Immortal Champion

by Lisa Hendrix

  “I’m glad the bargain meets your approval.” He pressed a final kiss to her forehead and released her. “I expect you to present me with a grandson within the year.”

  “I pray I can oblige you.” Not that she meant for it to be Henry Percy’s get. “Good night, my lord.”

  “God’s rest to you.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, she let her smile fall away. Knave. Just because he’d sired her, he thought he could still whore her out to increase his power.

  Lucy met her in the passageway. Her brows drew together when she saw Eleanor’s scowl. “Was it terrible, my lady?”

  It was certainly going to seem so to her. Eleanor assessed her cousin quickly. Lucy had learned a great deal about hiding things and lying in the last three years, too, but this would test her sorely. If she failed …

  No, she had to trust her. There was no one else. She curved one arm around Lucy’s waist and gave her a reassuring hug. “Come, I will tell you where we have some privacy. We have much to do.”

  Cunning, indeed.

  He had no idea.

  LADY JOAN GAVE birth to a healthy girl—her sixteenth child and her husband’s twenty-third—on the third day of May, producing the infant with so little labor that the midwife nearly didn’t arrive in time.

  Anxious as she was to slip away and go find Gunnar, Eleanor stayed for the confinement afterward and bided her time, continuing to play the willing bride in order to lull her father into relaxing his guard. Lucy mostly avoided him.

  One evening a fortnight later, Eleanor was holding little Cecily when she caught her mother watching her with an oddly wistful expression. “What is that look?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. I was merely thinking how well you look with a child in your arms. But then everyone looks well holding Cecily.” A proud smile lit Lady Joan’s face. “She is by far the fairest of all my babes.”

  Eleanor shot her a teasing frown over Cecily’s head. “Why, thank you, madame.”

  “Oh, you were all fair enough. Excepting poor Robert. He was a most awkward infant—all ears and nose.”

  Eleanor thought of her young brother and grinned. “He still is all ears and nose, and I fear he always will be.”

  “Alas, you are likely correct. But look at Cecily. Skin like a peach, a rosebud of a mouth. And those eyes. Blue as cornflowers.”

  “Do not all babes have blue eyes?”

  “Cecily’s will stay blue,” said Lady Joan firmly. “She shows her Plantagenet blood, through and through. There is a grace to her, even to her hands.”

  “Stop, madame, lest you make her too proud.” Laughing, Eleanor chucked the baby beneath her too perfectly dimpled chin. Her mother was correct about the babe’s beauty, down to the tiny, flawless fingernails. “Do not listen to our mother, Cecily. Whatever she says, remember that you are bald beneath that chape. And you have no teeth.”

  “She will have, and they will be as perfect as the rest of her. And her hair will be pure gold.”

  “And her clouts will stink only of rose water and cloves,” added Eleanor, biting her cheek to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, I do love rose water and cloves,” said Lucy as she came in the door at the end of the sentence, sending Eleanor, her mother, and the attending maids into fits of laughter. Flushing in confusion, Lucy bent a knee to the countess. “The earl waits in the hall, my lady. I reminded him you are lying in, but he said—”

  “He comes to speak with me, Lucy, not to bed me. Let him in and then leave us, all of you.”

  Eleanor handed little Cecily over to her nurse and gathered her sewing to leave with the others, but as her father came, he motioned for her to stay. He did not look happy, and he wasted no words explaining why.

  “I have just had word that the king will sail for France this summer. He will likely order Percy to go with him to prove himself. I want you married and a child on the way before he leaves. I just sent word to Percy to meet you in Durham. You are to start north as soon as you can make ready.”

  Did he intend to go with her? Eleanor couldn’t tell. She edged toward the door. “By your leave, then. I have much to do before we start.”

  “Not we,” said her father. “You.”

  “Pardon, my lord?”

  “I will not be going with you.”

  “But you said—” her mother began.

  “Things have changed.” Westmorland pulled a folded parchment out of his sleeve and waved it irritably. “Henry also says that he wants me at court within the week. If I delay, I both risk his ire and increase the likelihood I will have to sail to France to attend him. Eleanor is happy with the arrangements. She can give herself.”

  To Eleanor’s ear, he put a slight stress on those last two words, a subtle reminder, perhaps, that he had not entirely forgotten what had happened with Gunnar.

  But if he meant to shame her, his effort went awry. Just the thought of that giving, the one and only time she had truly given herself, made Eleanor’s body sing to life. Hoping the heat in her blood didn’t show in her cheeks, she looked up at her father with pleading eyes and murdered the last of his suspicions.

  “Can you not ride at least to Durham with me, my lord? I can be ready in only a day or two, and—”

  “In two days, I shall be past York. No, you must go without me. But I shall send Sir John Penson to accompany you. You need an extra man or two anyway, and he can go all the way to Alnwick to witness the wedding and then carry a true copy of the contract back here for safekeeping.”

  God’s toes. Even supposedly trusting her, he sent along a surety. Eleanor had to bite her tongue to keep from cursing aloud, but her smile never wavered. “Ah, good. Sir John has a fine singing voice and will keep me well entertained along the way. Thank you, my lord.”

  “So, then, it is done.” He seemed mildly confused by her easy agreement. Good. “I leave at first light. Come, Joan, let us say our farewells now, then you needn’t rise so early.”

  Eleanor watched her mother bid her father good-bye with a tender kiss, then offered her own farewell. “I pray you have a safe journey, my lord.”

  “So solemn. Come, give me a kiss.”

  Once more she traded kisses that meant nothing with a man she didn’t love. The last time, she hoped.

  The next morning, she climbed to the scribes’ room at the top of the west tower and watched from the window as her father rode south across the lea and disappeared into the morning mist. Three days later she rode out herself, turning the opposite way out the gate, an apparently willing widow-bride headed north with her baggage and servants to a new husband.

  As she turned to wave back at her mother, an unexpected sob balled up in her throat. The farewells they’d exchanged had been full of promises for future visits, but if this adventure succeeded, there was a good chance she would never see her mother again. The sadness of that was almost enough to make her change her mind.

  Almost. But there would be such a great a price to pay for the privilege of a few visits, and she’d paid it for far too long already. She pushed away the sorrow and rode on.

  They reached the great road by late morning and turned toward Durham. Eleanor waited until she was certain no one else was following them—it was not beyond her father to order a detail of guards to trail after without saying anything—before she pulled up short in the middle of the road.

  “I have ridden this path once too often and find myself already tired of it. I wish to go by the sea road.”

  Sir John wheeled his horse around and rode back as the carts squeaked to a stop behind her. “The sea road is in a poor state, my lady. The carts will bog down.”

  “Then the carts can stay on this road, but there is no reason Rosabelle and I must crawl along with them.” Smiling as the mare’s ears swiveled around to the sound of her name, Eleanor lifted a hand and summoned her marshal forward. “Edwin, choose some men to ride with me.” She started to turn her mare toward the east.

  “Hold, marshal.” Sir John
reined his horse across Eleanor’s path. “I cannot let you do this, my lady.”

  She raised her chin and looked down her nose at him. “You cannot? My father is an earl, my cousin the king, and I, myself, une baronesse douagiere bound today to marry Lord Percy. When, pray tell, did I become subject to the commands of a knight of no rank at all?”

  Sir John flushed at the insult. “You are … that is, I …”

  “I believe Sir John meant to say he cannot let you go without good escort, my lady.” Edwin, her marshal, edged his horse up to face off with the young knight. “Perhaps he thinks I cannot do the job.”

  “No, no, it is not that, Marshal. But Lord Westmorland bade me stay at the lady’s side all the way to Alnwick.”

  “Then ride with me, by all means. But recall who is in whose service and do not think to tell me what to do. Edwin, put a good man in charge of the train and tell him to await us in …” She grappled for the name of a village. “In Bowburn, if we do not find him sooner. I want to ride into Durham in proper state, in the event Lord Percy is already arrived.”

  As Edwin selected five men and snapped a few quick orders to those who would stay with the baggage train, she pointed to one of her maidservants. “You, Amy, is it? I need a woman with me. Get yourself up behind Will.”

  Lucy’s jaw fell open. “But I should be the one, my lady.”

  “I want you with the train, to see to my things.”

  Miriam, whom her mother had lent her to arrange her hair for the wedding, stood up in the wagon. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Amy is far too young for such duty. I will go with you.”

  “She will do well enough, and far better than you on the back of a horse.” Eleanor wanted the girl precisely because she was so young. She would be malleable when the time came.

  But Miriam was stubborn. She tucked a stray strand of hair into her caul, kilted her skirts up into her girdle, and bumped Amy aside to slide on behind Will. “I have ridden behind longer than you have been alive, my lady. Your lady mother would have my head if I let you go with naught but a child with you.”

  Her father’s man, and now her mother’s woman. This was getting more complicated by the moment. She would have to move quickly once she found Gunnar. If she found him.

  “Fine, then. Lucy, get my heavy cloak and give it to Miriam.”

  Sir John watched as Lucy dug her squirrel-lined traveling cloak out of a chest. “Where are we bound, my lady, that you need a winter cloak in June?”

  “It is often cold so near the sea, even in summer. I would rather be too warm than too cold.” Plus she’d sewn a few gold florins and jewels into the corners and hems. “Can we make Middleborough before nightfall?”

  “Aye, my lady, and easily, without the carts.”

  “Good. We will rest there tonight, then start north along the sea tomorrow,” she said firmly, and turned her mare toward the east and freedom. Toward Gunnar.

  Please let him be there, she prayed silently, hoping there was some saint or angel sympathetic to a hopeful sinner like her. Her chest squeezed so tightly, she could scarcely breathe, scarcely think beyond the moment. Please let me find him.

  Edwin fell in on her right and Sir John on her left, and by the scowls and sighs and sideways glances that trailed her down the road, neither was very happy with her or each other. Though she felt much the same about them, Eleanor flashed her most charming smile, hoping to ease the mood. “Never fear. We will reach our goal soon enough.”

  And please, please, show me some way to be rid of these good men before we do. And Miriam. Amen.

  CHAPTER 17

  “THERE MUST BE strangers coming,” said Jafri as he and Ari rode back from hunting one afternoon.

  “Mmm?”

  He pointed at Ari’s shield hand, the one he kept gloved most of the time. “You’ve been scratching at that hand all day.”

  Ari glanced down and wiggled his fingers. “Have I?”

  “Old Forkbeard used to say that an itchy sword hand meant money coming, but an itchy shield hand meant strangers. Either that or you got into some nettles.”

  But Ari was lost again, squinting out across the rolling, open ground to the south.

  Jafri made a sour face at him. “You know, when Brand came back last week, I thought he might have brought along someone I could talk to, a man who was fond of words and knew how to use them well, like a skald or something. Too bad we never had anyone like that on the crew.”

  “Mmm.” Ari looked down at his hand again and back up at Jafri, his eyes finally connecting to his wits. “Sorry. There may be strangers coming. I saw something move. Over there.”

  Jafri studied the distant line of trees Ari indicated, then shook his head. “Was it elf fire?”

  “No. It was … I don’t know. But I saw something.”

  “Well, then, let’s stay out of sight until we know who they are.”

  They moved into the woodlands and worked their way along the edge, where they could keep an eye out with little chance of being seen themselves. Jafri was the first to spot riders cresting a rise, already much closer than Ari had said.

  “There. They must’ve been riding down in the burn. It looks like they’re headed for the old castle.” He stopped his horse under the nearest tree and swung up into the branches to get a better look. “There’s a woman with them.”

  “Knights escorting their lady?”

  As Jafri watched, one of the men reached out toward the woman. She jerked away. Her mount spooked and surged forward but came up short against a rope, and she made an awkward, two-handed grab at the animal’s mane to catch herself. “It looks like her hands are bound. And they are headed for the ruins.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” muttered Ari. “Let’s go get her.”

  Jafri glanced to the western horizon, where the sun hung barely a finger’s width above the horizon. “We don’t have time.”

  “Brand and the others can to see to it, then.” Ari dug into his saddlebag for a stub of charcoal and one of the scraps of parchment he kept at hand for his incessant messages. He scratched a few lines of runes across the skin and blew the loose dust off. “I’ll put this where Brand will find it as soon as he changes. Come on back down.”

  In the scuffle, the woman’s head covering had fallen off, and as she twisted away from her captor again, Jafri caught a glimpse of black hair gleaming nearly blue. He couldn’t make out her face yet, but there was something about her … “Shite.”

  “What is it?”

  Jafri scrambled higher to get the clearest view he could. What he saw made him fling himself out of the tree, breaking branches on the way down. “Get off the horse.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Get off!” Jafri dragged Ari off the stallion and leapt into the saddle. He jabbed a finger toward the message in his friend’s hand. “Make sure Gunnar and Brand see that right away. I’m going to get Torvald as close as I can before we change.”

  “What the devil is going on?”

  “Get them,” repeated Jafri. He reached back to make sure Ari’s bow and quiver were tied to the saddle. Torvald would need them. “I may be mad, but I think their prisoner is Lady Eleanor. Gunnar’s woman.”

  OHGODOHGODOHGOD. PLEASE, VIRGIN Mother, help me. All I wanted was to chose for myself. Please don’t punish me for that.

  As the sun sank in the west, Eleanor huddled beside the stingy fire her captors had built and tried to pull herself together. Things had gone sour so quickly. One moment she’d been riding the coast road listening to John Penson sing, and the next she’d been surrounded by swords and blood and death.

  Now she was prisoner, and the outlaws who’d taken her stood a little way off, arguing about what to do with her. She couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t like the tone. Didn’t like it at all.

  She looked around the bailey of the abandoned castle, trying to spy some way out, some weapon, but the best she could come up with was a fist-sized cobble, half overgrown with grass, t
hat lay just out of reach. As her captors’ argument became more heated, she worked the stone loose with her heel, drew it close, and hid it with a quick flip of her skirts.

  A stone. She was reduced to arming herself with a stone. But it was something, at least, and with luck, she could crack at least one skull before they stopped her.

  And then … She didn’t want to think about then. She pushed the thought, her terror, all of it, aside and set her mind to coming out of this alive.

  The argument ended abruptly, and the skull she’d most like to crack started toward her. It belonged to Simon Tunstall, no longer lord of anything except this band of outlaws, having been caught in further cravenness after his poor show at the Castle of Love. She’d heard that he’d hied off to Scotland in disgrace; by the accents of his men, the rumors were true.

  He stopped in front of her and made a slight bow. “Are you comfortable, Lady Eleanor?”

  Show no fear. She glanced up at him briefly, as though he little mattered. “I am sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere, Tunstall. How comfortable do you think I am? Return me to Raby. Immediately.”

  “I think not.” He shook his head, his expression growing almost rueful. “I did not start the day planning to kill anyone, you know.”

  “And yet they are all dead.” Eleanor’s stomach twisted at the memory of the bodies Tunstall’s men had dragged off into the gorse for scavengers to dispose of. “Even my poor serving woman. Such brave men you are.”

  Tunstall’s neck went red. “Blame that fool Penson. He shouldn’t have drawn on me.”

  “His sword didn’t even clear his scabbard,” she accused. “He only thought to protect me. They all did.”

  “They did a poor job of it, then. My intent was only to relieve a party of travelers of their silver. Instead, I find myself with a different sort of prize.”