Nothing Else Matters (2 page)

Lord Roger shrugged his broad shoulders. “Whatever it is, it is in Latin. We have the one book. My late wife brought it with her from Denmark.”

“Your—late wife?” Edythe questioned. Her blue eyes shone with sudden sympathy. And sudden interest in their distinguished-looking guest, Eleanor

noticed. Not without amusement. She and her sister shared a quizzical look.

Lord Roger lowered his gaze for a moment. “For nine long years, I’m afraid.” He smiled up through long lashes at them. “And northern nights can be cold, dear ladies.”

Eleanor doubted anyone with such a rascal y glint to his eye ever went to bed without a warming companion, but she was charmed by his statement just

the same.

She had to admit her interest in Lord Roger was stirred by the knowledge he was not presently wed. It was merely nostalgia, she thought. Queen

Eleanor’s lively court had been the center of the continental marriage market. Every parent who could manage it had sent their lads and maidens to

Poitiers to add the gloss of chivalry and sophistication to their prospects. Talk of marriage and romance had been on every tongue, assessing looks had always been in everyone’s eyes. Even now that she was in England, Eleanor couldn’t help but react to the knowledge that she was in the presence of a

single man. Her urge was to find the man a wife.

“No wife,” Edythe said before Eleanor could. “We must see to finding an heiress for you.”

“It’s the least we can do for a guest,” Eleanor agreed.

Lord Roger laughed. He had a deep, hearty laugh. “And a wife for Stian while you’re at it,” he said. “It’s high time the lad was wed. Have I told you about Harelby?” he went on. “Such a lovely place in the spring. I can hardly wait to get home.”

The rest of the meal was spent listening to descriptions of the Cheviot Hil s, of the fishing in streams he cal ed burns and the sight of flowers blooming along a ruined wal said to have been built by the Romans. Lord Roger also recounted tales of his and his son’s encounters with their wily Scottish

neighbors. The man was a fine storytel er, almost as gifted as a troubadour. By the end of dinner, Eleanor was enthral ed. When he asked her to play the lute for him, she was entranced.

* * * * *

Edythe’s question caused Eleanor a moment’s pause as she brushed her sister’s thick blonde hair. They were in the chamber their father grudgingly gave over to the gentlewomen of his household. They had retired early, at their father’s command, while most of their roommates remained among the menfolk

in the hal .

“I think he’s…interesting,” Eleanor answered, glad they were not completely surrounded by the other women. Her hand stil ed again.

“So do I.” Edythe looked at her reflection in their silver hand mirror. “I had no idea England would have interesting men.”

“He’s interesting for an Englishman,” Eleanor clarified. She had no intention of letting her loyalties get confused. “He can’t be compared favorably with the men of Aquitaine or Poitou.”

“Or even France,” Edythe hastened to agree. “But tel me, little sister, what do you know about him?”

“He’s better spoken than I thought an Englishman would be.”

“High praise from you.” Eleanor could see merriment in the blue eyes she saw reflected in the polished silver of the mirror. “Have you found someone you might want to aspire to your affections at last?” Edythe questioned teasingly.

Eleanor laughed. It disturbed her that the sound lacked conviction. She doubted Lord Roger of Harelby had taken notice of her as a woman. “He is merely pleasant to talk to.”

“Yes,” Edythe agreed. “Very. He seemed to enjoy our playing as wel . Pity Father came into the hal and made us stop.”

Eleanor sighed. “Yes.” She began to braid Edythe’s waist-long hair.

“I wonder why Lord Roger wanted to talk with Father? As drunk as Father is, Lord Roger can’t hope to get any sense out of him.”

“Perhaps he was just tired of female conversation,” Eleanor suggested.

“Perhaps. I’ve noticed very few English knights enjoy conversation with ladies. Why is Lord Roger here?”

Edythe never paid attention to anything going on outside the ladies’ bower. When she wanted news, she relied on Eleanor’s curiosity to ferret out anything she might want to know. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile at Edythe’s certainty that she would know about Lord Roger. Edythe was certain because, of

course, she was right.

Eleanor took a seat on the bench while Edythe got up and began to brush her hair for her. Eleanor careful y put the mirror facedown on the seat beside her. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the feel of the brush sliding through her hair.

“Wel ?” Edythe asked.

“Ah,” Eleanor said contentedly. She yawned. “Al I know is that he’s a Marcher lord on the Scottish border.”

“So he said. Where is that?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Eleanor admitted. “Far north of here, I gather.”

“It must be very cold despite his tales of flowers. Northern places are cold, I’m told. He said the nights are cold, I recal .”

Eleanor, used to the sun-warmed castles of Aquitaine and Poitou, shivered. “Colder than Sussex? I doubt it. I wish Father hadn’t brought us to England.”

Eleanor opened her eyes and concentrated on the flame from the hour candle on the table in front of her. She pretended the tiny flame was the southern sun.

“England is cold and damp and disagreeable,” Edythe agreed. “But why is Lord Roger visiting Father?”

“He’s on
balade
to inspect his southern holdings.”

“Is he rich then?”

“Oh yes. And something of a hero as wel .” Edythe’s hand paused briefly then she began to brush Eleanor’s hair again as Eleanor explained, “Apparently there was a war with the Scots recently and their king was captured.”

“Lord Roger of Harelby captured a king?” Edythe sounded ready to be impressed.

“He was involved in the capture,” Eleanor clarified. “The ransom wil go to the king, I’m sure.”

“I see. What a fascinating man,” Edythe replied.

Eleanor thought Lord Roger fascinating too. Before she could say so, there was a knock on the door. Their waiting woman answered it. A moment later

she hastened over to them.

“Lady Edythe,” she said. “Your father wil see you in his chamber. Immediately, his man said.”

Eleanor exchanged a puzzled glance with her sister. Edythe said, “I better hurry.”

Edythe left and Eleanor waited, worried and nervous while the other household women trickled in from the hal to prepare for bed. What was the matter?

Had word come from Mother? Was she unwel ? Was the queen? It must be grave news indeed for Hugo FitzWalter to bother informing his daughters at

al . It must be the gravest possible news for him to send for Edythe straight away instead of letting it wait for morning.

She’d worked herself into a state of barely control ed terror by the time Edythe came running back into their chamber.

“What?” Eleanor questioned.

Edythe grabbed her hands. Eleanor marked the wide smile on her sister’s face as she was whirled around the room. Rushes flew beneath their feet and

the shadows whirled past. They tripped over the pal ets of the other gentlewomen while the women themselves crowded around to hear the news.

“Oh my dear,” Edythe declared happily when she’d spun Eleanor one last time.

“Jesu, where am I?”

A ripe aroma of pig permeated Stian’s nostrils. He woke up with a fierce headache and a fiercer need to urinate. As his senses returned, he became

vaguely aware that he must be in Hulda the swineherd’s hut. Hubert came into the hut. Stian looked at his thin, curly-haired friend in dazed annoyance.

“Wha—?”

Behind him, Hulda groaned and Lars snored on in her arms. Stian had a horrible suspicion that there was no ale left in the jug they’d brought with them last night. And Hubert had a look on his face that said he wanted something. If the Scots were attacking, they better have strong drink with them because Stian wasn’t going to have anything to do with anyone who couldn’t hand him a ful winecup.

“Dame Beatrice says for you to come to the hal ,” Hubert said.

Hal . There’d be wine at the hal . Stian snorted and looked around for his clothes. Hulda scrambled across her dark, cramped hut and gathered up his

bracceas and tunic for him while Lars’ bare pale ass shown like a ful moon in the middle of the room. Stian vaguely remembered losing his boots in a

dice game, though he couldn’t recal to whom or when.

If he asked Hubert, he’d tel him how long he’d been drunk, but he didn’t want to know. He wanted the headache to go away or to get drunk again,

whichever came first. He began to dress, fingers clumsy, feeling as thick as his tongue. It seemed too complicated a task to pul the tunic on over his head. He threw it on the dirt floor.

“Dame Beatrice says—” Hubert tried again.

“Hal . Going.” Hulda handed him his belt. He strapped it on as he fol owed Hubert out of the swineherd’s hut.

Sunlight hit him in his eyes with screaming force. Hubert gave him a push and he stumbled his way from the vil age, moving slowly up the rising ground toward the hal . He noted an increase in activity in the inner bailey as he walked through, but only because he’d been trained to notice anything that might affect the security of the castle whether he was drunk, sober or in-between. Right now he was at that in-between state, sober enough for his head to hurt, stil drunk enough to be moody and reckless.

Dame Beatrice was standing on the wooden steps leading up to the castle’s entrance. The shortsighted woman squinted at him as he came up to her.

She shook her head and tucked her hands in her wide sleeves. She frowned at Hubert.

“You might have mentioned to him that his father is home.”

“I was lucky to find him.” Hubert ducked his head under her glare. “I’l be in the chapel.”

Hubert hurried away as Dame Beatrice shook her head at Stian. “You’l have to do as is. Come along.”

Dame Beatrice stil treated him like a stripling youth—which sometimes had its advantages. Stian was in no mood for being treated like a child right now.

His footsteps dragged into the hal after the woman. At the entrance, he ducked his head into the water basin set into the wal . He came up feeling more clear-headed and shook himself like a dog. He pul ed wet hair out of his face and stepped through the screen doorway into his father’s fine, wide hal .

He didn’t see his father at first as he looked toward the dais at the rear of the room. It was the golden-haired, wil ow-slender girl dressed in pale blue who immediately caught his attention. And took his breath away.

Stian stopped in his tracks, bare feet buried in thick rush matting. His mouth hung slightly ajar, his headache and thirst were forgotten. He thought,
I’ll have
her
, as lust lanced through him. It settled as a driving ache in his groin.

As he took a step toward the dais, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He turned at once, right hand automatical y closing around his sword hilt. He

relaxed instantly as he saw his father’s smiling face. Stian gave his father a hurried embrace and a kiss of welcome.

“Who’s the—?”

“Rejoice, lad,” his father cut him off. He gestured toward the girl standing by the high table. “I’ve brought you home a wife.”

Stian needed to hear no more. He sprang onto the dais. Taking the golden vision into his arms he gave her a lusty kiss. When he’d grown heated from the taste of her he remembered courtesy enough to hold her out at arm’s length and say, “What do I cal you, maiden?”

His eyes were fixed on the wide blue ones of the gold vision but his sharp ears caught the rustle of cloth. An unfamiliar, acerbic voice spoke up beside him. “You cal her ‘mother’.”

He looked away from the blonde beauty’s flushed face and found himself looking into the disapproving dark eyes of a girl he hadn’t noticed before. She was a little thing, brown-skinned and black-eyed, dressed from veil to hem in pale gray.

“What’s this?” he questioned. “A talking mouse?”

His father came up and eased the golden vision away from him. Lord Roger’s arm went around the wil ow-woman’s shoulder. Possessively. Stian could

barely suppress a jealous snarl.

His father gestured toward the dark girl. “This is Eleanor FitzWalter,” he told Stian. “Your betrothed.” He pul ed the beauty closer and gave her a fond smile. Which she returned. Stian gaped at the pair. “This is Eleanor’s sister Edythe whom
I
have taken to wife.”

In the next few moments several facts permeated Stian’s fogged brain. The gold prize he ached to claim was already the possession of his father. He was betrothed to the mouse-sized leftover sister of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. People were laughing at him. The hal rang from floor to rafters with merriment at his mistake. The laughter was worse than the loss. His ever-quick temper flared at the sound.

Stian cast a quick glare at his father and the rare beauty he held. Then he turned the same look on the talking mouse girl. And smiling like a cat, he lunged.

* * * * *

“You certainly are!”

Stian bel owed, “The bitch bit me!” It was a wonder he could shout at al for the pain throbbing through his tongue. “And she clawed me!” He pointed to the scratch marks on his bare chest.

“You shouldn’t have grabbed her like that,” Roger bel owed back. “She’s gently reared. You frightened her.”

“Al I did was kiss her.”

“Half ravishing a maiden on the top of a table is more than a kiss.”

“I wasn’t ravishing her. I lost my balance when she kicked me. We tripped on to the table.”

His father struck him on the shoulder. Roger of Harelby had always had a hard hand, though he often added a loving word or two after a beating. Stian

had learned never to flinch and always to stand up for himself.

“You frightened the girl,” his father said, as though this Eleanor’s emotions mattered to him.