Lady of Fire (38 page)

"My lord bishop," Roger protested, "Count Gilbert has already demonstrated that he cannot protect his daughter adequately. If she must go, I ask that she go with Harlowe's escort."

Before Belesme could voice his opposition, William Rufus stood. "And if it please your excellencies, since the foremost consideration is the lady's safety, I stand ready to guarantee her safe passage to Normandy under England's escort. I am sure my brother Curthose can be persuaded to do the same."

It was final then. Eleanor sank back into her chair and absently fingered the amulet at her neck. Nothing more that anyone in the room said made any difference to her. She was going to Fontainebleau—back to the exile from which she'd escaped. She heard nothing and she felt nothing. It was not until Roger touched her shoulder gently to indicate the inquiry was over that she could focus on reality. And as she stood, her eyes met Belesme's across the room and read the triumph there.

"Lea, 'tis not too late! We can leave here now and be on the coast ere morning."

"Nay."

They were alone in the Tower chamber. Prince Henry had managed that at least and they had one last night together. All day she had listened to the advice and the frustration of those around her, and now it came down to a few hours left with Roger. To part from him seemed more than she could bear, but the consequences of defiance were too great to consider. Nay, she could only make the best of this one night and trust God's ultimate justice.

"Lea, look at me! I cannot let you go!"

"Please, Roger, do not tear at me like this! We both know 'tis hopeless to resist!" Her face crumpled hideously and she hurled herself into his arms. "Oh, Roger," she wailed against his shoulder, "let us not quarrel in these last few hours we have together. Do not make this more than I can bear."

"I have failed you, Lea. I have sworn to hold for you, and I have been unable to keep my oath to you." His voice was low and anguished. "Jesu, but I would not have had it come to this."

"Don't say that!" she cried fiercely. "Roger, you have given me everything you had. Aye—you've given me happiness—more than I expected in a lifetime in these last three months. Whatever happens, they cannot take that from me." She rubbed her cheek against the hardness of his chest and whispered fiercely, "When I am lonely, Roger, I can lie on my cot and remember what it was like to love and to be loved by you. Had we not dared, I would not have even that."

"The pope will rule for us—he has to!"

"Aye, and then I will live in peace with you for the rest of our lives."

"Lea, I cannot let you go! Too long I waited for you!"

"And I for you. Roger, you are my life."

"But what if Victor rules for Robert? What then? Nay, Lea, I will kill Robert or I will die trying."

"Hush, love—'twill not come to that," she promised. "I would take the veil gladly before I'd give myself to him."

"I don't know." He released her and moved restlessly away. "All my life," he mused hollowly, "I have fought and trusted in God, knowing that I could win what I would have because it was right. And I have seen Belesme's evil triumph in spite of everything."

"He has not won—not yet. Your father has listened to Prince Henry and to the king and he believes in them. I believe in them." She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her body against his back. "Roger," she whispered, "give me yet another memory to carry with me."

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"My dearest lord," she began, "my prayers are with you always." She paused to consider what to write. Shifting slightly on the bed, she pulled her covers more closely about her knees for warmth and realigned the writing board on her lap. Outside, the cold February wind blew fiercely and sleet rattled against Fontainebleau's tiled roof. She shivered from the dampness and the cold and stared briefly into the small, inadequate brazier where flames flickered valiantly against the draft from the unshuttered window above her. Ah, to be in his arms just now, sheltered and warmed by the heat of his body, while I tell him, she thought, and sighed. Flexing her fingers against the cold, she dipped her pen in the inkpot and continued writing.

May God in his grace keep you safe, my lord, and grant that we may soon be together again. You are never far from my thoughts.

The receipt of your last letter gladdened my heart, as did the trunk you sent. The woolen-and-vair cloak is much admired by all for its warmth as well as its beauty. Prince Henry's Christmas box is finally exhausted, but we drank of his wine and ate sweetmeats until Mother Mathilde chastised us for gluttony. I noted that she partook of it also.

I fear my letters are of little comfort to you, my husband, for there is naught to write of here. One day is very like another save for whether it rains, snows, or is clear. Every day is cold and we do not go out more than necessary, for the wind chills the courtyard between our lodgings and the kitchens and chapel.

I am treated well by all, but I am not content, for I would have you with me above all things.

She hesitated, rereading what she had written. It was a poor effort at best, and nothing like the long, passionate letters he sent her. But she would not distress him with what he could not help. A slow smile spread over her face as she dipped the quill into the ink again and pictured him reading her next news.

Yet, though I am parted from you now, I am comforted by the knowledge that I am to bear your heir. I did not tell you sooner because it was early days and I feared it could not be. Now I am sure and I pray God grants us a son of our bodies to bless our union. I judge the babe will be born in August, most probably mid-month. May the Blessed Virgin intercede that I am delivered at Harlowe with Glynis to aid me.

God keep you and your parents until we are met again. I remain your faithful and loving wife.

Satisfied, she reluctantly stirred from her bed to place a chunk of wax in the melting cup and hold it over the fire. It liquefied and sputtered. She folded Roger's letter and poured a small amount of wax over the edge, taking care that it did not run and ruin the parchment. The small puddle opaqued and hardened to where she could scratch her initials into it. A glance at the window told her none would ride out this day, but she would be ready when the weather cleared.

Once her writing was done, she could make do without the extra light from the window. Pulling a stool over, she climbed up to shutter the opening and then closed a heavy tapestry over it. This time her lot was better at the abbey, she reflected, for she had a chamber fitted with fine hangings, a feather bed, and furniture sent by the earl, and she was allowed the company and service of a page, a maid, and a manservant. The latter she kept busy on the roads between Fontainebleau and Harlowe.

"Alan!" She called to her page and waited for the boy to come running from a nearby alcove. He appeared, his face ruddy from the cold, and bobbed her his hasty obeisance.

"My lady?"

"I would have Thomas prepare to ride as soon as is possible," he told him. "Send him to me."

"Aye." The boy could not resist a grin at the thought of the messenger's chagrin when he heard he was to ride out yet again. Even the nuns laughed at the frequency of his trips.

"You can tell him he is not to leave until the sleet stops and 'tis safe," she added.

The page scampered off to do her bidding with the enthusiasm of one too long forced to endure being cooped up. It seemed to her that he ran when he could walk, just to have something to do. Eleanor pulled a low table and two stools closer to the fire, and then rummaged in her chest for the chessboard. Poor Thomas was not much of a player, but he would have to do until she saw Roger again.

The weather cleared briefly—long enough for Eleanor's messenger to ride out—and then a new storm rolled in, bringing with it bitter cold and high winds. It was a time for staying indoors and close beside fires. At the abbey, the nuns went about their business heavily bundled in warm robes and cloaks, their bodies swathed in somber-colored wool until they looked like a group of fat women no matter what their actual size. For Eleanor, it was a restive time, for she was neither expected to participate in the strict religious observances of the sisters nor to do any of the day-today work. Instead, she kept to her chamber in the company of her eight-year-old page and her sweet-tempered but somewhat slow-witted maid. Days—weeks even—were spent within the close confines with little to do but fret and pray for deliverance.

Outside, the wind howled anew. Eleanor moved restlessly about her small chamber, drinking mulled wine that Trude heated with the brazier's poker and regretting Thomas' absence. God willing, he would have a safe trip. She glanced longingly at her chessboard and sighed. Poor Trude could not seem to learn even the basic moves necessary to make the game progress. Behind her, the maid placidly folded her clothing and put her things away in the tall cupboard that served as storage for nearly everything. Sometimes the girl's quiet acceptance of her lot irritated the restive Eleanor, and this day was worse than usual. "Jesu," Eleanor snapped finally, "can you not cease the racket you make with the cupboard—and can you not sit still?" Her voice sounded shrewish even to her own ears and she instantly regretted her lapse of temper. "I'm sorry, Trude—I did not mean to screech at you—'tis not your fault we are prisoners here."

"Nay, my lady—I do not mind it." The girl closed the cupboard doors quietly and moved to stir the fire before laying another small log on the brazier. "I like it here," she said simply.

Eleanor stared in disbelief at the blond-headed maid. In her seven years of residence at the abbey, she had never considered anything but escaping, and here the gentle Trude liked the place. "You
what
?" she managed finally.

"I like it." The girl inclined her head as though contemplating a new idea. "Aye, I'd like to stay." She caught her mistress' incredulous stare and nodded. " 'Tis so peaceful here. If I were daughter to a noble house, I'd want to be dowered here. But," she added regretfully, "they'd not take me with nothing, do you think?"

"Trude, are you saying you want to become a nun?" Eleanor nearly choked on the words. "You do not know what you say. Aye, look at me—seven long years I spent here whilst they badgered me to take my vows—seven long years it was that I yearned to be free to live."

"But for you it was different," Trude answered slowly, "for you knew and loved Lord Roger. With me, 'tis different." She turned her pale blue eyes to Eleanor, her grace far more eloquent than her simple words. "I am baseborn, you see, and I have no one to care for me, my lady. If I am pretty, I will be passed from one lord's bed to another for their pleasure and then left to bear the bastards I conceive alone. The best I can hope is that none find me comely so that I am given in wedlock to some dirty serf to labor in his fields until I die."

"Nay," Eleanor protested, " 'tis not so. You are a lady's maid, Trude."

"Am I?" the girl asked pointedly. "I have not your wits, Lady Eleanor, and I know it. Were we at Harlowe, could you not do better than me? Aye—had I not asked to come with you, would you have taken me?"

"Nay." Eleanor had to own the truth of the maid's words. Too often, she found the girl's limited abilities frustrating and wished for a replacement. Aye, even a moment before, she'd wished for one who could provide her with the diversion of a game of chess. "Trude, are you certain of what you say?" she asked quietly. "Do you truly wish for this life? You have not seen the labor nor experienced the long isolation of what you would choose. When the weather warms, you will work in the gardens and till the fields with naught but poor clothes and meager food for pay."

"For the love of God, I could bear it," the girl answered.

"Jesu!" Eleanor breathed. "You are sure? You would not long for the beauty of England and a fling around the maypole?"

"Nay. Had I the choice, my lady, I would be bride to Christ."

Eleanor looked at the simple village girl as though seeing her for the first time. She was kindhearted and not totally simpleminded, and she had a certain sweetness of disposition that was pleasing to those around her. But most of the nuns at Fontainebleau were of the nobility, girls who had been given by their families to express faith, gratitude, or hope to God. Yet Mother Mathilde seemed to tolerate the quiet Trude, allowing her to take her meals at the communal table.

"You would truly do this? You are not simply wishing to escape what you think will be your fate if you do not?" In justice, Eleanor realized there were those who felt called to the vocation, and she acknowledged the service they performed. "Tell me the truth, Trude."

"I would."

" 'Tis not impossible, you know. I could write to Lord Roger and ask that he endow you with enough that Mother Mathilde would accept you."

"Would you?" The girl's eagerness was almost pathetic. "I should pray for you both every day of my life," she promised.

"Aye. In truth, I would," Eleanor allowed, "if I thought you were serious in your wish for the vocation. 'Tis fair enough, I suppose, to trade you for me. Reverend Mother spent long hours and many words on me and could not win me. With you, she already has a willing novice." Before she'd gotten the words out, the simple girl was on her knees at Eleanor's feet, kissing the hem of her robe. Embarrassed, Eleanor gave her an impatient tug. "Do not be thanking me, Trude, until you've spent your seven years here," she told her firmly.

Noises came from the courtyard, drawing their attention. By the sound of it, riders were coming in. Each girl stared at the other, surprised that any would venture out in such weather. Eleanor was the first to recover. Hurrying to pull a stool to the high window, she drew aside the tapestry and opened the shutters to peer outside. Three men dismounted, led their horses to a sheltered place, and hastened to bang on the abbess' door. She could see Mathilde crack her door against the wind and then the men disappeared inside. "Sweet Mary, but I'll warrant they were nearly frozen to their saddles," she muttered as she reshuttered the window. "What can they possibly be doing out in weather like this?"

"Mayhap they are travelers who have lost their way," Trude suggested.

"Aye, but who would travel in this cold?"

Responding to an urgent summons to Mathilde's apartment, Eleanor pulled her cloak close about her body and crossed the yard. The wind whipped the wool about her legs and cut through her clothing like a knife. Her fingers and face were numb by the time she reached for the door, and she did not wait to knock before wrenching it open. Inside, Mathilde and a stranger sat with their chairs pulled to the fire. Both turned around at the blast of cold air that preceded Eleanor into the room. The gentleman rose, bowing slightly to acknowledge her presence. Her eyebrow rose a fraction at the sight of his rich clothing—this then was no ordinary traveler seeking refuge from a winter's storm. She unclasped her cloak with stiff fingers and laid it aside before sweeping him a return curtsy.

"Art the Lady Eleanor?"

"I am."

Strong fingers reached to grasp hers and raise her. "You are as my prince told me," he murmured, "but even more so."

She stared up into the stranger's face. "I am afraid, sir, that you have the advantage of me, for I know you not."

"Stephen of Exeter." He smiled. "I serve Prince Henry and am but arrived from Rome, where I represented you before His Holiness."

Her mouth went dry and her heart thudded uncomfortably. The room seemed to spin for a few seconds and then right itself. "Sweet Mary!" she breathed. When he did not say anything more, she turned away and half-whispered, "Surely you did not ride all this way in the cold to look on me in my misery, sir. Pray tell me—is it decided?"

"A look would be worth the ride, Lady Eleanor," he answered, "but I come because my lord would have you the first to know of His Holiness' decision." He reached to touch her sleeve gently, his face still smiling. "Four days ago, I was summoned into Victor Ill's presence and told there was no question in his mind as to the validity of your marriage to Lord Roger—that if you gave any pledge at all to Robert of Belesme, it was forced from you and therefore not binding."

"Jesu!" She could not manage anything more.

"Aye—'tis over and you have won."

"We have won," she repeated foolishly as she clutched at him for support. "Mother of God! We have won!" She raised her eyes to meet his. Tears sprang up and welled uncontrollably. "We thank you, sir," she managed, "and we thank Prince Henry."

"Aye—he loves you well, lady, and has made your cause his own." Stephen watched her try to digest his news. Henry had said she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and for once he had not spoken from a moment of passion. Lady Eleanor, her face diffused with the joy he had brought her, was one no man could easily forget. 'Twas little wonder Belesme had gone to such lengths to possess her. Aloud he spoke gently, "Come warm yourself by the fire and I will tell you all."

"Nay, sir—'tis you who must be cold from such a ride. I am well with the tidings you have brought."

"I will thaw in time, but I own it
was
cold. I did not expect the storm when I left Rome, and Prince Henry would have it the utmost importance that you hear even before 'tis made known. As soon as the weather clears, I am for England to tell him also."

" 'Tis true then?" Mathilde spoke from behind them. "She belongs to Lord Roger?"