As she ducked under the table and picked up the queen, she could not help but see she was directly next to Hugh’s muscular calves, and she swallowed hard. Taking a deep breath, she sat upright again at the table, slid the queen inside the pouch, and tied the strings tightly. She could not stay here—she would either have to spend more time with William and endure his pawings and innuendoes, or she would no doubt make a fool of herself in front of Hugh every time he looked at her.
Eleanor looked directly at William, averting her face just a bit so she would not have to see Hugh’s eyes. “I—I am tired, Lord William, and must take your leave. We shall meet in the morning and celebrate the christening,” she said. “Good evening, Lord Hugh.”
Without giving William a chance to answer, she curtsied quickly to both William and Hugh and fled toward the dancers, where she had last seen Mary’s head bobbing rhythmically in the dance steps next to Henry. Interrupting the young couple and taking Mary’s hand, she excused herself to Henry, pleading fatigue, and, taking Mary with her, left the Great Hall in relief.
Hugh stood, deep in thought. Eleanor was a puzzle, indeed. How could she seem to be first one thing and then seem to be another—a gullible fool at times, but then a stalwart truth-teller? What she had done during the chess game was indeed something to ponder. William was a sly, wily knave, and there was no need for Eleanor to hold herself to a standard William never would. A puzzle…
But she was a puzzle he was not going to work on finding the answer to, he vowed. He had more important puzzles to solve—and the forest poaching was going to be halted—and halted brutally at the assize in a week’s time. Whoever was to blame would die a miserable death, and he would see to ‘t.
No one was going to take control of his forests from him.
Chapter Twelve
“Whoever divides his heart between many places leaves a poor part of it everywhere, but I have no fear for him who sets his whole heart in one place, and I therefore wish you to do so.”
- Le Roman de la Rose, 13th c.
The next morning, William’s babe had bawled without stopping during the christening ceremony in the Litchfield chapel, William holding him at arms’ length, and quickly pawning him off as soon as possible to ladies-in-waiting and the wet-nurse. Wincing, Eleanor had watched William’s behavior, praying that she would never be in the position of giving him a son. She and William, married! Ugh! She couldn’t even think about it! The poor babe was no doubt bawling because he knew what a wretched toad his father was, Eleanor thought, grimacing.
Hugh, she noticed, had gazed at the babe, his eyes sad, but when he caught her looking at him, frowned, and averted his face. Could he be remembering his own infant, gone these few years? No! she scolded herself. Of course, he must dislike children, he of the hardened heart! He was most likely annoyed by its bawling and wished someone would clap shut its mouth. Eleanor frowned.
After the ceremony, Eleanor saw William’s nephew Henry approach Mary, and when he did so, Mary’s eyes sparkled and she smiled at him. In another moment, their heads bent closer together as they shared some conversation. There was something brewing there, she sighed. In the two days they had been at Litchfield, Mary’s presence in the gardens with Henry at her side, and Mary’s laughter at playing bowls with Henry, were all noted by Anne and by herself, and, she hoped, not Hugh.
Only yesterday, she had come upon Mary strumming a lute in an alcove in an antechamber with Henry in adoring attendance.
“Aye, but you have such talent,” she heard Henry say. Mary’s face colored, but she kept plucking the strings and began to sing an old carol.
“Your sister has no qualms about playing the lute for some,” Hugh’s voice suddenly spoke behind her.
Startled, Eleanor whipped around to face Hugh. Her heart pounded as she realized how close they were. Marry, she could almost feel the heat from the man! She had to turn to look again at Mary and Henry, just to avoid his eyes.
Ah, but she was lovely when unstudied and taken unawares, Hugh thought. Truly, she was also lovely when angry, or winning at chess, or… stop. He must stop.
“She must have been practicing,” Eleanor said, lamely. She realized that Hugh might take Mary’s lute-playing for Henry as a serious snub to him, since she had refused to play for Hugh earlier. “Mary is usually so shy,” she added.
“Shy,” Hugh repeated. “Shy, perhaps, save when she has a young admirer. Hmph,” he said, turning his back and striding away.
Eleanor watched him, his shoulders back, his strong arms swinging at his sides. Oh how she dreamed of those arms enfolding her, pressing her close. Nay, she must stop thinking thus. Hugh wanted to wed and bed Mary, not her. But, he had seen, could not have helped see what everyone at Litchfield was talking about—Mary’s and Henry’s mutual attraction. What now? she asked herself.
Alack, what would Mary do about Henry, if she were betrothed to someone else, Hugh, or the Count of Thiercy, either of which was unavoidable? Was there anything else that could happen to complicate Eleanor’s existence? She hoped not!
Breaking into Eleanor’s reverie, while everyone stood in the main chapel, the women admiring the baby and the nobles talking among themselves, William took her arm and propelled her to a small side chapel. Eleanor saw Anne glance inquisitively at William and unobtrusively move closer to the side chapel. Was Anne trying to protect her?
William glanced around and then folded his arms, looking at Eleanor. What now? she
