“And…?” Eleanor prompted her.
“’Twas a man and a woman talking.” A crease appeared between Mary’s brows. “I couldn’t hear all they said, but it sounded urgent. Their speech was rushed. It…it sounded as if they were saying something about Osbert and someone else—a woman.”
Eleanor swallowed hard. This was terrible. Was there gossip about concerning her and Osbert? “What name did they use? What did they say?”
Mary said, “They did not name her, but said, ‘He’ll pine for her, but she’ll have none of him, he shall find out.’ Who could it be? It isn’t I, is it?”
“Oh, dear sister,” Eleanor comforted Mary, patting her shoulder. “’Tis not you, never fear. Only because you have heard rumors of your being married to France, you now fancy that all gossip about love and marriage is about you.” Mary’s cheeks colored. “Nay, do not fret.”
Should she trust Mary with her suspicions about Osbert? Eleanor wondered. She studied her little sister’s face. Nay, that would be too much for Mary to absorb. She had enough to worry about already, with an impending marriage of some sort to be arranged by the horrid Earl of Litchfield, and, perhaps, Eleanor was wrong about Osbert’s feelings for her, if any. If she were to tell Mary her thoughts, her dear sister was not so adept at dissembling and would surely fumble and blush anytime she and Osbert were in company, thus putting Osbert in more discomfort than he already was, not to mention herself. She would spare them both and keep her worries to herself. Let time play it out, she thought.
“But, who, then?” Mary asked.
Eleanor shrugged. “’Tis only servants’ gossip, Mary, and we don’t have to concern ourselves with it, just as I told you about the rumors of you being married to France.” She smiled. “Now, take your little dog and toss a ball to him and play. Forget all this intrigue!”
“Thank you,” Mary said. She smiled and got up, her little dog following at her heels. Eleanor watched her go, her step light, seemingly without a care in the world. How she wished she had not a care in the world as well, she thought with a little sigh.
The next two days flew by, and Sunday dawned. After mass in the castle chapel and the first meal of the day, Eleanor went to the stables to mount her chestnut hunter, Autumn. Having already sent for the head falconer, she knew her favorite little goshawk would be waiting for her, jessed and hooded, along with various knights to guard her, several foresters, the master of the stable, and, of course, Osbert.
What would happen with Osbert today? Was the gossip Mary overheard truly about Osbert and her? She sighed as she made her way into the stable yard, stable boys bowing, and horses nickering in their stalls.
“Milady,” Nicholas, the master of the stable greeted her, bowing low. Next to the mounting block, one of the stable boys already held Autumn’s bridle. She stroked Autumn’s nose and tickled her chin. She stepped up on the mounting block, Nicholas held out his interlaced hands, and she vaulted up onto the pommel saddle. Autumn sidestepped, shifting her weight, and whinnied softly. Eleanor leaned forward and stroked her neck.
“Lady Eleanor,” Osbert’s voice called out. Eleanor turned in the saddle to see Osbert ride up on his bay gelding. He smiled and gestured at the company of knights and foresters riding behind him. Osbert bowed to her in his saddle, and, as he looked back up at her, Eleanor was filled with chagrin to see the longing in his eyes that she hoped she had only imagined yesterday. Why was Osbert taken with her, now? After all these years? To lessen the tension she felt in the air, Eleanor turned around and surveyed the company, making certain that one of the household knights held her goshawk perched on his leather-covered wrist.
“We’ll be off to the brook in the glade,” Osbert called out, and the crisp air filled with the sound of hooves thudding, horses whinnying, hounds barking as they frolicked in front of the horses, the rattling of chainmail, and the men calling out to each other. Eleanor had often asked her ladies-in-waiting to join her on the rides into the forest, but they usually demurred, their fathers not having brought them up riding to the hunt. Eleanor always shrugged, knowing they were missing an excitement-filled day in the forest, following the dogs as they flushed the quarry, jumping their hunters over fallen logs, and enjoying watching the goshawks swirl in the air, poised to take a duck.
Eleanor kicked her mount into a trot and joined the group. Osbert seems more himself today, she thought, so long as she did not misread his gaze earlier. At the least, he did not give her any inappropriate glances in front of the foresters and knights. Perhaps she had imagined all of it. She surely hoped so. There were enough complications she had to deal with, between Hugh the Angry, William the Horrid, and the poachers, who were doing more than stealing game from the Wykeham chase—they were sullying her reputation.
She sighed and turned her attention to the ride through her chase, Autumn’s hooves trampling the muddy path in a brisk trot. Around her, the men called back and forth, jesting and challenging each other in a general atmosphere of camaraderie.
An hour’s ride later, they assembled at the brook at the glade, which crossed one of the many paths that led from her chase to the neighboring forest of Wykeham. Hugh himself would no doubt ride this path in two days’ time, as he had written her, she reminded herself. She had to be ready to
