Immortal Champion

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Immortal Champion Page 6

by Lisa Hendrix


  And that hair: still as bone-straight and glossy as he remembered on that girl by the hearth, but now caught back in an intricate net of braids that hung well past her buttocks, thick as his wrist.

  Thank the gods her hair wasn’t hidden away beneath a crespin or one of those bizarre horned arrangements that were the mark of married women these days. The braids meant she was still unwed. Hope surged through him once more at the thought; he pushed it down, still unwilling to give himself over to it.

  And then the first courses were carried out, and he was saved, the lady all but forgotten as the aromas of onions, saffron, cloves, and freshly baked bread washed over him. His stomach rumbled like an oxcart on cobblestones, audible even over the music drifting down from the minstrels’ gallery at the end of the hall.

  Lady Eleanor averted her gaze, pretending not to hear, but Gunnar caught a snort of, what? Laughter? Disapproval? It used to be that a rumbling belly was the sign of a good appetite, just as a hearty belch after a meal was a sign that the food had satisfied, but now, and at a noble table … He supposed he needed to apologize.

  He leaned close so he could keep his words private. “Your pardon, my lady. I have yet to learn how to still an empty belly.”

  “You have not eaten today?”

  “I was traveling.” That wasn’t quite true; the bull had spent the day grazing, but that hardly counted.

  “And then you fought, unfed? You must be starved.” She motioned over the nearest serving man, who began spooning a savory soup of veal and onions over slices of toasted bread in a bowl. Gunnar picked up a spoon and dug in. He was nearly through the bowl when the meat was carried in.

  Not just any meat. Roasted pig, crisp skin dripping with fat. Aye, just what he’d longed for, that and the custard, yellow with eggs and glistening with cream. As a boy passed by with a huge bowl of the stuff, he felt like leaping in. It was all he could do not to groan.

  Lady Eleanor must have noted the food-lust in his eyes, for she saw to it that their trencher was piled with the richest dishes on the table, then held back as he ate his fill, pointing out choice morsels, buttering bread for him, and gently encouraging him to stuff himself. He obliged, and most happily.

  As they shared a piece of the honey cake that finished the meal, the lord to their left, whose name Gunnar had already forgotten, leaned over.

  “Your pardon, sir. Did I hear it said that you saved Lady Eleanor, here, from a fire?”

  It was as though the lady had been waiting all these years for someone to ask. Before Gunnar could gather his words, she raced into her version of the events at Richmond. She was a lively if inaccurate storyteller, and soon everyone within hearing was caught up in her tale as she painted him a hero, her hands fluttering and swooping with her words.

  Gunnar sat quietly, willing everyone to watch her and forget him. And it worked, too, until her tale ventured so far from the truth that it made him wince.

  “What is it, Sir Gunnar?” asked Lord Ralph—probably the only man within hearing not enthralled by his daughter and her tale. “Does Eleanor have it wrong?”

  “I would not dare call her wrong, my lord,” said Gunnar carefully. “But she does … beribbon things.”

  “Beribbon.” Chuckling with the others, Lord Ralph rose and came over to stand behind Eleanor, laying a hand on each shoulder. “A good name for her way. I have heard her ‘beribbon’ a story until it fell over from the weight of all the trimmings. Where did she go astray?”

  “I did not soar off the balcony like an eagle, my lord. I fell off it like a sack of stones, all but killing us both.”

  “You told me you leapt,” protested Lady Eleanor over the laughter. “That very night.”

  “You said leapt, my lady. I said fell, even then.”

  “How strange you so easily recall what you said when you struggled to recall me,” she said tartly, shrugging off her father’s hands. “I say we could not have fallen. I had barely a bruise.”

  “You told me that night that you ached, my lady,” reminded Gunnar, laughing himself now. “And I know I did.”

  “Whatever aches you felt, they were surely less than the sting of your burns. Your very shirt was—”

  “Aaah.”

  “Almost burned off y—” The groan carried Lady Eleanor to her feet mid-word. “Madame?”

  “Joan?” Lord Ralph hurried back to kneel at his wife’s side. They exchanged a few hushed words, and then he rose to scold her. “You should have told me, instead of trying to outlast both mêlée and meal. And I should have noticed. It isn’t as though I haven’t seen this before. Mary, Eleanor, the rest of you. Come, it is time. Someone fetch the midwife.”

  A page dashed toward the door, and Eleanor started toward her mother. She’d gone only a few steps when she stopped and turned back. “Forgive me, Sir Gunnar, but I am needed. You will still be here on the morrow, I hope.”

  Yes, he wanted to say, but it wasn’t possible. He needed to see to Jafri’s safety before he could deal with anything else. “I fear not, my lady. I have business to attend, but—”

  “Not again! But I have a gift for you, and I cannot give it now.” She glanced anxiously toward where her sisters and the other women surrounded her mother.

  And that’s when he saw it, the silver comb that caught her braid at the nape of her neck. He’d noticed it before, but now the light caught it just right, raising the image engraved into the wide spine: a maiden sitting on the back of a bull.

  His heart stuttered in his chest, then started pounding like a fuller’s stock, so loud he barely heard her say,

  “You must come back.”

  Of course he must. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. “I will. As soon as I am able.”

  “I have heard that promise before.” She balled her fists on her hips and faced him like a stubborn alewife. “What surety do I have that you tell the truth this time, so that I may attend my mother’s labors without worrying that another five years will pass before I see you?”

  “None but my word, but I give it freely. I will be back.”

  “When?”

  He quickly calculated how much time it would take to do what needed to be done and get back to her, then held up a finger. “One week.”

  “And you swear it?”

  “Of a certs, my lady. How can I not, when it is Providence?”

  She gave him a smile so brilliant he felt its warmth in the pit of his stomach. “I believe you will,” she said quietly, then whirled and hurried off after her mother.

  Gunnar watched, bemused, until she vanished with the others down a passageway, then carried his cup of wine over to the hearth. The men already there made way for him, shuffling back to let him pass, to give him the best seat, to defer to him. Not good, whispered the part of him that demanded to stay hidden, but any chance of that had vanished. Consoling himself with the thought that most of those present were there for the tourney and would scatter before he returned, he took the offered seat, stretched his feet toward the fire, and settled in for an evening’s company.

  Only later, when the hall was dark and rattling with snores, did he have the peace he needed to try to wrap his mind around what had happened.

  Of all the places he might have chosen to lay his head this night, he had been drawn here, to her. And of all the favors he could have chosen, he’d been drawn to her glove. It had beckoned him from the first, and even when he failed to find it, fortune conspired to put it into his hands. He’d been led to her in spite of himself.

  He’d suspected it from the moment he’d realized who she was, but hadn’t dared hope it was true. Now, he had no doubt, not after seeing the maid and bull.

  Providence, she’d called it, using her Christian word. But he knew the truth: it was the Nornir, the Fate-spinners, who had woven their life-strands together. He might have been too dull-witted to see it when they’d set her in his path four years ago, but he could not mistake it now, not when she wore the confirming sign on her very b
ody.

  Glancing around to make certain the others truly slept, Gunnar rose and approached the fire to spill a measure of wine into the dying flames. As the coals hissed, he whispered a word of thanks to be carried aloft by the sweet, rising steam, the first of what he knew would be many such offerings.

  For the gods had brought a gift to him, a boon for staying faithful to them through the long centuries. They’d given him a prize more valuable than any golden apple, indeed, more precious than all the gold in England: Lady Eleanor de Neville. The woman who could love him, even knowing what he was.

  The woman who could save him and, in saving him, lead him to the life—and in time, the death—he so much desired.

  He had much to be thankful for.

  CHAPTER 5

  “PUT THAT CHILD down. You hold him more than the wet nurse does.”

  “Forgive me, madame. I did not mean to wake you.” Eleanor turned from the window, cuddling her new brother. “Edward was fretting and I thought to settle him. Look, he smiles at me.” She tilted him slightly so her mother could see.

  “Week-old babes do not smile. He has wind. Where is the wet nurse?”

  “Below, suckling her own son.”

  “She is supposed to do that while Edward sleeps.”

  “He was sleeping. As were you. As you both still should be.”

  “It appears we have both slept enough for now.” Lady Joan sat up and wrestled her pillows into shape before she eased back. “Did I dream it, or wasn’t Mary here before?”

  Mary Ferrers was another of Eleanor’s half sisters, this one from her mother’s first marriage—and very much more pleasant than those from her father’s first marriage. “She was. But I wanted to sit with you, so I sent her off.”

  “You did? Truly?”

  Eleanor nodded, paying no heed to the guilt that poked at her. She truly did want to be here, after all, though less for mother and child than for their windows: the lying-in chamber had clear glass windows that overlooked both inner and outer gates and the ward between. She could even see a bit of the road beyond the wall—the road down which Sir Gunnar was to ride today.

  Except today was already over, the sun having set on a misty, cold afternoon with no sign of him. And despite full knowledge that the man had lied with his promises before, the more the light faded, the more this particular lie stung.

  But her mother didn’t know any of that, and she beamed up at Eleanor, happy. Eleanor could only smile back.

  The baby started to fret again, tiny mewing sounds of distress, and her mother held out her arms. “Bring him here. There is nothing the nurse can do that I cannot. Except feed him, of course. I want you to watch. You will have babes of your own soon, God willing.”

  And God willing, they would not be Richard’s. Eleanor carried the tightly swaddled infant over and laid him in his mother’s arms. Lady Joan checked his clout to make sure he was still clean, then brought him up to her shoulder and patted his back until he produced a belch worthy of a smith.

  “See? Wind.” Her mother settled Edward into the crook of her arm, where he rooted at her bound teats a moment before sticking his own fist in his mouth and promptly going back to sleep. She patted the bed for Eleanor to come sit by her. “See, after twelve, I have learned a bit. You should have, too. You were meant to have experience of birthing and infants while with York.”

  “Her Grace cannot help that she is barren.”

  “She is not barren,” said Lady Joan.

  “But everyone said—”

  “They always say it is the woman’s fault, whether ’tis true or not. Philippa produced a son for Fitzwalter with no trouble at all, while York has been swiving his way across England for years and has not a single bastard to show for it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If he did, he’d be bringing one forward as heir, wouldn’t he? No, his seed is bad, mark my word. I doubt he could get even me with child, while all your father need do is walk past my chamber door to get me breeding. With luck, Richard will show similar vigor. Ah, there you are at last,” she said as the door opened on a plump young peasant woman with teats worthy of her station as wet nurse. “Take him, and carefully, for he sleeps. And you, Eleanor, go down to supper. I think I heard the horn.”

  “Yes, madame.” Barely containing a grimace at the idea of Richard in her bed, Eleanor made her courtesy and escaped—though to what and from what, she wasn’t sure. Neither the man she wanted nor the one she didn’t was here. In no particular hurry, she trudged down the long passageway past the family apartments.

  By the time she reached the solar, it was empty but for Lucy, who stood by the grilled window that separated solar from hall. “I thought you would come sooner, my lady, to watch for Sir Gunnar.”

  “I have had enough of watching. It holds no more interest.”

  “No?” Lucy put her eye to the grill. “Then should I have someone carry his gift to him and say you are ill?”

  The center of Eleanor went still. “What?”

  “Should I send word you are ill? I could say your head aches. It might be best anyway.”

  “He is here?” Eleanor hurried the few steps to stand beside Lucy and peer through the wooden lacework.

  There. Her eyes found him instantly, drawn to that thatch of red-tinged gold as though his curls were the tongues of a signal fire. “But I watched from the tower. How … ?”

  “He only just came. You must have missed his approach in the gloom.” Lucy paused a moment, then ventured a hesitant, “My lady?”

  Below, Gunnar stripped off his cloak and sword and handed them to a varlet. Hardly able to breathe, Eleanor watched him join the line for the ewer. She should go down. She’d been waiting all day for him, and she should go down, but her feet were suddenly as heavy as millstones.

  “My lady?” repeated Lucy more insistently.

  “What?”

  “As cousin and friend, I must remind you. You are betrothed.”

  Lucy’s quiet words echoed the very thought that anchored Eleanor to the floor, the same thought that had dogged her all week: that Richard, confirmed as Lord Burghersh these three years past, would come to claim her someday soon.

  But she was not yet wife, and her champion was here. Here.

  All those months, watching for Sir Gunnar, dreaming of him, praying for him; all those years of struggling to resign herself to a marriage she never wanted; the past week of soaring hope; her mother’s wishes for Richard’s vigor abed; they all collided now in the face of the man below. He hadn’t seemed real last week, come so suddenly and without intent.

  But now he was here because he wanted to be. For her. She really should go down to him. Her feet stayed frozen to the floor.

  “My lady.” Lucy’s tone was a warning.

  “You watched with me, Lucy. Every night. You never worried about my betrothal then.”

  “We were girls. It was a game, like in one of the fabliaux. But I have watched you this last week, and I see your face now. I worry that it is no longer a game.”

  No. No, it isn’t. Eleanor wiped her palms, damp with sweat, against her skirts. “Is the clothing I made ready?”

  “You know it is, my lady. You have asked after it every day this sennight.”

  “Good. When it is time, bring it all here to the solar. He will have to try everything. I may need to make alteration.” Oh, she did hope so. It would give her leave to be close to him, to touch him.

  Lucy’s frown accused Eleanor, as if she’d read her intent. “Be careful, my lady. ’Twould be sin to betray Lord Burghersh.”

  “I know that.” But it would be far worse sin to betray Providence. The thought formed whole, as if dropped into her head from above, and in the same instant, the weights fell from her feet. “I know what I am doing.”

  She ran for the stair, sending a silent prayer to Heaven that she truly did.

  THERE SHE CAME, sailing across the hall, the crowd parting before her like the sea before the prow of a fa
st ship.

  Gunnar watched Lady Eleanor approach with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Not one for the background, this one. If he was wrong about this, she would surely be the ruin of him.

  As she glided to a stop, he commended his fate to the Nornir and bowed. “My lady.”

  “Monsire.” She stood there, wearing a pleased expression as she suddenly sprouted up an inch and settled back down. “Your business went well, I hope.” Up and down.

  “It did.” He watched her rise and fall again. “Is something wrong, my lady?”

  “No.” Up and down she went. “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem to be … bobbing.” He waved his fingers up and down. “You do it often.”

  “What?” She looked down at her toes just as she sprouted yet again. “Oh. So I am.” She settled firmly to the ground, embarrassment spotting her cheeks. “And so vanishes my pretense of calm and grace.” She shot him a rueful grin. “ ’Tis rude of you to point it out, sir, when the cause lies at your feet.”

  “It does? How?”

  “You are here.”

  “As I said I would be.”

  “Aye. But when the sun set and there was no sign of you, I thought you had failed me again. Thus my great pleasure at seeing you now.” Another flash of smile. “And my bobbing. I fear it gives me away when I am happy. Your pardon while I wash for supper.”

  She slid into the front of the line, leaving Gunnar shaking his head in amusement.

  They were soon seated once again at the high table. “Because we were interrupted last time,” the lady explained. “Though for good reason.”

  “A very good one. Mother and child are well, I hope?”

  “Very well, and thank you. My new brother is named Edward, and he already smiles at me, even if my lady mother believes otherwise.”

 

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