The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  The ladies returned to the apartment that she had left only that morning. Once her parents had returned to Somerset, she and Troye would occupy the rooms as a married couple in their own right. This being her wedding night, she would much rather have had a chamber that was far distant from her parents, but Troye occupied military quarters shared with other soldiers, and her bedchamber was the only offer of privacy available. With trembling fingers she removed the wilted wreath of flowers from her head, and set them gently aside on a table. Then she stood with arms held out as her mother and aunt undid the many ribbons of her gown. She bent and removed her stockings and slippers, standing naked as her mother slipped a shift of the softest, whitest linen over her head. The fragile straps and thin material did little to hide the curves of her slender body and she shivered slightly.

  ‘Into bed with you,’ her mother murmured, tucking the covers around Eleanor. She leaned down and kissed her forehead. ‘May this night bring you much joy and happiness, my sweet Eleanor.’

  Lady Beatrice offered her a hug and a few words of advice that left Eleanor blushing, then she lay there as they left the room and closed the door. She wondered how long she would have to wait. After a while she sat up and decided to draw the curtains around the bed, just in case Troye was accompanied by over-enthusiastic and curious wedding guests. Then she lay down again, pulling the covers up to her chin, replaying in her mind the events of the day, smiling, rejoicing in the knowledge that she was now Lady Eleanor de Valois.

  Her eyelids were beginning to droop when at last she heard a commotion, but it was contained within the antechamber. She listened with ears finely tuned, until at last she heard the click of the door as it opened, and then a clunk as it was closed and barred. She heard the thump of booted feet, and then she struggled to hear anything at all, finally discerning the chink of metal as a belt was discarded, the rustle of clothing falling to the floor, the splash of water. And then she started as suddenly the bedcurtains parted and a warm body lifted the covers and slid in beside her.

  ‘Troye?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She felt an incredible wave of warmth emanating from his body, and she need have had no fear about any awkward hesitation on Troye’s part, or not knowing what to do because of her own inexperience. He took command and reached for her at once. In the dark she sensed his head lower as he searched for her face, and then the delicious warmth of his lips on hers. He slid the straps of her shift from her shoulders and quickly removed the barrier of linen between them. It was the most pleasant sensation she had ever felt, to have Troye’s naked body touching hers. She felt the soft hair of his chest brush her breasts and was surprised at how much hair covered his chest, tapering down to the flat, hard planes of his belly. Her hands reached out and fastened on his shoulders, feeling the strength and smoothness of his muscles moulded beneath her hands.

  He kissed her deeply, with quiet concentration. And while she gasped and shivered, and moaned at his touch, he made no sound. He cupped his fingers to the female curves of her buttocks and pulled her hard against him, pressing the length of his body against hers. His kisses continued, on her face, and neck, her shoulders and then his fingers reached down to capture the woman’s mound between her thighs, pressing firmly, all the while kissing her, his tongue in her mouth. He rolled her over on to her back and parted her thighs, his fingers stroking gently, seeking her entrance. His mouth broke free of hers and he lowered his head to her breast, finding her nipple with his tongue and sucking on it. She arched and groaned with the sensation of pleasure, and while he gave the same attention to her other breast, he still made no sound.

  He spread her thighs wider and mounted her, his manhood probing and eager, a hot lance that reared impatiently to possess her womanhood. She tensed slightly as his hands slid under her bottom and he pulled her closer, his hips on top of hers. The brush of his chest hair on her breasts was exquisite, but then all sensation was concentrated in that one place and her mouth opened on a soundless, wordless cry as he penetrated with one hard thrust. She had not expected a man to be quite so big and felt him stretching her virginity, breaking it, and thrusting deeper into the molten core of her body.

  ‘That feels so good,’ he murmured in her ear, and she was a little taken aback, at the sound of his voice, his matter-of-fact words that seemed to hold no hint of romance or passion.

  Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his strong back and held on while his hips plunged back and forth, and she stared up at the canopy of the bed, a little bemused. At last he stopped, kissed her forehead, and then rolled away to one side and was soon asleep.

  Eleanor lay awake for some while. Unbidden, and despite her struggle to resist them, tears came and she too rolled on to her side and tried to go to sleep. What had she expected, the sensible part of her demanded, while her heart, that foolish and fragile creature, wept with disappointment? Was the failure hers? Or had her aunt exaggerated about the pleasures of coupling? True, he had not hurt her except for a brief moment and she had expected that, but she felt sure that there should be something more. Troye had not uttered a sound, and while her own skin had been on fire and dewed with aroused sweat, his body had felt cool to her touch. Mayhap she had not pleasured him enough for him to make any noises? Or it was not the same for a man as it was for a woman? With these unsettling thoughts in the back of her mind, Eleanor at last fell into an exhausted, unhappy sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  I n the morning Eleanor woke to find herself alone. At first she wondered why this seemed strange, as she had slept alone all her life, then she remembered that yesterday she had married Troye de Valois. And last night he had bedded her. She sat up and reached for her shift, covering herself hastily, aware that at any moment her mother would come in to inspect the sheets. She thrust aside the covers and swung her legs out of the still-warm bed, glancing back over her shoulder at the rusty stains that were ample evidence of her virtue. And her undisputed right to call herself Troye de Valois’s wife. She hesitated for a moment, as she remembered the events of the night before. Her tears were spent, and she was left only with a feeling of numbness in her heart, and an uncomfortable ache between her legs. She was still sitting thus when the door opened and her mother entered the room.

  Lady Joanna smiled at her daughter, her enquiry soft and tactful. ‘You are well this morning, child?’

  Eleanor nodded her head, and gave in to a watery smile. ‘Except I am not a child any longer, Mother.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lady Joanna agreed, yet she sensed that all was not well. It so rarely was on the first occasion between husband and wife. Eleanor was now a woman full grown and married, and as her mother Lady Joanna felt it was not her place to pry into the intimate details of Eleanor’s marriage. If Eleanor wished to discuss the matter, she would. For now, all her mother did was pat Eleanor on the shoulder and chivvy her out of bed so that she could extract the bottom sheet. The King’s secretary and several ladies of the court waited eagerly in the ante-chamber for proof that Troye and Eleanor were well and truly wed.

  They were well satisfied and discreetly departed while Eleanor bathed and dressed.

  By the time she emerged from her chamber there was only her father there, staring out of the window at another grey day. He turned as he noticed her presence, and as he often did he opened his arms for her greeting.

  Eleanor hugged her father, but though his silence was an invitation to her confidence she was reluctant to discuss such a personal matter as the loss of her virginity. She moved away and began to take great interest in several swans that padded on the green lawns.

  Casually, as he pretended to peruse a letter upon the table, Lord Henry asked softly, ‘He has treated you well?’

  ‘Aye. Oh, do look, Father, are not those cygnets the prettiest little things?’

  He peered over her shoulder and through the thick panes of glass, nodded and muttered his agreement. Then, clearing his throat, he announced, ‘Now that the wedding is done, you
r mother and I must make haste to return home.’

  Eleanor whirled. ‘Oh, Father, surely not so soon?’

  ‘We have been gone nigh on four weeks. Things will fall to rack and ruin, the servants pilfering and the neighbours encroaching on our grazing, if I am not there to make sure they do not take advantage.’

  ‘But—’

  He held up his hand, checking her flood of protests. ‘You have a husband now, Eleanor. It is to him you must look.’

  She subsided, visibly sagging as she mutely realised the truth of her situation. Her husband owned her—all her goods, all of her body, and even her soul if he so wished. He could do what he wanted with her, love and cherish her if he so desired, or ignore her and have no care for her feelings in any matter. Such was the lot of a wife.

  Lord Henry noticed the obstinate little pout that set his daughter’s lips, the squaring of her delicate shoulders and the little flick of her head that sent shimmering waves of auburn hair rippling like a silk pennant down her back. With a small shake of his head and raised eyebrows, he hoped to God that the King realised what he had let Troye de Valois in for!

  By midday her parents had packed their trunks, their horses were saddled and waiting in a courtyard; their plan was to meet with Sir Remy and Lady Beatrice by the West Gate and travel homewards together. Eleanor waved them goodbye, at her side her new husband who, at last, had made an appearance, his apologies thin to her ears as he claimed ‘duties in the armoury’ had forced him to rise early and kept him busy all morning; this was an expression that she was soon to become very familiar with.

  As she called a final farewell, waving until she could no longer see her parents as they disappeared beyond the palace walls, she felt alone and bereft. Tentatively, she asked Troye, ‘Will my lord join me for the midday meal?’

  He opened his mouth, about to refuse, and then glanced at her wan face and relented. ‘Aye.’

  They returned to the chambers that Eleanor had shared with her parents, which had now been set aside for the newly married couple, as Eleanor could not be expected to reside in the military quarters Troye shared with others. A servant had laid out platters of cold meat and yellow cheese, fresh bread and a flagon of wine. Eleanor sat down, and wondered if it was her duty to serve Troye, but he helped himself to food and made no comment or insistence that she do so. They ate in silence, and she wondered what his thoughts were, and should she voice her own? She searched her mind, but could not find anything to say. She felt…empty.

  From the corner of her eye she watched his hands, his lean brown fingers, and remembered that they had touched her skin, the most intimate parts of her body, and she had found much pleasure in his touch. But the other part…Suddenly his hands had stilled, he laid his knife to one side and her eyelids flew up as she lifted her gaze to him. He was staring at her, with those dark, impenetrable eyes. The light falling through the small panes of the window shaded his lean face and his silver-gilded hair. Her eyes examined his handsome nose and beautiful mouth, the upper lip a controlled line over the fuller lower, hinting at the passions of his nature. And yet, last night, even in her innocence she did not think there had been much in the way of passion.

  ‘You are well this morn?’ he asked, awkwardly, almost gruffly, glancing away, swallowing a chunk of bread and reaching for his goblet of wine.

  Eleanor laughed softly, with a little defiant shake of her head. ‘That is the third time I have been asked that exact question!’

  ‘Indeed?’ He washed his hands in a bowl of warm water, then glanced at her keenly as he cleaned his knife on a cloth and sheathed it. ‘And what has your reply been, twice so far?’

  If it was not for the note of amusement in his voice she would have flounced angrily from the table, hardly able to contain her injured feelings any longer. But as he smiled, she smiled too. ‘That I am well.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked at her for a long hard moment, not a man given to many words, all his life having applied stern discipline to his thoughts, words and actions. He floundered now, aware that he had not bedded his second wife in quite the same manner as his first, but this was a matter he could discuss with no one. He rose and went to the door, hesitating a moment as he looked back at Eleanor, sitting alone at the table. ‘You have…things to occupy you?’

  Eleanor nodded her head. ‘Aunt Beatrice brought my tapestries and calligraphy.’

  He nodded, eager to be away and about his ‘duties’, but still hesitant to leave her. ‘I could speak with Lady Denys, if you are in need of female company. She was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Eleanor and will introduce you to the other ladies at court.’

  She shook her head, and hastened to assure him that she was well content with her own company. He murmured a farewell and closed the door, as much relieved as she to part. But instead of working on either tapestry or the Bible transcripts, Eleanor retired to her chamber and lay down upon the bed, her mind in a whirl. There were too many thoughts, unfamiliar ones that she had never dealt with before, and though she tried to wrestle with them and put them in their place, she could not. Suddenly she felt very tired, and pulled up the covers as she fell into the warm, welcoming arms of slumber.

  When Troye returned at dusk, after a hard afternoon breaking in one of the most vicious and stubborn stallions he had ever encountered, yet promised to be the most courageous and reliable of destriers in battle, he opened their bedchamber door to find Eleanor still asleep. The long sweep of her molten hair fell across the edge of the bed, as she slept curled up on her side. For long moments he stood gazing down at her, and then closed the door and took himself off to the soldiers’ quarters that he had until recently shared with the other knights.

  There he ordered a bath and scrubbed the mud and sweat from his body, paying attention to the maroon lesions on his calves and forearms that the stallion had inflicted with his teeth. As the bath was taken away by his squire he dressed and sat down by the fire with a tankard of ale, his feet up on a small stool.

  The door opened and Sir Lindsay came in, brushing off dust and straw from his tunic. He was taken aback as he saw Troye sitting in front of the hearth.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he asked, with frank incredulity. ‘Should you not be with your wife?’

  ‘She’s asleep. I did not wish to disturb her.’

  Sir Lindsay grunted, not at all pleased with this piece of information. He thought life vastly unfair that Troye had won the hand of the only worthy maiden at court, and did not even appreciate her. His ire made his next remark less than chivalrous. ‘So what have you done to the poor girl to leave her so exhausted?’

  Troye shot him an indignant glance, followed by an obvious glint of warning, but remained silent. Sir Lindsay took the hint and went off to clean himself up for the evening meal in the great hall, eager to find a new object for his affections. Some moments later Sir Percy and Sir Ronan came in; though they too were surprised to find Troye there, they made no comment and welcomed him, as they settled down to discuss the best way to proceed with the feisty stallion.

  ‘Be sure it’s a tricky one,’ bemoaned Sir Ronan. ‘In Ireland I’ve seen many a good stallion ruined by having his spirit broken. You need to show him who is master, and yet still allow him to be the proud animal that he is.’

  Troye agreed, and the talk moved on to other matters and problems that had arisen in the daily life of the King’s Own. He quite forgot the passing of time, as he accompanied the knights to the hall and sat down to eat his evening meal, as he did most evenings, unless he had been sent on duties that required his presence elsewhere. As the night wore on, he wondered at the many glances that came his way, and then Rupert Raven, a junior officer who had no business speaking to him in the first place, came and sat down beside him on the bench. Rupert conversed cautiously for a few moments, and then said softly, ‘I must confess, sir, I am surprised to see you here.’ He hesitated, and then asked, awkwardly, ‘Eleanor—she is well?’

  Troye stared at him
for a moment, suddenly realising that she would be awake by now. He rose so swiftly he knocked over his goblet of wine and tripped over his own feet. Some laughed with amusement as he hurried from the hall, but Rupert frowned and felt uneasy.

  Eleanor sat at the table by the window, much as he had left her after their noon meal together. Except now it was dark, and the room was full of shadows as two or three candles flickered. She looked most dejected as she sat there, picking at the carcass of a roasted pullet with little enthusiasm. He closed the door and came towards her, enquiring carefully as to how she had fared in his absence.

  Eleanor, having acquired her father’s temper by nurture if not by nature, exploded. She jumped to her feet and hurled a chicken leg at his head. It missed, largely due to her poor aim and Troye’s agile ducking.

  ‘If this is how you mean to treat me, Troye de Valois,’ she cried, ‘then—then I wish I’d never married you!’

  ‘What?’ He seemed perplexed, but was not about to let her have a childish tantrum at his expense. ‘I have surely done naught that could possibly displease you.’

  She snorted. ‘Done naught indeed!’

  ‘Calm yourself—’

  ‘No! I will not calm myself!’ Eleanor stamped her foot now, and reached for anything that she could grab from the table, hurling grapes, lumps of cheese, apples, at him. ‘How dare you go off and leave me here all alone!’

  ‘Stop screaming like a fishwife.’

  At that Eleanor loosed a shriek that made both their ears ring and she grasped a wooden platter, certain that this would inflict slightly more damage than grapes, but as she raised her arm to take aim, he rushed at her. Troye caught her about the waist, forced her to relinquish the platter and, mindful of his earlier discussion on the taming of wild animals, swept Eleanor into his arms and carried her to their bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him.