Nothing Else Matters (11 page)

Eleanor fought hard to keep her temper even as she was stunned into silence by the woman’s attack. It was true she was a courtier, which meant she was used to viciousness being disguised with honeyed words. Dame Beatrice’s blunt statements were hurtful but almost bracingly refreshing. Which didn’t

make Eleanor any less tempted to bite Beatrice’s work-reddened finger when it was shaken under her nose.

“Dame—” she began, only to be cut off once again.

“What use wil you be when the Scots next besiege Harelby? Know you how to nurse the sick or deliver a babe? Do you know a kitchen garden from a

midden? Know you the reeve from the hayward?” Dame Beatrice rattled the ring of keys she wore on her belt. “Keep your sister company in the bower,

girl, and leave the running of this castle to me.”

“Happily wil I leave the castle to you,” Eleanor answered.

As the chatelaine was so eager to point out, she was court-reared. She could speak gentle and fair to a princess who slapped her for no better reason

than that she was closer than the servant who had spil ed the wine. So she could speak fair and gentle to a chatelaine who feared losing her power to

inexperienced outsiders. She could deal pleasantly with anyone, she thought, except Stian of Harelby.

“It is true I know little of English ways. I would but learn from you if you wil al ow it, Dame Beatrice,” she added as the chatelaine began to turn from her.

Her conciliatory words brought nothing but a sneer to the chatelaine’s attractive face. “I’ve no time to teach a grown woman how to run a household.”

“I did not mean—”

Beatrice waved toward the tower stair. “Be gone, girl. Keep to the bower with your sister and her ladies and out of my way.”

Eleanor decided it was just as wel to give up the field to this intransigent woman. She sighed, tucked her hands—hands that were bal ed into tight, tense fists—into her sleeves and walked past the snickering guardsmen toward the stairs.

As she went she heard Dame Beatrice complain bitterly, “I told Stian he would do wel to marry Nicolaa Brasey. The lad should have fol owed his own

mind and gotten Roger’s permission afterward.”

The woman’s rancor scraped against Eleanor’s already raw senses. Fresh pain squeezed at her heart for no reason she could understand. She wanted

to run away.

Instead, she turned before going up the stairs and said, “How could Stian fol ow his own mind, Dame Beatrice? He doesn’t have one.”

* * * * *

Eleanor threw down her embroidery and looked at the half circle of women sitting beneath the window in Lord Roger’s bedroom. Along with Edythe there

was Blanche, the gentlewoman they had brought with them to Harelby. There were also the red-haired twin sisters of one of Lord Roger’s neighbors,

seventeen-year-olds named Morwina and Fiona. The girls had been placed in Dame Beatrice’s care, she’d been told, not long before her and Edythe’s

arrival. Eleanor had noticed furtive looks from the pair but had yet to hear a word out of them. She only knew their names because she’d heard Dame

Beatrice address them the day before.

Eleanor did not like not knowing things such as names and functions and al the doings wherever she found herself. Since she’d come to Harelby she’d

had little time to indulge her curiosity. Through al the tumult of the last few days she’d hardly had time to breathe, let alone ask questions. But what questions she had asked had met with lies from the castel an, rebuffs from the chatelaine, sweet inanity from the chaplain and surly silence from her

husband. She felt total y out of control of her life. Everything just seemed to be going on around her while she spent her time being tossed about by her husband. She was final y at the point where she thought she was going to burst from the frustration.

So, as al eyes turned to her when she threw down her work, she told off the litany of her ignorance. “I know not what a shire court might be or what guests are due to arrive. I know not the workings of Harelby or even more than a few names of the household. I know not who wil be our lord’s friend or foe in the company. Or the duties expected from the ladies of the house. I know nothing of use,” she added as everyone stared. “And,” she added, “most annoyingly, I know nothing of this Nicolaa Brasey that Sir Stian might have married!”

The twins bent their heads together and giggled and whispered. Eleanor couldn’t help but be reminded of Edythe and herself during happier times. She

exchanged a smile with her sister, who no doubt saw the resemblance as wel .

“Nicolaa Brasey,” one of the girls—Eleanor had no way of knowing which was which—final y found the bravery to say, “is the widow of Hugh Brasey. She

holds land bordering Harelby for her son Bertran. For now. Poor Bertran,” she added.

Before Eleanor could ask what she meant, the other twin spoke up. “Courts are when the sheriff and al the knights of the shire and vil agers gather to hear lawsuits and such.”

“And judge those who break forest laws,” the other twin added. “Bertran—”

“But what about Nicolaa Brasey?” Edythe cut in. “What do you know of this lady who wil soon be our guest?”

Eleanor squirmed at the teasing look her sister gave her. She was already regretting bringing up the woman’s name. Why should she care if the widow

Brasey was Stian’s longtime mistress and dearest love? It was nothing to her. The priests were right, curiosity was a wicked flaw in a woman.

“Wel ,” Morwina or Fiona began after the girls had giggled and cast furtive looks her way for a while. “Nicolaa’s marriage rights are in the gift of Lord Roger, but she’s managed to evade every suitor he’s presented to her.”

“She’s much sought after,” the other twin hurried on. “Even though she must be at least twenty-two or three.”

Eleanor had heard as much as she wanted about this Nicolaa Brasey. It didn’t matter. Learning about Harelby was far more important than gossiping

about a neighbor.

She stood and said, “I left some embroidery thread in my room.”

“I’l fetch it for you,” Blanche offered.

Eleanor waved the woman back in her seat as she started to rise. “’Tis no trouble to fetch it myself. I’l be right back,” she said, and left, not intending to come back at al .

But when she reached her room, she found Stian was there before her and her mind was immediately set on flight. He stood by the bed and watched her

under lowered brows as she sidled to the chest by the wal . He didn’t say anything, he just looked at her. Final y she noticed that his expression held as much curiosity as it did hostility. She wondered what he was thinking. Instead of hurriedly snatching the thread and fleeing, she found herself looking at him as wel .

Stian was stripped to the waist and his dirt-crusted bracceas clung in damp patches to his thighs. His hair and chest were wet with sharp-smel ing sweat.

His sword and a heavily quilted tunic lay discarded on the bed. He looked as if he had spent the whole day practicing his skil at arms. Not only did he look sweaty, he looked tired.

After a few moments, Eleanor obeyed impulse and turned decisively back to the door. She spotted a servant on the stairway and cal ed out, “Fetch a tub and hot water for my lord’s bath.”

When she turned back, Stian’s grimy hand was reaching for one of her precious books.

“No!”

She rushed forward to snatch the book from him. Stian only laughed and held it out of her reach. He pushed her so that she stumbled back to sit on the bed.

“Stay,” he ordered.

She jumped up. “That’s mine!”

“Sit.”

She did, unable to resist the crack of command in his voice. “But—”

“What’s this?” he asked as he opened the heavy leather cover.

“Could you at least wash your hands?” she pleaded. “That’s a book, not a wineskin.”

Sir Stian peered at the first page of the book and said, “
The Dove’s Neck-Ring.
” He looked at her. “What sort of book is this?”

Eleanor was struck speechless for a moment. He had pronounced the title in Latin far purer than Father Hubert’s. Then she burst out, “You can read!”

His expression turned to a deep familiar glower. “’Tis no sin. For a man.” He balanced the book on the palm of his hand as he continued to glare. “But for a woman—”

Eleanor would not be cowed. “Al the women of Poitiers read,” she told him. She folded her arms defiantly before her. “We read and we write poetry and sing the songs of the troubadours. Poitiers is the center of al that is civilized, noble and fair.”

And she was homesick, terribly, terribly homesick. Stian could see it in her eyes. Hear it in the catch in her voice. His own annoyance vanished at his realization of just how unhappy the girl was in this strange, foreign place.

He set the book gently in her lap. “This is yours,” he agreed as she cradled it close to her breast. “But what is it?”

Before she could answer the door opened. A trio of servants came in. One carried buckets of steaming water and cloths for washing and drying. The

other two brought in a shal ow bathing tub. Stian gave Eleanor a grateful look for the hot bath as he had worked hard training the men today and his

muscles ached. He stripped off the rest of his clothes while the servants went about fil ing the tub and Eleanor careful y didn’t watch him.

“What is the book?” he asked again after the servants were gone. He settled onto his knees in the tub—in this position the water just covered his hips. He reached for the washcloth but much to his surprise Eleanor put the book down, crossed the room and picked it up before him. It was his turn to avoid

watching her as she dipped the cloth in the water and careful y wrung it out across his shoulders.

The wet heat was a blessing raining down on his tired body. The hands that began to scrub his back were even more blessed.

“Eleanor?” he said after the steady, massaging pressure of her hands had soothed away al the day’s cares.

“Yes?” the answer came eventual y. She sounded shy.

“Is this the custom?” he asked. “In Poitiers?”

After a long hesitation, she answered, “It is custom for men and women to treat each other with courtesy, my lord—Stian.

“So Lars tel s me.”

“Lars?”

“Your sister has spoken of the ways of the knights of Poitiers to my cousin.”

And Lars had spoken to him. At length. He thought that perhaps his cousin had been drunk or too mad with desire to hear properly, for much of what he

said Lady Edythe told him seemed like utter nonsense. Perhaps Eleanor’s explanations would make some sense of this so-cal ed “Court of Love” and its

said Lady Edythe told him seemed like utter nonsense. Perhaps Eleanor’s explanations would make some sense of this so-cal ed “Court of Love” and its

complicated rules.

She sighed. “The knights of Poitiers are al that is good and gentle.”

Stian sighed as wel . He began to fear that Eleanor’s explanations would not make any sense either. “Men don’t go around scrubbing naked women in

Poitiers, do they?” he asked suspiciously.

She gave a soft breath of laughter. “I know not what ladies might do with their lovers and husbands but no one has ever given me a bath.”

“Good.”

“It is the custom for ladies to bathe their guests,” she explained. “And husbands and lovers, of course. It is considered a mark of honor.”

Stian arched like a cat under her touch. “’Tis a mark I like.”

Husbands
and
lovers? Were they not one and the same? he wondered. He remembered the way Lars looked at Edythe—tried to forget the way Lars

looked at Edythe—and decided not to ask any questions about some of the customs of Poitiers just now. The point was to learn how to control improper

lust for Edythe, for the sake of his soul and the peace of the household.

His eyes were closed as he reveled in the twin delights of hot water and Eleanor’s touch. Now here was proper lust—or a pleasant prelude to it. He found himself reveling in the sound of her voice as wel , deep for a woman’s, with an accent that made him think of sunlight and music. He liked her voice, he decided.

He opened his eyes to look at her when she moved to kneel in front of him. As she leaned forward to soak the cloth in the water again, he took it from her.

He could not deal with the idea of a woman washing him al over as though he were a babe. She looked embarrassed about it herself, as though perhaps

she had had not much practice at this particular custom in her beloved Poitiers.

“I’l finish this,” he told her. He glanced toward the bed where the book lay waiting. He had not forgotten her precious book despite this pleasant diversion.

“I’l wash, you read to me.”

Much to his surprise she gave him a delighted smile and hurried to do his bidding.

As she picked up the book, he added, “But only if it tel s of the conduct of
true
knights.”

She tilted her head thoughtful y to one side for a moment. “It does,” she said. “For it speaks of attraction and devotion between men and women.”

“And what do
true
knights need to know of such things?” he asked skeptical y. “Knights need to know horses and swords.”

The eager smile she turned on him was as ful of sunlight as her voice. “Why, these gentle emotions are the most important things in the world!”

He was doubtful but didn’t say so. “Read to me then. And teach me al these rules Lars says chivalrous, proper behaved men are supposed to know.”

“By the Rood, it’s good to see you!”

Stian returned his cousin Malcolm’s hardy embrace and asked, “What the devil are you doing here?”

Malcolm held him by the shoulders and grinned. “Don’t you remember? I’m English this year.”

“Jesu, did the border shift that much in the last war?”

Malcolm gave a firm nod. “It’s a fluid, almost imaginary thing, this border between the Scots and the English. I know not who to bow to between one day and the next—or who’s col ecting my taxes.”