Bertrice Small
The Innocent
© 1999
PROLOGUE
'Hush, Elf,' her elder brother said gently. He was already having his doubts about this course of action, but the de Warennes were right. He could not raise his five-year-old sister alone, and it was unfair to Isleen to saddle her with Eleanore, although God knew other brides took on greater responsibilities.
'Dickon,' the child sobbed piteously,
Richard de Montfort felt his heart twist within his chest once again, but swallowing back his own emotions he said sternly to his younger sibling, 'Now, Elf, you know Mama is dead. There is war all around us, and I cannot raise you myself. We spoke on this, you and I. You will be safe here at St. Frideswide's. This is your home now.'
'Say farewell to your brother, Eleanore.' Reverend Mother Eunice patted the child. Then, turning to a young nun, she instructed, 'Take her to meet her new companions, Sister Cuthbert. Quickly! The longer you linger, the harder it is for the girl.'
'Adieu, little sister,' Richard de Montfort said, and he kissed the top of her pale red-gold hair.
Elf looked at him just once. She could not speak. Then she burst into a fit of renewed sobbing, and as Sister Cuthbert hurried through the gates of the convent with the weeping child, Elf cried out but once,
Richard de Montfort looked as if he would cry himself, and so Mother Eunice put a comforting hand on his arm. 'It is always hard for the little ones the first time,' she said. 'We will take very good care of the demoiselle Eleanore, my lord.'
'Elf,' he said. 'We call her Elf. Perhaps if you could call her that for a short time, it would help her to adjust. With Mother gone, I could not take care of her, Reverend Mother. “
'Of course you could not, my lord. Do not fret yourself. We have several young girls in our care at this time. One is your sister’s age. She came to us when she was three. Another maiden is a year older than Eleanore…
'The demoiselle Isleen is not quite fit to be a wife, but her mother assures me it will be within a year at the most,' he answered. How anyone could believe that a girl as sensuous as Isleen was not yet ready for marriage baffled him, but he could hardly question Lady de Warenne.
The nun, too, was equally surprised, but her face showed nothing. Isleen de Warenne had been at St. Frideswide’s for a year, and a more carnal girl the Reverend Mother Eunice had never met. The convent had been most relieved her stay was a short one, however it had had its benefits. The de Warennes had been generous, and on their recommendation the convent had little Eleanore de Montfort and her dowry. 'I am certain that Lady de Warenne knows what is best for her daughter, my lord de Montfort. Now, however, I must bid you farewell. I would suggest that you wait several months before visiting your sister. It will give her the time she will need to acclimate herself to her new life. Come at Martinmas, if you can. You will be most welcome.' Then with a nod the Reverend Mother Eunice turned and glided serenely through the convent gates, which closed slowly behind her with a very firm thunk as the bar was set in place.
Richard de Montfort mounted his dappled gray stallion, and turned the beast’s head to begin the eight-mile ride back to his manor of Ashlin. He was unaccompanied, which was dangerous in these troubled times, but of late the countryside about Ashlin had been quiet, so he had taken the chance of riding alone. He had wanted his last moments with Elf to be between the two of them. How very much he loved his little sister. When their father had died four years ago in the fighting between King Stephen and the late King Henry’s daughter, the Empress Matilda, he had been eleven years of age. Guided by his mother, he had assumed control of their family’s manor. Elf, still at their mother’s breast, had just begun to toddle; she would never know the fine man who had sired her.
Fortunately Ashlin was not a large, important manor, or it might have been taken over by a stronger baron. Their small wealth was in sheep; they had enough serfs, along with a few freedmen, to do the work that needed to be done. Survival was the chief occupation at Ashlin. Their house sat upon a hill. It was stone, and surrounded by a small moat. About it clustered the barns, the outbuildings, and the huts for the serfs. There was a mill by a swiftly flowing stream near the barns. The little stone church, however, lay half ruined. A wall enclosed it all to protect them from the marauding Welsh. The sheep grazed upon the surrounding hills beneath which lay the arable fields, where they grew hay, oats, marrows, barley, and wheat, in rotation.
But his mother had suffered greatly the loss of her husband, for their marriage had been a love match, and without him she was lost. Isolated as Ashlin was, and with England at war with itself, they saw no one but an occasional passing religious brave enough to dare the road in hopes his devout vocation would protect him. Adeliza de Montfort had clung to life as long as she could, teaching her son everything he needed to know about running his manor. His father’s old sergeant at arms, Fulk, had continued his lessons in the art of warfare.
But then last autumn their mother had sickened. By now he was a man, and he had Ashlin under his control. Adeliza de Montfort knew it, and while she worried about the fate of her daughter, she could no longer hold on to her empty place in life. They had found her in her bed one morning, a smile upon her face. By chance a passing friar had taken shelter at Ashlin the night before. He blessed Adeliza de Montfort’s soul, and helped to bury her before going his way. The next house in which he sheltered, two days later, was that of Hugh de Warenne. Baron Hugh was most interested to learn that Richard de Montfort and his sister were now alone in the world.
Hugh de Warenne had quickly approached Richard de Montfort, and proposed a marriage between the two families. The young lord of Ashlin agreed to consider Baron Hugh’s proposal. He was invited to visit the de Warenne manor, and leaving Elf in the charge of her old nurse, Ida, he went. One look at Isleen de Warenne, and he was lost. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, with long silken hair the color of purest gold, and limpid blue eyes. But it was not merely her perfect beauty. There was something about Isleen that aroused savage lust in him. She had a way of moving, of speaking, none of it too obviously suggestive,
