Rhuddlan (8 page)

At Avranches, someone suggested a hunt to
break the monotony of a hot afternoon, and after dinner a small
party consisting of the earl, Sir Robert, Sir Roger and half a
dozen other knights and their squires set out on horseback into the
forest. It wasn’t a serious-minded group, however; there were no
huntsmen along to sight the game and no dogs to flush it out, and
starting in the middle of the day after a heavy meal meant the
pursuit of anything over a long distance was out of the question.
It was merely an easy diversion, not to mention a comfortable
one—in the shadowy forest, the temperature was pleasantly cool.

Several men had brought skins of wine along
and these were immoderately enjoyed. The wine loosened their
tongues. Lewd stories were related. Obscene jokes exchanged. Soon
the woods reverberated with the sound of hearty laughter which
effectively chased away even the stupidest prey. When the sun began
its descent, the men turned back, empty-handed, towards the castle,
which lay west of them.

No one could remember exactly what happened
next. They had drunk too much and each man was trying to outdo the
others in displaying his prowess on horseback. One moment they were
galloping their mounts at breakneck speed through the tangled
forest in an insane race against each other and the next someone
had called out that he’d caught sight of a massive stag, and
suddenly they were in pursuit. They became separated, they shouted
to one another, the sinking sun glared into their eyes, there was a
flash of brown, bows were drawn, arrows flew…and Robert Bolsover
tumbled from his horse and crashed to the ground, dead.

It was a bizarre accident. Fortunately, all
of them had used clean arrows, unnotched or otherwise marked to
denote ownership, and therefore they were all equally guilty and
equally innocent. There was no way of knowing precisely who had
shot the fatal missile, which had struck Bolsover directly in the
chest.

Chapter 7

July, 1172

Chester Castle, Cheshire

At the end of July, the earl finally returned
to Chester. With Roger of Haworth, he rode at the head of a somber
line of horsemen underneath a cloudless blue sky which seemed to
mock his mourning. Sir Miles de Gournay met him in the ward. As was
their habit, Eleanor and Gwalaes observed the proceedings from
their window.

Grooms hurried forward to hold the horses as
men dismounted and lead them away to the stables. Hugh had pulled
off his heavy leather gloves and stood holding them tightly in one
hand and slapping them absently into the other while Sir Miles
spoke to him in low tones which didn’t reach to the young women.
Eleanor looked at her husband’s pale, expressionless face and was
startled. He had never been an emotional person but the last time
she’d seen him he’d been relaxed, even laughing. Gwalaes touched
her arm.

“Every time riders come through that gate
lately, someone’s missing. First it was Alan. Now, your
brother.”

Ah, that was the reason Hugh had lost his
good humor. Eleanor turned away from the window, once more feeling
the anger rise inside.

He summoned her to his private chambers just
before the evening meal. On the spur of the moment, she decided to
change her gown, and Gwalaes brushed out her hair and re-braided it
before hiding it under her linen wimple. She couldn’t have said why
she was taking such care with her appearance; Hugh had certainly
never commented, favorably or otherwise, on it.

A man-at-arms gave her a short, respectful
bow and pushed open the door for her and Gwalaes, and she entered
her husband’s outer chamber with a little hesitancy. She was
nervous; the summons was unusual. She supposed she was a little
frightened of Hugh. They hadn’t been married very long and she
still knew next to nothing about him, and anything she did know she
had learned from Sir Miles and not from Hugh himself. He was much
older than she, more worldly and so formidable with his unsmiling
countenance. She wondered suddenly if he and Robert had had a
falling out and he had called for her because he was going to
inform her that she was being sent back to her father. Back to
Oakby. She cursed Robert under her breath; he was constantly
interfering in her life. How would she be able to stand the
humiliation of being returned to Sir Thomas?

The antechamber was windowless. At the two
far corners were doors; one led to Hugh’s bedchamber, which she had
never seen. The antechamber was small and the flames from six fat
beeswax candles stuck onto two iron tripods against the whitewashed
walls were enough to sufficiently illuminate it. Hugh, standing
near a high-backed chair, looked up as the two girls came in. He
had bathed and exchanged his riding apparel for more comfortable
robes, Eleanor noted, but his face was far from relaxed. His eyes
betrayed no emotion and his mouth bore the marks of tension.

She dropped mechanically into a curtsey but
before she could rise, heard him snap, “Roger, escort the countess’
servant back to her room. I want to speak to my wife alone.”

Eleanor straightened up and glanced around,
startled. Haworth was leaning against the wall half-hidden by the
open door. The feeling of apprehension grew stronger, fueled by
Hugh’s cold tone and Haworth’s body language. She knew the knight
was Hugh’s right-hand man, but she was shocked by his casual
arrogance of slouching against the wall in the presence of his
master. So was Gwalaes. They stared wide-eyed at each other. And
Hugh’s command…Gwalaes accompanied her everywhere but Eleanor was
too awed by her husband to appeal to him now.

She watched Gwalaes leave with Haworth. The
guard on the other side of the door pulled it closed with a
thud.

“Sit down, Eleanor,” Hugh said
impatiently.

There was an uncushioned bench seat along the
right wall and she sat on it obediently. Her hands twisted around
each other in her lap and she dared not look up.

She heard the sound of wine being sloshed
into a cup followed by a hasty gulp. The noises were so unnatural
to her normally fastidious husband that if she hadn’t seen Haworth
leave, she would have thought they were coming from him. She raised
her eyes slightly. Hugh was staring into the candle flame on one of
the tripods and absently swirling the remainder of his wine around
in the cup. He felt her glance and straightened up.

His voice was tense. “I’m afraid I have bad
news for you about your brother. There was an accident. We—Roger,
Robert, a few others and I—were hunting near Avranches and
unfortunately, your brother…Well, as I say, it was an accident. An
unlucky shot. He died instantly.”

At first Eleanor couldn’t understand what
Hugh was trying to say, but then her mind seized on the word
‘died’. Robert was dead! She was shocked; it was almost too
perfect, as if she had wished for something impossible and actually
gotten it. She wondered briefly if Hugh could see the sudden jolt
of guilt which rushed through her. And out. She didn’t realize she
was staring blindly at him as the wheels turned in her head. She
could only benefit from this misfortune.

“Would you like a cup of wine?” Hugh asked
carefully, even gently, apparently misinterpreting her silence for
horror. “I’m not very good at putting things prettily, I’m afraid,”
he continued when she shook her head dumbly. “I’ve obviously
startled you and I’m sorry. It was a terrible shock to me, too. The
last few weeks have been hell. I wanted to do everything properly.
I took Robert back to Oakby.”

“Oh—my father!” Eleanor breathed, putting a
hand over her mouth.

“Yes, to say he was upset would be an
understatement,” Hugh said. “In fact, he was almost irrational.” He
looked away with some embarrassment, into the flickering flames of
the candles. “You should know that he accused me of murdering
Robert. He practically threw me out of Oakby in his rage.”

“He loved Robert,” Eleanor said
matter-of-factly. “Robert was his whole life.”

“I know…But I loved him, too, not only as a
brother by marriage but as a dear friend, and to be so accused…”
Hugh shook his head angrily. He appealed suddenly to his wife with
a pained expression. He had shed his cloak of aloofness and was
inviting her to console him, believing that she had cared for her
brother as he did, for he was genuinely grieved and once Sir Thomas
had driven him out of Oakby there was no one at all to whom he
could speak about Robert. He turned to Eleanor in despair and if
she had been more mature or more astute, she might have recognized
his appeal and from then on their marriage might have been, at
least, a congenial success.

But Eleanor had ceased to look at him. She
was wildly happy but struggling, out of politeness to his
friendship with Robert, not to show it. A hunting accident, ha! she
thought. More like her avenging angel had finally come to her
rescue. Gwalaes would be saddened, of course, but she preferred
Alan d’Arques now, anyway; she’d get over it in no time. Sir Thomas
had been punished for ignoring her for all her life and reneging on
his promise to give her to the abbey. Now she was his only
heir—what a laugh: the girl he had never wanted. As for her
husband, no longer would he mope around waiting for Robert Bolsover
to arrive. Now he had no excuse not to be a husband to her…She
couldn’t help it—a tiny, triumphant smile creased her lips.

Hugh, who had been watching her hopefully,
saw it. He frowned briefly in confusion but then he realized his
judgment had been wrong. His eyes became cold and expressionless
and he put his cup down on the table very deliberately. It was as
though all his vulnerability shriveled up inside him. It was
replaced by rage. He knew in a few moments he would start lashing
out. He turned his back on Eleanor and in a clipped, abrupt voice
dismissed her from his rooms.

Chester was his pride and his joy, and
whenever he was in residence he felt at his most comfortable and
usually let slip his austere demeanor. But not this time. There
wasn’t any familiar corner into which he could glance and not see
the lingering ghost of Robert Bolsover. They had lived and loved
here together from the time they’d left Oakby after making the
arrangements for Hugh to marry Eleanor until the actual wedding
five months later. Afterwards, Robert had gone to join the king in
Ireland, but when he finally left the king’s service he’d returned
not to Oakby or to one of his own manors, but to Chester. To Hugh.
Only a few months…The brief space of time the earl had had with
Robert Bolsover made him feel his loss even more keenly.

Days passed, but brought Hugh no relief. He
was either morose or violently angry. After a week and a half, Sir
Miles ceased consulting him on matters of formality. The servants
dared not look him in the face—he’d practically thrown one poor
fellow halfway across the hall when the man had had the wretched
luck to be laughing at some joke as Hugh had walked by him. Roger
of Haworth was the only person who would voluntarily intrude on the
earl’s grief and even he came away looking abnormally pale and
humble. Mealtimes had become dismal affairs. Hugh would suffer no
music or loud conversation. Most of the knights’ wives went
home.

He drank and considered his bad luck.
Robert’s death had prompted a self-examination of his life. For all
his wealth and power Hugh felt he had little personal consequence.
As a peer of the realm he ought to have been one of the king’s
right-hand people, yet Henry preferred the advice of his own chosen
few, some of whom weren’t even knights! Obviously, although he’d
never done anything contrary to the law of the land, Henry didn’t
trust him. And what of the disputed earldoms? Henry refused to hear
his plea. It made Hugh livid. He probably paid more in taxes and
knight service than any other baron in England, yet the king
refused to hear him!

His mother, Maud, a formidable woman of some
fifty years who was, like the king, a grandchild of Henry I,
badgered him regularly about the status of the earldoms. Every year
one of her messengers appeared at his gate with a letter accusing
him of laziness and spinelessness in having not yet obtained what
his father had been promised. He knew all the words by heart now;
the damned letters were all the same.

Robert had been the one bright light in his
life, so of course fate had snatched him away just so Hugh would be
denied even the least amount of happiness. Can’t have the great
earl of Chester enjoying anything! Hugh gripped his wine cup so
tightly that it bent slightly under the pressure. He raised his arm
and hurled the cup at the wall. A red splash of wine trickled down
the whitewash.

The worst of it was there wasn’t anyone else
around him who cared that Bolsover was dead. Even Roger…He knew
he’d treated loyal Roger shamefully when Robert had been alive.
He’d felt guilty at times but then he’d catch Bolsover’s smile or
sly wink and any thought of Roger had evaporated like smoke into
air. Roger was trying hard to be sympathetic about the death, but
Hugh knew it was just an act. Still, he was grateful for the
attempt. No one else was doing as much.

That included his wife. Hadn’t she cared for
her own brother? They hadn’t spoken since the day he’d told her
about Robert’s death. He knew she sensed his anger and was
frightened of sparking it into violent display, but the knowledge,
instead of shaming him, incensed him further. He had never
particularly liked her. The few times he’d been able to bring
himself to her bed, she’d been clumsy and unimaginative. Even
before the tragedy she’d tiptoed around him. Such behavior annoyed
him.

After a while, all Hugh’s anguish and despair
and feelings of worthlessness concentrated themselves into a hard
ball of fury which sat like lead in his stomach and threatened to
erupt at the slightest provocation. It was easier to be angry than
it was to be morose. People understood anger better whereas they
never knew how to deal with grief. He got drunk, went down to the
practice field and galloped a horse at the quintain or took his
sword and slashed and hacked at an unlucky opponent until he had to
fall back from exhaustion. His arms and legs ached and he collected
a number of impressive bruises, but at least he was able to sleep
at night.