The Lord and Eleanor

by Lindsay Townsend

  The realization comforted and inspired her. Eleanor’s spirits lifted further. She knew this ground well and Clement did not. “Where have you brought me?” she asked again. If he would talk to her, she might divine his intentions, although she sensed they were nothing good for her. “Clement?”

  “Your true place, the pigsty you deserve.”

  Clement had brought her here somehow but he had not carried her to the hut bed. Demonstrating his contempt, he had dropped her unceremoniously right into the middle of the hearth, into the ashes of the fire.

  Fire…

  “You started the fire in the stables this evening. As a diversion.”

  “Clever peasant,” he jeered.

  You do not think me so clever, Clement, for you have not tied my hands or feet.

  “Why the poison against your lord?”

  Clement kicked the edge of the hearth. He began to walk up and down, from one side of the hut to the other.

  “Why poison now?” Eleanor asked, wishing her vision would stop swimming.

  Clement’s round face and pouting mouth loomed over her head and she flinched. “He was forgetting her. He deserved to suffer.”

  “But he is your lord, as he is mine.”

  “I came for my lady Joanna. I am hers. I am always hers.”

  “Joanna loved Richard. She would not wish you to hurt him.”

  Clement swung round from his latest pacing and lunged at her. “Shut up, shut up,” he was yelling, swinging at her with his fists.

  Eleanor ducked and rolled out of the way and seized the fire tongs she knew were by the hearth. As Clement came at her again, she stabbed wildly with the tongs, catching him a glancing blow in the belly.

  “Bitch.” Panting, his face as red as a blood-red moon and as murderous, Clement closed in a third time.

  But he never reached her. Richard stormed into the hut, snatched Clement and flung him against the wall so hard the whole house shook.

  The squire kicked back and Eleanor put herself in the way, automatically shielding Richard as she screamed, “No!”

  Richard hooked her back and charged and the squire ran howling into the darkness.

  Eleanor dropped the fire tongs. Richard swept her into his arms. Briefly, they stood together, leaning against each other. Strong shudders ran through Richard and Eleanor discovered she could not stop trembling.

  “Your squire,” she croaked at last. “Clement is mad with grief.”

  “Forget him,” Richard said, stroking her hair, her face, and her limbs. His eyes were more than a little wild. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Not really.” Reaction broke over her and she shivered afresh. “How did you find me?”

  “He left a blazing trail.” Richard dropped his head onto her shoulder. “You stood between us.”

  * * * *

  He had been terrified by her courage, and amazed. Even now he was unsure if he wanted to hug her or spank her. “Right between us.”

  “I was armed.”

  “With fire tongs?” He gave a bark of laughter, relief making him lightheaded.

  “We peasants must arm ourselves as best we can.”

  She smiled at him and for an instant he forgot everything else. “You are sure you are unhurt?” he asked finally.

  The squires now crashed into the hut way too late.

  He roared, “Out, all of you. Take my horse with you and find your wretched companion if you must do something.”

  “Clement will be gone.” Eleanor brushed a cobweb from his hair.

  “He had better be.” Richard was alone again with Eleanor and he wanted no more interruptions. He wanted to be sure of her. “Marry me,” he said, the words sounding more like a command. “Will you marry me?” he added quickly. “My Eleanor?”

  She stopped fiddling with his hair and looked at him, her gray eyes suddenly unreadable.

  “Please?” He knelt in the ashes before her. I love her. Surely she understands?

  Frowning a little, she put her hands on his shoulders. “How can I know if you do not tell me?”

  He had voiced his question aloud! Well, he was very glad to do so. “I love you, Eleanor.”

  Still, she appeared uncertain and he could feel her nervous fingers digging into his bones. “Are you sure, Richard?”

  “I knew from the moment I saw you, dressed in that hideous gown and dragging a dead wolf. I knew from when you said you would help me against an unknown poisoner. I knew from all that you do, all that you are.” He thought his voice might crack, like a youth’s in breaking, but he truly did not care. He smiled up at her. “Do you think in time you can love me, just a morsel?”

  “Far more, you idiot,” she answered as she lowered her head and kissed him. “I love you so much,” she murmured, hugging him tightly, embracing him over and over. “But I cannot marry you.”

  Her answer crashed over him like a shattering wave.

  “Why not?” He wound his arms tightly about her waist, loving and possessive.

  She looked down at him, her eyes soft and sorry. “You are lord, Richard. When you marry again, it will be to a gracious lady who knows courtly fashions and how to embroider and how to read.” She turned her head aside, her lips trembling. “I know none of these things.”

  “Ah, I understand.” And he did, for his own emotions made him wise. His Eleanor was shy, unsure of her own worth. “Still, I wish to marry you, my heart. All these you speak of”—he snapped his fingers—”are trinkets. They can be learned.” He smiled and touched the tip of her nose very lightly with his thumb. “You promised to teach me poisons. Nigel tells me you always keep your word.”

  “I do, but, you do not need to wed me.”

  He laughed and rose to his feet, picking her up on the way. “And who is the idiot now? I want to marry you. And I hope you will wear a red dress for your wedding, for red is my favorite color for a woman’s gown.”

  “But I was a bondswoman.”

  “Now free—until we are wed, of course.”

  He kissed her to silence more protests and carried her out of her old house.

  * * * *

  Eleanor must have fallen asleep in Richard’s arms, for the next time she stirred she was in the solar in the manor house and the children were all bundled with her. She kissed Nigel’s narrow, fair head and the back of Alice’s plump neck and admired Freya’s new doll. She listened to Stephen telling her about a hedgehog he was feeding with kitchen scraps and promised Isabella she would comb the little girl’s dark hair and plait it for her, as soon as they all rose tomorrow.

  At dawn, Eleanor found herself gently shaken awake by a teasing lord. “And I thought this was your favorite time,” he said.

  She shrugged quickly into her other new gown, this of blue that matched the blue and gold of Richard’s tunic, the same clothes he had worn at the manor court and she wondered if this was important, though she did not have long to wonder.

  “The children will be helping the maids today, to brew our Whitsun ale and to make Whitsun flower garlands,” he told her as Eleanor plaited Isabella’s hair. “And we are going out.”

  He did not say where or why but Eleanor did not mind. As far as she was concerned, they could stroll to the edge of the world.

  They set out soon after and, crossing the yard, Richard made an excuse to carry her “because of all this mud and wet ash.” He did not set her down again until he had passed through the village and the church and was heading for the open fields.

  “I have a place I want you to see, you alone,” he told her. “A special, secret place of mine. No one else has been here, not even Joanna. Today it will be ours.”

  Skipping along beside him to keep up with his long gait, she glanced at him sidelong. “I have not yet agreed to marry you,” she said. “And you still owe me.”

  “Indeed? Then whatever I owe you must wait, for I shall not be interrupted or denied again.”

  “You are sure,” she replied
but then she laughed and pointed to the rising sun. “If the sun is bright today it will be very warm.”

  He smiled at her, looking in that instant as young as Nigel or Stephen. “I love you.”

  “And I love you.” She said the words back in a blissful dream, afraid she might wake again and discover Richard had vanished. But he was strong and solid, altogether real.

  As he strode forward now, half-dragging her in his haste, she saw the dust he caused and the shadows under his bright brown eyes and his bushy, hastily combed hair.

  I love you. She was amazed that he loved her and blissful in her love for him. What else but love could make her feel so well, so light? Her headache from yesterday had gone, and the spinning lights. Even the rising bruise where Clement had clubbed her now hurt no more than a pimple.

  Gliding like clouds, they passed a boundary marker between field strips and a hawthorn bush, its blossoms silver in the early light. Richard led the way into a fallow field and they crossed it, going so fast by now that she had no breath to protest. At the edge of this field was a jutting, half-built stone wall.

  “Beyond there.” He stopped on the small track. “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded but felt compelled to add, “Not without reason.”

  He snorted. “As I expected of you. But now, will you close your eyes and let me bear you to the place?”

  Since it was clearly important to him, she nodded again and an instant later was tipped off her feet into his arms for the second time that morning. He walked a few paces or a mile—she was not sure of the distance and did not really care. She was with Richard and he loved her and he was safe. All the youngsters were safe.

  Sighing with pure contentment she heard him whisper, “Look, Eleanor.”

  She opened her eyes and gasped. They were in the midst of a picture, not done on the wall, as a church painting but on the earth itself. Richard set her down in a mass of huge fishes and curling waters and she touched the ground beneath her bare feet—not ground, she realized, but some kind of floor.

  “What is this place?” she whispered, crouching to run her hands over the picture. It felt smooth and warm beneath her fingers, full of cracks and crinkles.

  “It is old Roman.” He knelt beside her. “I saw one similar when I was a boy in France. It is called a mosaic. Men made it, long ago.”

  “It is beautiful.” She studied the faded colors, the reds and whites and blues, and sensed him watching her.

  “I have always thought so.” He patted the strange floor—the mosaic—and began to take off his boots. “I thought we might stay here today. It is warm enough.”

  “But the children—”

  “Matthew and the maids are with them and they will have many garlands to show us when we go back.”

  She was unconvinced. “Clement?”

  “Humph! He will be far away, a running coward. Let him run back to his kindred. They can deal with him.”

  “Wild animals?” Eleanor ventured, remembering the wolf.

  Richard merely shook his head. “Not here. I spent many days and nights here as a boy and never once came to harm. It is my place, my secret spot, and I have brought you here, Eleanor, because of all the souls in Christendom, it is you alone I wish to share it with.” As he spoke, he leaned forward, still on his knees, and kissed her.

  * * * *

  “You shall marry me, Eleanor,” he said huskily.

  Her lips were as soft as rose petals and as seductive as wine.

  “And if I say no?”

  “But you will not, not when I am done with you.” He tugged off most of his clothes and rolled them into a ball. “For a pillow,” he told her. “These little floor stones are comfortable but not for your head.” He stretched out flat amidst the great fishes. “I left in a great hurry. I have brought ale and bread but no comb.”

  “Your hair does need one,” she admitted and he chuckled.

  “Rather for yours, my sweet. It will be like combing moonlight.”

  “I should need a rake for yours.” Eleanor lay on her stomach beside him with her head resting on her forearms. “You are right,” she agreed. “These little stones are warm.”

  He shuffled closer, dragging his “pillow,” which he offered to her. They sprawled side-by-side, heads together, watching the scudding clouds over the open fields and the sun creeping above the manor house and church. A fox yapped somewhere off in a nearby thicket and Richard smiled, glad beyond measure that he had brought her here.

  Sensing the time was right to speak, he took her into his arms and rolled her neatly on top of him. He cupped her face with a large, warm hand. “We have all day.”

  She sucked at his fingers. “You will say if I do anything amiss?”

  Ah, the anxious maiden returns. “My dear, you will do nothing wrong. Love smooths all between us, and practice.”

  “Practice? Like the men at the archery butts?”

  “If you like.” He was glad she was spry enough to tease. “Shall we be sun-clad first?” He yanked aside his loincloth and lay back naked on the mosaic.

  She stared then began to touch, shifting away while she moved her hands over him. Her gentle, hesitant caress made him more aroused but he governed himself and remained still, allowing her to set the pace.

  “You are so big,” she whispered, stroking his thighs and calves, shy enough still to miss his middle altogether and go straight to caressing his chest and shoulders. When she reached his chin, he nipped her hand gently between his teeth, trapping her fingers. “Wolf!” she hissed, her non-protest changing to a gasp as he began to embrace her.

  Slowly, he danced his fingertips down the length of her back. More slowly, he pinched her gown and began to sweep it higher and higher, off her toes and legs and bottom.

  “Richard!” She was squirming though not truly fighting. “What if someone comes?”

  “No one does here, remember?” He was as hard and throbbing as he had been as a youth but still he forced his body to wait. “May I?”

  At her brief nod, he deftly and unhurriedly unlaced her, revealing her small, pink-nippled breasts, succulent for kissing. “You must marry me now,” he rasped, lavishing his tongue over her sweet, creamy flesh.

  “Why?” she panted, her gray eyes stormy with desire.

  “I wish to do this daily.”

  “As your woman I will not stop you.”

  But I have not done yet, he thought at her ragged answer, and he shifted his caresses and attentions lower.

  * * * *

  She was naked, her gown peeled away, her veil lost, her hair stripped of its combs. Naked and by now unabashed, Eleanor writhed on the mosaic floor like one of the exotic creatures shown there, and all the while, as Richard eased his lips and fingers into her most intimate places, he repeated an urgent, building demand. “You shall marry me.” And, “I love you, Eleanor. You will marry me.”

  “No, no,” she answered, though in truth she lied and no longer knew why she lied, except she was desperate that he should not stop.

  His strong, warm fingers slid into her, softly yet surely stroking. Through him she was exploring her own body and the journey was sweet, an endless invitation, beyond anything she had ever known.

  “How can this be sin?” she whispered, shivering against him.

  “It is not sin if we are wed.”

  She shook her head but wished to return his favor, to have him strongly pliant under her hands and sinking into dry-mouthed, deepening pleasure. She caressed his broad back and flanks.

  Now he shook his head. “Wait,” he said and, “when we are married you may.”

  She laughed her joy, close to tears as the ache and tingling in her loins and breasts, in her lips and center, grew and grew. Suddenly he flipped her over and drummed her nether cheeks with his palms then settled to kissing her bottom while easing the fingers of one hand between her thighs.

  “Marry me,” he commanded as he began to stroke faster and faster.

  Eleanor opened
her mouth but no answer escaped her. She was falling yet rising; the tingling had become an overwhelming roar inside her head and some end was coming…

  “Yes, yes,” she cried, her body jerking and shifting of its own will as a shimmering wave of joy and pleasure burst through her. “Please, you, you must… I want you to have this.”

  Another wave washed over her, making her incoherent, so intense as to be almost painful.

  Through tear-filled eyes, she saw Richard lean over her then heard him mutter, “No, face to face first.” And she found herself turned into his arms again. He kissed her over and over. “Lovely El,” he whispered, cupping her breasts and her most womanly part. “You are mine, sweeting, and I yours.” He rose above her on braced arms and coaxed her thighs apart. “In a moment,” he was saying. “Look at me, kiss me.”

  Such was his ardor, his need, that she reared up, wrapping her arms about his neck and kissing him fiercely, hissing, “Yes, yes,” as he parted her maidenhead with a single, powerful thrust. There was a sharp sting then she was aware only of union and closeness.

  We are one flesh.

  A tear ran down her face. “I am happy, Richard,” she said, quickly mopping the tear away. “Truly happy.” She shifted upward so her breasts bounced against his chest and her stomach hit his hard belly with a slap. “Make me more so,” she urged, moving against him, bringing her arms lightly around his back.

  He began to move also, driving into her with controlled power, whispering endearments in Norman French and then in English. “Moonbeam,” he hissed, his eyes dark and smoldering, the tan on his face reddening as he pumped harder and faster, still keeping the bulk of his weight braced upon his arms. “My El, my wife—”