William’s face fell as he digested Eleanor’s words. He sighed and leaned his chin on his hand. “Aye, you speak true,” he agreed. He whispered in her ear, “But, I suppose the waiting shall make our wedding night even more pleasurable! I shall be sure to feast on pomegranates before that special occasion!” He threw his head back and guffawed, causing everyone at the table to turn heads toward him, and he reached over and squeezed Eleanor’s shoulder, trying to squeeze more of her, as well.
Eleanor felt bile rise in her throat, and she swiftly downed the water in the goblet the servant had just placed in front of her.
On the other side of William, Hugh had caught the gist of what William was saying. By his sword, what a crass knave William was! Though he had scant respect for Eleanor, he still pitied her lot. To have to marry William—that churl! But then, he reminded himself swiftly, she had probably had a better time with many other men, besides, not only Osbert. Women!
At that thought, he gulped a swallow of his wine, and pondered his approaches to Eleanor and to William about Mary’s hand. He would have to get Eleanor’s agreement first—‘twould be the bird in the hand before he negotiated with William. He glanced past William and Eleanor to where Mary sat, sipping her wine.
Mary inadvertently looked up, caught his eyes, blushed a blazing red, and looked down immediately. Pah! Hugh thought. All the blankets in the castle would probably not be enough to cover her and ease her embarrassment on their wedding night, he was sure. At least she would be good for producing an heir of the proper lineage for Wykeham.
“Who is that?” Mary whispered to Eleanor, nodding her head toward the young, red-haired man seated at Hugh’s left.
“I am not sure,” Eleanor said. She turned to William. “Who, pray tell, is the young man seated next to Lord Hugh?” she asked.
William narrowed his eyes. “’Tis Henry, my nephew from Northumberland. His parents sent him here to escape the border raids of the Scots.”
“Why does he not stay and fight?” Eleanor asked, sensing Mary’s intent ears listening.
“Hah!” William exclaimed. “He has been fighting recklessly; indeed, he refuses to leave the battlefields, so they do send him here to keep him from death and to heal his wounds.”
“He is brave, then,” Mary breathed. Eleanor turned and smiled at her sister. Dear Mary, so guileless—all could be read on her face as if in a book. Then she gave Mary an almost imperceptible shake of the head, as if to say, speak no more of it. Mary caught her lower lip and looked down at her trencher.
William stared at Mary and then at Eleanor. “Do not think on other men,” he warned, “for you are nearly promised to France.”
Beside her, Mary stiffened and dropped her spoon on the table, and it clattered to the floor, where an eager dog began licking it.
Now what? Eleanor’s mouth felt dry, but she forced herself to smile. She did not want to have to say anything about Hugh, but she needed to try to keep the marriage door open just a bit, before it slammed shut and Mary was on a ship, sailing to France, never to be seen on England’s shores again.
Picking up her water goblet, Eleanor cleared her throat. “My lord William,” she began, “you do favor us greatly with your betrothal proposal to the Count of Thiercy.” She took a deep breath. “Of late, however,” she forged ahead, “I have been thinking on this proposal and how such a marriage might indeed play out—and perhaps not to your advantage.”
William frowned and tapped his knife impatiently on the table. “Speak!” he commanded, spitting gobbets of beef fat and cartilage onto the white linen tablecloth. Eleanor blanched and tried not to look at them, but they spread little oily stains where they lay.
“My dear sister, as you can see, is most shy and retiring.” Eleanor gestured to Mary, whose face was now the color of her red surcoat. “She might anger the Count of Thiercy with her reluctance, and thus cause you more problems than you thought to solve with such a marriage.”
William leaned back in his carved chair and appraised the two sisters. “Hmph!” he grunted. “Reluctance has never been an impediment to marriage. She shall marry whom I declare and she shall marry him when I decree.” He gulped some wine, dribbling some rivulets down his chin, and thumped the goblet down on the table, emphatically.
Eleanor’s face twisted with worry. She had not angered William, had she? “But, sire, could there not be another young woman, one less reserved, who might be better-suited for your alliance? It could not aid you to have an angry French bridegroom. He would blame you for his unhappy misfortune. Besides,” she added, “I gave my father my word that I would be loyal and true to my sister, and I cannot be so, when she is far away in France. Would you have me break the deathbed vow I made to my own father—I—your—your wife-to-be?”
It took all her courage to say the last words, but she could not bear to have Mary sail to France. Perhaps this would be enough to make William think twice about Mary’s betrothal. But then, did she want Mary to become Countess of Wykeham? She pressed her mouth into a
