Nothing Else Matters (32 page)

gone. He brought a letter for you. Al the way from Salisbury.”

It seemed to Eleanor that too much was happening al at once. “The bower?” she said. “Salisbury?” She blinked. “Did you say Salisbury? From my

mother? Where is this letter?”

“In the bower,” Fiona answered. “I thought you might want to read it—”

Eleanor didn’t wait for the girl to finish before she hiked up her skirts and ran al the way up the next flight of stairs. At the bower door she hesitated for a moment. This is our room now, she thought. He accepts it as our place. He accepts us. Her heart was so ful of joy she thought it was going to burst.

The feeling only deepened when she pushed open the door to find a room ful of flowers. Everywhere there were flowers. On the tables, on the chests, the chairs, strewn on the bed covers and in the rushes. She stepped on blossoms as she moved into the center of the chamber, stirring up heady scent as

she went. She turned slowly, trying to take al the color in. She saw the blossoms of common roadside weeds side by side with roses from the garden,

wood lilies mixed with heartsease, bunches of late-blooming violets from deep in the woods tied together with sprigs of sage from the kitchen. The effect was riotous, colorful, almost barbaric. Just like Stian.

“Flowers,” she whispered. “Where did they come from? What are they for?”

“I can answer that easily, my lady,” the bright-cheeked Fiona said as she fol owed Eleanor into the room. She gestured at the flower-bedecked room.

“This is my lord Stian’s doing. Wel , my and many of the servants’ doing, but at his order.”

“Stian sent you out to gather flowers?”

“Aye.” Fiona grinned happily. “That he did.”

“But…why?”

The girl laughed knowingly and Eleanor felt her cheeks burn. “You know wel why, lady. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Eleanor nodded slowly. “Yes.” She picked up a white rose and buried her face for a moment in its scented softness. “It is wonderful. He did it for me?”

She asked the girl, hungry for reassurance that it was true. She remembered how Lars had brought spring flowers to Edythe. She’d told herself at the time that she wasn’t jealous. She’d told herself that she didn’t need such attention from a man. She had never thought any man would care enough to do

anything like this for her. Looking around, she could see that she’d been wrong on every count. She had been jealous, she had wanted the attention. There was a man who cared. She was very close to crying again.

Fiona nodded. “He said that it was the sort of thing gentle, true knights do for their ladies.”

“Yes,” Eleanor agreed with a delighted laugh. “Yes it is.” The gift of the flowers made it even harder to keep from running down to Stian.
Tonight
, she reminded herself again, and laughed aloud at her own eagerness. “Where is this letter from my mother?” she asked. She wanted to see it as much to

keep from rushing to Stian’s side as she did because she longed for news from her mother.

Fiona was almost in awe as she brought the folded square of parchment to Eleanor. “You real y can read, my lady?”

Eleanor nodded and took the letter from her. Since she wanted to read the letter in privacy, she said, “I don’t know where you’re keeping Kate—”

“In your old room, my lady. With the others.”

“You may join them then,” Eleanor told her. “And, Fiona,” she added as the girl turned to go, “thank you for helping my lord with al this.”

Eleanor broke the seal on the letter as soon as Fiona was gone. The scent of the rose stil clung to her fingers as she unfolded the stiff parchment. She read the message while she stood in the center of a bower of fragrant flowers.

Lady Jeanne FitzWalter’s letter to her daughter was ful of very little news about herself. Eleanor supposed that was wise, considering that her mother was serving as lady-in-waiting to the captive queen. While she was not a prisoner herself, not exactly, everything she did was closely scrutinized by those loyal to the king. She was wise not to say anything of her own life to her daughter. Better not to be involved, Eleanor reluctantly agreed, than to come under suspicion herself. Lord Roger had been correct in that she shouldn’t have written her mother in the first place. Stil , she was glad of even this tenuous connection to the mother she cared for very deeply.

After giving her sparse news, her mother switched to the subject of Eleanor herself. “As to this marriage your father has forced on you,” Eleanor read, “I have spoken to my lord, the Archbishop of Canterbury, on the subject. He says that you were very wise to proclaim your protest of the marriage before a priest and witnesses. This protest should be sufficient enough to procure an annulment for you from this barbaric nobody your father forced upon you. With God’s help, you wil soon escape from imprisonment in this far-off northern stronghold. I pray you write me with sworn statements from the priest and other so that I may—”

Eleanor didn’t finish reading the rest of it. She found herself holding the parchment before her and speaking to it as though it were her mother.

“Annulment? Why would I want an annulment? Do you know how much needs to be done at Harelby? Do you think I can just pack my chests and run back

to play at courtiers’ games.” Her words grew more indignant by the moment. “Barbaric? Imprisonment? By the Rood, woman, don’t you know how happy I

am? How much I love Stian of Harelby!”

After she spoke the words, Eleanor backed up to a chair and sat down very hard on it. For a while she just stared off into the distance, not seeing

anything, while her mind reeled under the realization. “I love Stian of Harelby.” She tilted her head to one side, as though studying the words from a different angle.

In Poitiers she’d been taught that one was dutiful toward a husband but found emotional and physical satisfaction with another man. In Poitiers it was fashionable to believe that love could not be found inside the bounds of an arranged marriage. In Poitiers love was an il icit, sophisticated, adulterous game. In Poitiers, they were wrong.

She smiled. “I love Stian of Harelby.”

She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before. What had Edythe said? That she obviously adored him? Wel , it hadn’t been obvious to her. She

hadn’t so much thought about how she felt about Stian as she had gone along with the growing, unnamed attachment. Attachment? What a tame word.

There was nothing tame about what she felt.

“Love,” she said, liking the sound of it. “Love. That’s not a gentle word. Love is a strong word, a strong feeling. A hard feeling. Love is hard work and trust and fierce loyalty. And I like it.”

She stood up and went back to pick up the letter. She knew what she was going to do with it even without bothering to finish reading it. She walked over to where a thick hour candle burned on one of the flower-covered chests. She set the parchment to the flame without hesitation.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said as the letter burned down to ashes that mingled with the pile of blossoms. “For my barbarian can read, you see. He would take your offer of an annulment amiss, very amiss. He would worry about my rejecting him, I think. I don’t know if he loves me but I don’t want to hurt him.”

What was it Edythe had said, about having to fol ow her heart? Eleanor knew that her sister had been right. She fervently wished her sister happiness with Lars in far off Denmark. For Eleanor, her happiness was right here, for her heart was at Harelby with Stian.

Eleanor looked around her, feeling the emptiness of the room. The chamber was flower-decked, a place Stian had surely meant to spend the night with

her in celebration. She didn’t see any reason why they should have to wait. How foolish it seemed to her to be here when what she wanted was to be by

her husband’s side.

“He’s just going to have to get used to my embarrassing him in public,” she said decisively. “He can learn to live with teasing. And to hel with Malcolm,”

she added as she turned to run from the room. “I want my husband and I want him now!”

Her thin leather shoes barely touched the treads of the staircase as she hurried downwards with her heavy skirts bunched in her hands. She rushed

headlong without thought for anything but who waited in the hal . Her heart was featherlight, her head ful of plans and longing and joy. She forgot about everything including caution in her haste to get to Stian.

* * * * *

Stian didn’t answer Malcolm’s question because he was already running toward the stairs. The sound had been a scream. It had been a high, sharp

sound, quickly cut off, but piercing enough to cut through the noise of conversation of the men in the hal . It had been a woman’s scream and Stian was already terrified he knew who had made the sound.

“Sweet Jesu,” he prayed as he took the stairs two at a time. “Don’t let her be hurt.”

He saw that his prayer was not answered when he reached the first landing and saw Eleanor sprawled across the bottom steps. As he knelt beside her,

his knees were immediately soaked by rainwater that had leaked in from the window in the wal overhead.

“Damn you!” he swore as he eased Eleanor down onto the landing. He pounded a fist against the wal . “Damn you!” he repeated to the very stones of

Harelby. “If she’s dead, I’l tear down these wal s with my bare hands.”

He heard people crowd up the stairs behind him and the door to what had once been his room was opened. Questions were cal ed out, offers for help

given. Mostly the gathering crowd just stood and stared. Lark came trotting up the stairs, pushing between peoples’ legs to get to Stian. The wolf sniffed gingerly at Eleanor’s bloodied face before Stian pushed the animal away.

Stian paid no attention to anyone else as he took Eleanor in his arms and rose to his feet. He didn’t know how she’d been hurt or if she was even

breathing. Al he knew was that it was as if his own life were draining out as he watched the trickle of blood spread across her face.

He ignored the pain in his left arm as he carried his wife into their old bedroom. Fiona was there even as he placed Eleanor’s stil form on the bed. He snarled at her to get away but she put a wet cloth in his hand instead.

“Here. Wipe the blood off her while I check for broken bones.”

“Get away!” the terrified Stian ordered. “Just get away from my wife.”

The girl backed off muttering but Stian paid her no more heed as he knelt by Eleanor’s head. He did clean Eleanor’s face and press the cloth to the gash he found in her forehead. She looked pale to his eyes. A shocking contrast to her normal y healthily brown complexion.

“Eleanor?” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “Eleanor, sweeting, please don’t be dead.” There had been too much death. This was one grief he

knew he could not survive. “Sweet Eleanor,” he told her, running his fingers through the loosened strands of her black hair. He felt big and clumsy and helpless faced with her smal , stil form. “Don’t die. I can’t live without you,” he told her. “I love you so much. I couldn’t bear it if you were to die.”

He rested his face against her throat and shivered in fear as he breathed in the warm scent of her skin. “I love you,” he repeated. “Jesu, how I love you.”

Then he felt her sigh against his cheek and her fingers combing through his hair. “You do?” her voice questioned, sounding dazed and sleepy. “You love me?”

He lifted his head, just enough to look into her deep brown eyes. They were barely opened but he saw a glint of humor in them mixed with pain.

“You’re hurt,” he said. “Where are you hurt?” He sat up al the way and ran his hands down her body. She wriggled with pleasure when he was trying to find broken bones. “Where does it hurt?” he demanded, suddenly terrified. “What of the babe? You’re not bleeding…down there…are you?” If he heard the

faint echo of Fiona’s laughter, he ignored it.

Eleanor propped herself up on her elbows. “I twisted my ankle,” she told him. The damp cloth had fal en off when she sat up. She pressed it back to the throbbing spot on her forehead. It was a smal cut real y, just messy as head cuts often were. “Must have hit my head. I’m fine. The babe’s fine, I’m sure.

Nothing aches…down there.”

“You’re sure?”

“They’re hard to dislodge for at least nine months—or so I’m told. No, it was not a great fal . I’m just sore.”

He sat down beside her and took her in his arms. “You’re going to live?” he asked anxiously. “You promise?”

“Aye. I think so.”

He stil seemed frantic. “How can I tend you? What do I do to take care of you? Should I bring you a wolf to sleep on your bed?”

Eleanor forgot the pain as she returned his embrace. From the circle of his arms she said, “I’ve got you, man. What do I need with another wolf in my

bed?”

Stian laughed at her words and took them as a compliment. “I’l never leave your bed,” he promised. He kissed her deep and long and she melted against him, as hungry for the contact as he was.

After a while though, she broke away to look him in the face. “Do you truly love me, Stian of Harelby?”

“I do,” he answered. “With al my heart.”

“I love you,” she told him. For the first time but knew it would not be the last. “With al my heart.” He turned the brightest smile she had ever seen on her. “I love you,” she repeated, just to see if his smile could grow brighter and it did.