Immortal Champion

by Lisa Hendrix

  “Of course, my lady.” He started to lean over, but realized he wouldn’t be close enough, so he crawled half onto the bed and bent to her. She reeked of the acrid smoke, but as her lips touched his cheek, soft as a butterfly, he smiled at the sweetness in her kiss. A girl’s kiss. Outside, a single bell tolled mournfully, calling the monks to prepare for Matins. ’Twas time to be gone.

  “You are forever my champion,” Lady Eleanor whispered as he straightened, and his chest squeezed a little at the idea of being champion to any maid, even one so very young. “I would have you sit beside me at dinner on the morrow.”

  “I would be honored, my lady, but I cannot. I must ride on.”

  “In this weather?” asked the duchess from across the room.

  “Aye, Your Grace, and soon.”

  “But I would give you your proper due.” Lady Eleanor frowned and then brightened as a thought struck her. “I know—the spring tourney at York. You will attend and carry my favor.”

  “I …” I cannot, he began, but she had that tone again, the one that expected obedience, plus the pain was starting to creep back into her eyes. He wanted her to rest, and so instead of the truth, he offered a lie. “I will try, my lady.”

  “You will come,” she said firmly, easing herself back against the pillows. The motion, combined with the effort of speaking, brought on another fit of coughing. The screamer hurried over as her lady hacked, and Gunnar quietly backed away.

  The duchess motioned for him to follow her out. As the door closed behind them, she shook her head. “She breathed far too much smoke. I fear it may have damaged her lungs.”

  Gunnar glanced back at the door, where the sound of coughing still echoed.

  “She seems strong enough,” he said, willing it to be so. She couldn’t die, not after all that.

  “She is, usually, but she already suffered a bout of fever this winter. And now this …” The duchess stopped midway down the stairs and faced Gunnar. “I would have a stronger promise that you will come to York, monsire. She needs something to cling to for strength. And I do not wish to lie to her.”

  Not that she would mind if he lied, her tone said. But there were lies, and there were lies. “I understand, Your Grace. Tell Lady Eleanor … tell her that she will see me again after she is well.”

  The duchess considered him through narrowed eyes, then a mischievous smile spread across her face. “Well done, monsire. I can use that without compunction.”

  She truly was fair when she smiled like that; the duke was a fortunate man. As they reentered the gallery, Gunnar repeated, “I truly must be away now, Your Grace.”

  “But I intended you to have new clothes to replace those. Let me call the steward.”

  “A kind thought, Your Grace, but I have no time.” He tugged at the singed hem of his sleeve. “These will keep me warm enough. My cloak was not burned.”

  “But we …” She cast about as though looking for something. In the end, she twisted a large ruby ring off her thumb. “Here. Take this as thanks for your aid.”

  “But I—”

  She pressed it into hand. “No. I would give you both new clothes and gold a-plenty, but my keys were in the bower and I can unlock neither treasury nor even my personal casket just now. Take the ring, though it be poor reward for one who did so much.”

  “I did my duty as a man, Your Grace. That is all.”

  “You helped us all, and you saved Lady Eleanor. A ring is little enough. Take it, I say, and sell it to buy yourself warm new clothes before the day is out. You cannot refuse me, not after I accepted that promise.” That smile again.

  Gunnar flushed as he slipped the ring on his little finger. “I would not dare refuse a lady so kind, Your Grace. And I am most grateful. By your leave.”

  She nodded, and he bowed and backed off a few steps before he turned and trotted down the stairs. Moments later, he’d retrieved his sword and was checking the girth straps on his horses, and by the time the clouds began to pale, he was in the glade where he and Jafri had been trading places each dawn and dusk. A dark, lean form slunk through the snowdrifts not far away, and Gunnar tied the still-nervous horses more tightly than usual, so they couldn’t run from the wolf. He stripped off his clothes, and as he stowed them away for the day, a snowflake hit his cheek, conjuring a memory of Lady Eleanor’s sweet kiss.

  In the next instant, a gust of wind scoured it away and set his shoulder and hands afire anew with a blast of stinging ice crystals, and all he could do was stand there naked, freezing, until the pain of transformation overwhelmed the pain of his burns and beat him to the ground.

  THE WATERS WERE stirring again—most strange when the whole of England was frozen.

  Cwen stood in the doorway of her woodland cottage, staring out at a gray winter dawn so cold that the fog of her breath turned to ice and settled to the ground like snow. It had taken all her craft to call down such cold, and she savored every drift and shattered branch, knowing that the misery of it pursued the beast-warriors into their very lairs. Even if they’d found shelter amongst men, at this instant before sunrise, as at every dawn and dusk, they lay freezing and naked in the snow. Surely by now they must be begging for the death they could never have.

  And yet so much was amiss.

  Cwen turned back to the loom that sat in the corner and the nine colors of thread—one for each of the seven remaining men plus black spun from her own hair and a reddish brown dyed with her own blood—that hung upon it in tatters. When she had retired last night, the cloth had been all but done, a year’s worth of labor woven into the interlocking figures and finely wrought chains. The elaborate spell had been a makeshift, meant to freshen the now ancient curse and hold the beast-warriors more securely while she searched for a way to recover the fullness of her powers.

  But mice had come in the night as she’d dreamed, gnawing at both warp and weft like mad things, undoing it all. She’d not heard a sound, nor apparently had the magpie, her companion, who sat on his perch less than a yard away. Yet the magic so carefully woven with each pass of the shuttle was unbound, and the little beastlings, three of them, lay at the foot of the loom, struck dead by the very magic they had shredded.

  It was a message, clearly, a warning from the Old Ones that yet another fragment of the old spell was on the verge of unraveling. And though disappointment and anger twisted inside her at the idea of it, she felt no surprise. She’d sensed it for years, a vague uneasiness as unseeable as the currents of air beneath the magpie’s wings.

  But this. This was clear.

  It was time to act, to once again deal with the Northmen and their efforts to escape her vengeance. But how? She dropped to her knees before the loom and raised her hands in supplication to the gods, opening herself to their wisdom and aid.

  Their answer came later that day when she had burned the ruined spell-cloth and purified herself in its smoke. As she trudged to the great oak that overshadowed her cottage and prepared to spread the remains of her magic-making on the snow beneath it, the wind lifted the ashes from the copper basin she held and swirled them high into the air, up through the tree’s bare branches to where the magpie watched. Startled, the bird shrieked loudly and darted off, heading due west like a black and white arrow from blind Hodor’s bow, the trail of ash swirling along behind in his wake.

  Cwen smiled, then bowed low toward the tree. “I understand and obey, my lord.”

  She called the bird back to her with a sharp whistle and went inside, and the next morning she set about dispelling the fearsome cold and clearing the roads so that she could go find whatever awaited her in the west country.

  CHAPTER 2

  One month later

  “AH, IT IS good to see you at your sewing again, Lady Eleanor. It tells me you are truly well.”

  “Your Grace.” Eleanor started to lay aside her sewing to rise and do courtesy with the others, but the duchess held up a staying hand. In the days since Eleanor had been allowed out of bed, the duchess had gone
out of her way to save her any extra effort. “I am well, indeed. Perhaps I might rejoin you in the gallery tonight after supper?”

  “A few more days, I think. What is that you are making?”

  “A cote-hardie.” Eleanor held up the garment to show her. “I cut the cloth yesterday and began stitching after prayers this morning.”

  “And you have the shoulders seamed already? I hope you are taking proper care with your stitches.”

  “Of course, my lady. As you taught me.”

  The duchess came over and inspected the stitching, then fingered the thick brown wool. “Is this not the cloth Westmorland sent you to make a traveling cloak?”

  Eleanor flushed at the mention of her father. “It is not to my taste. I felt it better suited to a man.”

  “To Sir Gunnar, perhaps?”

  Suddenly self-conscious before the duchess’s knowing smile, Eleanor smoothed the cloth across her knee and started sorting out the needle and thread, which had tangled as she’d shown the garment. “I heard he did not stay long enough to have new clothes to replace his burnt ones, and I thought to have something ready for him when he comes to tourney.”

  “If he comes—”

  “You told me he promised, my lady.”

  Coloring a little, the duchess pressed her fingertips together before her chin. “Promise may have been too strong a word. You were ill, and I spoke to give you cause to heal.”

  Disappointment made Eleanor frown. She sought reassurance. “But he did say I would see him again when I was well?”

  “Yes,” admitted the duchess.

  “Then he surely will come,” said Eleanor. “He did not strike me as the sort who would lie.”

  “No. I suppose not,” said the duchess, a bit uncomfortably for Eleanor’s taste. “But there is no need for you to sew for him. I gave him a ring to buy himself new clothes, and if, eh, when he does come back, I will see that he receives more. After all, I owe him very nearly as much as you.”

  “But I wish to sew for him, my lady. By way of thanks.”

  “Of course,” said Her Grace gently. “But you must not carry your thanks too far. Sir Gunnar is a simple knight, while you—”

  “While you are so much more,” said a masculine voice from the doorway.

  This time Eleanor sprang up without hesitation, her sewing tumbling to the floor as she dropped into a deep courtesy along with the other women. “Your Grace.”

  The duke stepped into the room and his gaze raked over the others. “I would speak with Lady Eleanor alone.”

  The duchess clapped her hands, and the other women and maids, already on their feet, quickly departed, leaving their work where it lay. Her Grace started to follow them out, but her husband motioned for her to stay, then paced across the room and stood, fists on hips, looking down at Eleanor, who slowly straightened.

  “You must look higher than Sir Gunnar, Lady Eleanor. And fortunately, I bring word of someone you may look to.”

  Higher than the man who had saved me? Doubtful that there could be such a man, Eleanor asked, “Who? I mean, if you please, Your Grace.”

  Smiling as though he had a pleasant secret to reveal, the duke took a folded parchment out of his sleeve. Eleanor’s mouth went dry as she recognized her father’s wax seal across the opening. Oblivious of Eleanor’s pounding heart, the duke unfolded the message and looked it over, nodding silently to himself. “A husband. Your father and I have come to an agreement on your marriage.”

  “Marriage?” Eleanor blinked, stunned even though she’d been expecting it for some time. “To whom?”

  “Richard le Despenser.”

  “Richard. Your nephew?” The image of a boy two years younger than she, skinny as a broom straw and pale as dough, sprang up in Eleanor’s skull. “But I don’t want to marry Richard.”

  The duke’s smile vanished. “It is a good match. You should be grateful.”

  “But Richard is my cousin. The Church forbids—”

  “He is only your second cousin,” interrupted the duchess, coming around to stand behind Eleanor, who suddenly felt the precariousness of her position. “The Church has already given dispensation for the match. You should be pleased. You will be Lady Burghersh and eventually, Countess of Gloucester.”

  Eleanor glanced over her shoulder to the duchess, confused. “But his father was attainted, and the title deprived.”

  “The father is not the son, and Henry already realizes it,” said His Grace firmly. “Richard is a good lad. He will be created earl once more.”

  “Earl or no, I do not like him, Your Grace. And he—”

  “It is not about what you like,” snapped the duke. “It is about what is good for Westmorland and York and the Crown.”

  “But Richard likes me no more than I like him,” argued Eleanor. Her Grace laid a hand on her shoulder in warning, but Eleanor plowed on in her certitude. “He will not want to marry me.”

  The duke flicked a finger at her notion. “But he does want you, God help him, for he is clever enough to realize that you, my lady, are what will bring the earldom back to him.”

  “I? How?” And then, the truth hit her. “Oh. Because the king will not likely let me remain so low, despite my Beaufort uncles’ sins. Is there to be no love in it at all, then?”

  “Love? What does love have to do with marriage and matters of state?”

  Eleanor lifted her chin and met the duke’s gaze with defiance. “My lord grandfather married for love.”

  “Aye, eventually, but only after he’d done his duty to England. And still, see where his love got all of you.” York flipped the parchment closed and shoved it back up his sleeve. “Enough. You will say your betrothal vows before we leave for Wales. Richard will serve his time as squire and earn his spurs and Henry’s trust, and when you are both of an age, you will be married. And with luck and God’s blessing, you will take after your lady mother and breed like a sow.”

  Eleanor felt the duchess tense at her husband’s words. Her Grace had a son from an earlier marriage, but had produced no children, male or female, since wedding York. Her inability to bear her husband an heir ate at her, and his words no doubt stung.

  But the duke, in his anger, was either careless or blind to her distress. He glowered at Eleanor. “It is done, girl. Resign yourself and make ready.”

  He waited expectantly, his frown growing darker as Eleanor stood there, mouth agape. Finally, Her Grace squeezed her shoulder. “She understands her duty, husband. Do you not, Eleanor?”

  Another squeeze, sharper, jerked Eleanor to attention. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Grace.” She dropped an obedient courtesy to the duke. “As you—and my lord father—command. I will make ready.”

  The duke stalked out and turned toward the hall. The duchess released her grip on Eleanor’s shoulder and walked out without a word, turning the opposite way, toward her bedchamber.

  Eleanor sagged back onto her stool and sat there, hands shaking as she considered her fate. Richard.

  Richard!

  She tried to wrap her mind around the notion of being married to Richard le Despenser. Scrawny, sickly, unpleasant Richard, who put toads in her sewing basket and picked his nose and started fights he couldn’t even finish, much less win. And he fiddled all the time, his fingers constantly picking and twisting at things, never still. She despised him.

  Perhaps if she thought of him as Earl of Gloucester …

  But no. She could not see that Richard would ever bear the title. His father’s murder of Thomas of Woodstock and role in the subsequent uprising had surely been too great a treason for Henry to forgive. Besides, Richard didn’t even look like an earl. An earl, like a duke, should have a certain bearing. A certain dignity.

  His Grace had it. Her father had it. So did John, her eldest half brother, who would be earl after her father.

  So, for that matter, did Sir Gunnar.

  The mere thought of the latter brought a smile to her lips. Simple knight
or no, he possessed more nobility than Richard le Despenser ever would. She closed her eyes and conjured up Gunnar’s image: broad chest, broader shoulders, that mane of copper-shot curls—in need of a proper cutting, but striking nonetheless. Strong, square jaw. That smile, barely there even when humor lit his green eyes, as though he begrudged his lips the right to reveal too much. He might be better than twice her age, but he was far, far more to her taste than Richard. If only her father would bind her to a substantial man like that. Or if only she were a peasant and could chose for herself.

  Well, no, perhaps not a peasant. She wouldn’t like that, but she wouldn’t mind at all being the wife of some minor knight, if he were like Sir Gunnar. Her mind drifted for a moment over the possibility that her champion might return not just for the tourney but to claim her as wife, and the idea pleased her greatly. Far more than the idea of Richard. She would not, could not, resign herself to Richard.

  The other women began filing back in, and with a sigh, Eleanor opened her eyes, retrieved the pile of cloth lying at her feet, and went back to work. Whenever Sir Gunnar did return—Please let him return soon and carry me away from this contract the way he carried me away from the bower pyre, she prayed between stitches—she intended to have his gift ready.

  But the week came and went with no sign of her prayer being answered, and on Tuesday next she was summoned to the hall, where a handful of noble witnesses stood by while a cleric read out the contract and the duke and Richard le Despenser signed.

  “Your mark,” ordered His Grace, shoving a quill at her.

  And since Sir Gunnar had not come and she had little choice in the matter in any case, she took the quill and carefully scribed her name beside Richard’s and then went to the chapel to say the vows that promised she would one day become his wife. Her prayer was still unanswered a few days after that when Richard rode off to war, and it remained so when she next faced the priest and had to confess that in a moment of weakness—honesty, but weakness—she had also prayed for Richard to be killed while in Wales so that she would never have to marry him. By the time she finished the penance, her knees were raw.