The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  As though from afar she felt Rupert’s hand beneath her elbow, guiding her, supporting, and he must have heard her swift intake of breath, seen the expression on her face as she turned to him, her eyes wide as she lifted her gaze to his.

  ‘I—I did not know,’ she stammered, suddenly feeling her cheeks and neck flare with the rush of hot colour and emotion that poured in a torrent through her, ‘that he would be here…I thought—’ She did not know what thoughts she’d had about Troye, for while she had never forgotten him she had tried not to remember.

  Rupert hurried her along now, moving swiftly towards the privacy of the Raven chambers. As soon as the door closed he turned to her and said, ‘I tried to tell you, earlier, to warn you, that Troye had returned to court.’

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘A year?’ Her head jerked up and she stared at him. ‘Why did you not write and tell me?’

  ‘Because…’ Rupert hesitated, anxious not to hurt his sister and yet mindful of the fact that she must face up to the truth ‘…because I feared that if I did you would not come to London.’

  ‘But why did you not write a year ago and tell me he was here? Tell me that he was well and healed from his injuries?’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, his gaze direct and his voice firm, yet soft. ‘Surely you harbour no feelings for him after all this time?’

  Eleanor looked away, her fingers laced tightly together, suddenly feeling exhausted. She steeled herself and asked a question, the answer to which she dreaded, ‘And his wife? Is she here too?’

  Abruptly Rupert took two steps towards her and gripped her arms with both hands, staring at her keenly. ‘Eleanor, do you not know?’

  Alarmed at his reaction, she looked up at him with a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His wife—she died. Two years ago. I wrote and told Mother. She wrote back and said that I was never to mention it to you. But I assumed that you had at least been informed.’

  Suddenly it all became clear to Eleanor. The need deep within her, the patient and yet inexplicable insistence from her heart that she wait. And now, surely, at last the waiting was over. She struggled to free herself from Rupert’s grasp and ran to the door, her skirts indeed billowing in her haste. She wrenched the door open, uncertain of where to go or what she would say, but her only purpose now was to find Troye and speak with him.

  ‘Eleanor!’ Rupert called out to her, running hard on her heels.

  She took no heed, her feet drumming, her heart pounding as she ran down the corridor. But Rupert, taller and faster than his slender sister, caught up with her in a few moments and stopped her headlong flight with one arm about her waist. She cried out and struggled and fought against him, but firmly he dragged her back to her chamber and shut the door. Incoherently she shouted at him and tried to reach for the door handle and pull it open, but he blocked her path, grabbed hold of her by both shoulders and shook her until she was forced to yield.

  ‘Stop! It will do you no good, Ellie. He is just as far beyond your reach now as he ever was years ago.’

  Eleanor sagged, her chin dropping upon her chest as warm, wet tears glowed in her eyes. ‘I would only speak with him. Comfort him.’

  ‘It would make no difference what you say or do.’ He held her as she leaned against his chest, patting her back as he would a child, and felt how slender she had become, how frail, ‘His wife’s death destroyed him. I am certain he will never love anyone again. Forget about him, Ellie, it will do you no good to yearn for him.’

  Eleanor wept then, not for herself, not for a love that could never be, but for the wife that had been lost, and for Troye. She felt his pain and the moment it entered her heart she knew that she had never stopped loving him and she could never abandon that love again.

  Rupert held her while she sobbed, and then gently wiped her face with his thumbs and murmured words of comfort and encouragement. She tried to absorb them, but the truth was they did not touch nor sway her, and when Rupert, with regret, departed to return to his duties, she sat in a chair beside the glowing hearth fire and stared blankly. She was still sitting thus when her parents returned, but she merely hid behind the excuses of headache and exhaustion. Her mother looked at her for a long moment, always able to detect the slightest falsehood, but whether she was aware or guessed at what ailed Eleanor, she made no comment and kissed her goodnight, withdrawing as Lord Henry impatiently called his wife to their bedchamber.

  Eleanor allowed the little maid to unlace her gown and dress her in a clean nightshift warmed with a hot iron. But when she made a move to brush Eleanor’s hair she dismissed the maid and took the brush herself and climbed into bed. It soothed her spirit to stroke the swathes of hair. She lay awake for long hours and eventually fell asleep as the night-watchman passed along the embankment, swinging his lantern and calling out that all was well at midnight. As her eyelids drooped and dark lethargy dragged her down into the depths of sleep she resolved to heed her brother’s words of advice and forget all about Troye de Valois.

  In the morning, when Eleanor awoke and the little maid tugged back the heavy brocade curtains at the window, bright sunshine poured through the window panes and bounced shafts of white light off the gleaming floorboards. Eleanor sat up, blinking and stretching, looking at the bluest of clear blue skies, and her heart soared. All her intentions of the night before vanished, and she knew that she had to seek out Troye and speak with him as soon as possible.

  With this ambition in mind, she wrote out a note and asked the maid to deliver it to the quarters of the King’s Own. The maid was reluctant, but with the promise of a mark she hurried away to do as her mistress bid. Eleanor broke her fast on the curd tarts and warm milk the maid had left on a tray, and eagerly went to find her most becoming gown. She must look her best when Troye came to see her. She waited impatiently for the maid to return, and as time passed and her mother came in, greeting her good morn, urging her to dress if they were to visit London town and the markets before the lovely weather had waned, Eleanor began to chafe at the delay. It boded no good if the maid was taking so long to deliver her message to Troye, and receive his reply.

  When she thought she could no longer hold off her mother’s impatient nagging, at last the little maid returned. She whispered to Eleanor that the message had been delivered, but though she waited, no reply had been returned. Eleanor felt a blush stain her cheeks, vexed and embarrassed and puzzled all at the same time. Clearly, Troye had no wish to speak to her. But why? What harm would it do him to exchange a few words with her? Eleanor thanked the maid and gave her the promised coin, and then set about dressing and making herself presentable for the outing to the attractions of London town. Just as they departed, she murmured to the little maid that later she should go again to the soldiers’ quarters and wait for an answer, but she impressed upon the quivering servant that by no means was her brother Rupert to know or interfere with her task. The maid looked doubtful and Eleanor faltered and wondered about the wisdom of her quest, but still, she could not turn her back on the path that for so long she had been set upon.

  It was a tedious day that she endured, and she barely noticed the markets and streets, the sounds and smells that her parents found so fascinating. All she longed for was to return to the Palace and to rush to the little maid to hear when Troye would come to her. This she did as soon as she set foot in her chamber, but, sorrowfully, the maid shook her head. Again, no reply had been forthcoming from Troye.

  Eleanor felt her heart ache at this cruel rejection. She tried to put the matter in perspective—after all, it had been years since they last met and mayhap he had no idea who it was that wanted to speak with him. Or, she hastened to convince herself, Troye was mindful of her reputation and would not compromise her with a secret assignation. Aye, that was it, Eleanor smiled to herself, determined to believe that Troye was only doing what was honourable and best.

  That evening they were to attend a banquet i
n the great hall and she would be presented to the King. Eleanor resolved to keep her eyes open for Troye and somehow find a moment to have a word with him. At her mother’s urging she lay down to rest that afternoon and fell asleep with thoughts of finding just the right words and smiles and looks to approach Troye with. When she awoke the sun was setting in a blaze of apricot, pink clouds streaking across the sky. She roused herself from the warm quiet of slumber and chose a gown of midnight-blue that showed off her graceful curves and pale skin, a dark background for her auburn hair. About her neck she fastened one of her mother’s gleaming gold-and-diamond necklets, which accentuated her slender throat and the fact that she was a woman full grown and no longer an adolescent girl. She felt confident that tonight her life would change, for the better: all that had once been lost would now be found.

  Chapter Five

  S ince the death of his beloved queen, Eleanor of Castile, nine years ago, King Edward had morosely plodded on with dogged determination, concentrating his attention on making war with his neighbours in Scotland and Gascony. Now, as spring blossomed, it was rumoured that he had the urge to take another wife, the pleasures and the comforts of marriage being hard to resist for a man of his nature.

  There were dozens of eligible ladies present this evening, under the watchful custody of their conniving relatives, as well as several foreign emissaries bearing portraits, all hopeful of making the most illustrious match in Europe.

  The vast array of richly dressed ladies and gentlemen were quite a sight to behold. On the arm of her brother Eleanor stepped into the hall, following in the wake of their parents. The King sat upon an ornate chair on a purple-carpeted dais raised several steps high so that he might have a clear view as he looked down upon the crowd. Beside him his son, the young Prince Edward of Wales, a youth of but fifteen years, also sat, looking bored and embarrassed. Compared to his father, the prince held little in looks, nor the sturdy frame, to be a warrior—facts that were duly noted by his warlike sire, who did little to disguise his contempt for the boy.

  Eleanor accepted a cup of elderberry punch from a servant and cast her eyes about in search of Troye. It was so crowded that she could see little except the people surrounding her. It was not long before a court official came to her father and whispered in his ear. With interest she watched as her father listened intently, and then darted a glance in her direction. Eleanor straightened and watched as her father came to her side, together with the courtier and her mother.

  ‘You have been summoned to meet the King.’

  Obediently she fell into step between her parents as they followed the King’s messenger, and made their way through the crush of revellers to the dais at the far end of the hall.

  Following her mother’s example, Eleanor sank into a deep curtsy, her head bowed. Then they rose and she looked up cautiously, her thoughts stilled for the moment as she tried to summon the necessary emotions of awe and respect that she should have for her sovereign. He seemed very old to her, his hair snow white, although he was a big man, almost as big as her uncle, with long arms and legs. She did not like the way he perused her, with a sharp, assessing eye that roved over her as though he were studying the finer points of a horse. He did not meet her glance, nor speak to her, and then he turned to his son, leaning towards him as he whispered in the prince’s ear. The boy looked at her with a fierce blush on his cheeks and Eleanor wondered what comment his father had made to cause such a reaction.

  Her eyes wandered then, and noticed the knights that stood to attention behind and beside the King. They wore armour; once upon a time this would have been an unusual sight in a hall enjoying a banquet, but the continued attempts upon the King’s life had left no one in doubt that all measures would be taken to protect him, even from his own subjects. Eleanor counted eight knights in all, four ranged on either side of the dais. They were identically and smartly dressed in scarlet tunics and blue breeches, mail vests and belted swords. They stood very still, except for their eyes, which moved with quiet intent constantly, searching the crowd, looking for any sudden or unusual movement or appearance. Her own glance moved from face to face and noted that some of them were quite handsome, and then her heart drummed in her chest and she caught her breath on a ragged gasp, as her eyes met those of Troye de Valois.

  He eyed her impassively, with not the slightest spark of recognition or emotion. Knowing of the messages that she had sent him, she felt a blush flare on her cheeks. She stared at him, and wished that he would look at her, notice her, and it irked her that he seemed impervious to her presence. The night before she’d had barely a moment to look at him as they passed in the corridor, but tonight she had longer and it came again as a shock to see how he had aged. The light had gone from his eyes and though he was, and always had been, a good fifteen years older than she, he had never seemed like a man of mature years. Yet his silvered hair only made him more attractive to her, his lean, rugged face a portrait of the hardships he had suffered and yet would not reveal. She longed to reach out to him, to call his name, to touch his elbow, and whisper, ‘I am here, I would listen, and upon my breast you may weep.’ But, of course, she could do no such thing and she must remain as mute and remote as he.

  Suddenly she became aware that her mother was tugging at her elbow. With a flick of his fingers the King had dismissed them, muttering to a confidant that one Eleanor in his lifetime was surely enough, and they were walking backwards, away from the royal presence. Well, thought Eleanor with sharp indignation, she would be slow to forget such a humiliating experience! It was with relief that she returned with her parents to the far end of the hall, where their friends waited, idly conversing with their neighbours as they watched the antics of a younger generation, whirling about in a carol.

  Rupert confessed he was famished and together they wandered off in search of food. They found tables in a side chamber set with piles of roasted fowl and venison and boiled fish, pies and cheeses, as well as jellies and meringues and cakes to tempt the poorest of appetites. They returned to the hall with hands full and Eleanor stood with a roasted chicken leg in one hand and a cup of punch in the other. Uneasily she noticed the glances that came her way and leaned towards her father to whisper, ‘Why are people staring? Do I have something stuck between my teeth? Or is my veil all askew?’

  Lord Henry chewed on his hunk of venison, as he cast an eye over Eleanor in careful perusal, then he shook his head. ‘I see naught amiss.’

  He turned to look about the hall, taking note of the men who eyed Eleanor, some quite obvious in their interest, others a little more discreet and courteous. Over there stood Taddeo Visconti, the Italian nobleman from Florence, his eyes beneath shaggy brows dark and brooding. And beyond there was Neville Talbot. Against the wood panelling of the hall lounged Casper von Eckhart, with shaved blond head and icy blue eyes scrutinising Eleanor with a salacious look he greatly misliked. It dawned on him swiftly that these were all the fellows who had offered for Eleanor’s hand, and he thought it best to make Eleanor aware of it.

  Quietly, discreetly, he pointed out and named each one in turn, so that she would be on her guard. Eleanor was stunned, but wisely made no show of her feelings. This was why she had been brought to London, but the vague idea of marriage to some unknown gentleman and being confronted with the reality were two different things. She did not know what to think or how to react. Eleanor suddenly set aside her refreshments and grabbed her brother by his arm.

  ‘Let us dance, Rupert,’ she urged, ‘let us enjoy our evening and not be glum.’

  He smiled, eager to encourage this change of mood in his younger sister. For too long now the cares and woes of his soldier’s life had been a burden upon his shoulders, broad and strong as they were, and he welcomed the light relief.

  They joined a group of couples dancing a jig and gave themselves up to the music. Eleanor could not resist looking to see if Troye watched them, but he was soon lost to her view as she and Rupert moved further down the room. Her re
solve was hindered by her emotions and while one moment she determined to put her feelings for Troye aside and enjoy the present company, the next she was unnerved by the attentions of the many young gentlemen who would pay her favour. She tried her best to give them due regard but again, as always, they could not hold her attention and it wandered towards the one who would always draw her, like a flower to sunlight—Troye de Valois.

  He had left the King’s dais and stood with elbows akimbo in conversation with another knight. She could bear it no longer; as soon as the dance ended she resolved to speak with Troye. She cornered a young pageboy and whispered a message in his ear, asking Troye to meet her in the rose garden as soon as ever possible.

  It was not easy slipping away from the watchful eyes of her family, but she did so while Rupert was dancing with a pretty, fair-haired young girl whose blue eyes and shy smile disarmed him, and her parents had wandered away to pick on the fine fare laid out on trestle tables.

  Her slippered feet tapped softly on the flagstones of the corridor as she ran, her gown clutched in both hands to free her ankles from the clinging folds of midnight-blue velvet. Glowing torches flickered amber light, in between dark pools, along the length of the corridor, until at last she came to the open door that led out into the courtyard that was grassed and set with lush beds of crimson and pink roses. On this moonlit spring evening the sweet and heady scent greeted Eleanor as she stepped down on to the grass, looking about her into the long shadows, wondering if Troye had received her message, if he would come, what she would say…