The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  Troye felt colour flare beneath the dark hue of his tan, but even as Rupert looked at him questioningly he turned to the two guards who had entered the room, and jerked his head towards the door. ‘Take him outside. Mayhap a breath of fresh air will convince him to tell the truth.’

  A few sniggered, the implication being that the guards were to use a little more force than fresh air to convince von Eckhart. As he was dragged away, shouting his protests and claims of no wrongdoing, Troye turned his attention to Eleanor and spoke to her gently. ‘Do not be afraid. Tell me what has happened here.’

  Eleanor sniffed and wiped her nose and eyes with the back of her hand, but with so many people in the room, all of them men and eyeing her agog, she floundered and could not speak. She met Troye’s eyes and the truth passed between them. They both knew that she had indeed behaved in an unladylike way this evening, and that he had responded in a manner most unlike a gentleman. But she could no more admit to the truth than he, and yet von Eckhart’s version of events could not be allowed to stand.

  While she thought furiously about what to say, the moment was only made worse by the entrance of her father. Lord Henry demanded to know what on earth was going on, and at the deafening silence that met his enquiry his all-too fragile hold upon his temper eluded his grasp. He exploded and his shouts were deafening as he grabbed hold of Eleanor by the arm and shook her soundly.

  Both Rupert and Troye tried to intervene, and it took several bystanders to assist them in calming Lord Henry down and persuading him that it would not help matters for him to lose his temper.

  Lord Henry clucked his tongue with frustration and rage, glaring at Eleanor. ‘What is to be done with the girl?’ he demanded, rolling his eyes around the company. ‘Tell me, heh? Who amongst you has such a wilful, obstinate, wanton little chit for a daughter?’

  There was an awkward silence, and then old Lord Charteris murmured, ‘Well, my Maud was a bit of a goer in her day.’

  As he hoped, his comment evinced amused chuckles, breaking the atmosphere and reducing Lord Henry’s mood from rage to a slightly lesser degree of severe annoyance.

  ‘My advice, Hal, is to take her to the King. Let him decide what’s to be done. No doubt von Eckhart will make up a pack of lies to suit, but there is some question about what she’s been up to with de Valois. By gad, we’ve not had a mortal combat for ages! Just the thing to settle the matter of who gets the wench.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about who wants her, the problem is who should get her!’

  ‘Enough.’ Lord Henry glared at the speaker of this impertinent piece of advice, and with a sigh he agreed. ‘’Tis a matter for the king to settle.’

  King Edward strode into the antechamber adjoining his personal suite, his noble, well-worn face set in a grim mask. He had retired early from the revelries, weary at heart, and took a dim view of being interrupted in his preparations for bed. But when his secretary had told him the nature of the brouhaha and knowing well Lord Henry’s hot temper, he deemed it best to deal with the matter at once, before Lord Henry started stretching necks from the nearest oak tree. Hurriedly he had dressed in a richly embroidered brocade robe over his hose, nightshirt and slippers. Now he refused the offer of both a chair and a glass of wine as he turned at once amongst the bowing courtiers to survey the perpetrators of his displeasure. He cast his glance over the young Eleanor of Ashton as she stood with eyes downcast beside her father, Lord Henry. Separated by members of his guard stood Casper von Eckhart, known as the Hun. He could well see why this unflattering appellation was afforded the young man, his square, belligerent face, cold blue eyes and brutish behaviour affording him little sympathy.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded, in his usual, brusque, soldier’s manner.

  Lord Henry bowed, one hand fastened on the hilt of his sword, the other clenched into a tight fist. ‘Your Majesty, this young man—’ he indicated von Eckhart with one hand, unable to bring himself to even utter the cur’s name ‘—has forced his attentions upon my daughter, Eleanor.’

  At this von Eckhart sniggered and shook his head, as though the tale was a likely one. He was elbowed into silence.

  ‘Further, your Majesty, I would have it known that von Eckhart made an offer of marriage for my daughter some weeks ago, an offer that I refused. I therefore deem him to be a danger not only to my daughter and my family, but to every other young English maiden and he should be refused the hospitality of England’s most gracious court.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The King peered at von Eckhart, stroking his beard, recalling similar stories from other outraged fathers. But he must tread warily, for he had need of German mercenaries and could not afford to offend that nation at any cost. ‘What have you to say for yourself, von Eckhart?’

  The Hun shrugged, his mouth drawn down in a mocking line as he rolled his eyes, ‘She made herself available. What red-blooded male would refuse such a pretty little thing? But I am willing to do the honourable thing and marry her.’

  Lord Henry, Rupert and several others made snorts of disbelief and ridicule at this outrageous statement, and Eleanor looked up with a glimmer of fear in her eyes that did not go unnoticed by the King. Von Eckhart was eager to press his claim and, to his folly, he shouted, ‘I was not the only one.’ He pointed an accusing finger at Troye de Valois. ‘Earlier in the evening I spied her with him, in the rose garden, kissing and letting him touch her all over!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Lord Henry.

  Rupert hotly retorted, ‘You are a liar, von Eckhart!’

  ‘“Spied” being the operative word,’ pointed out Lord Deverell, one of the King’s confidantes. ‘The fellow is a knave and should have his backside kicked out of London once and for all.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  The King lifted his hand, calling for silence, and his wishes were immediately obeyed. He looked at the guilty parties one by one, then spoke in a quiet voice. ‘Eleanor, what have you to say? Were you in the rose garden with Sir Troye?’

  Eleanor felt her neck and face glow hotly and heard the intake of breath from her father as her blush damned her to the truth. With eyes downcast, she nodded her head, and then, looking up swiftly at Troye, pleading with her eyes for him to agree with her story, she defended them both. ‘But nothing happened, sire. We are old acquaintances and merely passed a moment or two in greeting.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Edward restrained a smile for her courage in daring to lie to the King of England. He had no doubt, from the looks that passed between Eleanor and Troye, that they were more than ‘old acquaintances’. Such daring could only spring from love. After a moment of thought, he announced, ‘I will sleep upon this and in the morn my ruling will be made known. In the meantime, get you all to bed—the hour is late and enough excitement has been had by all. Except for him…’ he pointed at von Eckhart. ‘Get him to the Tower.’

  Chapter Six

  E leanor spent an anxious and sleepless night, as did many others. After the escapades of the evening and the scolding from her father still ringing in her ears it was a relief, at last, to fall into bed and bury herself beneath the covers. She could not sleep, though, with all the thoughts that ran in circles through her mind.

  The King would issue his decree on the morrow and she wondered with some apprehension about his judgement. Surely he would not believe a word that Casper von Eckhart had uttered? Her father had muttered darkly that the King would have no desire to upset the Germans. Indeed, he was eager to forge alliances with them, and he glared at Eleanor as he warned her that she had no one to blame except herself if she did end up being married off to the Hun. She shuddered at the thought of having to spend the rest of her life owned by such a man. She would rather die first!

  And then her thoughts moved on to the conversation she had overheard between her parents. What did it mean? How could it possibly be true that her father was not her father? For a moment she doubted her own senses, that mayhap she had misheard, but as she remembered the name Richard Blackthorn, an
d her mother’s words regarding him, she had no doubt that it was true. What did it matter? she asked herself, she had never known him and never would, if he had been dead all these years before she was even born. As far as Eleanor was concerned, Lord Henry was her father and she had too many other things to be concerned about to let this matter push itself to the fore of her bewildered mind.

  Flooding every single thought and feeling and action of her mind and body was the remembrance of the moments she had spent with Troye, in the rose garden. The feel of his mouth and his body on hers. She could think of nothing else, for such sweet pleasure as she had felt in those brief moments had been everything that she had ever yearned for. And yet…not enough. She sensed that what she had experienced with Troye was only a taste of the delights that they could share, that there was more, more soft and sweet and satisfying than honey.

  Hours later, at last, she fell into an uneasy, dream-muddled sleep.

  When she awoke in the morning it was with a feeling of nervous anticipation. She dressed slowly, taking her time, and was anxious about greeting her parents on this morn. But when she went out into the ante-chamber only her mother sat at the table, staring blankly at the window and the framed picture of the Thames and London town beyond.

  ‘Good morning, Mother,’ Eleanor murmured as she sat down.

  Joanna looked up from her reverie, and then smiled gently as she reached out and placed her hand on Eleanor’s wrist, ‘Good morning, my dearest child.’

  In silence they waited while the maid set out on the table fresh baked bread and conserves, a dish of sliced cold ham and a jug of milk. They helped themselves and it weighed heavily on Eleanor to see her mother, usually so animated and full of the joys of life, this morn so downcast.

  ‘Mother—’ Eleanor swallowed her bread and strawberry jam, and sought to clear the doubts and anxiety that clouded the air between them, but her voice croaked on uncertainty. After taking a gulp of milk, she tried again. ‘Mother, last night—’ She looked at her mother’s face, to gauge her reaction, but she seemed unperturbed. ‘I—I overheard…you and Father were talking…is it true?’

  Joanna turned to stare at Eleanor then, the colour ebbing from her face, aware that the moment of truth that she had sought these many years to avoid was upon her. But still she tried to avoid it, and feigned a puzzled frown.

  Eleanor rushed on with impulsive boldness, ‘Is it true that Sir Richard Blackthorn is my father? Mine and Rupert’s?’

  Joanna looked away, her glance falling down to the table. For a moment she thought of a number of lies that could, or would, maintain the charade her children had lived with all their lives, and then suddenly it seemed pointless, and such a relief to be free of the burden. She nodded, slowly, and then turned quickly to Eleanor and clasped her hand within both of hers. ‘It is true, my dearest, but it makes no difference. I was very young when I married Sir Richard, and he was killed in battle when you were both still babes. To all intents and purposes your father, Lord Henry, is indeed your father, for he has raised you and loved you all these years.’

  Eleanor was unable to speak for several moments, for the magnitude of this revelation was too great for her to comprehend. Yet her curiosity would not be stilled. ‘Who was he? What was he like? Where did he come from?’

  Here Joanna baulked, for she would always protect her children from knowing that their father was a wastrel and a knave. He had left her penniless and broken in both spirit and heart, until Lord Henry had rescued her from the ruins of her widowhood and shown her the true meaning of love. Carefully, she fabricated together bits of the truth, to make a whole, ‘He was a knight in service to your grandparents, Lord Robert and Lady Margaret. His family home was in Kent, I do believe, a small village outside Canterbury called Long Howden. He said the mansion house of his mother, long since widowed, was called Peppermint Place.’ She laughed slightly, ironically. ‘A fanciful name if ever there was one, and we never went to visit. I never met his family, for we were married only a few years. So you see, my dear, you must not dwell on it.’

  Eleanor looked at her, seeing her mother in a different light, and feeling as though her childhood had slipped away from her for ever. Now she must be an adult in an adult world—a world full of lies and deceit and violent passions.

  Joanna, aware that her husband would soon return from his visit to Rupert in the guardroom, stroked Eleanor’s forearm gently, ‘We will not speak of this again.’

  ‘Does Rupert know?’

  ‘I will tell him.’

  ‘Do you promise, Mother?’ Eleanor insisted. ‘It is not right that I should know the truth and he not.’

  Her mother nodded, ‘I will speak to him as soon as may be. Now…’ Joanna rose from the table, brushing crumbs from her skirt ‘…let us go to the chapel. It will do us good to spend some time in prayer.’

  Together they went to the chapel and prayed after the early morning mass. Eleanor’s prayers were a disordered confusion of pleas and bargaining, promising God her complete faithfulness and devotion, if only He would save her from a life of misery. The door to the chapel creaked open and a pageboy came running to them, soundless on his little slippered feet. He leaned beside Lady Joanna and whispered in her ear. With a wordless glance at Eleanor she beckoned and Eleanor rose from her knees and fell into step with her mother as they returned to their apartment.

  Lord Henry stood beside an ornate table placed near the window and the light glowing through the panes. On the table was a skein of scarlet ribbon, untied and discarded from the parchment he held in one hand. He turned and glanced at his wife and Eleanor as they came into the room, his face set in a grim line. They both stopped and looked at him, expectant, anxious for the news.

  ‘Now, Eleanor—’ Lord Henry’s voice was firm yet gentle ‘—this may come as a surprise to you—it certainly has to me! But I want you to remember that the King has your best interests at heart; indeed, for both of you—’

  Eleanor felt her heart jump and her breath catch on a little quiver of alarm. ‘Father—’

  ‘I know he must seem very much older to you, but his experience and maturity is to be valued—’

  ‘Hal!’ exclaimed Joanna, goaded beyond her patience. ‘For God’s sake, put us out of our misery! Is it the King? Is Eleanor to marry the King?’ When he shook his head Lady Joanna clenched her fist and pressed it to her drumming heart. ‘Dear God in heaven, never say that he has chosen that vile German creature—’

  ‘Father!’

  Seeing her tension and her fear, Lord Henry hastened to make known the truth, ‘Nay. Eleanor is to marry Troye de Valois.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Lady Joanna, a sudden frown creasing her brow, but her consternation was drowned out by Eleanor’s shriek.

  She grabbed hold of her mother by the waist and swung her in a giddy circle, then rushed to her father and flung her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. Her elation and glee burst from her in little whoops of joy as she sang and danced around the room, the servants peeking in from the doorway to see what all the fuss was about.

  Her parents stood there and watched, silent, amazed and utterly dumbfounded.

  News of the King’s decision soon swept through the palace. By late afternoon all of Westminster had heard the news. Lord Henry sent a summons to his prospective son-in-law to attend him in their private apartments. He also invited several friends—the Earl of Fairfax and Lord Charteris—as well as a bishop or two. He was determined to see the betrothal properly done, and, mindful of his daughter’s wilful nature, deemed that a swift response to the King’s order imperative.

  Eleanor rushed to her chamber, summoning her maid, and made haste to dress in her best gown of ruby-red fustian, fastened with gold ribbons and girdle to match, her veil of the finest gossamer silk and crowned with her favourite gold circlet. Her hair gleamed like chestnuts, rippling loose and molten down her back. Her mother assured her that she looked very beautiful and it was with confidence that she stepped into
the crowded antechamber on her father’s arm, and looked up demurely at Troye de Valois.

  He had not changed his dress and wore his soldier’s doublet and breeches, his only concession to the occasion being that he had unlatched his sword. As she approached he looked at her, but there seemed to be no expression in his eyes or on his face. The steady thump of her heart turned to sudden little skips and she lowered her eyes in nervous confusion.

  The Bishop performed the ritual of betrothal and confirmed to Lord Henry that the banns would be read for the first time this Sunday. Then they would be read for a further two more Sundays, and on the Monday following they would be married, here at Westminster. The documents were signed and the occasion celebrated with wine and cakes, the noise rising as guests chattered. The King called in and offered his hand to be kissed by both of the affianced. Eleanor curtsied deeply, and Troye bowed, each of them with fixed smiles upon their faces as the King made no bones about telling them how pleased he was with the union and that he considered it to be a good match.

  Eleanor blushed, and tried to catch Troye’s eye, but he was quickly snaffled by kindred knights eager to offer their congratulations. She kept glancing over her shoulder, hoping to gain his attention, frustrated by all the fussing of the ladies of the court as they gleefully made it their concern to advise her on all aspects of her forthcoming wedding.

  All morning she hoped for a private moment, that Troye would endeavour to take her by the hand and slip away to some quiet corner. Of course, she did not expect instant adoration, but she would at least know that Troye was not unhappy about their betrothal. She must be patient, Eleanor reminded herself, all good things come to those who wait.

  Troye did not stay long and returned to the armoury, many murmuring at what a fine fellow he was, so dedicated to his duty as an officer in the King’s Own Guard. They congratulated Eleanor and it was some salve to her pride that Troye was so highly regarded. She could not be wrong about him, surely? Patience was a virtue, and though she felt that she had been more patient than any human being on earth over all these years of waiting, she bit her tongue and smiled, determined to summon the strength to be virtuous for a while longer.