them? Thank you.’ He turned back to Eloise. ‘We must decide what’s to be done. I can go immediately.’
‘I shall go,’ Eloise said. ‘You, me and Saskia. We shall get him out of there and take him home.’
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