“Earl or no, I do not like him, Your Grace. And he—”
“It is not about what you like,” snapped the duke. “It is about what is good for Westmorland and York and the Crown.”
“But Richard likes me no more than I like him,” argued Eleanor. Her Grace laid a hand on her shoulder in warning, but Eleanor plowed on in her certitude. “He will not want to marry me.”
The duke flicked a finger at her notion. “But he does want you, God help him, for he is clever enough to realize that you, my lady, are what will bring the earldom back to him.”
“I? How?” And then, the truth hit her. “Oh. Because the king will not likely let me remain so low, despite my Beaufort uncles’ sins. Is there to be no love in it at all, then?”
“Love? What does love have to do with marriage and matters of state?”
Eleanor lifted her chin and met the duke’s gaze with defiance. “My lord grandfather married for love.”
“Aye, eventually, but only after he’d done his duty to England. And still, see where his love got all of you.” York flipped the parchment closed and shoved it back up his sleeve. “Enough. You will say your betrothal vows before we leave for Wales. Richard will serve his time as squire and earn his spurs and Henry’s trust, and when you are both of an age, you will be married. And with luck and God’s blessing, you will take after your lady mother and breed like a sow.”
Eleanor felt the duchess tense at her husband’s words. Her Grace had a son from an earlier marriage, but had produced no children, male or female, since wedding York. Her inability to bear her husband an heir ate at her, and his words no doubt stung.
But the duke, in his anger, was either careless or blind to her distress. He glowered at Eleanor. “It is done, girl. Resign yourself and make ready.”
He waited expectantly, his frown growing darker as Eleanor stood there, mouth agape. Finally, Her Grace squeezed her shoulder. “She understands her duty, husband. Do you not, Eleanor?”
Another squeeze, sharper, jerked Eleanor to attention. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Grace.” She dropped an obedient courtesy to the duke. “As you—and my lord father—command. I will make ready.”
The duke stalked out and turned toward the hall. The duchess released her grip on Eleanor’s shoulder and walked out without a word, turning the opposite way, toward her bedchamber.
Eleanor sagged back onto her stool and sat there, hands shaking as she considered her fate. Richard.
Richard!
She tried to wrap her mind around the notion of being married to Richard le Despenser. Scrawny, sickly, unpleasant Richard, who put toads in her sewing basket and picked his nose and started fights he couldn’t even finish, much less win. And he fiddled all the time, his fingers constantly picking and twisting at things, never still. She despised him.
Perhaps if she thought of him as Earl of Gloucester . . .
But no. She could not see that Richard would ever bear the title. His father’s murder of Thomas of Woodstock and role in the subsequent uprising had surely been too great a treason for Henry to forgive. Besides, Richard didn’t even look like an earl. An earl, like a duke, should have a certain bearing. A certain dignity.
His Grace had it. Her father had it. So did John, her eldest half brother, who would be earl after her father.
So, for that matter, did Sir Gunnar.
The mere thought of the latter brought a smile to her lips. Simple knight or no, he possessed more nobility than Richard le Despenser ever would. She closed her eyes and conjured up Gunnar’s image: broad chest, broader shoulders, that mane of copper-shot curls—in need of a proper cutting, but striking nonetheless. Strong, square jaw. That smile, barely there even when humor lit his green eyes, as though he begrudged his lips the right to reveal too much. He might be better than twice her age, but he was far, far more to her taste than Richard. If only her father would bind her to a substantial man like that. Or if only she were a peasant and could chose for herself.
Well, no, perhaps not a peasant. She wouldn’t like that, but she wouldn’t mind at all being the wife of some minor knight, if he were like Sir Gunnar. Her mind drifted for a moment over the possibility that her champion might return not just for the tourney but to claim her as wife, and the idea pleased her greatly. Far more than the idea of Richard. She would not, could not, resign herself to Richard.
The other women began filing back in, and with a sigh, Eleanor opened her eyes, retrieved the pile of cloth lying at her feet, and went back to work. Whenever Sir Gunnar did return—
Please let him return soon and carry me away from this contract the way he carried me away from the bower pyre
, she prayed between stitches—she intended to have his gift ready.
But the week came and went with no sign of her prayer being answered, and on Tuesday next she was summoned to the hall, where a handful of noble witnesses stood by while a cleric read out the contract and the duke and Richard le Despenser signed.
“Your mark,” ordered His Grace, shoving a quill at her.
And since Sir Gunnar had not come and she had little choice in the matter in any case, she took the quill and carefully scribed her name beside Richard’s and then went to the chapel to say the vows that promised she would one day become his wife. Her prayer was still unanswered a few days after that when Richard rode off to war, and it remained so when she next faced the priest and had to confess that in a moment of weakness—honesty, but weakness—she had also prayed for Richard to be killed while in Wales so that she would never have to marry him. By the time she finished the penance, her knees were raw.
Through it all, she continued to sew.
She soon finished Sir Gunnar’s cote-hardie and moved on to a padded doublet for him to wear beneath it, then to a chemise for beneath that, choosing a thick, soft wool that would keep him warm in his travels, and then a linen for summer wear, and when those were done, she went on to make him some good, thick chausses and a lined mantle of sturdy stuff that would stand up to the vilest weather.
By then it was spring and they were back at York Castle, and the tourney came and went and Sir Gunnar still did not come. Even so, when all the other sewing was done, she dipped into her purse to buy cloth for a set of court clothes: a fine velvet houpelande in deepest blue with gold trimming; a jacket and a shirt of cambric so fine an angel would barely note its weight; hose—fine ones, this time—and a cap with gold trim to match the houpelande; and even court slippers and a braided belt. And all the while, still dreaming he might bear her away from Richard when he finally returned, she laid her work aside before each meal and stood peering down at the men in the hall, searching for those coppery curls.
In the end, the clothes she’d made, lying folded on a shelf in the cupboard, only collected dust. Before the moths could take an interest, Eleanor sprinkled everything with camphorwood and rue and tansy, wrapped them in silk and linen, tied them with cord, and then stored them and her dream of rescue away deep in the bottom of her chest, beneath a length of golden spiderwork the duchess had presented her for her wedding veil.
Then, as summer faded into autumn, she set out with deliberate effort of thought to do as the duke and her father wished and resign herself to the idea of Richard le Despenser, who would, mayhap, one day make her Countess of Gloucester.
CHAPTER 3
Raby Castle, County Palatine of Durham, April 1412
A TOURNEY. AND
a big one, if all those tents meant anything.
Gunnar looked over the broad meadow west of Raby Castle and grinned at his good fortune. He’d been hoping for a rich table, what with it being just after Easter and Raby being the seat of the Earl of Westmorland, but a tourney meant there would be true feasting. Even better, the crush of men would let him slip in, enjoy the best meal he’d had in many a month, barter for a few supplies, have a lie with one of the whores who would have gathered for the joust, and then slip back out unnoticed. Jafri could have a go tomorrow before they continued on to the coast, and they’d both spend the summer as happier men. The prospect of months alone in the woods always sat a little easier after a good meddle.
He checked to make certain the wolf hadn’t followed him out of the woods, then turned his horse toward the castle. By the time he neared the walls, the fading light had brought the last of the day’s combats to an end so that he could simply fall into the boisterous stream of men and women leaving the lists. He passed over the bridge and through the fortified gate, just one more in the crowd. No one even bothered to ask his name, and soon he stood in the castle bailey, staring up at a scaffolded tower, some ten yards high, that rose in the center of the yard. The pavilion at its top had wide windows on all four sides, but colorful draperies hid whatever or whoever was inside.
“Which favor will you vie for?” asked a voice at his shoulder.
Gunnar glanced at the speaker, a grizzled knight with a cropped beard. “Favor?”
“Aye. There.” The man indicated a score of gloves and ribands and sleeves and veils arrayed on a length of paling wall whose still-green points showed the logs had been cut just for this tourney. “One for each of the ladies to be found in the Castle of Love.”
“Castle of Love? Aren’t those usually built out by the lists?”
“Aye, but Countess Joan wanted it close in. She’s breeding.” The man outlined a rounded belly with his hands. “She cannot go out to the gallery, so she called for the castle to be put here, where she can watch from her window. And she’s declared her own rules, as well.”
“What sort of rules?”
“She collected the favors from the ladies herself and had her varlet hang them, so no one knows which lady gave what, or even which ladies are in the tower for certs, for they climbed up while we were yet in the field. You’re to retrieve a favor and make your way up—if you can, of course—to win a kiss from whichever lady owns it.”
“Without knowing whose favor you have?” Gunnar raised an eyebrow. “What if you get up there and she’s ugly?”
“Unless you’re a fool, you’ll close your eyes and kiss her like she’s the fairest maid in the land,” the fellow said, laughing. “For each lady has a silver branch for the man who claims her—but only if his kiss moves her to release it.”
“Silver?” asked Gunnar, suddenly more interested. “Are these branches big?”
“Big enough that I wish I could climb.” The fellow stretched his forefinger and thumb wide to show the size. “Sadly, I’ve no head for heights. I’d tumble down aswoon before I climbed halfway up. But you look the sort who could manage it.”
Gunnar glanced from tower to favors and back, but shook his head. “I didn’t come for the tourney. I don’t even have my harness with me.”
“You don’t want armor anyway, not to climb,” chided the man. “And as for not being part of the tourney, ’tis no matter. The countess has opened the contest to all gentlemen present, jousting or not. Even the squires and pages, provided they’re noble-born. She wants a merry mêlée, she says, since she must miss the rest of the sport.”
“But the fee . . .”
“Only a penny, and that to go to the poor. Our lady has left you no excuses, sir. You may as well have a try.”
“I don’t know,” muttered Gunnar, but he was sorely tempted. He and Jafri could always use the silver, and a kiss from a noblewoman, even an ugly one, was surely worth a penny on its own. It wasn’t often that a man like him had the chance to kiss a highborn lady.
And then there was the tower itself, soon to be swarming with men, every one of them vying to knock the others down. He hadn’t fought in years . . .
“It might be good sport,” he allowed.
“They’re already up there, you know,” mused the other man. “Likely watching us as we speak.” He waved toward the unseen women in the tower, and a few giggles drifted down.
Gunnar’s body tightened at the purely female sound.
Young. They sounded so young and sweet
. He squinted up, imagining he could see shadowed curves moving behind the draperies. “Where do I enter?”
Moments later, his name recorded by the herald and a penny laid in the priest’s palm, he handed over his sword and knife to the marshal of the tourney and in exchange received a leather truncheon, the only weapon permitted. Gunnar tested it a few times against his palm. It would hurt, for certs, but would do little lasting damage. Sliding the truncheon into his belt, he ambled over to the spot beneath the countess’s window where a knot of men had begun to collect. He hung back a moment, watching the others until he saw one man lean over to whisper to another, then sidled in behind them.
“The blue sleeve, you say,” one was saying. “How do you know ’tis hers?” asked one.
“I’ve seen her in them. I think.”
“Hmm.” The first tapped his cheek with a fingertip as he considered. “Well, the red one belongs to Lady Margaret. And of that, I am certain.”
“Scrope will be after it, then, just as Tunstall will fight for the silver and black riband.”
“Is that Lady Celeste’s favor?”