Nothing Else Matters (27 page)

Wynnol glanced toward the door. “I hate disturbing you, Lady Eleanor, but I think you should see to matters in the hal .”

“What matters?”

“It’s the prisoner. Fiona brought her into the hal to sit with the women.”

“And so she should have,” Eleanor said. “That wild child looks as if she could use time in the company of women.”

“Aye, my lady,” Wynnol agreed. “But the problem is, the men who fought with her kin are being surly about her presence. You know what men are like. And Long Kate, wel she just keeps glaring daggers at al who look her way. Perhaps your presence would calm everyone down. You could talk to the girl

perhaps.”

Eleanor considered the situation. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I should go downstairs.”

Though she’d made the decision to go, she lingered a few moments longer at Stian’s bedside. The candles by the bedside gave out a warm glow but it

didn’t disguise the unhealthy look of Stian’s sweat-sheathed skin. He was mumbling, the words no more than low rumbles with the occasional

understandable word, usual y in answer to her own efforts to comfort him. Eleanor hated the thought of leaving with him so uncomfortable.

“You’re needed in the hal ,” Wynnol spoke her own thought aloud. “I’l mind the lad while you’re gone.”

Eleanor nodded and went reluctantly out the door. She returned a few minutes later, sent the servant away and said angrily to the sick man, “She bit me!”

“Lark?” His good hand groped through the wolf’s thick fur. “Lark?” The animal had growled protectively at the sound of her angry voice.

“No, the Scotswoman.” Eleanor held her hand out to the candle to examine the red mark the girl’s teeth had left. “Katherine. Your Long Kate bit me.”

She didn’t know why she was tel ing him since he couldn’t comprehend anything in his current state. Perhaps it was just because she longed to have a

conversation with him.

She touched his cheek. “It seems like years since we’ve spoken to each other. While you’re not a great one with words, sweeting—”

“Long Kate,” he said.

Eleanor leaned closer, hoping that he was waking up. “Yes, Katherine. Your prisoner. Fiona said al was going wel enough, she’d even found her a dress that almost fit. Then after the evening meal Lars said something that set the hel cat off and she tried to escape.”

“Lars?” He tossed his head from side to side.

She put her hand out to calm him. The salt from his sweat stung the bite mark when she touched him. “There was quite a fight, apparently,” she went on.

“Your Kate had been trussed up like a chicken by the time I got down to the hal . There was a great deal of shouting and she bit me when I got involved. I had her taken up to the bower, though I doubt Edythe wil appreciate the company.”

“Taken,” he repeated, his voice a raw whisper. “Take her.”

“Take her where?” Eleanor wondered, trying to hide her concern in flippancy.

“Plant a bastard in her.”

The words were a rushed mumble but Eleanor had no trouble understanding them. They chil ed her to the bone. “What?”

“Take her. Revenge. For Roger.”

Her throat constricted with pain and her hand clutched protectively over her abdomen, as though trying to protect her unborn child from Stian’s ugly words.

“Holy Mother,” she whispered, staring in horror at the man on the bed. What was he saying? What did he mean? She had to know, though she didn’t want

to. In the faintest of whispers she asked, “You didn’t rape that child did you?”

He said no more, just tossed his head and moaned while she stood and backed away. Eleanor found her back pressed against the door, her fingers

reaching for the latch. How could he? Holy Mother, how could he?

The answer was easy and obvious, women were always raped in war. Even the civilized men of Poitiers brought back tales of the conquered women

they’d taken by right of conquest. Lust seemed to ride into battle. She knew the mood Stian had gone after the raiders in. She knew that vil age women had been raped by the Scots even though they’d been in a hurry to rescue Conner Muragh and be gone. Stian might have considered raping Conner

Muragh’s grandchild not only his right but his duty.

Revenge. Revenge was al that counted with Stian of Harelby. Nothing else was important to him but seeing the murderers of his father punished. Why

should she expect a half-wild savage such as her husband to behave any differently? Somehow though, stupidly, she did.

She couldn’t breathe from the tears that clogged her throat. She couldn’t stay here, not in the same room with him no matter how sick the man was. Al she wanted to do was escape but she couldn’t stop her appal ed thoughts from pouring out.

“Or didn’t you have time to rape her before you were wounded? Is that why you brought her back to Harelby? To keep her handy so you could despoil her

once you’re feeling up to it?” She hated the words that came from her, hated the images they conjured.

Blinded by tears she tore the door open and ran, not caring where.

“His fever’s broken, my lady. He’s asking for you.”

At the same moment Fiona said, “About Long Kate?”

And Edythe touched her on the shoulder. “We must speak, my dear.”

Eleanor continued warming her hands at the hearthfire. She wished she hadn’t come back into the hal . She’d spent much of the night pacing the inner

bailey since the guard on the gate wouldn’t let her out into the night no matter how much she shouted at him. Eventual y Hubert appeared at her side and guided her into the chapel. He assumed she was upset about Stian, grieving for Roger and al the vil age dead. She didn’t tel him any different. Besides, she supposed she was. They spent many hours praying together.

At least the time spent in prayer had helped calm her down. Only now she feared she was almost too calm for she felt nothing but mild irritation at the entreating faces of the women surrounding her. She certainly didn’t want to deal with them right now.

“Lord Stian, my lady?” Wynnol asked.

“Long Kate?”

“Eleanor?”

She looked to Wynnol first. “I want a bowl of porridge.” The woman gave her a concerned look but went to do her bidding.

Eleanor looked to Fiona next. “Keep the girl under close watch in the bower,” she ordered. “Add another guard outside the door. No man is to be al owed near her. No man. Not even Lord Stian.”

“But—”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady,” Fiona answered.

“I hold you responsible if any il befal s the girl.”

The girl responded to the threat in Eleanor’s voice by nodding and hurrying for the stairs.

This left only Edythe standing by her side. She put her arm around Eleanor’s shoulder. Eleanor stayed stiffly erect for a moment then leaned grateful y on her sister’s comforting support. “You look terrible,” Edythe told her.

“I feel terrible.”

“Don’t worry so, he’s going to be fine. We can thank the saints for that.”

Eleanor couldn’t help but give a faint, tired laugh. “I’ve spent the night on my knees as it is.” Though she didn’t remember what she’d prayed for.

“Then I think you should go to bed.”

“Perhaps I wil ,” Eleanor agreed tiredly.

Wynnol came up with her breakfast. Eleanor took the bowl and walked up the step to the high table. By way of experiment, she went to the pair of chairs set at the center of the long table and sat in one of them. When she didn’t go up in flames for her presumption and no one even gasped in shock, she

admitted to herself that this was now her place.

“Oh my,” she whispered. Then she set about eating her meal while Edythe stood nearby, smiling benignly. She wasn’t real y hungry but she made herself

eat for duty’s sake. Looking up at her sister she asked, “Have I told you I’m with child?”

“No.” Edythe sat down on the bench next to her chair. “I suspected you might be though. You have a…glow…about you when you’re not terrified or run

ragged.”

“I don’t feel glowing.”

“Wel , you look it. Not now. You look half dead right now.”

Eleanor was heart-sore, deeply angry and very, very tired but Edythe’s presence warmed and soothed her. “You are like bright sunlight and summer

wine,” she told her sister. “I do not know what I would do without you. What’s wrong?” she asked as Edythe’s sweet expression changed to one of deep

distress. “What is the matter?”

Edythe looked away. “I am not with child,” she said quietly.

“I’m so sorry,” Eleanor tried to comfort her. “Lord Roger would have wanted—”

“Oh no,” Edythe cut her off. “I’m glad in a way that I’m not to have his child. He was very dear to me, very good to me, but carrying Roger’s child would just complicate things too much.”

Eleanor had the feeling that Edythe was obliquely edging toward a difficult subject. Please, she prayed to any listening saint, no more crises, no more trouble. She didn’t want to ask.

She pushed her bowl away and made herself sit up straight. She made her voice stay calm when she said, “What do you mean? Complicate what?”

Edythe couldn’t seem to look at her. She looked at her hands, fingers laced together in her lap. “Complicate…things,” she said after Eleanor waited for some time. “Arrangements. Dower rights and such.”

“What about your dower rights.”

Edythe final y looked at her, expression earnest. “Oh they don’t matter. Nothing material matters. Not with happiness at stake.”

“What nonsense,” Eleanor snapped. “Have you been reading my copy of Ovid?”

“Of course not,” Edythe answered. “I don’t need books to tel me the truth of my own heart.”

Edythe sounded like some damned Poitevin poet. It took al of Eleanor’s self-control not to tel her so. There was poetry and jongleurs tales, and then there was real life. Eleanor would have sworn that her sister knew the difference.

“I’m tired,” Eleanor said as she looked into her sister’s anxious face. “Too tired to understand your al usions. Just tel me your meaning in plain words what you’re talking about.”

“Marrying Lars,” was Edythe’s prompt answer. “I am going to marry Lars.”

Eleanor found herself wishing she hadn’t asked for simple words after al . “That’s not possible.”

“Of course it is possible,” Edythe said, her tone as cheerful and positive as ever. “It simply isn’t particularly probable. I love him,” she added. “When you are in love, al things are possible.”

“You’ve been a widow for less than a week,” Eleanor reminded her sister angrily. “How can you speak of marriage, of love, when you’re stil in mourning.”

Still in mourning,
Eleanor thought in outrage,
you’ve barely begun!

“Women often marry soon after becoming widows,” Edythe said defensively.

“Aye,” Eleanor agreed, “but it’s usual y done at sword point with the man who kil ed their first husband.”

“Or for political reasons.”

“You have neither reason for marrying Lars.”

Edythe’s complacent smile returned. “I am marrying for love. I know you wil be happy for me.”

Eleanor wished she could be but she had other concerns than her sister’s state of mind. “You can not marry Lars,” she stated. “What wil Stian say? What of Father?”

“Father is far away and Lars is Stian’s best friend.” She stood, as if she’d just settled everything.

“But—” Eleanor sputtered, fol owing her sister toward the stairs.

She tried to think of other reasons for Edythe not to marry Lars as they climbed to the bower. Eleanor paused briefly at the landing to the second floor, but she didn’t go into her own room. She would see Stian later, she decided. Much later. Once she was sure she would not betray her disgust at her

husband’s fevered revelations. She did not know if that would be in hours or days, but however long it was she had Edythe to deal with first.

As the bower door closed behind them she said, “You can not do this. Or at least not for a decent time.”

“We can not wait,” Edythe answered. “We wil be married when we reach Denmark.”

“Denmark.” Eleanor said the word, but comprehension didn’t dawn on her. Denmark was a country, someplace very far from England, very far from

Harelby. What did Denmark have to do with anything? “Stian’s mother was from Denmark,” she said. “He told me so.” It was the only connection she could make. The only connection she would let herself make.

Edythe touched her cheek. “My dear, I’ve never seen you so pale. What ails you?”

“What ails…? Nothing.”

“Wel , come and rest.”

Eleanor glanced briefly toward the alcove where Fiona sat with Long Kate. A guard stood by Kate’s chair. The girl gave her a fierce glare then transferred the look back to the piece of embroidery she was being made to work on.

“What an odd child,” Edythe said, reclaiming Eleanor’s attention. She took Eleanor by the hand and led her to the bed. “Sit down, my dear.”

They sat down side by side. Edythe put her arm around Eleanor’s shoulder. Eleanor tried not to think for a few minutes. She just rested in the familiar comfort of her sister’s presence. They had spent their lives in each other’s company, shared everything both good and il . She could not, would not, deal with the idea of Edythe not being part of her life. She tried not to pay any attention to Morwina and Blanche, who were bustling about, rearranging the contents of Edythe’s clothes chests.

It was Edythe who broke the spel when she said, “I shal miss you so much.”

“No,” Eleanor whispered. “No. I don’t want to know.”

She sat rigidly with her fingers bunched tight in the material of her skirt, too aware that Edythe had pul ed away. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut to fight off tears. She wanted to stop her ears, to turn time back, to make everything the same as it had been before Lord Roger sent them off to York.

“I have to go,” Edythe said.

The words came to Eleanor as though from very far away. As though Edythe were already gone and al she was hearing was a distant echo of her voice.

To reassure herself that this wasn’t so, Eleanor made herself open her eyes. “You can’t leave me,” she said. “We promised to always be together. I came here because—”