by April Munday
She prayed that he had been right and that his father’s house was nearby, for he could not bear this for long.
Chapter Five
The house of Henry’s father was larger than Eleanor had expected. When it came in sight Henry had sighed, “At last,” and Eleanor had twisted her neck painfully so that she could see the house. It was made of stone and enclosed by a stone wall and was as secure as Henry had said. Beyond the wall was a dry moat. The house had two storeys and there was a secure gate in the wall. It was like a small castle, she thought, there was even a stone tower at the end of the house furthest from the gate. They were not far from the coast here and the threat of invasion must make this kind of protection desirable. The other buildings enclosed by the wall were made of wood and thatched. Henry had been right; this was a place where she could be protected. She could only hope that he was wrong in thinking that she needed to be protected.
The gate was open to allow a cart to leave. Henry kept Solomon still on the other side of the narrow bridge until it had passed. The driver waved at Henry and he prodded Solomon into motion and the gatekeeper called out a welcome as he closed the gate behind them.
A young boy came running out of the stable to meet them and stopped at the sight of his master’s son being embraced by a strange nun who was sitting the wrong way on the back of his horse.
“He is hurt,” she called out to him and the boy ran up to Solomon’s head and took hold of the reins.
As Eleanor scrambled carefully down from Solomon, Henry slumped forward. Eleanor reached up to hold him so that he wouldn’t fall off, but couldn’t reach him. Henry steadied himself, but groaned loudly at the effort.
“What has happened?”
Eleanor turned to the tall man beside her. This must be Henry’s older brother, for he looked like both Henry and Edward.
“He was wounded in a battle and he has suffered greatly on the journey back from France.”
The man seemed to take her presence in his stride and reached up to Henry.
“Henry, can you dismount?”
“Only if I fall off.”
“Now is not the time for humour. If you fall, I will catch you, but it would be better if you can help yourself, for you are heavy, although not, I think, as heavy as you were when I saw you last.” The older man frowned and Eleanor saw the love that he bore his younger brother on his face. Here, at least, was one brother who did not hide his feelings.
Henry clutched at the saddle with his left hand, the movement causing Eleanor’s badly tied belt to fall away, and his right arm fell uselessly forward and hit the front of the saddle. His whole body shuddered in pain, but Henry made no sound. Unthinking, Eleanor reached up to him. She could not reach his back, so stroked his knee until he had stopped shaking. It was only when he was still once more that she realised that she had pushed his brother out of the way to get to him. Blushing she moved away; he would be far more use should Henry fall than she would be.
Taking a deep breath, Henry began sliding his leg slowly across Solomon’s back and his brother reached up to help him. Between them they managed to keep his shoulder from further harm.
“Henry!” Eleanor turned and saw a middle-aged man running from the house towards them. He looked so much like Henry and Edward that he could only be their father.
“Eleanor...Sister Margaret, this is my father, Sir John Attewood. Father, this is Sister Margaret. She is my... guest.” Henry’s voice shook, but he managed to smile at his father.
“Welcome home, my son. We received a message from Edward that you were coming back. But he did not mention a nun.” He looked uncertainly at Eleanor. “Nor did he mention an injury.”
Eleanor waited with interest to hear how Henry would explain her presence.
“Sister Margaret was attacked and I couldn’t leave her where she was. The injury is old and healing.” His voice trailed off, giving the impression that he was too weak to continue, but Eleanor thought it was because he did not wish to lie to his father.
“Then you are welcome, Sister. Come inside. But you are wet. How did you come to be so wet?”
Eleanor shivered with the reminder, but Henry said, “I left my leather cloak in my chest. Edward will bring it.”
Eleanor realised that, but for his anger, Henry would have retrieved his cloak. Now they were both cold and wet and would pay the consequences. For herself she worried little; she spent most of her time outside and the other sisters were envious of her good health. Getting wet and cold would not do her too much harm, but Henry was recovering from an injury and had suffered greatly on the journey back from France. Who knew what harm would come to him?
Henry smiled at his father. “Do not worry. Sister Margaret is as strong as an ox.” His smile broadened at his father’s shocked expression. “I am more likely to come to harm than she is, and I will not come to harm.”
Sir John led them inside. Henry’s brother supported him as they walked into the house. Henry hung his head and Eleanor felt that he was ashamed of what he must consider another sign of weakness. Neither of them could explain that his pain had an honourable cause, for no one could know of the attack on the road. Then she saw that he was biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain. He was hiding his pain from his father.
When they entered the hall they were greeted by Henry’s mother and a young woman.
“Henry, you are here so early. We expected you later today.” Her face fell as she noticed that he was being supported by her oldest son.
“We came away from Edward’s without breaking our fast. I’m afraid I was inconsiderate to Eleanor...Sister Margaret. Oh, Mother, this is Sister Margaret. Sister Margaret, Lady Mary, my mother.”
“You are ill? And where is Edward?”
Henry shook his head. “It is a wound from battle. It is healing. And Edward follows later. He had business to attend to. We only arrived in Southampton yesterday.”
“What can we do?”
“A bath,” suggested Eleanor.
Lady Mary nodded. “We were expecting you, so one is being prepared.”
“No,” said Henry, “Sister Margaret should...”
“No,” said Eleanor firmly. “My needs are much less urgent.”
“But hospitality...”
“Henry, you must get warm and someone must look at your shoulder. I need only to be dry.”
“You have no clothes to change into.”
“Sister Margaret may wear something of Isabelle’s. She is right, Henry, it is not a failure of hospitality for you to bathe first.”
Henry lowered his head in defeat, but Eleanor knew no triumph in her victory.
It was warm in the hall and Eleanor started to feel more cheerful. They had arrived with their lives and that, she thought, was enough for one day.
“Then come and sit in the warm. Sister Margaret, this is my eldest son, William and his wife Philippa.”
Now that she was able to look at him undisturbed, Eleanor thought William was the most handsome man she had ever seen, even more handsome than his younger brothers. He was taller than Henry and his fair hair framed a flawless face. Whereas Henry and Edward had grey eyes, his were so blue that they reminded her of a summer sky. His wife was taller than Eleanor and her beauty was no less than her husband’s. Eleanor tried not to hope that her own face was as striking, but in vain. Philippa was as dark as her husband was fair, but it was her hands that impressed Eleanor the most. They were small and elegant and Eleanor hoped that her own chapped and work-roughened hands were out of sight. Philippa looked Eleanor up and down, as if trying to read her soul, but it was Henry’s mother who made the biggest impression on her. Lady Mary greeted Eleanor as if she were a daughter she had not seen for many months. She began to feel more at ease.
“Where are the children?” asked Henry, looking around.
Philippa turned away and ran from the hall. Henry’s face fell and dread filled Eleanor. She grabbed his hand, knowing what was to come. So many children had die
d that summer. She hadn’t known that they had had the same sickness here. It was so far away from the convent.
“It was like the Big Death again,” said Sir John, “except it only took the children.”
Henry sank down onto a bench. “All of them?” Eleanor barely heard him. Sir John nodded.
“And in the village.”
Lady Mary was crying quietly next to her husband. Eleanor held Henry and stroked his hair. She hadn’t thought he might have children; they had not spoken of such things. She wondered where his wife was. Realising what she was doing, she stepped back from Henry. “It is a great loss for William and Philippa and for you,” he said.
“These are sad times,” said his mother.
“My brother and his wife had three children,” explained Henry as he struggled to his feet again.
“I’m sorry. We had the sickness at the convent, too. I did not know it had come this far.”
“I think it covered the whole of England,” said Sir John. “God must be punishing us for something.”
Eleanor had heard some of the nuns say the same thing. Mother Abbess said that this might be true, but they should not guess, but pray for wisdom and guidance and Eleanor had done so. The Big Death had taught her that God’s ways were unknowable and that was only right. How could a creature know how its Creator thought or understand his actions? Only God could understand God.
“Come and sit,” said Lady Mary. “We grieve, but we live still and you must eat.”
Henry looked as if he were going to refuse.
“You need to eat,” said Eleanor quietly enough that only he could hear. “You are too thin. Your mother sees it and is worried. It will be a while before your bath is ready.”
Henry nodded and sat beside her. She removed his cloak and a servant brought them both warm blankets which they wrapped round themselves as they ate.
The meal was not extravagant. There was sufficient for them both and it was good, but Eleanor wished there had been more for Henry’s sake. The house had told a tale about Sir John’s wealth that was not supported by the food that he produced. Although they were not expected until later, she had thought that there would be more food for Henry when they arrived. For herself, she was used to much less food than this and she had considered giving Henry some of her bread and cheese, but saw that it might be taken as an insult to his parents.
It was warm enough in the hall and she grew more comfortable as she sat, but no drier. It would be good to get out of her habit and into some dry clothes. Henry must be feeling the same, or worse, for he had not her strength.
After they had eaten Eleanor was shown to the room of Henry’s sister Isabelle, which she would share with the other woman when she returned from her visit to her friend in the nearby town. For now Eleanor would sleep alone. There was a bowl of hot water waiting for her and Eleanor used it to wash and warm herself. Now she began to feel better.
The servant took her clothes away, having laid out something of Isabelle’s for her to wear. Eleanor was nervous; she had never worn such clothes, having entered the convent as a child. She struggled with the ties and guessed that Isabelle must have help to dress. Eleanor was ashamed to ask for help in what was usually a simple task for her, so she did the best she could, then lay down on the bed and slept until she was woken by a knock on the door.
“Eleanor, I need to talk to you...”
Surely Henry should be in bed, resting. Then she remembered, he would tell her now why he had taken her from the convent. It must be a terrible reason if he had waited for them to arrive here before he told it. Worse, that he wanted to tell her before he rested, but she was coming to realise that it was like him to put what must now be a matter of honour before his own needs.
She opened the door. Henry stood unaided with his arm caught in a sling tied around his neck.
He smiled at her. “William should have been a physician.” She wondered how he managed to stand, and how he managed to walk to her room, unless he had had help.
“I’m sorry I stole your bath.”
“It is of no matter. You needed it; I didn’t. You look better.” He didn’t, but she thought the lie would help the healing. He was still very pale and held himself so stiffly that she thought he must break if he tried to move.
“I don’t think there was too much harm done. It’s just that I wasn’t ready.”
“You told me you would run away from a fight.”
Henry reddened.
“They would have caught us. They had good horses.”
“I have brought you much trouble.” Eleanor felt this keenly. Once she had accepted that Henry had not meant any harm when he had abducted her, she had seen how much effort and pain she had cost him.
“No. There are always thieves on the roads, although Edward says that he met none.”
Edward was in the house, then. Eleanor wondered how much trouble he would cause before he returned to Southampton.
“Come, let me take you to the hall. It is warm there.”
“You look different in Isabelle’s clothes,” he said as he turned back to look at her.
“Like a woman?”
“No, you always look like a woman, even in my clothes. You look as if you should always wear clothes like this, as if this were your true state.”
“But it is not,” she protested. “I have my vocation and it is not a calling to wealth and ease.”
“There’s certainly wealth here,” said Henry, “but not much ease. Everyone works very hard here. Even now my mother is overseeing a meal that will shock you in its splendour to celebrate my safe return.”
“You are her son. It is only right.”
Henry smiled again.
Eleanor noticed that Henry occasionally put his hand out against the wall as they walked. He was not steady and bumped against her a couple of times. They reached the empty hall and sat on a bench by the fire.
“But you did not call me here to speak of clothes and feasts.”
Henry grew serious again. “No. There are things I must tell you. If it had not been for the difficulties of the journey...for my weakness at sea...”
“You are not weak, Henry. Do you think you are just because you are not the sailor that you brother is? When you went away to France did you know how sick you would be?”
Henry nodded.
“Then you are a stronger man than the men who knew they would have no sickness, because you knew what it would cost you, but you did it anyway.”
“I had to do my duty. There was no choice.”
“Did you have to go? I thought rich men could pay others to go in their place or pay a fine for their absence.”
“So you no longer believe that I am a thief?” Henry smiled at her as she shook her head. “It is true that I did not have to go, but I would be ashamed to pay someone to fight and die in my place. I would rather have the shame of seasickness.” Henry had not denied that he was rich and Eleanor wondered how he had become rich and why he did not show his wealth as ostentatiously as his brother.
“Then it is as I say and you are the stronger man.”
“Stronger than who?” asked Edward as he came into the hall.
“This does not look like a good place for our talk,” said Eleanor wondering whether she dare invite Henry to her bedchamber.
“Come with me, El...” Henry paused, as if understanding for the first time the insult that he did her by using the name she had had in the world.
“Please, I do not mind if you call me Eleanor.” She emphasised the ‘you’ so that both he and Edward would know that she desired no one else to use that name.
“So be it. Then I will tell you my story and you will tell me if I have done the right thing by you.”
“Then perhaps we should sit, if it is a long story.” They left the hall. Eleanor looked back at Edward. It was difficult to read his expression through the injury to his face, but she could tell that he was unhappy. Henry took her back to Isabelle’s bedchamber, his step
s even more uncertain than when he had led her to the hall. He was tired and she must not keep him much longer from the sleep that would heal him.
Henry hesitated to shut the door behind him as they entered his sister’s room. In the end he left it slightly ajar, which Eleanor found slightly amusing, as they had shared a bed with the door closed and barred the night before.
Eleanor sat on the bed and expected that Henry would sit on the chest under the window or in the chair. Instead he sat next to her and took her hands in his left hand and took a deep breath.
“It is not a long story and you may wish you had never heard it, but I can tell it now. When I first went to France, I met and became friends with your brother Philip.”
“Oh!” Eleanor could not stop herself. “Then he’s dead, isn’t he?”
Henry nodded, never taking his eyes from hers. She began to cry silently and he wiped away her tears with his thumb, gently kissed her forehead, then took her hands again.
“Yes, he’s dead and I’m sorry to tell you that, but that is neither the end of my story, nor the beginning. Are you ready to hear it?”
Eleanor wasn’t sure. Did she want to hear a story that would change things even more than they had already changed? Did she want to hear a story in which the death of her brother was not the worst thing that happened, nor even the reason for the story?
Henry was waiting for an answer. Then Eleanor knew what she must say.
“When you have finished the story will you stay with me?”
Henry stroked another tear away from her cheek. “If you want.”
Would Henry’s story show him in such a bad light that she would want to send him away? Is that why he had hesitated to tell it until they were with others whose company might be more welcome?
“Why did you wait until now?”
“Because until now there has been nowhere where you could grieve undisturbed. If you wish to be alone in this room you will be left alone. If you wish the company of my mother or Philippa, then they are here.”
“That was kind of you, thank you.”