‘Isabeau.’
Even after all this time he missed her so much. He dreamed of her at night, dreams so vivid and real that it seemed he held her in his arms, only to awaken to reality and the grief that left him cold and empty. He raised his eyes to the inscription on the headstone, and vowed to Isabeau that he would always love and cherish her. And yet, he remembered the nights with Eleanor in his bed, and the pleasant afternoon that he had just spent with her in York, when he had almost forgotten his grief. Now he felt racked with guilt. How could he ever love anyone except Isabeau?
Lady Anne bade supper be served without Troye. It was the custom for Joan to eat with her nurse in the bedchamber the two occupied in the furthest wing of the manor house, but in the absence of her father Joan begged to sit up at the table, and Lady Anne saw no reason to demur. Eleanor smiled gently at the child as she insisted on sitting next to her, and watched her with big eyes throughout the meal. They spoke little and Eleanor struggled to put on a brave face. At its end the nurse came and carried her away, Joan little protesting as she yawned and laid her head on the broad shoulder of her nurse, sucking her thumb and waving to Eleanor as they climbed the stairs.
Eleanor waved and called goodnight, and then turned to the table and helped Meg to clear the dishes. Though the maid protested, Eleanor sought to find any little task that would keep her busy, for if she was to pause for even a moment, and dwell on Troye, then her resolve would break and she would start to panic at Troye’s continued absence.
On this summer evening the light stayed until quite late. The servants finished in the kitchen and took themselves off to their own rooms behind the pantry, and together Eleanor and Lady Anne sat in companionable silence. The windows were open and they could hear the evensong of blackbirds and a cuckoo. When it became too dark to see their sewing, Eleanor lit a candle and at Lady Anne’s request she took down the family Bible from where it was kept on a shelf and opened it upon her knee, drawing the candle a little closer to see the small, handwritten words.
‘Read to me Corinthians, chapter one, verse thirteen.’
Eleanor rifled through the pages, until she found the passage Lady Anne wanted to hear.
‘…if I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.’ Eleanor’s voice slowed and faltered. She felt the thick burn of tears in her eyes and throat and nose, but she swallowed them back and carried on. ‘If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it…is…’ Eleanor’s voice cracked then, as tears flowed freely and dripped down her cheeks ‘…it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’
She sobbed on the final words, and in defeat pressed her face into the palm of her hand. Lady Anne rose from her chair and went to her. She patted Eleanor on the shoulder and hugged her close to her midriff in a gesture of comfort. She did not try to stop Eleanor’s tears, but let her weep. Then, as she quietened, sniffing and gulping, Lady Anne asked gently, ‘Do you love Troye?’
Eleanor nodded, unable to speak.
‘Then be patient. Be kind. He punishes himself now, for what happened to Isabeau, and his heart is broken into a thousand pieces. It’s been a few years, but mourning has no allotted time span. He misses her still, he cannot accept that she is gone, but one day the truth will become reality. He will come to you then and he will need your love.’
‘How can I be sure of that?’ Eleanor sobbed, hardly believing that such a thing could be possible. ‘It may be that he will never want me.’
Lady Anne shrugged. ‘How can we be sure of anything in this life? I know ’tis hard to find faith and little comfort on lonely nights, but try.’ She stooped and kissed Eleanor on the top of her head. ‘Troye will not be home tonight. Go you now to bed.’
Eleanor looked up then, on the tip of her tongue the fearful question as to where Troye would be, and anxious that she wait up for him. But she was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and she nodded her head in agreement and rose from her chair.
Lady Anne watched as Eleanor climbed the stairs, her fragile shoulders bowed and her footsteps slow and weary. With a sigh Lady Anne turned then, and called to Dylan, who waited in the shadows, as he always did.
He came forwards now, into the light. ‘My Lady?’
‘Go to your master. See to it that he makes his way safely home.’
Dylan bowed, knowing full well that he would find Troye at the castle in York, where he sought the company of other knights, or if not there, then in one of the city taverns, most likely the Golden Fleece. He went on foot—it was a pleasant evening and no great distance, and less chance of being set upon by thieves and ruffians if he left the horses in their stable.
Times were quiet and the city gates stood open, yet were still guarded. He crossed the bridge and went first to the castle, but no one had seen Troye that eve. Dylan made his way through the narrow cobbled streets to the Golden Fleece. He found Troye sat in a snug at the back of the tavern, with his head bowed over a mug of wine. His master had never had a great fondness for the vine, and usually it didn’t take long for him to become drunk. Dylan sat down and unwrapped his cloak, glancing sideways.
‘What are you looking at, boy?’ growled Troye, taking another swig of the strong Burgundy that made his tongue curl but dulled, in a small measure, the pain that ached within him.
‘Naught, sir.’ Dylan leaned his elbows on the table and glanced about, taking note of the other customers and any potential troublemakers. It was busy and noisy with yeomanry who would march as foot soldiers with the King to Scotland.
Troye grunted. ‘I suppose my mother sent you trotting after me.’
‘Aye. She knows well enough you gone off to get ratted.’
‘Watch your tongue, boy. I’m sufficiently unratted to give you a lesson in respect for your master.’
Dylan’s eyebrows rose and he cast Troye a sceptical glance. He nodded at the mug of wine. ‘How many have you had, my master?’
‘Too many to count, and too few to make a difference.’
‘Have you had any supper?’
‘’Tis not food in my belly I want.’
‘We had good fodder this evening,’ Dylan mused with a tone of fond remembrance. ‘Chicken and ham pie, with stewed apples and plums in custard for afters. Lady Anne keeps a good table.’
Troye scowled and hunched over his wine, clicking his fingers at the innkeeper as he ordered another skinful. It was brought over by a maid, a loose woman with low-cut bodice and coarse features, who was not averse to supplementing her income in the alley behind the tavern. She leaned over Troye, her eyes inviting as she made sure her full breasts displayed plenty of cleavage.
Dylan gave her a shove. ‘Clear off.’
The barmaid pouted and flounced away, throwing over her shoulder an aggrieved glance at Dylan. But he cared nothing for the tender feelings of a harlot, and was much more concerned with getting his master home before the hour waned and all manner of ill stalked the midnight streets.
‘’Tis a warm and comfortable bed that awaits you, sir,’ he dropped the gentle hint.
Troye grunted. He would not confess to his squire that it was the comforts of his bed that kept him away. Yet he found he had no taste for more wine. Rising abruptly, he tossed a few coins upon the table. Dylan followed, taken aback by this sudden departure and apparent change of heart.
As soon as the fresh night air hit Troye’s lungs, so did a violent nausea. He doubled over in a nearby gutter and lost the contents of his stomach, reeling as Dylan assisted him on the long walk home. But once there he could not
face climbing the stairs, nor Eleanor asleep in the bed that once he had shared with another. Instead he slept in the kitchen, rolled in his cloak beside the warm hearth and the fire that never went out, watched over by the faithful Dylan.
In the morning, he rose and went out into the yard to dip his head in a bucket of cold water, shaking it off and stretching in the cool morning air. Then he returned to the kitchen and sat down at the scrubbed and scarred table as Jarvis the cook and Meg the maid tiptoed around him.
‘Bring me something to ease the parch in my throat,’ he snapped at anyone luckless enough to be within earshot.
Without a word Jarvis plonked a jug of milk in front of his lord, and turned swiftly away. Troye grimaced as he drank the warm liquid, and contemplated whether he would do best outside in case his stomach rebelled. Just as he rose his mother appeared in the doorway, and her glance was enough to make him sit down again.
Lady Anne folded her arms about her waist and fixed her son with a stern glance. ‘And what do you have to say for yourself this morn?’
‘Good morning, Mother.’
She clucked her tongue, with a little shake of her head, both of them knowing full well the meaning of her words. She took a few steps forwards, and placed her hand on Troye’s shoulder. ‘How long will this go on?’
‘What?’
‘How long will you punish yourself?’
He scowled and ignored her.
‘It’s been years, Troye. Nothing you do will change the past. Nothing will bring Isabeau back—’
‘Don’t!’ he warned.
‘I cannot sit back and say nothing, watch you tear yourself to pieces. And what of Eleanor? The poor child has done nothing to warrant such treatment. She loves you, you know.’
‘Be quiet, Mother,’ Troye all but snarled, rising from his chair, shaking off her restraining hand. ‘Leave me be.’
‘Troye—’ She followed him as he marched out into the stable yard, but checked him with one firm hand on his forearm. ‘You must take responsibility for your wife. If you cannot live with her in affection, then this marriage must be annulled. Eleanor is a lovely young woman—’tis a cruelty to condemn her for life to a loveless marriage. Do you have no feeling for her at all?’
He closed his eyes, for a moment, and then walked away from the manor house, to the garden, where it was more private and he could be sure they would not be overheard. Lady Anne followed, and waited, as he struggled to find the right words, to sort through the tangle of emotions in his mind and his heart. At last, in a low, anguished voice he said, ‘It is not that I have no feeling for Eleanor. Indeed, she is much like Isabeau, sweet and gentle and pretty. But it hurts, Mother, it hurts too much. And I feel guilty. How can I stop loving Isabeau?’
Gently Lady Anne stroked his cheek. ‘A part of you will always love Isabeau. That is as it should be. She was your wife, she is Joan’s mother. But that was then, and this is now. You are not the same man that you were then, and there will never be another Isabeau. If you were to love another it would be in a different way, and you should feel no shame or guilt for that. Don’t punish yourself for feeling happy. Your marriage vows were made until death do you part. There is no sin if you were to love again.’
Troye stared at her. There was much for him to consider in her words, too much for his consciousness to understand. Yet he nodded, and she let him go. They went their separate ways—Lady Anne returning to the house and chivvying her household into its daily chores, and Troye to rouse Dylan and set about his duty in training the young lad to knighthood.
For several days they went about their business as though life was idyllic and there was no torment, yet of them all it was Eleanor who was the most anguished by the atmosphere clouded with tension. At night she slept alone, and during the day she tried to exhaust herself by keeping busy.
A week after her pleasant day in York with Troye, which no doubt he had found to be not to his taste, judging from his avoidance of her, Eleanor rose as usual and sat on the coffer by the window. She stared out idly, her brush in one hand, hardly able to find the energy to sweep it through the long length of her hair. But she looked up at the jingle of harness and the clop of horses’ hooves. Below Troye swung two bulging saddlebags on Merlin’s back, and then vaulted up into the saddle. He glanced up and saw Eleanor. Their eyes met. Eleanor felt her blood run cold and she rose from her seat, leaning towards the window. But before she could open it and call out to Troye, he raised his hand in a gesture of farewell, wheeled Merlin about and rode off.
With a small cry, she ran to the door; it opened before she reached it and Lady Anne checked her headlong rush.
‘He leaves me!’ Eleanor cried, staring up at her mother-in-law, confused and distraught.
‘Hush, now, do not overset yourself. Aye, he leaves, but not for long. He goes to Antwerp to deliver a shipment of wool and linen. We have had some trouble with the Brabants and Troye goes to deal with it. Have no fear, he will return in a week or so.’
‘He did not say goodbye!’
Gently Lady Anne stroked the tendrils of hair from Eleanor’s brow. ‘Aye, but forgive him for that. He is as much troubled as you are. It will do you both some good to have time apart.’
Eleanor could not agree with her sentiment and abruptly tore out of Lady Anne’s arms and returned to her seat by the window. She sat down and stared out at the empty space where only a few moments ago Troye had been. She would not see him for a whole week! How would she survive? What would he do while he was gone? Would he find other women to console himself with? When he returned, would the separation have done him so much good that he would want it to be permanent? All these thoughts and many more ran riot in her mind, yet she sat silent and still, her face pale, her eyes dull as she stared blankly.
Lady Anne was much concerned at the effect on Eleanor. Matters of the heart were always a great strain even on the strongest person, and to her mind Eleanor seemed increasingly fragile. She felt the answer was to keep her busy, and most especially that Eleanor and Joan should spend much more time together. After all, as her grandmother, Lady Anne was not growing any younger and the child would need the presence and guidance of a lady in her life as she grew up.
Briskly Lady Anne brushed her hands together and stepped towards the door. ‘Now, there’s much to be done and I am no longer as young or agile as I was. Meg, bless her, does her best, but I would welcome another pair of strong hands to help me. The butter needs churning, if you are willing?’
She looked at Eleanor expectantly. Her smooth, patrician features belied the age that Lady Anne claimed, but Eleanor realised, with a blush of shame, that her mother-in-law must be in the twilight of her years as Troye neared middle age. Manual labour was not something Eleanor was used to, having always had servants to perform any task she ordered, but now she welcomed the respite of chores that would distract her from her thoughts.
‘Aye, my lady,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘I am willing.’
The day passed quickly, in the coolness of the small buttery alongside the kitchen. Her shoulders and hands ached as she helped to churn the butter and to skim the previous day’s curds, placing spoonfuls in muslin and hanging it up from the rafters for the whey to drip out. Lady Anne spoke little, directing Eleanor in a quiet voice, but in the background she could hear the chatter of Meg and a strapping young lad by the name of Simon, as blond as Meg was dark.
Later that afternoon she played with Joan in the garden, a game of fetch with a soft ball made from rags, and Toby joined in with gleeful delight. When Joan grew tired they sat upon the grass in the shade of an oak tree and drank cool apple juice.
Joan looked at Eleanor and said, ‘My father has gone away again.’
‘Aye…’ Eleanor smiled gently at the child ‘…but he will soon be home.’
A look of sadness filled Joan’s large brown eyes, and Eleanor felt her heart miss a beat at such a look on a young child. ‘I had a mother, but I don’t ’member her. She went away too.’
Eleanor patted her tiny little shoulder. ‘Your father will be home, I promise.’
Joan rose from where she sprawled on the grass and scrambled on to Eleanor’s lap. She leaned against her breast, her eyes closing as she settled trustingly into a comfortable position. Eleanor was much bemused, unfamiliar with the weight and warmth of a small child upon her lap. But it felt so natural and so right that she sat up and placed her arms around Joan, hugging her gently, and leaned back against the oak tree’s trunk, as she too surrendered to the bliss of an afternoon nap.
From within the manor house, Lady Anne glanced up from her never-ending sewing and looked out the window. She saw Eleanor with Joan asleep upon her lap, and smiled. In the course of the next few days she found that her bones ached most wearily and pleaded with Eleanor for her help on many an errand.
On one such afternoon, as Eleanor strolled through the cobbled streets to the market to buy dried figs and raisins, with Simon as her escort, she resolved to find an apothecary and see if he had any potions that might help relieve Lady Anne from her discomfort. She had been much bound to the house lately and Eleanor was concerned, especially as Lady Anne did not strike her as one that gave in easily to the slightest ache. They crossed Samson Square towards the market, and Eleanor looked up as a party of horsemen clattered by. Simon drew her back, with a protective yet respectful hand upon her elbow.
‘My lady,’ he murmured by her ear, ‘the city is teeming with soldiers and mercenaries. Let us be done with our business and hurry home.’
The King s Champion Page 18