[1997] Once and Future Love
Page 16
“l don’t want to leave you here. Civil war is likely to break out. Sir Walter made a point of telling me that if the barons turn against the king, they will soon turn against each other. And if I leave, you will be here alone and unprotected against Giscard. What’s to prevent him from attacking Barland itself in my absence?”
“There’s Sir John—”
“Eleanor.” Richard placed one finger against her lips. “He’s a good man. But he’s old. I don’t want to trust your safety to a man whose best days are behind him. Hugh will come with me. You’ll be alone. And we know Giscard is our enemy. We can tell the Marshal about him together. But I would rather return and find that I must fight for Barland than return and find that I must bargain for your life. Do you understand?”
Eleanor looked down at the floor. There seemed to be little argument. She nodded, took a deep breath, and raised her eyes to his. “I cannot disagree with you, my lord. When must we leave?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow?”
She gave a short laugh that didn’t sound completely amused. “No. Nor the day after. But in three days—tell Sir Walter we can leave in three days time. There is an enormous amount to do between now and then—sooner is not possible.”
He pressed a kiss on the back of her hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
At that she laughed outright. “I doubt you know much about laundry, my lord.”
Richard thought about all the times he’d folded socks and underwear for his children when they were small. But the washing machines of the twentieth century were an entirely different matter. He shook his head slowly. “No, my lady. I’m afraid I know as little of laundry as I do of reading.” He smiled, a little sadly, and turned to go. “I shall leave you to your preparations, my lady. In the meantime, I shall speak to Sir John. Barland must not be left vulnerable.”
Spring was well along once they left the hills of the march country. The roads wound through fields and forests, and Richard was struck by the beauty of the countryside. Along the way, they passed little villages and tiny hamlets, places that in his own time would grow into towns and cities. And these rough roads, with tiny wildflowers and weeds growing in between the ruts, would someday see traffic such as his companions could never imagine.
Lost in his thoughts, Richard didn’t hear Sir Walter turn and speak to him. Eleanor touched his arm. She rode beside him on a gray mare, as easily as if she had been born in the saddle. She nodded. “Sir Walter thinks it’s time to stop.”
Richard looked around. “We’ll make camp?”
“No,” Walter shook his head. “Tonight we will sleep beneath a real roof. I’m sure you’ll be happy about that, my lady.” Just ahead the crenellated roof of a keep rose above the trees. “See there? That’s the manor of Sir Hugh and Lady Katherine Fitzhugh. The Marshal alerted them to our coming—we’ll spend the night there.”
Richard looked at Eleanor, who smiled. Dark smudges marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and he thought she looked pale and tired. Despite her protestations that she enjoyed the trip, traveling was clearly difficult for her. Not that he blamed her. If he’d thought traveling in the autumn had been cumbersome, when he and his men had covered roughly seventy or eighty miles in a day, it was nothing compared to this. They were lucky to make half that distance. But in the interim, Sir Walter told him more about the situation in the country, and Richard was gradually able to piece together some understanding of the complex political situation he was about to become embroiled in.
The road gradually curved up a gentle slope. The trees parted, and gray stone walls rose before them, the gates partially open. Through them, Richard could see the same sort of bustle he had become accustomed to. They were spotted by a guard on the walls. He turned, crying down something unintelligible, and slowly, one of the gates opened a little more.
With a wave, Sir Walter led them through the massive wooden gates. Inside Richard reined his horse. A short, bald man whose blue silk tunic and surcoat marked him as the lord of the manor came forward smiling, his hand extended in an unmistakable greeting. “My lord de Lambert,” he said. “Welcome to Bruton.”
Richard slid down from his horse and took Sir Hugh’s hand. “Sir Hugh? My wife and I are grateful for your hospitality.”
Sir Hugh gripped his hand securely and shook it. “Ah, in such times as these, cool heads must stick together. Right, Sir Walter?” He turned a wide smile of welcome on the younger knight.
“Indeed, my friend,” said Walter. “You speak true.”
Richard held up his arms to Eleanor, who slipped out of her saddle with a tired smile. For a moment, she clung to him, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and smiled, but he was concerned by her obvious fatigue. “We’ll get you inside, and let you rest,” he said, pressing her close for the briefest of moments, before turning back to their host. “Sir Hugh, may I present my wife? Lady Eleanor.”
Eleanor smiled and took Sir Hugh’s hand. He bowed and gestured to a woman who stood on the shallow steps that led into the keep. “I’m honored to meet you, my lady. Will you come and greet my own lady?”
“With pleasure, Sir Hugh.” Eleanor gathered the skirts of her gown in one hand and gripped Richard’s arm with the other. Sir Hugh gestured to the grooms hovering close to come and take the horses. In that moment, a dozen or so squealing piglets escaped across the courtyard. They headed straight for the horses. Richard’s stallion shied, and Eleanor’s mare whinnied and bucked. Richard reached for the reins, in vain, and the horse rose on her hind legs, her front hooves perilously close to Eleanor’s head. “My God, look out!” he cried. “The horses—get those reins!” he grabbed Eleanor with one arm and pushed her head close to his chest as they were surrounded by a sea of flailing hooves and squealing pigs. Richard felt a massive hoof strike his back and he collapsed to his knees, cradling Eleanor close. “Help,” he shouted. “Helpl” He closed his eyes. Surely it wasn’t going to end like this.
Frantically the grooms brought the horses under control and scullery maids and stable boys retrieved the piglets. Richard raised his head cautiously. Eleanor looked up at him, terror and something else, something that might be confusion in her eyes. Richard looked around and clasped her close to reassure her. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, but the expression in her eyes did not change. He looked around. The other men were standing by, staring at him with expressions that were a blend of puzzlement and concern. What was wrong? Carefully he got to his feet, helping Eleanor to hers.
“My—my lord?” Her voice was shaking. “Are—are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said. What was the matter with her? She was staring at him as if he were a stranger.
“Just now…when you spoke—” She broke off and looked away, and Richard realized abruptly to his horror, that in the confusion, he’d spoken in English. Not the language the peasants spoke. He’d spoken in modern English…a language that wouldn’t exist for at least another four hundred years.
Eleanor allowed Lady Katherine to lead her to a comfortable chamber above the hall, where a wide bed had been prepared for them. The woman was kind and comforting, but she, too, had heard Richard’s unintelligible utterances. There had been no doubt from the tone of them what he’d been attempting to do—he was trying to save them both. But to speak in a strange tongue? A language that sounded like none she’d ever heard?
After he was wounded, when the fever had burned so hotly through his body, she thought she’d heard unfamiliar words. But because of his throat wound, it had been impossible to understand him. He really hadn’t been able to talk at all for nearly two months. Some obscure Arab tongue, she’d thought then. But why lapse into it when he was trying to save them? She thought about what Sir John had told her after Richard’s return.
Richard had shouted strange words. Words none of the other men had recognized. Some of those
men had been with him i
n the Holy Land. If that were so, surely some of them would have recognized the words. What if it were true that Richard was now possessed?
Eleanor turned on her side, her cheek pillowed on her hand. She closed her eyes as a wave of weariness swept over her. Richard was anything but a demon. He was kind and considerate. It was true he’d changed, but he’d changed for the better.
There was no question about that. Everyone knew it. No one would prefer that Richard go back to being the way he was before the autumn attack. The fever might have left him with an addled brain—but surely he’d changed only for the better. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps it was the fever. Perhaps his brain had been addled. Perhaps in the heat of battle, he could not talk correctly. That didn’t mean he was possessed.
Would hardened soldiers who cared only about winning a battle understand that? Or would they refuse to follow a man who perhaps wasn’t…wasn’t himself? Her mind veered away from any other characterization of it.
There was a knock on the door. She struggled to sit up, and called. “Come in.”
Lady Katherine’s round face peered in. “Are you quite all right, my dear? Such a terrible scare—poor lady, you look like death.” The woman bustled into the room, her skirts quivering around her plump frame. She picked up Eleanor’s hand and patted it. “Would you like something to eat?” She peered into the goblet of watered wine she’d left beside the bed. “I will have a tray sent up to you. My poor dear, you look quite worn out.”
Eleanor nodded, feeling miserable. She wished she could tell this kind woman, but she was afraid to even give shape to her fears. How could she confide in a stranger?
“Your lord is certainly a fine figure of a man, my lady.” Lady Katherine was smiling broadly. “And so brave—the way he dropped to his knees and covered you with his body—”
Eleanor listened to the woman prattle on, managing a weak smile. Lady Katherine hadn’t heard Richard, obviously, and maybe in the confusion, no one else had, either. But she clearly remembered the looks of confusion on the faces of the men around them. They’d heard, she knew it. Did any of them fear the same thing she did, she wondered. Or did they think that perhaps, in all the noise—the pigs, the horses, the screams—they simply misunderstood him?
“My dear?” Lady Katherine had paused and was looking at her with concern. “Are you quite all right? Would you like a physic?”
Eleanor raised her eyes. Tears pricked her eyelids, and she blinked them away. “No, no, my lady. I’m fine. I’m just tired. If you would send a tray—” Suddenly she was ravenously hungry. Her mouth watered. “I’ll just rest, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” The woman gave her a motherly smile.” I’ll just reassure your lord that you just need rest after such a long journey. You rest, my dear. Try to sleep.”
When the woman had gone, Eleanor lay back against the pillows. She gripped the woolen coverlet on both sides. Richard was fine. Richard was fine. There was nothing wrong with him, only the stress of battle—the stress that something might happen to her—had addled his brain. She repeated these thoughts over and over in her mind, until at last she fell into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER 19
Richard jogged along the uneven road, his eyes focused straight ahead. A steady rain beat down, and all of them were soaked. Walter had assured them that Windsor lay just ahead, but the interminable rain made the road seem that much longer. He glanced down at Eleanor. With each
passing day, she seemed to grow more and more fatigued. If he’d thought that the journey could take so much out of her, he’d never have invited her to come. He sighed inwardly, his mouth set in a grim line. Ever since that day in Sir Hugh’s courtyard, things had been different between them.
She jumped when he came into a room, watched him furtively beneath her lids whenever they were together. And he noticed her staring at him like a hawk at daily mass. She’d heard him—heard the heedless English words which had jumped so readily, so easily, on his tongue. He cursed silently. He couldn’t blame himself—he knew he shouldn’t. But it was a serious lapse and one he knew he couldn’t afford to make again.
He wondered if she’d confided in her brother. But Hugh treated him with no more or less suspicion than he’d ever had. His attitude had softened somewhat since Richard had opened negotiations with Llewellis for Angharad’s hand, and if he’d heard Richard’s careless words, he obviously thought little of it. But Eleanor thought of it. And thought of it often. What did she think, he wondered. That he was insane?
Possessed? Possessed was not exactly wrong…in a sense, he had possessed her husband’s body.
But in this superstitious time, how could he tell her the truth? Eleanor had been raised in the convent. She seemed to believe every word Father Alphonse preached. Her religion was a source of comfort and inspiration. If the priests said her husband was possessed, she would believe without question, and if they said it was wrong…she would believe that, too. He was sure of it.
Yet he couldn’t keep himself from imagining telling her the truth. But if he could scarcely believe it to be possible, how could he expect a woman of the thirteenth century to believe it? You see, my dear, he could imagine himself saying, I’m really not your husband. I sort of landed in his body somehow. I don’t have any idea how it happened, exactly, but one minute I was standing on top of the ruins of Barland Castle in 2014, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in your bedroom with an arrow in my side, and you were trying to kill me. Not that I blame you, knowing the kind of man your husband was.
What would her reaction be, he wondered…Would she faint? Call for help? Call the priest, who would call in the Inquisition? He wondered fleetingly if the Inquisition existed yet.
Rain dripped off his brow into his collar. His clothes were sodden, and the horse plodded forward with an air of resignation. Eleanor rode swathed in her cloak, her eyes fastened on the road in front of them. He wondered what she was thinking, and realized he would probably rather not know. A pang went through him. There were so many things about this whole situation that were more complicated than he’d ever imagined. If it were true that he was here for some purpose, and he had to believe that he was, if only for his own sanity, did it mean he would leave here when that purpose was complete?
And what would happen to this body when he did? Would the original Richard come back? And if he did, what would he think? But what was even more worrisome, what would happen to Eleanor? He imagined her warm, soft, sweet body pressed beneath someone who was less than kind, who by all reports was cruel to servants and family alike. Hugh clearly despised him; Eleanor had feared him. She had begun to learn to trust him—he could only imagine how awful it would be if she had to discover her husband was once more a beast. He glanced at her again. Her face was frozen. Perhaps she’d rather have a cruel husband, than one she feared to be a lunatic.
Sir Walter nudged his way over to Richard’s side. “Less than an hour, now,” he said, looking uneasily at the sky. “Would you prefer to stop, my lord? Or to press on? Your lady wife looks so tired.”
Richard stole another glance at Eleanor. She looked more than tired, she looked exhausted. Dark circles seemed to have formed permanently beneath her eyes, but at night she fell asleep immediately and slept like a stone until morning. He regretted bringing her along more and more. So much for trying to give her some opportunity to see more of the world than Barland. He nodded. “I’m afraid so. Is there a likely place?”
“Just ahead. A tavern. It’s frequented by the king’s men and travelers coming to and from Windsor, so it’s clean enough. You need have no worry for your lady there.”
“Very well. Let’s send a man on ahead—have them get a room and a hot meal ready.”
“Good idea.” Walter nodded and turned away, flapping his reins. Richard heard him order the closest guard to ride ahead, and without any urging, the man took off. He guessed the soldier was tired of the slow slog through the r
ain, too.
He turned to Eleanor. “Lady?” he said softly, hesitant to break into her thoughts.
She slid her eyes over to him. They were dull and dark. “Yes, my lord?”
The words sounded so automatic. “We’re not going on to Windsor today. There’s an inn just up ahead. We’ll stop there for the night, and then, tomorrow, you can rest there while I go on to see the king and Lord William. Do you find that”—the word “okay” nearly slipped out—“satisfactory?”
“Of course, my lord.” She nodded and her hands gripped the reins tightly. Her eyes focused once more on the road ahead.
Women, Richard sighed. Couldn’t she at least talk to him? Confide in him? Perhaps this evening—he would confront her that very evening. She couldn’t sulk forever. He wasn’t sure what he would tell her, but there had to be some way to reassure her that he wasn’t crazy. At least, he thought, as he stared at the thirteenth-century landscape around him, no crazier than anyone else who had ever time-traveled.
Eleanor sank into the wooden tub, the hot water sending clouds of steam into the air. She heard the babble of voices from the tavern below—loud voices, all male, mostly drunk. She shut her eyes. The weariness spiraled through her and she shook her head. If she weren’t careful, she’d end up falling asleep and drowning. Though maybe that would be preferable…Startled, she shook herself even harder. What was wrong with her? She was so tired. She didn’t remember the journey from France making her so exhausted. And that one had been even longer.
She wondered where Richard was. He’d gone to make sure the horses were groomed and bedded down properly. He acted as though he didn’t trust the landlord’s grooms to see to the job. Well, maybe he was right. But it was more likely he was down in the common room, talking to the other men. Or listening. He seemed to do a great deal of listening.
She realized with a start that this was a major difference she hadn’t even noticed up until this point. The old Richard—at least, that’s how she thought of him before the attack—spoke loudly and definitively upon many subjects. This new Richard was far more taciturn. If anything, he’d become a man of very few words, offering an opinion or an observation only if asked. But he was likable, she had noticed that.