They were to remain at court until the wedding day. Lord Henry chafed somewhat, reluctant to waste time kicking his heels in London, but it made no sense to journey four days homewards to Castle Ashton, only to pack and return shortly thereafter. He made best use of the time as he could, seeing to the purchase of new weapons and horses after the depletions of recent campaigns with the King to secure Wales. Lady Joanna decided that Eleanor had to have a new wardrobe, as befitted a married woman, and set about purchasing fabrics, all manner of haberdashery and employing seamstresses. There were a few occasions when the family met and all four went out on some jaunt, taking advantage of the fact that Rupert was close by so that they could all be together. Troye was invited to accompany them on a picnic aboard a barge on the Thames, but he declined, claiming his duties forced him to stay within the walls of the palace. Lord Henry promptly insisted that Troye attend them for dinner that evening and he duly arrived.
A table was set in the ante-room and food ordered from the kitchens. Rupert was on duty and unable to attend after his day out with them on the river, so Eleanor sat beside Troye and her parents sat opposite them across the table. She felt strangely awkward, and not all real, as though she moved through a dream, hardly able to believe that Troye was actually sitting next to her. She had no idea what to say to him and left it to her parents to direct the conversation, although she scarce absorbed a word and could only listen to the entrancing tone of his masculine voice.
They discovered that his home was far to the north in York. His mother was a lady from a good family in Luxembourg that ran a thriving wool import-and-export business. Troye’s father, recently deceased, had been a titled gentleman, there was a manor house and some land, his parents had taken over the wool business and expanded it from York, but Troye was at pains to stress that he was not a wealthy man. There was an awkward moment or two, in which Lord Henry smoothly assured Troye that Eleanor would not come to him empty-handed. Eleanor felt a red-hot blush flare over her cheeks and neck, both angry and resentful at being discussed like she was a chattel of some kind, and mortified that Troye’s only interest in her seemed to be financial.
At the end of the meal her parents deliberately found an excuse to leave the room briefly, leaving Troye alone with Eleanor for a few moments. She stood beside the open window, gazing out at the glowing amber and pink clouds streaking the evening sky, a soft breeze cool as it wafted across the lawns from the river. Despite being sure that the golden light and the breeze were flattering to her, Troye made no move to take advantage of their solitude. He stood on the far side of the room, one arm raised as he leaned against the fire hearth and stared down at his boots with great fascination.
Eleanor sighed, and resisted the temptation to call out, to draw his attention, for that would not be ladylike. She glanced over her shoulder again, and this time their eyes met as she discovered that he was looking at her, with an almost puzzled expression upon his face. She smiled tentatively, and he smiled gently in return, but before she could encourage him to speak her mother returned, bearing a tray of chilled mead and fresh spiced fruit cakes. Troye declined both, however, thanked them for the meal, glanced briefly at Eleanor and announced that he must depart and inspect the change of guard.
‘Well, it’s been very good to spend some time with you, Sir Troye,’ said Lady Joanna as she set her tray down and she offered her cheek for Troye to kiss in farewell, ‘and we look forward to meeting your mother when she attends for the wedding.’
‘Alas,’ apologised Troye, ‘my mother lives too far away to make such a journey. But I will send a messenger with word of the marriage.’ He came then to Eleanor and kissed the finger of her left hand that he had set his ring upon, bowed to her father and then departed.
As the door closed and the footfalls of Troye’s boots faded down the corridor, Lady Joanna sighed. ‘That man is certainly very pleasant. What a lucky girl you are, Eleanor!’
‘Indeed.’ Lord Henry sighed, with a doubtful note in his voice. ‘He was not terribly forthcoming about his family circumstances. And York is not too great a distance for his mother to make the journey to attend such an important occasion as her son’s wedding, surely? Mayhap it has something to do with the fact that he’s been married before. I was hoping that he would set our minds to rest regarding his first wife.’
‘Father!’ exclaimed Eleanor, her heart giving a sudden lurch of anger and alarm. ‘Don’t you ever dare to ask him such a thing. It is none of our business, surely?’
Her parents exchanged a glance, and murmured soothing sounds of agreement, although in the privacy of their chamber they discussed the matter in whispers, both anxious that Troye’s first marriage would become a hindrance to his second, and a source of pain to Eleanor. Clearly it was not a matter that she wished to face and for now they were content to sweep it under the carpet. It seemed there was little else they could do, without causing offence to both Eleanor and their son-to-be.
A few days before her wedding her aunt Lady Beatrice arrived, accompanied, of course, by her husband Sir Remy and baby son Tristan. Eleanor was surprised and delighted, embracing them and laughing her joy as they all met together in a house just inside the West Gate that Sir Remy had rented for the occasion.
‘We only just received the news and came at once.’ Lady Beatrice smiled, hugging her niece fondly, laughing as Eleanor exclaimed again how she could hardly believe they were here. ‘Do you think I would miss my only niece’s wedding?’
‘Well…’ Eleanor shrugged, looking at the baby ‘…I didn’t think you or Tristan would be able to make such a long journey.’
Lady Beatrice laughed. ‘Well, we did! Now, then, what are you going to wear on your wedding day?’
Lord Henry and Sir Remy grinned at each other and left the ladies to their dilemmas while they went outside and discussed more manly matters. As the light faded, Lord Henry gathered up his womenfolk, anxious to return to the Palace before nightfall and the dangers of London streets were upon them. Eleanor was reluctant to leave her Aunt Beatrice, for oftentimes they had been closer than Eleanor was to her own mother, but Beatrice promised that they would be at the Palace of Westminster bright and early on the morrow, and they would accompany them to church. It was the final Sunday for the banns to be read and then preparations would go ahead with all speed for the wedding ceremony on Monday morning.
Eleanor had not seen or spoken to Troye for nearly a week. She accepted that his duties kept him very busy, and if truth be known she was a little anxious about spending too much time with him before they were married, afraid that she would be rash and say or do something that would discourage him. She had strange dreams at night, in which she ran through swirling mists trying to find the door to the chapel, knowing that she was late for her own wedding and unable to find her way. Over and over she had this dream, and she would wake sweating and with a stifled gasp of fear. Eleanor realised that she wanted to be Troye’s wife so much that she feared that even the smallest hindrance might prevent it. Please God, she prayed, please let nothing stand in our way. She had no other thought, except to make it to the altar and that Troye would be standing there, waiting for her.
At last, the great day dawned. She rose early and ran to the window, pulling open the heavy brocade curtains. It was a grey, dismal day that greeted her eyes, and she peered up at the sky anxiously, hoping to see some glimmer of light. Instead, a fine drizzle of rain misted the glass panes and Eleanor sighed, swallowing her disappointment. No matter, she told herself firmly, the sun might shine later. She crossed the room to the oak coffer where her wedding gown was laid out, ready and waiting. She ran her fingers over the silver-blue brocade, the sleeves fastened with silver ribbons, and a silver girdle for her waist lay on top of the gown. Her hair would be loose, as befitted an unwed maiden. She had bathed the night before with rose soap and her hair and her skin smelled fresh, soft and clean to the touch.
Eleanor went back to bed, curling up and hugging her excitement t
o herself, until the maid arrived with a hearty meal to break her fast and a beaker of warm, cinnamon-spiced milk. Eleanor tucked into fresh-baked crusty bread and a slice of honey-roasted ham, chewing thoughtfully as she wondered if the flowers picked for the circlet upon her head were still fresh. As she finished eating her mother entered the bedchamber, followed soon after by her Aunt Beatrice. They both gave her an embrace and kiss, wishing her well and much happiness on this special day, and Eleanor glowed, hardly able to contain her joy and eager to dress and be on her way to the chapel.
‘No need for haste,’ laughed Lady Beatrice. ‘It is the custom for the bride to be a little late.’
‘Why?’ asked Eleanor, wide-eyed.
‘Well,’ her mother mused, ‘a husband must learn from the beginning that he can never take anything for granted when it comes to a wife.’
‘Oh, surely not,’ gasped Eleanor, ‘It is my duty to honour and obey.’
‘And it is the same for him.’
As her aunt brushed out her hair and her mother fastened and tweaked the many dainty little silver ribbons on her gown, Eleanor stood patiently and waited while they dressed her. Her new cream stockings felt like gossamer and her pale blue slippers soft and soundless upon her feet.
‘I have always thought it most strange,’ mused Eleanor, as her mother placed the garland of pink rosebuds, daises, almond blossom and forget-me-knots on her head, ‘why a husband is called son-in-law by the parents…would that not then make him my brother?’
‘Oh, tush!’ exclaimed Lady Joanna, ‘Don’t be too clever, my girl. A man has no patience for a wife whose intellect may be greater than his.’
‘But surely that would be to his advantage?’ Eleanor demurred. ‘To have a witty and talented wife?’
‘Some may see it as so…’ her mother replied slowly, looking to her sister-in-law for assistance on this one.
‘But most,’ supplied Lady Beatrice candidly, ‘would see it as a threat to his manhood and even interpret intellect in a woman as an inclination towards cunning and manipulation.’
Lady Joanna nodded her agreement and both her mother and aunt proceeded to offer her advice on the pitfalls of marriage and the management of husbands. Many marriages were arranged ones; indeed, it was rare that couples married purely for love. But, Lady Beatrice was eager to reassure her niece, this did not mean that love could not grow. Troye de Valois seemed a man of good and honourable character and there was no reason why they should not be happy as man and wife. Eleanor smiled to herself, knowing in her heart that she had loved Troye for so long that the fact their marriage had been arranged was of no consequence to her. Carefully, with delicate words and no great detail that might shock or alarm Eleanor, they made known the secrets of the marriage bed, much to Eleanor’s embarrassment. With this intimate information echoing in her mind, and a final adjustment of a ribbon here and a lock of hair there, they went to the antechamber, where her father and brother were waiting.
‘You look very beautiful, Eleanor.’
Her father kissed her cheek, as did Rupert, and then they proceeded to make their way to the chapel. Eleanor glanced to the windows lining the corridors, overlooking the river, but it was still grey and damp. She was cheered, however, when they entered the chapel: it glowed from the golden light of hundreds of candles lit on every stand available and rose petals were strewn on the path she trod towards the altar. There were many guests, standing on both sides of the church, but Eleanor knew few of them. She curtsied to the King and his young son, acknowledging the great honour of his attendance, and smiled at her Uncle Remy as she spotted him to her left, his wink reassuring the nervous flutter in her heart as they approached the altar. Would Troye be there? She was afraid to look…mayhap he had taken it into his head to jump on his horse and gallop away as fast as he could…
Her father came to a halt, and she had to raise her eyes. Her bridegroom was there, standing broad-shouldered and handsome. His dark eyes roamed over her, his glance approving. She looked at his mouth and remembered how it had felt when he had kissed her…She blushed at the thought, and Troye smiled, noticing the pink colour stain her neck and cheeks. Her father gave her a little nudge and she stepped towards Troye. He took her left hand in his and together they turned to face the Bishop.
The vows were spoken, Troye’s voice firm and unwavering, Eleanor’s very soft; she was surprised by the quaver in her voice and the very slight but noticeable tremble in her hand as it rested in the palm of Troye’s. She looked up at him, from the corner of her eye, and suddenly she realised, with breathtaking alarm, that she doubted her feelings of love. Why, she hardly knew this man! When had they ever had a proper conversation? How was she to know what his likes and dislikes were, if his beliefs in God and the universe were the same as her own? Had she any evidence that he would be a kind and gentle husband?
It was the most inconvenient and inauspicious moment to consider such things, and she stood there mutely as the Bishop droned on. She stared wide-eyed at the stained glass windows of the chapel, swallowing with painful difficulty, and the colour draining from her face as she swayed slightly on a wave of nausea and dizziness. She half-turned to find her mother, to seek the aid and protection of her father, as she had always done all her life. But she felt frozen to the spot, with all the people watching and fearful of making a fool of herself upon this great occasion. Then she felt an arm circle her waist, and she glanced up as Troye leaned towards her. His fingers gently pressed the soft flesh between her ribs and hip, he smiled at her, and in that moment she sighed with relief. His gesture did much to reassure her, yet, demurely, confused by so many emotions, she cast her eyes down. But Troye’s arm remained, supporting her, warm and strong, until at last the ceremony and the mass was at an end, and they emerged from the chapel as husband and wife.
King Edward had generously ordered a lavish feast be laid out in the great hall and the wedding guests followed the newly married couple down the corridors. It was a noisy, cheerful throng that traversed the walkways, for there had been little of late to celebrate. What with a succession of wars with the Scots and France, and the death of the much-beloved Queen Eleanor, a cause to celebrate the nuptials of Troye de Valois, the King’s champion, defender of the King’s life and hero of many campaigns, was welcomed with pleasure. That he had suffered a personal tragedy—one that he refused to discuss, thus there was little known about it—only endeared him more greatly to the King and his court.
The King naturally took pride of place at table, but close to him sat Eleanor and Troye, her parents, Rupert, her aunt and uncle, and the evening was a most enjoyable one. Mayhap it was the strong Burgundy wine that went to her head, but she felt all her nerves evaporate as she shared her trencher with Troye, and he cut morsels of roast goose and venison for her to eat. The cook came out from his kitchen and proudly presented the newlyweds with a cake, a towering and impressive concoction of spun sugar, cream, almonds and crystallised violets. The King urged them to take the first slice together, and Troye rose from his seat, retrieved his dagger from its sheath on his belt and cut a small sliver. He then leaned down and fed it to a blushing Eleanor, who laughed and wiped the messy crumbs from her lips. The hall cheered and thumped fists on tables as they urged her to do the same for her husband, and she rose on trembling legs, as Troye gave the slim handle of his lethal knife to her. She leaned forwards, her hair dangling, and managed to slice a piece without too much trouble. The guests were vociferous as they chanted and clapped, watching as she rose on tip-toe and pressed her cake-laden fingers to Troye’s mouth. He seemed not at all fazed, neither embarrassed nor spurred to silly antics as many a bridegroom had been known to do. He gazed at Eleanor with steady eyes, and opened his mouth, his teeth and tongue scraping the morsels of cake from her fingers.
‘Troye,’ called out his life-long friend, Sir Austin, ‘your wife has her hair in the cake. Be a good husband, and clean it up for her!’
This ribald comment was met with risqué c
omments and advice, and Troye, bowing to the company at large, solemnly took the skeins of auburn hair in one hand, and licked off the sugar and cream. This sensual act broke forth shouts from the male guests that rattled the very rafters, quickly followed by the disapproving tut-tutting and rib-poking from many wives, sympathising with Eleanor’s obvious embarrassment.
The King diverted attention by ordering the musicians to play. He led Lady Joanna out in the first dance, urging Troye to follow with his bride. Eleanor thought this must be what it felt like to be drunk, as her senses reeled. She placed her hand in Troye’s and they proceeded to pass through the intricate routine of steps of a carole, never touching except for their hands. His eyes were often on her, though; she could feel the heat of his glance on her lips, her neck, her breasts. His fingers felt warm, strong as they clasped and twirled her about, the beat of the music a heady rhythm. Into her mind came the knowledge that her mother and aunt had passed on to her while they had dressed her for the wedding, and she swallowed as her throat constricted at the memory and a faint dew of sweat beaded her forehead. The marriage bed still awaited them, and she could not help but wonder what it would be like. Please God, let me not faint out of sheer joy!
As the company enjoyed the music, the dancing, the food and wine, Lady Joanna discreetly indicated to her cousin, Lady Beatrice, that it was time for Eleanor to withdraw. They took the opportunity whilst the gathering was well occupied with other pleasures to take Eleanor away, and thus avoid the rude revelries that wedding guests so enjoyed. Under strict instructions from their womenfolk, Lord Henry and Sir Remy restrained any that espied the departure of the blushing bride.
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