But now—what was she to do with this Hugh? She re-opened the letter and scanned the lines again. He sounded like a very irritable and high-handed man. What bad luck that he was her neighbor, she lamented to herself.
“Eleanor?” Her sister Mary’s soft voice interrupted her train of thought. The knights guarding the door stood aside and let her younger sister in, holding her favorite lute. Eleanor smiled to see her dear sister, with whose care she had been entrusted when her father died three years ago, her mother having died giving birth to Mary, a fate more common than not that befell women.
“Yes?” Eleanor asked, patting the leather-covered stool next to her. “Come, sit next to me and tell me what your pleasure is,” she said, with a smile.
Mary’s green skirts brushed across the stone floor and she sat next to Eleanor, clasping one of Eleanor’s hands in hers. Her face looked pale and her red ringlets tumbled over her shoulders.
“Oh, sister, dear,” Mary began. Tears filled her eyes, and she put her lute down on the stone floor.
“What? What is wrong?” Eleanor cried, drawing Mary to her in a hug.
“I just heard that the talk of all the servants is that when William of Litchfield comes to visit you,” Mary began, her face crumpling, “that—that he will talk to you about a marriage he has arranged for me with a French count! Do you think it’s true?”
Eleanor patted Mary’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mary,” she reassured her. “Yes, he is coming, as you know, but not, I don’t think, to discuss your possible marriage to France. He wrote that he wished to discuss the business of Strathcombe, as usual, not anything about a marriage.”
“Oh, how I hope you are right,” Mary said.
Eleanor smiled grimly. “He’ll want to discuss more than business, too, unfortunately! You know how his conversations with me always seem to be filled with innuendoes and double entendres involving the bedchamber that I have to ignore. Not only that, remember how he manages to brush his hand against me every now and then while we do the carol dances after the feasts in the Great Hall? I have to twirl and bob like a whirling dervish to try and stay out of his way.”
Mary giggled. “I can’t believe how he tries to peer down the fronts of our gowns!”
“Without a doubt, he makes my skin crawl, and I dread his coming. He can’t be trusted, you know that, dear sister—and he’ll act only in his own best interests and discard anyone who doesn’t further his own aims,” Eleanor added. “So, at least for the moment, although I am free—I will be free only until the time William sees fit to marry me off again to further his own political ends.” Eleanor sighed. “Thank goodness I am considered almost too old at eighteen!”
“But I am not,” Mary said. “I am fourteen—just the right age for marriage—but I can’t leave you—or Strathcombe—or England!” She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her surcoat and sniffled.
Poor Mary! Eleanor thought. She had to calm her somehow. “You know well that many servants carry tales, Mary dear, so you shouldn’t put much stock in what they say. They have nothing better to occupy their minds while they are polishing plates or sweeping the anterooms. Those would be very boring tasks, don’t you think?” Eleanor asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Yes,” Mary agreed, still sniffling. “But why would the servants even think of that?”
“I’m not sure,” Eleanor admitted. “They know you are of marriageable age, and there is talk of your dowry and lands. We know you must marry soon.” She sighed. “But, even if William should bring up the subject of marrying a French count, don’t worry. I will take care of you, just as I promised our father I would, and I will make sure you are wed to an Englishman. I vow it. Remember,” Eleanor continued, “honor and loyalty, as our dear father had shown us all our childhood years, are worth their weight in silver. Honor et Fides, our Blystoke family’s motto.” She would not break her word to her father, and she would never abandon her only sister. Taking a deep breath, Eleanor lifted her chin and smiled at Mary.
“Thank you, dear sister,” Mary said, squeezing Eleanor’s hands. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and drew a ragged breath. She looked at the letter in Eleanor’s lap. “What is that? Is it from the Earl—from William?” she asked.
“It is from an earl, but from the Earl of Wykeham, not of Litchfield,” Eleanor sighed. She grimaced. “I’m afraid we have an autocrat as a neighbor, dear sister,” she said. “Hugh of Wykeham is not proving to be the sort of lord we would want to have bordering our lands.”
“Why? Why has he written you?” Mary asked. “I thought he was still on the Crusade.”
Eleanor shook her head. “He was, but, unfortunately, has returned, and he is in a state of extraordinary anger,” she replied, making a face. “He accuses our Osbert of taking bribes and allowing poachers in not only our chase, but his chase, too. Not only that, he accuses me of inexperience and mishandling of Strathcombe, and he says he is coming Tuesday next to meet with me and take the criminals into custody, whom, he says, I have to arrest by then, including Osbert. Such highhandedness—arrest my own Chief Forester!”
“Nay, truly?” Mary exclaimed. “But how can you arrest anyone?”
Eleanor shrugged. “Of course, it’s not possible—not by Tuesday, and certes not Osbert! These investigations take time, and Osbert and I have already taken new measures to try and discover the criminals. But, as of now, no talk has surfaced, nor have any poachers been found, though our foresters lie in wait in the forest, hoping to catch them.”
“What will you do?” Mary asked.
“I’m meeting with Osbert again
