“Nay, he is a blackguard,” Osbert argued. He stopped his pacing and turned toward her, his face red with anger. “He thinks that after his wife died, he could go off to the Crusade and cozen himself to the future king and let his lands and forest go all the while? His chief forester John de Bretton has been lining his pockets, I am sure, in his earl’s absence. I? Accused of this mercenary scheme? I shall not brook it!” he exclaimed.
“Nay!” Eleanor said, and she stood, impulsively reaching out her hand to briefly touch Osbert’s shoulder. He froze at her touch, and his eyes met hers in an unblinking gaze, filled with unspoken yearning. Abashed, she dropped her hand and quickly retook her seat. What was happening, she asked herself. It could not be! Osbert had yearnings for her?
In confusion, she cleared her throat. “Don’t worry about the accusation,” Eleanor said, forcing her voice to sound level. “Have you any reports from your foresters in the last fortnight?” she asked, hoping to change the awkward tone of the conversation.
Osbert studied his gloved hands, flexed his fingers, took a breath, and then looked at Eleanor. “Aye,” he said. “One of my foresters heard talk in Strathcombe at the Horn and Bull of a certain ‘William’ being involved, somehow, in the poachings.” He frowned. “There are a few Williams in the villages about, but I am not certain which William it might be. We shall inquire further. Of course, there is always William of Litchfield. But that cannot be the one. Why would such a great lord, especially your liege lord, stoop to sully his hands with bribery and poaching?” He shrugged. “William is not an uncommon name, after all.”
“Aye,” Eleanor agreed. “I am sure you are right. I can’t think William of Litchfield would be involved, either. There is no reason for him to poach in his own forest.” Such common goings-on would surely be beneath his notice, she thought, concealing a wry smile. The only kind of activities William would be likely to sully his hands with, according to Anne, would be cajoling ladies to lift their skirts for him. Eleanor often blushed to hear the tales Anne brought to the embroidery sessions for all the ladies to twitter and laugh about. William didn’t care how many bastards he littered the villages with.
“All the other talk is about the poachers disappearing in the Wykeham chase, leaving behind the bloody entrails. I wish I knew more, Milady,” he said, holding his palms upward.
“I thank you, as always, Osbert,” Eleanor said. “You will, of course, pursue this bit of information about a ‘William’ and try to discover more?” Osbert bowed deeply before her.
“Aye, Milady. As you wish. Sunday at the hunt, then,” he said.
Did his glance once again linger a fraction of a second too long on her? Eleanor wondered.
“Aye,” Eleanor said, noting Osbert’s apparent struggle to keep an impassive demeanor. “Till then,” she finished.
She watched Osbert leave, weaving his way between the dozens of servants still sweeping and tidying up after the meal. By the rood! What had just transpired? She dearly hoped that she was misreading Osbert. A noble lady such as herself should think twice before dallying with a man of lesser title, though some of her ladies-in-waiting thought such a romance to be great fun. She sighed. Why were there always complications? Why couldn’t she just take care of her estates and someday find a man to love her for herself, not for her lands and nobility? But that was beyond the realm of possibility. At least she no longer had to live with Edgar, she sighed.
The next morning, Eleanor was walking in the gardens, accompanied by Anne and Agnes. She noted the roses were still blooming, their red and pink petals filling the air with their heady scents. The gardeners had been delighted with her instructions to create a rose garden with little nooks and benches for her and her ladies to sit on and visit together, enjoying the view of the gardens. Edgar had had no time for such foolery, and the gardeners strove to please Eleanor, knowing she appreciated their efforts, rewarding them with her smiles and compliments.
“D’you think Lord Hugh has yet received his letter?” Anne, ever-inquisitive, asked Eleanor.
Eleanor smiled wryly. “I’ve not yet heard of one of our messengers who didn’t fulfill his mission,” she said. “We may hear aught tomorrow.” She frowned, imagining what this Hugh would do upon opening her message. Would he curse her and rip it up? Would he toss it on the stone floor and grind his boot into it? Had she been a bit too peremptory? No, she told herself. She’d upheld her honor and confronted him as a titled woman should who managed her own estates and whose reputation had been impugned. The absolute nerve of him!
From around the hedge at the end of the garden, Mary appeared, her little dog at her heels. “There you are, sister,” she called out. “I must speak with you.” She glanced at Agnes and Anne.
“Of course,” Eleanor said. She smiled at Anne and Agnes. “Take your leave, please.” Looking disappointed no doubt at being left out of some special chat, Anne sighed a bit, curtseyed, and Agnes followed her lead, their footsteps crunching on the gravel walk as they made their ways to the end of the long pool. Eleanor watched their heads bent together in urgent conversation, probably trying to guess what secret Mary was going to share.
“What is it, sister?” Eleanor asked, patting the bench beside her.
Mary sank down next to her, her little
