And with whom would she dance? Eleanor wondered briefly. The memory of her dream, of Hugh’s hand, firmly holding hers, looking into her eyes, in a carol round dance, gave her a little shiver, and she pulled the blankets up higher. Nay, she would never dance with him—only if she were forced to do so in order to keep the appearance of courtesy. Besides, he would, no doubt, prefer the company of other ladies, who were willing to flirt and give him sidelong glances and even let him dally with them. Not so, she!
In the late morning, the trumpets sounded the alarm when William of Litchfield and his retinue of dozens of knights and attendants rode under the portcullis and into the bailey. Servants bustled everywhere, unloading carts, carrying chests to the solar where William was to stay, and stable boys led horses away to their temporary quarters in the Strathcombe stables.
Eleanor waited for William at the top of the steps leading to the Great Hall. She felt it was important for her to welcome him there, in front of everyone, as a gesture of deference and respect, instead of waiting for him in the Great Hall. It might throw William off-guard, she hoped, making him think she was genuinely pleased to see him—and also might make him think that she would also be agreeable to any possible marriage negotiations he might have in mind for Mary and not put him on the defensive right away. In that way, she could perhaps take him by surprise, dissembling all the while, but working to gain her own advantage in the matter for Mary.
William dismounted, stamped his boots on the ground, and took off his cap. Ugh, Eleanor thought. The months since his last visit had not improved his looks—but what could one do about a great hook of a nose, a double chin, and a potbelly?
He walked toward her, and she curtsied low. “Lady Eleanor,” he said, in his oily voice. “You are only lovelier than when I left you last.”
Eleanor forced herself to smile. “Nay, you jest, sir,” she said, making herself hold out her hand for the customary kiss. His moist lips kissed her hand. How she wanted to snatch it away from him! There was no lingering thrill to make her feel guilty, as there had been after Hugh’s brushing her hand with his mouth. She fought the impulse to wipe her hand immediately on her gown, and she waited for a moment until William’s attention turned to a servant, and she quickly wiped it behind her back, against her surcoat. Would that be enough to remove the slime? she wondered.
William’s pop-eyes leered at her, and he took her arm and escorted her up the stairs to the Great Hall. “Nay, I do not jest of your beauty. But we will speak later of that.”
Eleanor cleared her throat. Was his comment preparatory to talking of betrothing Mary to France? It certainly did not seem to be. But what was he hinting about? It did not augur well, she thought.
Together, they walked into the Great Hall, knights and ladies bowing and curtseying. The servants brought out steaming platters of all kinds of fowl, roasted meats, tureens of soups, and assorted vegetables.
William seated himself at her right at the high table, as was his due. Eleanor drank from her goblet, the wine soothing her. She dared not drink too much, she told herself, for she needed her wits about her tonight—nay—during the entire three days that William was to be her guest. She had to continue trying to make William think that she was pliable. That could only give her an advantage, she hoped, if he indeed wanted to betroth Mary to a French count.
“Lord William,” Eleanor said, “’tis a pleasure to have you as our guest here. Whatever you wish, you have only to speak, and it shall be done.”
William slurped his soup from his spoon and turned to her, mouth still greasy from the liquid, and smiled a knowing smile. “What a promise you make, Lady Eleanor,” he said, arching an eyebrow, “but I suppose what I would ask is not what you would think.” He chortled to himself, and Eleanor repressed a small shudder. She dared not even think what William had in mind, but, listening to Anne’s and Agnes’s chatter about him, she could well imagine. He had his way with any wench or lady he chose in Litchfield and cared not who knew it. His long-suffering wife was sickly and often took to her bed, even before she was carrying William’s child. If she were fortunate, William might often leave her alone and fulfill his needs elsewhere.
“I trust your wife is well?” Eleanor asked quickly. Best to change the subject and move into safer waters, she told herself.
“My wife languishes yet abed in her illness, being with child, as you know, and I fear she is not long for this world,” William said. He reached for a quail from a platter and tore away a hunk of it with his yellow teeth, chewing loudly, the contents of his mouth plain for all to see, and spitting out small bones upon the floor, creating a flurry among the dogs. Eleanor shut her eyes briefly. What a monster!
“I am sorry to hear it,” Eleanor said, trying her best to sound as sincere as she could. The poor woman was probably wishing a quick and speedy way to the grave, a far better place to be than in a marriage with this man—a glutton in so many ways!
“Aye,” William said, turning his beady eyes to look at her. Eleanor gritted her teeth. He smiled evilly. “And when she does, I shall need another wife,” he said. “What think you
