“What will you do?” Agnes asked. “What of Osbert?” She caught her lower lip.
Was Agnes taken with Osbert? Eleanor wondered, suddenly. How had she not noticed her favorite servant’s attraction to her chief forester? Alack, it could not be. He was far above her station in life. Poor Agnes!
“Nay,” Eleanor reassured her. “Remember, Agnes, Osbert was my own father’s chief forester, until my dear father died, and I trust him with my forest, as well. I cannot believe he has had anything to do with the poaching, and Hugh will not deal with him, if I can help it,” she vowed.
“Aye,” Agnes breathed. “Osbert is a—a fine man,” she stammered, her color deepening.
Eleanor smiled. “Have you sweet thoughts for Osbert, Agnes?” she asked, in a gently teasing tone.
Agnes reddened even more deeply. “Oh, Milady, it’s not my place to bother you with my own small worries. He is far above my station, and I dare not speak of it. Please, please,” she begged, “do not think on it.”
“Now, Agnes, don’t fret,” Eleanor said. “Your secret is safe with me.” She rose and patted Agnes on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Milady,” Agnes said. “I know when you make a promise, ‘twill happen. I thank you,” she repeated. “I await your will for the answer to Lord Hugh.”
“I have nothing for you right now, Agnes,” Eleanor said, “but I will write an answer to this—this—Hugh, and then you can take my letter to a messenger.”
Agnes curtsied and left; the knights outside opened and then closed the heavy doors behind her.
Eleanor shook her head. Truly, Osbert was far above Agnes’s station, and so it was a sad thing that Agnes cared for him. It must be so hard for Agnes to have those feelings and know they could never come to a happy ending. Eleanor herself knew only too well the rules of society regarding marriage—and who could be eligible for whom—and the political alliances that formed the underpinning of every marriage. After all, she would never have chosen Edgar—the pompous fool—for herself!
But, in her quieter moments, when she was alone, she longed for that unattainable, impossible goal of marriage to a man who would love her truly, worship her, adore her, make her laugh, and yet, respect her as well. The romances and poems like the Roman de la Rose that the troubadours sang in her Great Hall during the great feasts spoke of such love. Could that ever happen to her? She shook her head. Alas, that was most unlikely, given her situation. She would have to take what came her way, courtesy of William of Litchfield, her overlord. She knew she was thought beautiful by many, with her slender figure, dark brown hair, green eyes, and a mouth, some told her, in the shape of Cupid’s bow, but all of that was to no avail if she was already eighteen and a widow to boot, despite the lands that she would bring to a marriage. And love? That was a laughable thought, indeed!
She rapped the letter from this Hugh of Wykeham sharply on her knee. Tuesday next—and today was Friday. She could certainly not have any criminals in custody by then! Accuse Osbert of these crimes? Hugh must be mad.
Eleanor got up from her stool and found a quill pen. Recently, the poachers were becoming bolder and their trespasses more frequent. She frowned. She was certain that she and Osbert both were being seen in a bad light because they couldn’t capture the criminals. But there were just as many crimes committed in the Wykeham chase as there were in Strathcombe, so why did this Hugh take it upon himself to want to police her chase, as well? He should look to his own lands and his own chief forester!
Just last week, she had again called Osbert in to speak with him about the most recent poachings, and he had assured her that he had been sending his foresters into the forest regularly to patrol and into the hamlets to talk with the villagers in their crofts to see if they could learn any information, as she had asked him to do. As yet, nothing had surfaced, but, Osbert told her it was possible that the poachers were bribing the Wykeham chief forester, John de Bretton, for it appeared the poachers had melted back into the Wykeham woods, before anyone could apprehend them, leaving behind the bloody entrails of the fallow deer or a stag.
“But, why, then can’t anyone stop it?” she had asked him. “What about the Wykeham chief forester? Can his involvement with the poachers be proven? Can anyone deal with him?”
Osbert twisted his hunting cap in his gloved hands. “As you know, Lord Hugh has been away at the Crusade these many years, and I’m afraid that John de Bretton now thinks of the chase and the game as his own. Thus, he grants licenses to knights to hunt and he keeps the silver. He takes bribes from poachers as well—and lets them hide in his forest. When Hugh returns with Prince Edward, then there shall be a harsh accounting for John de Bretton,” he said. “Mark it well; Lord Hugh does not suffer indignities lightly, and he rules with an iron hand.”
A furrow appeared on Eleanor’s forehead, as she remembered the conversation. It was very frustrating, and she knew she would now have to take a more active part in arresting whoever was responsible. She couldn’t have people around the countryside thinking she was incapable—a “mere woman,” as some were wont to do, even though she knew she had done a good job managing Edgar’s estates. Managing one’s husband’s estate while he was away fighting for the King or visiting his other lands was what all noble ladies were taught to do from a very young age, and she wore the mantle of responsibility fairly well, she reassured herself. At least, everyone at Strathcombe seemed content, crops were grown and harvested, the
