Eleanor grimaced. “It’s not only your marriage he was talking about,” she said, lowering her voice. “He speaks of wedding me himself when his wife dies.”
Mary’s mouth opened in a small “o” of surprise and shock. “Oh, no, dear sister! I cannot imagine a worse fate!” she exclaimed.
“Nor can I,” Eleanor said, grimly. “He is a beast!”
“What can we do?” Mary asked. “We have no one to plead our case.”
“No one but I,” Eleanor sighed. “I shall have to think on it—I shall find a way out of this predicament.” She linked arms with Mary, and they began to walk through the crowded hall.
“I would rather run away and become a peasant girl than leave you and England,” Mary said. “The Count of Thiercy is lame and rheumy, they say.” Mary shuddered. “It would be a fate worse than death.”
“Nay, not worse than death, but a sorry fate, indeed,” Eleanor said. “I don’t know what else may happen to us, but at the moment, it seems everything is coming together to make our lives miserable!” She shook her head. “The poaching continues in the forest, which William did scold me for, and Lord Hugh, that pompous ass, thinks he can rule over my forest as well.”
“Lord Hugh,” echoed Mary. “He is quite handsome, though, do you not think?” She tilted her head toward Eleanor and giggled.
Eleanor blushed and she withdrew her arm from Mary’s. Had Mary read her thoughts? Did Mary have any inkling of the imaginings that were beginning to haunt her every waking moment—and worse, bedeviling her during sleep with those dreams?
“Do not think so,” she said, quickly. “He is a haughty one—and do not forget the talk of his wife’s untimely death.” She felt a little guilty for repeating the rumor she was sure was false, but she could not have Mary even guess that she had any sort of feeling for Hugh—which she most emphatically did not!
Mary’s face fell. “I thought you had discounted what Agnes and others said of that terrible tale.”
“Aye, I did, until I had the misfortune to meet him in person,” Eleanor said. “After speaking with him and having to deal with his insufferable arrogance, I can believe he might be capable of such a monstrous death. He has no patience for anyone who does not do his exact bidding.” Well, that was mostly true, Eleanor reassured herself. Perhaps if she kept telling herself what a terrible person Hugh was, she could rid herself of these uncomfortable, unwelcome feelings about him.
“Oh!” Mary said. She frowned. “We had better be careful ourselves, then, or else we may suffer the same fate!”
At that, Eleanor smiled. “Nay, Mary, dear. I don’t think Hugh would stoop to murdering a pair of poor sisters! It was his wife’s unfaithfulness that provoked him, if he actually did have her murdered. He would have no such reason to do so to us.”
Unfaithful? Unfaithful to Hugh? The very thought of Hugh made Eleanor’s face feel uncommonly warm. His hands gently caressing her face… Stop that! She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily, as if to ward off the imaginary vision of his intense blue eyes gazing into hers. What was wrong with her?
“You don’t think that he would want to murder you if you don’t arrest Osbert?” Mary asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Eleanor said, patting her sister’s arm, trying to collect herself. “You are too fearful, dear sister.” She smiled for a moment, but then her smile faded. “I don’t know what he will do to poor Osbert, though. Hugh is proving to be a true thorn in my side.” In more ways than one, Eleanor admitted silently.
Two days later, after much entertaining of William and his retinue and gratefully bidding farewell to him and his lecherous gestures and attempts at surreptitious fondlings, Eleanor sank into her chair in the Great Hall, exhausted. She had managed to dodge most of William’s unwelcome attentions and veiled insinuations, and deflect his bullying questions about the forest poaching and impending marriage for the better part of the time, but doing so had sapped her energy and her creativity as well. Eleanor had put Agnes up to calling her away from him to answer feigned questions about the household, but there had still been one uncomfortable incident after another. Eleanor shuddered, remembering the worst of them all.
‘Twas at the last meal before William and his retinue departed Strathcombe. Eleanor gazed longingly at the wine goblet, but knew she had to keep her wits about her as long as William was at hand. He, however, gulped goblet after goblet noisily, slurring his words, and spitting out bits of eel as he talked, bits that he neglected to brush from his fleshy lips.
Before the desserts of hot apples and brandy and several subtleties had been served, William had leaned his greasy head next to Eleanor’s. She cringed but steeled herself. It was almost over and he would soon be on his way, she reminded herself.
“I wish to invite you and your dear sister Mary to the christening of my forthcoming babe,” William said. “’Tis due in a month.”
“Oh,” Eleanor said. Her spirits plummeted. She had no choice. “Certes,” she answered, trying to sound agreeable.
William glanced at the desserts arrayed before him by a servant, the pears in carob cream, the parsnip, and apple fritters. “No pomegranate?” he asked, leering. “I shall make good use of pomegranates before you arrive.”
Eleanor wanted to jump up from her chair and run from the Great Hall. Even she knew the lore surrounding pomegranates. They were supposed to serve as aphrodisiacs, and the unmistakable meaning of his words was enough to send a wave of nausea through her.
“By the time of the christening, no doubt my wife will be lying in her grave, and thus we can hasten our wedding, making it a double ceremony
