Eleanor felt her skin crawl. Was he actually suggesting that she should marry him? She would rather herd pigs on one of her peasants’ crofts than be wedded to William! Or did he mean poor Mary? She had to pretend not to understand his meaning, if that was what it was.
“Most probably ‘twould be a good idea,” she said, levelly, although she felt like choking on her food. She sawed her pork with her knife, praying that he did not continue this line of conversation. She caught her lip in anguish.
William glanced around them, as if to assure no listening ears were paying attention. “My thinking is that why not join our hands in marriage?” William said.
Eleanor felt her heart stop in her chest. No! she thought. No, this could not be true.
“You are my vassal, and our lands would be joined forever, as,” he paused to leer at her, “we would be bedded. That way, I could also take charge of your forest, which, I understand, is in disarray with poachings and other crimes. You need a man’s hand to control the forest, I believe, since your lovely hand is not being in command as it should be.”
What if she took her trencher, pork, sauce, and all, and shoved it into his fat face? How she wished she could do it! Eleanor steeled herself to answer calmly. She took a deep breath.
“You flatter me with your proposal,” Eleanor managed to choke out. “I—I am still dealing with being a widow and the sorrow,” she said. What a lie! “Perhaps, later…”
William leaned in closer to her, and she could smell his fetid breath. “I could help you forget your sorrow,” he insinuated, his eyes gleaming. “I will make you swoon with delight, I promise you!” He reached out a greasy finger and stroked her cheek.
Eleanor fought a wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. To be forced to bed this creature! God’s bones!
“I am sure you speak true,” she said, forcing a tight smile and then looking down at her trencher. She dared not anger William, for who knew what he might do in revenge, including taking away her rights to the Strathcombe forest and anything else he might choose—if he sensed her real horror of marrying him.
Seemingly satisfied, William grinned, which unfortunately exposed a bit of quail lodged between his teeth. Eleanor swallowed hard and forced a smile in return.
“Your sister, Mary, however, is ripe for the taking,” William said. Eleanor snapped to attention. “I have a marriage proposal from the Count of Thiercy, well-placed in the court of the King of France,” he said. “Her marriage will cement an alliance for which I have been laboring for some time. What think you?”
With mounting dread, Eleanor cast about for some answer that would please William. “Ah, sire, you flatter us with your attentions,” she said. “My—my dear sister is still grieving the death of our father and she cannot yet leave my side.”
William’s face darkened. “Methinks you have too many grieving women at Strathcombe for overmany years,” he sneered. “Best you both put your grief aside and join the world of the living. You are missing some of the pleasures of the world—pleasures I can show you. You’d best be thinking on ‘t, Lady Eleanor, both you and your dear sister.” He drank a long draught of wine and thumped the goblet down on the table.
Now she’d done it! Eleanor scolded herself. “Nay,” she protested quickly, “I did not mean to give offense, my lord. It won’t be long, you have my word.”
Mollified, William reached for his wine goblet again and slurped it, noisily, wine dribbling down his chin and into his greasy goatee. Eleanor averted her eyes.
“See to it, then,” William said. “I shall expect agreement in a few months’ time. And,” he added, leaning closer again. Eleanor cringed. “When my lady is no longer with this world, you and I shall be wedded and bedded.” He reached out a hand and stroked hers. Eleanor felt her skin crawl at his touch and she had to restrain herself from an involuntary shudder. “Remember, Mary is to go to France.”
Eleanor forced a smile. Could anything else worse happen to her now?
Chapter Six
“Here, new and violent feelings spring up in men, and their hearts are changed; here, sense and moderation are of no use, and there is only the total will to love.”
- Le Roman de la Rose, 13th c.
After the meal, the musicians continued their lute playing to begin the dancing, the servants began clearing the planked tables, and the revels began, knights and ladies working their way through the intricate steps of the carol dances. Anne had found a likely-looking, handsome knight, and was laughing up at his face, as he led her around the floor.
Eleanor tried to busy herself with directing the servants, hoping to avoid William’s lecherous smile and attentions. Still aghast at what he had told her about the proposed marriages—hers and Mary’s—she most certainly did not wish to dance with him, but she knew she couldn’t refuse an outright request. Luckily, at the moment, he was guiding one of her ladies about the floor, greasy head bent toward the hapless woman’s face, his arm around her with his hand lurking near where it should not. Poor thing! Suddenly, Mary appeared at her elbow.
“Sister,” Mary asked, her expression worried, “what was Lord William saying to you at the table? I thought I heard my name mentioned, but I couldn’t overhear.”
“Aye,” Eleanor admitted, reluctantly. She put her arm around Mary and squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry, but he speaks of a marriage betrothal to a French count, the Count of Thiercy.”
“No!” Mary cried out, causing two or three nearby ladies to raise their eyebrows and look interested, edging closer to them, so Eleanor promptly steered her sister away. Agnes hovered at her elbow, but Eleanor dismissed her with a wave of her hand.
Mary clasped
