Rhuddlan (4 page)

“Young Henry is not even sixteen!” Hugh
scoffed.

“Which is why he needs older, wiser heads
behind him. My lord, already he chafes at the bit! Henry keeps him
short of money and picks his household himself because he fears
what his son will do once he breaks free!”

Hugh didn’t reply. He had no quarrel with
King Henry save this one nagging issue which the king seemed
reluctant to resolve, and every year that passed compounded the
earl’s frustration and growing resentment. He considered the
implications of Bolsover’s words. Perhaps he was right; perhaps it
was time for new blood.

“Very well,” he said to the other man.
“Arrange for me to meet with the Young King.”

Hugh’s father, Earl Ranulf, had also
supported Henry during the civil war and in return for his not
inconsiderable force, Henry had promised him the earldoms of
Stafford and Lincoln once he had taken the crown. But Ranulf died
in 1153, the year before Henry became king and the matter was
dropped. Hugh was only six years old at the time and was promptly
made a ward of the court, which meant Henry controlled the revenues
from the vast estates the boy would inherit when he came of age.
But Hugh’s mother, the dowager countess Maud, didn’t allow the
matter of the lost earldoms to lie quietly. She continually
harangued Hugh to convince Henry to bestow the titles and honors on
the earl of Chester as had been promised to her husband.

A small matter of land indeed! Robert
Bolsover could hardly believe his ears as he listened to Hugh tell
his story to the Young King, who didn’t appear very interested but
shifted in his chair and occasionally gnawed on a fingernail. The
interview had been very casual and Hugh had been careful not to
reproach Henry for his oath-breaking.

“But I don’t think he was listening, anyway,”
Hugh said afterwards. “He was more concerned with picking off the
scab on his knuckle.”

Bolsover slipped his arm
around the earl’s neck. “It doesn’t matter.
I
was listening. And when the moment
comes that he needs to know it, I’ll remind him.” He grinned at
Hugh and playfully squeezed his neck in the crook of his arm.
“Greedy, aren’t you? Not satisfied with just being the earl of
Chester, you want to be earl of Stafford
and
Lincoln as well.”

“I have a lot of property in Staffordshire
and Lincolnshire,” Hugh said defensively. “Most of my property, as
a matter of fact. My father staked his life for Henry to be king
and got nothing for it. It’s ludicrous to imagine these honors
shouldn’t pass to me simply because my father died before he could
collect them. And Henry hasn’t filled them. No one holds either
title now.”

Bolsover sighed and rolled over onto his
back. “I should like to be an earl.”

Hugh looked down at his smooth, lean chest
and smiled. How they had ended up here, in the earl’s chamber,
after the meeting with the Young King, he didn’t quite remember.
But once it had happened, he realized it was exactly what he had
hoped would happen from the moment he had first seen Bolsover
dancing in circles around the red-haired brute in the ward at
Westminster Palace. It was the reason he had permitted himself to
be captured on the tournament field and why he had gone to the
trouble of evading Roger of Haworth all day.

Thinking of Haworth suddenly troubled him. He
swung his legs over the side of the plush mattress and walked
across the chilly floor to the polished table near the flaming
brazier. Light and heat reflected off his bare skin and tousled
russet hair. His frame was solid and escaped a propensity towards
carrying excess weight by almost constant activity on horseback.
This had also strengthened his legs, which were finely shaped,
thick and muscular. His arms were thin in comparison, although his
right was somewhat larger because it was his sword arm. In an
effort to build up these muscles, he practiced combat as often as
he could, usually with Haworth.

He poured wine into a silver cup and sipped
at it, making a face. Not nearly as good as what had been served at
the coronation, but not as terrible as it might have been. Most
wine was imported from Bordeaux, and Normandy was closer to
Bordeaux than England so there was less chance for it to spoil. He
took the cup back to the bed. Bolsover lay with eyes closed,
entwined in the linen bedclothes, a fine sheen of sweat on his
smooth skin. What a difference, Hugh thought, gazing upon him,
between him and Roger. Although he enjoyed his time with his
captain, Roger was as coarse and undemonstrative as Bolsover was
lithe and passionate. But that wasn’t to say Haworth wouldn’t care
about this little tryst; Hugh knew he would be deeply hurt, and the
knowledge made him feel guilty.

Bolsover was a vision of beauty. His damp
blond hair curled into little tendrils around his forehead. His
chin was clean as if no beard had ever grown upon it. Just looking
at him and realizing he had the prize he’d been lusting after for
months was enough to drive away his feelings for Haworth and start
Hugh’s heart beating faster again.

Suddenly Bolsover’s eyes
flew open. A smile spread slowly across his face. “Did you bring
that for me?” he asked. “I
am
thirsty.”

Without a word Hugh passed him the cup of
wine.

Bolsover drained the cup and, reaching over
the side of the bed, placed it on the floor. “You must be cold,
standing there on the bare floor,” he said to Hugh.

“I’m not cold,” Hugh said in a low voice.
“I’m burning.”

Bolsover laughed and rolled over to make room
for him. “Come, then,” he commanded.

Hugh lay down on his side next to him. He put
a hand on the younger man’s head and caressed his short hair.
Bolsover’s grey-blue eyes watched his face.

“Why haven’t you married?” he asked the earl.
“Is it because…of this?”

“No,” Hugh answered. “I will marry, someday.
I need an heir, of course.” He lifted his free shoulder
indifferently. “I’m sure the king will make some kind of
arrangement…”

“A great political match? Perhaps he’ll find
you a nice, rich widow, gently used.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Hugh said. His
hand moved to stroke Bolsover’s shoulder, lean but hard with
muscle. “Anyway, I have the feeling Henry will only approve of a
marriage which will actually bring me very little. The reason he
won’t give me Lincoln and Stafford is because he thinks I’ve got
too much property already. And property means power.” Bolsover’s
skin was warm to his touch, inviting. His hand traveled down
further, to the solid mass of his hip.

Bolsover’s face was only inches from his own.
His eyes were glittering with the promise of reckless fervor. Hugh
stared into them and felt his breath start to shorten.

“Then, you’re in the enviable position of
being able to marry for love, my lord…” the younger man
whispered.

“It is a damnable position because I can’t
love a woman…I need a wife only to make me an heir.”

“Then, my lord, any young maiden of good
family will do?”

“I suppose…” Hugh moved forward to kiss
Bolsover’s parted lips.

“My lord,” Robert Bolsover whispered just
before Hugh’s mouth met his, “I have a sister…”

Chapter 3

April, 1171

Elstow Abbey, Bedfordshire

Eleanor had endured a fitful rest. It was the
fault of the nightmare she had had just after falling asleep, which
had been so terrifying that she’d fought against closing her eyes
again. As was usual with dreams, the details had ebbed quickly
away. She had lain awake trying to convince herself that she
couldn’t possibly be afraid of something she couldn’t even
remember, to no avail. The apprehension had persisted and the
remainder of the night had passed torturously.

The morning was cold and damp but the birds
sounded cheerful and the air smelled of rich earth. By the time she
emerged from the church in the company of the other novices, the
sun was there to blind her, promising a bright spring day. She
noticed that everybody’s spirits seemed to be lighter, and her own
tiredness was soon forgotten…as was her fear.

She had been a novice at the abbey for almost
nine months, having arrived in the waning days of summer, escorted
by two of her father’s guards. Her father himself did not come, nor
had Eleanor expected it of him. Sir Thomas Bolsover rarely ventured
past the gate of his well-fortified manor a day’s ride to the
north. And Sir Thomas had little regard for his only daughter.
Indeed, it was a wonderful miracle to Eleanor that, fifteen years
after her birth, he had managed to remember her mother’s deathbed
request: that the newly born Eleanor should be promised to the
church. Eleanor had been a quiet, obedient child and she had
entered her adolescent years in increasing dread that Sir Thomas,
who took so little notice of her, would forget that he had a
daughter for whom he must make some sort of provision.

Gwalaes, her inseparable companion in her
father’s house, had encouraged her to speak up. There was no worse
fate for a woman than to go unmarried and most girls of good family
were betrothed long before their thirteenth birthday. Of course
this date had come and gone without attracting the attention of Sir
Thomas. That was when Gwalaes, who was as outspoken and stubborn as
Eleanor was shy and dutiful, had started pressing her in earnest to
confront her father or at least the steward who had his ear.
Eleanor refused. Sir Thomas, remote and severe, terrified her and
his steward wasn’t much nicer. The prospect of an empty future was
horrible but at least not yet so horrible as the thought of
confronting her father.

And there was no other person at Oakby to do
it. Eleanor’s mother had died in the effort of giving birth to her
and Gwalaes’ mother, a pleasant Welshwoman who had raised the two
girls together, had succumbed to a fever when they were twelve.
After that tragedy, they were left to themselves.

“There’s only one thing for it,” Gwalaes had
announced one day. “When Robert returns you must ask him to speak
to your father.”

Eleanor had considered the idea. Her brother
was eight years older than she was, blindingly handsome and too
busy to take any notice of her. Besides, she was almost in as much
awe of him as she was their father. “Could you do it?” she said to
Gwalaes. It was no secret that Gwalaes was madly in love with
Robert Bolsover.

“All right,” Gwalaes had sighed, as if
resigning herself to some brutal task that nevertheless must be
done. Of course, her little grin gave her true feelings away.

It happened that Gwalaes hadn’t had to
bother. Just before her fifteenth birthday, Eleanor was summoned to
the hall and informed by Sir Thomas that she was to be sent to
Elstow Abbey in a fortnight. No marriage for her; she was to be a
nun. It was her mother’s dying wish.

“She probably didn’t want you to go through
what she did,” Gwalaes had theorized when Eleanor had shared the
news. “Being married to a man as disagreeable as your father and
then dying in childbirth. Do you think you’ll miss it?”

Eleanor had shaken her head emphatically. “As
long as I can be a nun, I wouldn’t want to marry. I’ve never met a
man who wasn’t disagreeable, have you?”

“Robert,” Gwalaes had answered promptly.

It was true; Robert Bolsover wasn’t
disagreeable. He was charming, humorous and gallant. Yet there was
something about him which frightened Eleanor nonetheless and she
knew she wouldn’t want to marry someone like her brother
either.

She hadn’t realized how unhappy she would be
to leave Gwalaes behind. But Gwalaes was a servant, supposedly
Eleanor’s personal attendant although they were more like sisters,
and she was to remain at Oakby. She hadn’t realized, either, how
much she would miss Oakby. She had never before ventured out of its
boundaries and even though Elstow was only a full day’s ride away,
it was like another world. For the first few months of her
novitiate, she was incredibly homesick.

But gradually she came to love Elstow and
then she embraced wholeheartedly the prospect of becoming a nun
like the ones there she so admired. At Elstow, a Benedictine house,
the nuns were Norman gentlewomen; they spoke with modulated voices,
they conducted themselves with dignity, they treated the abbey
servants with a benevolent condescension. They were a breed with
whom Eleanor had had no previous experience. She imagined that this
was what her mother must have been like. They were encouraging and
kind to her; they did not ignore her as her father had but took
great interest in everything she did. She wanted nothing more than
to be like them. She longed for her novitiate to be over so that
she could be received into the order as a full, adult member.

After supper on that fine April day, she was
summoned to the abbess’ quarters. She was nervous because she
couldn’t remember committing any transgression but the abbess came
forward to greet her with outstretched hands and kissed her on
either cheek. “I had visitors this evening,” the abbess said. “Four
men from your father’s house. They’ve come to escort you back to
Oakby.”

Eleanor knew silence and obedience were
highly prized virtues in women and in particular nuns, but the
question was blurted out before she could stop herself. “Why,
Mother Abbess?”

“I don’t know. Removing a novice from an
abbey is a serious undertaking. Of course I asked them but they
professed not to know.”

With a sudden rush of
horror, Eleanor remembered the dream she’d had the night before.
She knew something terrible awaited her at Oakby. “I don’t want to
go, Mother Abbess!” she said desperately. “Please,
please
tell them it’s
impossible!”