Nothing Else Matters (14 page)

at her at al . She did nothing to disturb his meal. Not even when young Bertran’s mother huddled close with him in privy conversation. Though why she had an urge to dump a pot of ale over the man’s head when that happened she did not know.

She ate little but drank several toasts with the lads in both wine and ale. She grew tipsy, she knew, and that was not wise. She recognized that several of the older squires were bent on trying to seduce her. And though she was more amused than offended, she knew how unwise it was to offer them any

encouragement. She could not linger long at the table, especial y not when the drink began to warm her and loosen her tongue. So, before the last of the meal was cleared away, she excused herself and went back to her room.

Stian watched Eleanor go, her hips swaying beneath her deep blue gown as she walked slowly up the stairs. He watched and knew he was being

watched in turn by al his ribald, teasing cousins. To fol ow her immediately as his body urged would bring too many jests from them tomorrow about his lusty, rutting night.

He supposed he shouldn’t mind. He was a bridegroom. He was expected to fol ow after his bride as if he were eagerly on her scent. He shouldn’t have

dreaded the jokes. He should learn how to laugh with them, at himself. But he couldn’t make himself run after a woman who had completely ignored his

presence. She was a courtier, she obviously cared nothing for him and his country ways. He would not give her the satisfaction of trailing after her like one of her
true
knights.

So he finished his meal then joined in a game of tables with Malcolm after the trestles were cleared away. He lingered for hours though he drank little, wanting a clear enough head to bed the woman properly and thoroughly when he decided to come to her. He was one of the last to leave the hal to the

guests who were bedding down for the night.

Sober he might have been, eager he might have been, but when he pul ed back the bed curtains, he found Eleanor sleeping soundly. When he tried to

rouse her she mumbled and turned over. So he shed his clothes and climbed in beside her. To sleep. The worst part was when she turned back over and

cuddled against him, al soft and warm.

No, the worst part was when she sighed contentedly and said, “Good night, Edythe.”

“Did you find my brooch?”

As if that was al she had to worry about! Eleanor shook her head as she hurried down the stairs past her sister.

By al the saints, where was Stian? Hadn’t the man even come to bed last night? She needed to talk to him and in private was best. But no, he’d probably drank and wenched the night away, for he certainly hadn’t been in the room when she woke. Worst of al , she’d woken up late. For al she knew, he’d slept peaceful y by her side then rose with the dawn and gone about his business.

“I should never drink more than a cup of wine,” she complained as she entered the hal .

She wondered if sleeping too soundly from almost drinking too much was a sin of some sort. Not that Father Hubert would probably know. Young Father

Hubert didn’t seem to know much about the Church at al . Stil , she found being near him was oddly comforting, for al his untutored ways.

“Where’s Sir Stian?” she asked the first servant she saw.

“At Mass,” he answered. He gestured around the jumble of bedding and crockery littering the near-empty hal . “With every one else,” he added.

Mass. Of course. Why wasn’t she at Mass? Why wasn’t Edythe? Why had her sister lain abed and let her when the care of their souls was at stake? In

Poitiers, they’d always been very faithful to attend morning service. It was when the best bits of gossip from the night before could be freshly garnered.

Eleanor wondered if her sister was too bored with the less interesting service offered in the chapel of Harelby to attend regularly. Or if she just intended to spend another day out of the sight of Lord Roger’s guests. It matters not what Edythe intends, she thought anxiously. She needed to speak with her

husband.

She had to push her way through a thick crowd to reach the front of the chapel but she found Stian there with his father, Dame Beatrice and a great horde of hairy male cousins. Most of the cousins were more red-eyed and disheveled than the day before, looking as if they’d gotten wel and roaringly drunk the night before. Stian looked positively civilized beside them. At least his surcote was clean and his cheeks looked fresh-shaved. She supposed she

couldn’t hope for much more in this wild place.

When she made her way to his side, at last he put his arm around her shoulder. The gesture seemed automatic as his eyes never left the altar. For some reason Eleanor found the embrace more comforting than restraining, despite the snickers and bold looks this received from the numerous cousins. He left her only to take communion.

She fol owed him, accepted the Host and returned to her place to kneel and pray. After she’d stood for the rest of the Mass, she tugged on his sleeve.

“What about Bertran?” she whispered when she had his attention.

“Bertran?” he whispered back. “What about the lad?”

“He’s on trial today.”

“I know that.”

“They say he could lose his hands.”

“That’s the law, yes.” Frowning, he drew her into the nearly unpopulated shadows near the baptismal font. “He shouldn’t have gotten caught,” he added

when they were alone.

“But he’l be crippled. For taking a deer? He’s a boy.”

“It was the king’s deer.”

“He says he didn’t do it.”

“The foresters found Bertran near the deer.”

“He says he found the carcass—”

“It had an arrow in its side and Bertran carried a bow.”

“But he didn’t necessarily kil the deer. If he came across some other poacher’s kil he—”

Stian took her by the shoulders. “We al kil the king’s deer. We’re al poachers in the king’s forest.”

Eleanor was not to be put off. “Does that mean you’l let one person pay for al your crimes? Is an occasional sacrifice for everyones’ crimes what the law demands? That deer could have been kil ed by anyone.”

He gave a frustrated glance back to the crowd mil ing around as the service finished. “I know.”

“He’s a good boy.”

“I know.”

“His mother’s only child.”

“I know.”

“I like him.” Stian looked at her in surprise and kept looking at her in a way that made her uncomfortable and disturbed. “Is ‘I know’ al you have to say?”

she questioned after the silence stretched out for a while.

“No. How come you to like Bertran?”

“Last night. When I ate with the squires,” she reminded him. “I talked to him. He’s fair spoken. Unlike most I’ve met at Harelby,” she added. “The others teased him but they al seemed worried about him as wel . Stian.” She reached up and tugged hard on the neck of his surcote. “You must do something.”

She hesitated then added earnestly, “For Nicolaa’s sake, if nothing else.”

The chapel was emptying. Stian looked around them while he tried to understand his wife’s sudden concern with those who were strangers to her. He

knew the shire court would be in session soon and Bertran’s case would be brought before the judges early. Of course he cared for Bertran, he’d known

the boy since he was born. Of course he was concerned about Nicolaa Brasey and the fate of her lands if her son was maimed or put to the horn. The

most either his father or him had been able to do for the boy so far was keep the sheriff from locking him away in a dark cel between the arrest and the trial.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” his wife answered. Her grip tightened on his clothes. “I know nothing of law,” she said, “but chopping off a child’s hands for a crime that no one witnessed has nothing to do with justice.”

“Aye. That’s truth.” He shook his head. He pried her hands loose and took them in his own. “Come, wife. Let’s see what this day wil bring for poor Bertran Brasey.”

She came with him reluctantly. “You’l want to be with Nicolaa,” she said when they were outside.

It looked as if it was going to be a bright day. The sun was wel up, the sky was clear and the breeze was more crisp than cold. There was green grass on the hil s beyond the castle wal s, crops were up and buds were starting to open on the trees. There were flowers in the sheltered places at the base of the wal .

“Spring at last,” he said, sniffing the air. “True spring. It’s too good a day for bloodshed,” he added as he led Eleanor across the bailey.

There was a group of women gathered by the entrance of the hal , Beatrice and Nicolaa among them. He dropped his wife’s hand and pointed to the

women. She gave him a worried, demanding look but went to join the group without any protest. He sighed in relief, thankful that she sometimes knew her proper place.

“Do something for Bertran,” he muttered as she watched her go. “Aye. I would if I could, but…but the lad says he’s not guilty.” Stian ran his thumb along his jaw then looked up at the sky and let out a hoot of laughter. “By St. Andrew, why didn’t someone think of it before!”

He gave Eleanor one more look then hurried off to find his father and the priest.

* * * * *

Eleanor registered her sister’s arrival and her question, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the man standing in the cleared space before where the judges sat. He stood tal and straight, wide shouldered and dressed for war. The sun glinted in his burnished copper hair and off the polished helm tucked in the crook of his arm. The crowd watched as wel , and for the moment they watched in hushed silence.

Stian stood alone, surrounded on al sides, by the judges in front, the rows of jurymen to both sides and the onlookers crowded together behind him. He felt every pair of eyes, friend and foe and stranger alike. The concentrated regard very nearly crushed him. Stil , the thing needed to be done and he was the best person to do it. He could bear the attention for a little while. Soon the matter would be settled in a familiar, one-on-one way he could deal with.

He looked at the men presiding over the shire court. His father, alert, unsmiling, looked at him with interest and a hint of encouragement in his dark eyes.

Michael, the kind old abbot of St. Randolf’s who had been a frequent visitor to Harelby in the days before Stian’s mother died waited impassively for him to speak. Michael had also been his first teacher. He had a pair of monks with him for the court, scribes seated at tables to write down the charges and judgments of the trials. There was also Sir Edwin Stoks, the sheriff whose foresters brought the charge against young Bertran. Sir Edwin looked irritated.

“Wel ?” he demanded as the crowd began to murmur questioningly. “Why have you approached this court dressed for battle, Sir Stian?”

“I’ve come to do battle,” Stian answered, surprising himself when the words came easily. He pointed to the boy who stood nearby, his mother on one side of him, Hubert on the other. “Bertran Brasey claims his innocence. He has sworn his innocence before the altar to Father Hubert. I claim his innocence.”

He turned around, raking a fierce look across al the men present as he spoke, loudly and slowly. “I chal enge any man who thinks Bertran Brasey guilty of taking one of the king’s deer to trial by combat.”

Watching her husband Eleanor found herself wondering if Michael, the angel of battles, had ever looked so splendid as Stian did proclaiming the justice of Bertran’s cause. It was a ridiculous notion of course, for archangels were creatures of light in armor of gold.

Stian wore no wings of dazzling white, in fact the quilted col ar of the padded cote peaking above his chain mail was sweat-stained. There was a tear in the chain mail, a ragged circle of rings missing where the heavy metal armor rested on his right thigh. It was a wonder that she noticed such smal details.

She even noticed that the sunlight was burning the tip of his nose a bright pink.

Wel , he might not be as beautiful as an archangel but Eleanor thought him surely as brave as one. Who could doubt the right of Bertran’s claim of

innocence when such a brave warrior championed him?

Her answer came in a moment as a harsh, mocking laugh rang above the murmurs of the crowd. The reddest tressed of the bright-haired cousins

stepped before the judges. She remembered him from yesterday, David Kerr of Ayrfel .

“I’l accept the chal enge,” he announced loudly. “For the English king’s honor,” he added with a sneer.

“For the joy rousing trouble, you mean,” Lord Roger answered.

Ayrfel laughed again. He turned to Stian. “What matter why I fight? It’s the fighting that matters.”

“It is who wins that matters in this instance,” the abbot pointed out sternly. “This fight is for justice, not pleasure.”

“If the combat is al owed at al ,” the sheriff put in. “A trial by combat is a grave matter.” He looked from one man to the other.

“I claim Bertran’s innocence,” said Stian.

“I claim his guilt,” Ayrfel said with equal stubbornness.

“And you are wil ing to do combat to prove your claims?” Roger asked. Both men glared at each other then nodded. Roger turned to the sheriff. “Let them do it.” He gave Stian a fierce smile. “I’ve no doubt the boy wil be proved innocent myself.” Stian returned his father’s smile.

“God wil decide,” the abbot said. He nodded gravely. “Yes. Let them do combat.”

The sheriff sighed. His reluctance was obvious but he gave way to the other judges’ wishes. “Very wel .” He stood. “I’l act as marshal.” He looked at the antagonists. “One weapon each. First blood to decide.”

Stian saw the disappointment on his cousin’s always scowling face. He supposed it was a pity that they wouldn’t be al owed to kil each other today but saving Bertran was more important to him than kil ing David of Ayrfel . “Very wel ,” he agreed. “First blood.”

“Coward,” David muttered, but gave a terse nod when the sheriff looked at him for his assent.

“Let the lists be cleared,” the sheriff cal ed out. The space before the judges widened quickly as the spectators moved back.