The Winter Love (11 page)

Edward was in the house, then. Eleanor wondered how much trouble he would cause before he returned to Southampton.

“Come, let me take you to the hall. It is warm there.”

“You look different in Isabelle’s clothes,” he said as he turned back to look at her.

“Like a woman?”

“No, you always look like a woman, even in my clothes. You look as if you should always wear clothes like this, as if this were your true state.”

“But it is not,” she protested. “I have my vocation and it is not a calling to wealth and ease.”

“There’s certainly wealth here,” said Henry, “but not much ease. Everyone works very hard here. Even now my mother is overseeing a meal that will shock you in its splendour to celebrate my safe return.”

“You are her son. It is only right.”

Henry smiled again.

Eleanor noticed that Henry occasionally put his hand out against the wall as they walked. He was not steady and bumped against her a couple of times.  They reached the empty hall and sat on a bench by the fire.

“But you did not call me here to speak of clothes and feasts.”

Henry grew serious again. “No. There are things I must tell you. If it had not been for the difficulties of
the journey...for my weakness at sea...”

“
You are not weak, Henry. Do you think you are just because you are not the sailor that you brother is? When you went away to France did you know how sick you would be?”

Henry
nodded.

“Then you are a stronger man than the men who knew they would have no sickness, because you knew what it
would cost you, but you did it anyway.”

“I had to do my duty. There was no choice.”

“Did you have to go? I thought rich men could pay others to go in their place or pay a fine for their absence.”

“
So you no longer believe that I am a thief?” Henry smiled at her as she shook her head. “It is true that I did not have to go, but I would be ashamed to pay someone to fight and die in my place. I would rather have the shame of seasickness.” Henry had not denied that he was rich and Eleanor wondered how he had become rich and why he did not show his wealth as ostentatiously as his brother.

“Then i
t is as I say and you are the stronger man.”

“Stronger than who?” asked Edward as he came into the hall.

“This does not look like a good place for our talk,” said Eleanor wondering whether she dare invite Henry to her bedchamber.

“Come
with me, El...” Henry paused, as if understanding for the first time the insult that he did her by using the name she had had in the world.

“Please, I do not mind if you call me
Eleanor.” She emphasised the ‘you’ so that both he and Edward would know that she desired no one else to use that name.

“So be it.
Then I will tell you my story and you will tell me if I have done the right thing by you.”

“Then perhaps we should sit, if it is a long story.”
They left the hall. Eleanor looked back at Edward. It was difficult to read his expression through the injury to his face, but she could tell that he was unhappy. Henry took her back to Isabelle’s bedchamber, his steps even more uncertain than when he had led her to the hall. He was tired and she must not keep him much longer from the sleep that would heal him.

Henry hesitated to shut the door behind him as they entered his sister’s room. In the end he left it slightly ajar, which Eleanor found slightly amusing, as they had shared a bed with the door closed
and barred the night before.

Eleanor sat on the bed and expected that
Henry would sit on the chest under the window or in the chair. Instead he sat next to her and took her hands in his left hand and took a deep breath.

“It is not a long story and you may wish you had
never heard it, but I can tell it now. When I first went to France, I met and became friends with your brother Philip.”

“Oh!” Eleanor could not stop herself. “
Then he’s dead, isn’t he?”

Henry nodded, never taking his eyes from hers. She began to cry silently and he wipe
d away her tears with his thumb, gently kissed her forehead, then took her hands again.

“Yes, he’s dead and I’m sorry to tell you that,
but that is neither the end of my story, nor the beginning. Are you ready to hear it?”

Eleanor wasn’t sure. Did she want to hear a story that would change things even more than they had already changed? Did she want to hear a story in
which the death of her brother was not the worst thing that happened, nor even the reason for the story?

Henry
was waiting for an answer. Then Eleanor knew what she must say.

“When you have finished the story will you stay with me?”

Henry stroked another tear away from her cheek. “If you want.”

Would Henry’s story show him
in such a bad light that she would want to send him away? Is that why he had hesitated to tell it until they were with others whose company might be more welcome?

“Why did you wait until now?”

“Because until now there has been nowhere where you could grieve undisturbed. If you wish to be alone in this room you will be left alone. If you wish the company of my mother or Philippa, then they are here.”

“That was kind of you, thank you.”

“You have borne these last days well, Eleanor, but I have taken you away from those who could comfort you and it was only right to give you my mother and my sister to help you.”

“I think I will hear the story now, if you can tell it.” She knew, now, what Henry’s
story must be and why he had taken her from the convent.

Henry said, “When I arrived in France Philip had already been there some time. I do not have a great estate or many lands and had no men with me. My lord had paid his way out of sending men and thought me a fool for not doing the same. So I was looking for men to fight with. I found Philip on my second day, or rather he found Solomon. He wanted to buy him, but I would not sell, for all he offered a price that would allow me to buy a good horse and have money to spare. We got drunk together while we argued about whether or not I would sell. I passed out before I would give in and he took me back to his tent. We were always together after that. He said he kept me near, because the moment I was killed in battle he would take Solomon. I stayed with him because he was a good soldier.”

Henry paused,
because he did not want to lie to Eleanor. There were things he had decided he would not tell her, but this should not be one of them. “I was also fascinated by him. He dressed like a peacock, but could converse with the lowliest soldier as if he were that soldier’s brother. He fought like a man who lived only to kill, but I saw him cry when we came across the bodies of some children in an abandoned house. He sat his horse worse than any man I ever saw, but on his own legs he moved with such grace that I could never grow weary of watching him.

We grew close as we went out to fight the French together. He saved my life and I saved his
and he saved mine again. We got drunk together. I told him about my family and he told me about you.” This was one of the things he would not tell her. She would never know from him in what little regard her brother had held her. “She’s only a woman,” he’d said. “What use are they?” Henry had replied that they were quite useful for getting heirs. “An heir! I tried that once. My wife screamed while we were getting him and again when they both died as she bore him. No, women are nothing.” Henry had not agreed, but had already decided that he would only argue with Philip where he must.

“He told me that you had
entered the convent and were to take your vows.” Henry had spent most of the voyage home trying to remember one compliment that Philip had paid his sister. “He said you would make a good nun.”

Eleanor smiled weakly. “I knew Philip. I do not grieve
because he was a good brother, because he was not. I grieve because I am now alone.” Henry was not shocked or surprised; Eleanor was a woman of sense, who must surely have known Philip’s character as well as he did. Still Henry knew that he could not tell her the whole truth. However well she thought she knew Philip, there were things that she could not and must not know.

“You’re not alone, Eleanor, not while I live.”

“You are very kind, Henry, but you have already told me that you will leave me here alone.” It was an accusation and Henry felt it keenly. Her brother had abandoned her to the convent and had died without taking thought for her future and now he was going to have to abandon her to people who were even more strangers to her than he was. She was right to be angry.

“I cannot take you with me, you understand that.” Henry stopped, not sure that a woman who had spent most of her
life in a convent would understand why she could not come with him. She was far too trusting; it had been easy enough to convince her that he had meant her no harm when he had kidnapped her and she had allowed him liberties that no man save a husband should be allowed. It was true indeed that he had meant her no harm, but he suspected that he could have seduced her had he so wished and that Edward could have seduced her had he had the opportunity. He shook his head to clear it, remembering the story that he was telling. “Soldiers become close,” he continued, not wanting to discuss his improprieties and why she must remain with his father. “And we were very close. We looked out for one another and one night I asked him to come and tell my family if I was killed. He promised that he would.” Philip had become very emotional at the thought of Henry’s death and had told him not to think about dying, for how could he, Philip, carry on without him. Henry had long known the depth of Philip’s feelings for him and had guessed their nature. He had held Philip for a long time, that night, telling him that he had no intention of dying, but that men died in wars and he wanted to know that his parents would hear of his death from a friend. “Am I just a friend?” Philip had asked through his tears. “No, you are more than a friend.” It had cost Henry a great deal to admit this, but it was not in his nature to lie, even when it would have made things easier for him.

“The next night he told me about the treasure that your grandfather found. Saxon gold. He told me where
it was and gave me the token that you will need to obtain it.” He pulled out a chain from under his tunic and over his head and held it up. From the chain hung a plain gold ring.

“This is why the men came to the convent.
They thought Philip had left the token with me.” Eleanor reached out to touch the ring, but did not take it. Henry thought that she blamed it for her unexpected and unwanted departure from the convent.

Henry
nodded. Philip should have left the ring with her. Eleanor was not his heir, but he should have left the token with her so that she could decide whether or not to give it to his heir. Instead he had taken it with him to France and then had given it to Henry. Eleanor could never know that Philip had not intended her to have it. Philip had loved Henry, but Henry could not take the treasure from Eleanor. Philip had explained that the gold was not part of the birthright; it belonged outright to whoever the current owner wished to give it. His instructions about taking the ring to a church in Exeter and using it to demonstrate his right to the gold had been explicit. He was glad now, however, that Philip had not left the ring with her, because he would have had no reason to go to the convent and Eleanor might have been hurt or worse.

He gave the ring to Eleanor, who
took it and examined it closely.

“You know how to use the ring and where to go?”

Eleanor nodded.

“
But I have no use for that gold.” She tried to give it back to him, but he shook his head.

“Then give it to
the convent, or as alms to people who need it, or invest a school. Philip told me there is a lot of gold. You can do a lot of good.” Henry had no idea how much gold there was, but he had assumed there was a lot and Eleanor’s reaction confirmed it.

Eleanor
took the ring and turned it round in her fingers. Then she slipped the chain over her head and guided the ring under her clothes. Adjusting her clothing so that it could not be seen, she looked into Henry’s eyes.

“Tell me how he died.”

Henry looked away from her for a moment. He had decided what he would leave out of his story, but how could he bear to tell all the rest?

“Please,” said Eleanor and he turned back to her. Now i
t was her turn to take his hand. He looked down at it for a moment. Her hand was too small to hold his, but it was comfortable. He sensed that he could find absolution here if he wanted it. He didn’t deserve it and Eleanor might not offer it if she knew what had really happened. He continued with his story, not daring to take the risk.

“There
was a big battle. I tried to stay near him, but he fought like a man possessed and I could not keep close. When it was over I looked for him. After I had looked among the living I went out to see if he was with the fallen.”

This
had been worse than the battle. Men, badly injured, were screaming and crying out for help, but he had ignored them, desperate to find Philip.  The living were picking over the corpses of the dead and when he had found Philip his body was being robbed.

“I chased the man away and
knelt beside Philip. His body was still warm.” His beautiful face had looked just as it had when he had slept, but Henry was under no illusion that it had been a peaceful death. Philip lay on a patch of ground made mud by his own blood.

“It was only when I picked him up to take him away that I
realised he had been stabbed in the back. I wondered then if he had been killed by the man I had seen.” He sensed Eleanor’s shock.  “It is not unknown for men to kill those who are badly injured so that they can steal their belongings more easily.  I wasn’t sure that day, but when I saw the same man at your convent, I knew that he had killed Philip.”

“For
this.” Eleanor touched the place between her breasts where the ring lay.

“I can think of no other
reason. Someone else must have known the tale of the Saxon treasure.”

“You buried him.” Eleanor did not question.

“Yes and had a priest say a mass for his soul. You need not worry about that. When I return home I shall ask the priest to say a mass once a week for him.”

Eleanor nodded. “So, you came to the convent to tell me of Philip’s
death and to give me the token. And now you have brought me here and you will leave me here.”

“You will be safe here, Eleanor. The gate is
barred at night, there are always people about and arms are always near.  There is no gate at my house and few men to protect you.”

“I understand.”

Henry knew she did not, but there was no more to be said; he could not take her with him. She would not be safe in his house. He stood. He was exhausted and longed for his bed.

“You said you would stay for a while.”

He had not expected that Eleanor would want his company after he had told her how he had let Philip die alone.

“I said I would stay if you wanted me to.”

“I do want you to stay.”

He sat again.

“It wasn’t your fault,
” her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it.

“What wasn’t?”

“That he died.”

Henry knew that it was his
fault. If they hadn’t quarrelled they would have gone into the battle together and they would have stayed together and he could have protected Philip.

“We were comrades, brothers-in-arms. I should have been with him.”

“His loss grieves you deeply, doesn’t it?”

And then Henry knew that she had not asked him to stay for her own sake.

“Yes.”

She opened her arms for him and he laid his head on her shoulder, knowing that she would not condemn him for this weakness.

Neither of them said anything. Eleanor stroked his back gently and he put his arm around her. He knew that what he had done was unforgivable, but Eleanor’s comfort was freely given, so he took it.

William managed to talk Henry into going to bed in the afternoon and they did not expect to see him until the next day. Eleanor felt badly that he had suffered so much since he had taken her from the convent and now he could not even enjoy his homecoming, for it was obvious that his mother had made extensive preparations for this day. He had been away so long and deserved to have this celebration, although she missed him more than she had expected and felt awkward around William and Philippa and Henry’s parents.

William and Philippa
did their best to make her welcome. They asked no questions, for Henry had already told them what was necessary. Philippa showed her the important rooms of the house and told her the routine of the family. Then they sat in the hall. Philippa spun wool and Eleanor had the unwanted luxury of doing nothing. She would rather be busy, but Philippa seemed to think that she needed to rest. Eleanor was certain that Henry had not told them the whole story, but he must have told them that the last few days had been exhausting for her as well as for him. The longer they sat the more she began to believe that Philippa might have been right; she did need to rest. They talked, so that Eleanor might learn the ways of the house, but, for today, nothing more was expected of her than that she should sit and recover from her journey. Doing nothing did not come easily, but Eleanor soon found that she was really very tired. Exhaustion from the tensions and exertions of the last few days swept over her and she found her head nodding. Despite all her efforts, she gradually fell asleep and did not wake again until the servants started getting the hall ready for the evening meal. She smiled sheepishly at Philippa, who leaned across and squeezed her hand “Henry said you would be tired and that, if you slept, I should leave you to it. I did not believe him, but it seems the last few days have taken a great toll on both of you.”

“I did not realise how tired I was, I’m sorry.”

“No. I’m the one who should apologise. I should have sent you to your bed until we were ready to eat.”

William joined them just before the evening meal and
helped his wife to move her wheel and the wool out of the way. The meal that evening was as much a feast as the meal Edward had served the night before, although it lacked both blackbird and venison. Eleanor was sad that Henry was not there to enjoy it, but William was insistent that he needed to be allowed to sleep and she, at least, was quick to agree with him.

Eleanor sat between
Philippa and Edward. At first she felt uncomfortable, but Edward was charming and frequently smiled his disarming smile, despite his bruised face. He was quiet and did not join in the conversation much, but he treated Eleanor as an honoured guest and neither said nor did anything out of place. He did not seem like the same man who had quarrelled with his brother that very morning.