The King s Champion

by Catherine March

  Eleanor nodded, but smiled at Simon’s concern. ‘Have no fear, they are English knights, here to protect our realm from the Scots.’

  Simon shook his head at her naïveté, ‘Aye, but they are not all chivalrous knights, and not all English. ’Tis no place for a lady at such times.’

  Looking about, Eleanor noted that though the streets were crowded, teeming with all manner of people as they hurried about their business, indeed there were few ladies of her class abroad, and for good reason.

  ‘They say the King has mobilised an army bigger than when he went to Wales,’ Simon told her, ‘at least thirty thousand, but many of these will desert. And they will seek wine and women before making their way homewards.’ Again Simon urged her to hurry.

  They went into the market and Eleanor spent little time perusing the many colourful stalls, heading straight for the seller of dried fruits—raisins and figs from Sicily, apricots from Turkey—making her purchases swiftly. She abandoned the idea of finding an apothecary as the afternoon waned and Simon was eager to head home. They headed for Coppergate; as Eleanor glanced up, across the mass of shifting bodies and faces, there was one that caught her eye. She looked, hardly believing her eyes, and then peered harder as she looked again. Such distinctive shaved blond hair and piercing blue eyes, the stern facial structure and the swaggering arrogance, all were not easily mistaken—Casper von Eckhart! Her instinctive reaction was to clutch at Simon’s sleeve.

  He turned, looking about at her consternation. ‘What is it, my lady?’

  ‘That man—’ Eleanor searched through the throng, but von Eckhart had disappeared. ‘No matter.’ Smothering a gasp, Eleanor resolved to tell Troye as soon as he returned, and she needed no second bidding from Simon to hasten home.

  Once home, Eleanor soon forgot about the Hun, as she settled into the routine of daily chores and amusing Joan, who was still fretful at the absence of her father.

  A few days later, Eleanor had cause to go in search of Meg to assist her with the shelling of peas. Jarvis had sent the maid out to the hen-coop to gather eggs. It was late afternoon and the day had been very warm, yet now the cool shadows came as a welcome relief. Eleanor made her way to the hen-coop, but there was no sign of Meg. She retraced her footsteps, and then paused as she thought she heard the sound of Meg’s voice in the barn. She went into the dim, hay-filled barn and glanced about, and then she heard a giggle, and the deep sound of Simon’s voice. Thinking that the bailiff must be helping Meg with her egg collecting, she took a few more steps, and then stopped. Simon was certainly helping Meg, but in a way that made Eleanor blush. The young man lay sprawled on several bales of hay, with Meg sitting astride him.

  ‘So you promise you’ll never make eyes at that Dylan again,’ Simon said in a low voice.

  Meg laughed and leaned down towards him. ‘Aye, it’s you I love, Simon.’

  Her bodice was open, revealing full breasts tipped with taut pink nipples.

  ‘God, but you’re a pretty wench, Meg,’ Simon groaned as he reached with one hand to grasp her breast, sighing and moaning as Meg moved on top of him.

  Her cheeks flaming, Eleanor backed away, with quick yet stealthy footsteps. She departed from the barn, all but running as she went out into the yard and then into the garden and there she sat down upon the bench. She should be very angry and give Meg a piece of her mind. What if Joan had wandered in? Yet it was not anger that Eleanor felt, but envy. Clearly the two young people had been engaged in an act of mutual pleasure, abandoned and carefree, and judging from the sounds that Simon had made, he enjoyed it very much. How she wished that Troye would moan and groan like that when he made love to her! But was that not the very crux of the matter? Troye had never made love to her. Their couplings had been merely the physical union of male and female. Eleanor resisted the temptation to dissolve into tears, for she had never been a girl to resort to tears at the merest trouble, and lately far too often she had been yielding to the urge. From here on, Troye de Valois would never again make her cry! Standing up resolutely, she made her way back to the manor house, and never said a word about what she had seen in the barn.

  On Saturday evening, Troye returned home. He seemed weary, and yet in good spirits. As he walked through the door, Eleanor rose from her chair, and went to greet him. How she had missed him, and she had almost forgotten how very handsome he was! He stooped and kissed her on the cheek, in much the same way as he kissed his mother, and little Joan, who ran with a gleeful squeal to her father. Troye lifted her and embraced his daughter, before setting her down on her feet and accepting a glass of wine from his mother as they discussed his dealings with Antwerp.

  They ate supper in good spirits, and Lady Anne mentioned that the High Sheriff had called in his absence. Troye glanced at Eleanor, but she did not notice as she helped Joan pick burrs from Toby’s golden fur.

  ‘What did he want?’ Troye asked.

  ‘He has news of the King. The Exchequer has established itself in York and a great army has been mobilised to march on Scotland before winter.’

  Troye sighed. ‘So, it is definite then, we are to war again?’

  Lady Anne looked at him askance. ‘Surely the King will not ask you to ride with him? Not after your campaign in Wales two summers ago?’

  Eleanor looked up then, her heart beat slowing as she waited for Troye’s answer.

  Yet Troye merely shrugged. ‘I am in his service. If he commands me to fight against the Scots, then I must do so. As a serjeant-at-arms we are few in numbers and there will be much need for cavalry against the likes of the Scots, who are just as savage, if not more so, than the Welsh.’

  ‘But—’ Eleanor made to protest, closing her mouth at Lady Anne’s frown behind Troye’s back. With her husband newly returned after his absence, she had no wish to encourage dissent. She rose from where she knelt upon the floor with Joan, and murmured, ‘I bid you goodnight, Lady Anne.’

  ‘Goodnight, my child.’

  Eleanor, having waited so patiently, and her fears stronger than her modesty, she looked at her husband. ‘Troye?’

  Realising what she meant, and aware that he had indeed missed Eleanor in the week past, he coloured slightly under his mother’s gaze and murmured, ‘I will be there anon. Joan, ’tis time you were abed.’

  ‘Carry me, Papa,’ Joan demanded, climbing on to her father’s lap.

  He made much of his complaints, but smiled as he carried her upstairs, while Eleanor followed and went to her own bedchamber. There she hurriedly washed and dressed in her prettiest nightshift, the one with the pink ribbons, and brushed out her hair. Then she climbed into bed and lay upon her side, facing the window, with the covers pulled up close to her shoulder even though it was a warm evening and the light was soft as twilight faded. She waited anxiously, wondering when—if—Troye came to bed she should turn and encourage him, or if she should keep herself to herself and not bother him. She was so torn, between a desire to love him wholeheartedly and with all the warm, vibrant passion in her soul, and to leave him be in peace until he was ready. The day that Lady Anne had spoken of, when he would be ready to turn to her and accept her love, seemed very far off indeed. A great ache of loneliness weighted her chest and as the moments slipped away it seemed that Troye would not come.

  Just as her eyelids were starting to droop and her body relax for sleep, she heard the click of the door. She did not turn, but lay still, listening to the sound of his boots dropping on the floor and the rustle of his clothes as he stripped. Then a moment of quiet, followed by the splash of water in the bowl as he washed. The covers lifted, she steeled herself, the mattress dipping as he climbed in. She sensed, rather than saw, that he lay upon his back, and that after a while he turned his head in her direction.

  Troye looked at the pale glimmer of Eleanor’s bare shoulder. Her long hair appeared dark in the evening light. It seemed to him, through the dim shadows, that he could almost fool himself that he lay with…but nay, he closed his eyes and his mind o
n such a thought…it was not right, nor fair, to always compare Eleanor to another. And yet he did…her skin, her body, her hair, her voice, her scent…all were Isabeau, her impression left upon his mind as surely as if she lay beside him now. He stared up at the canopy of the bed for what seemed like an eternity. He could hear the easy breathing of Eleanor. He guessed that she must be asleep, and he leaned forwards to take a closer look. From the soft amber glow of light of the window he could faintly discern the glisten of tears upon her cheek. With a silent and inward groan, Troye realised that once again he had hurt her.

  ‘Eleanor?’ he murmured, rolling towards her, pressing his chest close against her back.

  Her eyelids fluttered, but she made no sound, and indeed hunched away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and he pressed a kiss to the soft, smooth skin of her shoulder.

  Eleanor woke then, at the gentle touch of his lips on her skin, the feel of his body pressed against her back. She opened her eyes a little, the lashes lowered, but she did not turn around, or encourage him. Her heart felt too heavy within her, knowing that he had no feeling for her. And yet he was her husband, and she could neither refuse him, nor had any desire to, as his hand slid over the curve of her hip.

  His kisses found the vulnerable spot behind her neck, and trailed across her back, between her shoulders, the heat and moistness of his tongue arousing her, the feel of his breath and his lips drawing from within her a response. And yet still she did not turn, nor did he ask her to face him. His fingers slid up under her shift, stroking the slender length of her thigh, brushing his fingertips with lingering gentleness. His hand moved direction and found the soft swell of her buttocks. He squeezed and kneaded her flesh, and she gave a little gasp. As he kissed her spine and fondled her buttocks, his knee nudged her thighs apart, raising her one leg slightly above the other so that he would have access to her womanhood from behind. Eleanor felt her heart drum and desire flare in that secret place, the place that only he had ever known, his to do with as he wished, his fingers moving in a slow sensuous movement, circling the entrance to her body. His manhood was hard and eager, pressing against her back, and her hips moved, undulating to the insistent rhythm of his finger. His other hand slid around her, beneath her ribs, and reached up to cup her breast, teasing her nipple and squeezing the mound of soft flesh in the palm of his hand. Eleanor groaned, and Troye pulled her into the middle of the bed, lifting her shift up above her waist, kissing the small of her back, her buttocks, biting her gently, feeling the contrast of rough hair and silky, moist flesh between her legs. His breath came in heavy pants, pleasure gripping him. He spread her legs and raised her up slightly, thrusting with his manhood. Eleanor smothered a cry, taken by surprise as he entered her from behind. He held her firmly, thrusting gently and slowly, and she was curiously aroused and felt excitement grip her as never before. And yet she wanted to see him, to look on his face, her eyes meet his eyes, so she made a murmur of protest and his rhythm slowed. He withdrew, yet kissed her neck, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, aware that he had never done it like this with Isabeau and somehow, for the first time in months, he felt pleasure that was intense and real, not something he was trying to force himself to feel. He whispered in Eleanor’s ear, ‘Your bottom feels so nice. I want to take you like this, if you are willing.’

  Eleanor felt the heat of a fierce blush sweep over her, startled by his words, he who never spoke during coupling. Yet she could not deny the joy she felt at his words, nor the sensuous pleasure that erupted. He dominated her, possessed her, totally, and she gloried in that. She could not deny him, nor herself, and though it niggled her that it was not quite right she gave in, accepting his fingers as they slid between her thighs and moved up higher, brushing gently yet insistently, arousing, until her hips rocked and strained. Her skin flared with damp moisture, hot and sudden, as his fingers found her swollen bud and tenderly encouraged her arousal, until she did not want gentle or tender, but for him to take her, with all the fierce male ardour that was his.

  ‘Troye—’ Eleanor gasped for breath, struggling to say his name, caught up in the heat of the moment, as was he.

  ‘I want to take you,’ he murmured in her ear, his broad back covering the slender expanse of her shoulders and waist, her bottom a delicious mound of womanly flesh clenching and quivering beneath his powerful male body. ‘Eleanor?’

  ‘Aye,’ she gasped, almost faint with desire and her need for him. He groaned as he carefully eased inside her, slowly, savouring the pleasure of her body, then he thrust faster, his hands gripping her hips and holding her tight. Eleanor felt great waves of pleasure building inside her, and she cried out his name, ‘Troye!’

  He gasped and panted, but made no reply, thrusting hard and fast.

  She wanted to lie upon her back and wrap her legs around him, to feel her breasts against his chest, to draw him into her embrace, to feel the intimacy of his heart beating on her heart, and yet she knew that it would soon be over and though she had enjoyed their coupling it was still not lovemaking in the truest sense of the word. The flare of desire ebbed too soon, and a moment later she felt him relax, having spent his seed within her. He sighed, and rolled away, on to his back, catching his breath as though exhausted. In that moment, as disappointment and anger crushed her, she did not know whether she loved Troye, or hated him.

  Chapter Eleven

  E leanor pulled down her shift and sought anxiously to think of something to say to Troye, pretending as he did, that nothing had happened. There were moments when they seemed so close to finally reaching some sort of meeting point, common ground, where the past could not reach them. But more often, like now, it seemed they were so far distant that it was entirely hopeless. Her prayers to St Jude seemed to have come to naught. And then she remembered her sighting of Casper von Eckhart, and she turned about, aware that Troye lay motionless, but not asleep. He seemed as much troubled by their relations as she, but she doubted he would be willing to discuss the matter and she feared confronting him, lest he should leave her again.

  ‘Troye?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  She inched a little closer, ‘A few days ago I saw Casper von Eckhart.’

  ‘What!’ He turned his head swiftly in her direction, raising himself up on one elbow as he looked at her in the fast fading light, ‘Where? He did not come here to the house?’

  ‘Nay—’ Eleanor shook her head ‘—it was in the city, near the market. It was only for a moment, and I do not think he saw me.’

  He subsided, lying down again and clasping his hands behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling, and then said firmly, ‘I want you to stay close by the house from now on. In a few weeks we’ll be away to Scotland, but until then the city is out of bounds. ’Tis not safe for womenfolk.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Eleanor. I will speak to my mother in the morning. She has said you have been of great help to her while I was away, and for that I thank you, but any errands in the city can be done by Simon or that lazy lump of lard Jarvis. Is that clear, Eleanor?’

  ‘Aye.’ She nodded her head, and then asked him the question that had often puzzled her. ‘Why do you think he is in York?’

  Troye shrugged, with a sigh, and turned on to his side to face her. ‘The King has hired many mercenaries, he is in great need of cavalry. His wrath is fearsome, but when it suits him he is just as quick to forgive. No doubt he has taken the Hun back into the fold to suit his own purpose.’ In the gloom he searched her face. ‘You are not afeared?’

  ‘Nay, I doubt he means me any harm.’

  Troye nodded in agreement. ‘You are now my wife. He would not dare so much as look at you.’

  Eleanor smiled at the hint of a growl in his voice. ‘And would you fight for my honour if he did?’

  ‘Well, not just for looking—’

  She chuckled. ‘If he tried to touch me? Kiss me?’

  ‘Then I would kill him!’

  They both lau
ghed, softly. Lying so close to Troye, murmuring their conversation, sharing a joke, almost like a normal man and wife, it felt so good and so right. She longed to reach out, stroke her fingers over the hairs on his chest, kiss his biceps that bulged so close, but she did not dare. The only fear she harboured now was that he would shut her out if she came too close. It cost her dear, but she turned away, rolling over on to her other side, and facing the window. ‘Goodnight, Troye.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He lay awake for a long while, and though he was tired sleep seemed to elude him. He had many thoughts on his mind: preparations for the march on Scotland, his mother’s mysteriously failing health, the news that von Eckhart lurked in the city, and, most importantly, his failure to satisfy Eleanor. But tomorrow was another day, and it would help nothing to lie awake worrying. He felt relaxed, satisfied, after…He felt heat flush his face as he glanced at Eleanor—he should not have taken a young and inexperienced bride like that, yet they had both enjoyed it, hadn’t they? And it had been a long while since he had felt such raw passion…For a moment, for the first time since they had wed, he pondered on Eleanor’s response. He was not vastly experienced with women—there had been a few maids willing to initiate a young man—but war and soldiering had much occupied him. Then there had been Isabeau, and no other. He did not wish to compare Eleanor’s responses to those of his first wife…and yet…they were not the same, of that much he was aware, and he could blame no one except himself. Eleanor had been a virgin and even now he doubted whether she had experienced, or even had any knowledge of, a woman’s climax. Physically he knew that there was no reason why he could not show her how to climax, yet always he held back, he could not give her that, and he could not fathom the reason why. With a sigh, Troye turned on to his other side, his back to the sleeping Eleanor. His eyelids drooped until at last he too fell asleep, his last thought being that he would make amends…a gift mayhap? A new gown or necklet…