This Eleanor has a great deal to learn, Hugh fumed to himself, urging his horse onward, dodging tree branches and guiding his stallion expertly over a ditch. She had begged off speaking with him—no doubt because she was unprepared. Hah! Regardless of how much time she had to ready herself, she would never be a match for him! Hugh tightened his mouth. He did not need further aggravation in the form of a young woman who thought she knew more than she did and who was stupid and naïve enough to trust her own chief forester in a volatile situation like the poachings.
He had just returned from a three-year absence, in the service of the future king, mind, not even for his own aggrandizement, and what thanks did he get when he returned home? Poachers—in his own chase! Certes, the castles and the manor houses were in excellent repair, the rents collected, the harvests in order, the mill grinding away, all thanks to his very explicit instructions to his marshal and his steward and his chief forester, and their knowledge that he was a hard but fair taskmaster. They knew he would deal with any failings when he returned, and they cared not to suffer whatever consequences might befall them, should they be derelict in their duties.
Consequently, all had gone well—save the forest! The poaching rankled him beyond belief. It was costly not only in terms of silver and game lost, but most especially for his honor and reputation.
“God’s arms!” Hugh swore softly as his mount galloped too close to an overhanging branch, which swung into his shoulder, stinging his arm. He rubbed it and urged his horse onward.
Upholding the Law of the Forest was paramount, and trespassers and poachers often had their hands chopped off; many were even hung. King Edward of England himself would be hearing about the crimes in Hugh’s chase and might even remove Wykeham Forest from his control. Hugh would lose all the revenue from the licenses, the game, the timber…and, worst of all, his reputation would be in jeopardy. All England would see Hugh of Wykeham as an easy mark—not as a fighting man to be feared.
Why had his own chief forester John de Bretton not been able to catch the criminals, especially when John knew he would have to suffer Hugh’s anger upon his return? Of course, John had pleaded ignorance of who was poaching and trespassing and had the canniness—if that was what it was—to point the finger of blame at Osbert le Fraunceys, the Strathcombe chief forester. If Osbert were giving the poachers safe haven, ‘twould indeed be more difficult to capture them. Whoever was behind the poaching had a web of conspiracy tightly crafted—safe havens, lookouts, and enough silver to buy the silence of assorted villagers from both Wykeham and Strathcombe and all the hamlets in between.
If Osbert was involved, then, without a doubt, the blame for the poachings and crimes lay at the feet of Osbert’s inexperienced mistress, Eleanor, widow of the fool Edgar, now in his grave three years. Hugh snorted. He had had no respect for Edgar and thus less for any woman married to him. Even though it had been an arranged marriage, she still had lived with him and obviously allowed him to bed her. Hugh spat into the underbrush. Pah! She must indeed be a ninny.
In fact, Hugh was quite sure Eleanor’s incompetence was at the bottom of the mess, even though her poise had caught him quite by surprise. But, anyone could put a bold face on, if only for a moment. He narrowed his eyes, remembering his late wife, Caroline, and the bold face she had put on in front of him for their six years of married life, all the while cuckolding him with various titled nobles and even a few randy knights. He cursed again, aloud. No woman was to be trusted. He had learned his lesson well.
“Sire?” one of his knights inquired, galloping up. “Is aught amiss?”
“No,” Hugh grunted. “All is well. Go to!” The knight wheeled his horse and rejoined the group in the rear.
Certes, all was well, once Caroline died in childbirth. Who knew if the dead babe was even his? Hugh almost shut his eyes, remembering the anguish he had suffered at the bedside of the tiny babe, mewling its last cries. Indeed, he must wed again to continue his line, but never again would he be tricked into trusting a woman. Indeed, trusting anyone was a feeling most alien to him and always had been, since his youth. Being brought up by a virtually absent uncle, he had learned to rely on only himself and to trust no one else. He had discovered through many unfortunate events that others around him had been conniving and untrustworthy. These had been hard lessons to learn, but he had learned them well—and absorbed them into the very marrow of his bones.
This attitude had stood him in good stead—until Caroline had beguiled him once they were wed. He had allowed his own desire to overtake his common sense and instinctive wariness. All the while she had been using him, deceiving him with others. What a gull she had taken him for—he, Hugh of Wykeham! He kicked his horse into a faster gallop, and leaned over the horse’s neck, urging him on.
“My lord,” one of his knights again galloped up a few moments later, moving abreast of him. “We are moving apace and my steed is becoming spent, as are many others! What is the urgency?”
Hugh reluctantly pulled up on the reins and his horse slowed to a walk. The knight did the same.
“Then we shall keep a more measured pace,” Hugh said.
