“From Lord William of Litchfield,” the messenger explained, gulping for air. “He wishes you to answer immediately.”
Eleanor and Mary exchanged a worried glance. Eleanor reached for the letter, glanced at her ladies-in-waiting who clustered anxiously a few paces away, whispering to each other, and broke the seal. Mary read over her shoulder. It was dated two days before.
Lady Eleanor,
I am pleased to report that my son was born yesterday and command you and your sister’s presence at his christening to take place in a sennight, just before Michaelmas. Unfortunately, my wife, Lady Madge, died in childbirth, and we have buried her today. I am without a wife and a mother for the babe and wish to celebrate our marriage after the christening.
Yours, William of Litchfield
“No!” Mary gasped, gripping Eleanor’s arm tightly.
Eleanor straightened her shoulders and tried to fight a rising tide of panic. Steady, Eleanor, she commanded herself. Mary was depending on her to show her the way to be strong, and strong she would be.
“Don’t worry, Mary,” she said in a low tone, turning away from the messenger, so he could not overhear. “I will deal with this. Honor et Fides, as Father always said.” She turned back to the messenger. “I shall have an answer for you within the hour to take to Lord William,” she said, crisply. “Leave us, now.”
The messenger bowed and beat a retreat, glancing worriedly once over his shoulder back at her. Eleanor sighed. “Now, Mary, we shall go to my solar, where I will pen an answer.” Her face grim, Eleanor took Mary’s arm, and together they set a determined pace through the cluster of murmuring ladies-in-waiting.
“Do you require me?” Anne asked, hopefully.
Eleanor smiled at Anne’s obvious desire to be in the thick of the action and gossip. “Nay, but thank you,” she said, and she guided Mary by the elbow swiftly through the gardens and up into the castle.
Lord William, Eleanor penned, once she was seated in her solar at her leather-topped table, Mary seated across from her, gripping her lute tightly, obviously too anxious to play anything. I am honored and both my sister and I do accept your kind invitation to the christening. I fear, however, that my family’s motto of Honor et Fides prevents me from becoming your wife so soon, as others may frown on the suddenness of the marriage.
I must honor and be loyal to the memory of your wife for a few months’ time, before I take the honor of being Countess of Litchfield. Waiting before taking another wife could only benefit your lordship and raise your esteem in the eyes of all for your loyalty to her, your late wife and the mother of your child, as well. Because of your astuteness and political acumen, I am certain you shall agree to this short postponement.
Yours, Eleanor of Strathcombe.
How she wanted to write something such as, “You will not be in need of pomegranates in the near future,” but she curbed that impulse. ‘Twould indeed be the height of foolishness, but the thought did make her want to giggle. She gave her letter to Mary to read, who put down her lute and scanned the lines. A smile broke across Mary’s face and she handed the letter back.
“You have done ‘t!” Mary exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “’Tis masterful!”
“Nay,” Eleanor admitted. “I have bought some time, but only for my own dilemma, and I fear I will still have to wed him in time. I am still puzzling over your situation.” Mary’s crestfallen expression spoke volumes, and Eleanor patted her hand. “Do not worry. I will find a way, somehow,” she promised her sister. How she hoped she spoke truly, Eleanor thought.
“I trust you, dear sister,” Mary said with a smile, and she resumed her lute-playing. “I trust you to take care of it all. I will be strong for you, as well.”
A chill of foreboding rippled down Eleanor’s back. The poaching continued, threatening her control over her forest and placing trusted Osbert in jeopardy, her sister was caught in a marriage net created by self-serving blackguards, and she herself was at risk of being bedded by the despicable William of Litchfield. She did not even want to think of the thoughts she now harbored about Hugh, thoughts that were still dogging her night and day, it seemed. Some evenings, she did not know whether she welcomed sleep or dreaded it, knowing she would be haunted by dreams of Hugh, his arms around her, caressing her softly, his warm breath feathering her ear.
The dreams all began in the same manner, with Hugh looking into her eyes, levelly, unflinchingly, as she felt a shudder run down her back at his blue gaze. Without a word, he would place his hands on her shoulders, and slowly and deliberately, he would begin stroking her arms. Leaning forward, he would allow his lips to begin grazing her neck, and then one strong hand would gently tilt her head back, as he found her mouth with his… Eleanor took a deep breath and shook her head as if to clear it.
Oh, how she hoped that Mary’s trust in her was not sorely misplaced!
Chapter Ten
“It is every lover’s habit to pursue the fire that burns and inflames him, and when he feels the fire close by, he approaches even closer.”
- Le Roman de la Rose, 13th c.
“Ho!” Ulric, the Strathcombe lead household knight, raised his gloved hand to signal the assembled company to begin the procession out of the Strathcombe bailey. Hooves struck stone, trappings and chainmail gleamed in the morning sunlight, men called out to each other, and Eleanor’s retinue of knights and servants proceeded under the raised portcullis for the two-day
