Nothing Else Matters (13 page)

day. If his father hadn’t sent her up to the bower, Eleanor and he could have broken their fasts, briefly greeted their guests then spent a good part of the morning rol ing about on the bed. He’d been looking forward to spending the morning bedding his wife. Instead, he’d had to spend the day in company

with his quarrelsome cousins, his needs unsatisfied. He’d had to keep the peace between them and their men when he was as itchy for some sort of

release as any of them. Malcolm and David had final y ended up with a pair of wil ing servant girls.

Rather than join their sport, they had gone out to the bailey to attend the court session. They’d acted as jurors in one of the minor land disputes. The afternoon had seemed to drag on forever but at least the weather had held fair.

Lars had spent much of the time looking up at the bower windows as though he might catch a glimpse of his lady in her chamber. Never mind that his lady belonged to Lord Roger. And Lord Roger noticed.

“Lars,” Stian said now, “you’re a fool.”

“But I’m not sober,” the Dane replied. “Nor should you be,” he added, and cal ed for more wine.

“And what’s this I hear about flowers?” he added quietly, for he did not mean to tease and there were many people about who could overhear. “Morwina

told me you picked flowers.”

Lars shook his head as he drew Stian toward the hearth where Dame Beatrice and many of the guests stood waiting the cal to dinner. “What? No. I didn’t pick any flowers.” Stian thought Lars’ voice was louder than he intended, for al eyes turned their way. “Who ever heard of a man picking flowers?”

“Then it’s not true the—”

“I sent your squire to pick them.”

“My squire?” Try as he might, Stian’s voice rose as wel . “You sent Ranald to—”

“Lady Edythe said women like such gifts. It’s the sort of thing
gentle
men do.”

“It’s the sort of thing Queen Eleanor taught Poitevan men to do,” his father said as he joined them by the fire. “Sing songs and spout poems and make

posies. Women like it.” There was derisive laughter from some of the men until Roger added, “The Poitevan knights stil fought hard enough when King

Henry decided to put an end to his wife’s rebel ion. There’s nothing wrong with gentle pursuits,” he went on. “In moderation, of course. No harm to pleasing the womenfolk in some things.” He smiled upon the attentive crowd. “We please them and they make life more comfortable for us.”

David of Ayrfel stepped forward. His face was set in its usual scowl. “Is that what you want then?” he asked Roger. “A soft life?”

Roger tilted his head and gave a mild answer. “A bit of comfort is not such a bad thing. Nothing wrong with soft pil ows and bright tapestries—”

“Or a beautiful new wife,” someone interrupted.

Roger laughed and many folk joined with him. “Aye,” he agreed. “It’s good to have a young wife to lie on those soft pil ows with. Her sweet body is the finest luxury I possess. Far better than a new tapestry or silver plate.”

Stian moved away as the laughter this time grew louder, accompanied by bawdy and lewd comments. He shook his head, unable to understand why his

father would speak about such a private thing as his marriage. It seemed Roger was not only wil ing to boast about what went on in his bedroom but to

al ow others to joke about it as wel . Stian just hoped the joking didn’t turn his way. What he did with Eleanor was no one’s business but theirs.

Dame Beatrice didn’t appear to approve of the conversation either, for she soon announced that meal was ready, though it was earlier than the household normal y sat down to dinner. Stian turned to a servant to send upstairs for his wife but his aunt stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“What?”

She favored him with her sweetest smile, the one she used when she wanted him on his best behavior. “Nicolaa has had a most worrisome day. This

waiting for Bertran’s trial is hard on her.”

Stian glanced at the woman who lingered by the fire. Her hands were held out to it for warmth, her expression was closed. “Aye,” Stian agreed with his aunt. “Where’s Bertran?”

“I sent him to eat with the squires.” She turned her smile on him again. “I thought Nicolaa might sup with you.”

Stian looked up at the two seats left open on the bench to the right of his father’s high-backed chair. The lady of the house’s chair was also empty but Stian supposed it would be improper for Nicolaa to sit next to the man who was the chief judge in her son’s trial tomorrow. Nicolaa was a friend, she was a guest, and Eleanor was nowhere in sight. Eleanor would even approve, such hospitable gestures were the way
gentle
men behaved.

“Very wel ,” Stian said to his waiting aunt. “It wil please me greatly to share my trencher with the lady.”

* * * * *

“We real y ought to go down for the feast.”

Edythe continued to rummage through her jewelry box. “Tomorrow. We’l let Beatrice head the table this one last night.”

Eleanor didn’t want to let Beatrice head the table. Actual y, she didn’t care what the chatelaine did. She wanted her supper. And she wanted—wel , she wanted to be out of this room and exploring the little world that was Harelby. She’d never been so restless before. She wanted to know the doings of the shire.

She wanted to know the doings of Nicolaa Brasey. “I’m hungry,” she said, and started to pace.

Edythe merely looked up from sorting her jewelry to ask, “Have you seen my garnet brooch?”

“No,” Eleanor answered. Was Stian with Nicolaa? Not that it mattered, of course. But was he?

“I can’t remember when I wore it last.” Edythe sighed deeply. “It’s such a pretty thing. A gift from Renard DeAnesye. Do you remember him? Such a

handsome lad.”

“I remember him.”

Stian was not a handsome lad. He was too big and long-limbed and rangy. His hair was impossible and she’d never liked men with mustaches.

She turned toward Edythe. “Perhaps you lost the brooch in the hal —at table or among the rushes.”

“Perhaps.”

Edythe looked particularly lovely in the soft glow of evening candlelight. Lovely and dreamy, as if her mind were no more on a conversation about a lost brooch than Eleanor’s was. Her gaze settled on the bouquet of wildflowers. She’d been acting al day as if Lars had sent her the first roses of summer.

“Shal I go look for your brooch?” Eleanor asked. “It would be no trouble.”

“Would you? How sweet. Yes, run along.”

Edythe waved toward the door and Eleanor needed no more urging.

Once beyond the shielding of the thick door Eleanor could hear the revelry, even though the hal was two stories below. The stone stairs were narrow but wel enough lit by rush lights that she had no qualms about hurrying down them with her skirts hiked up around her ankles.

The tower stairs were directly across from the raised dais where the high table sat so Eleanor had no trouble seeing who sat in her place when she came down the stairs. Of course, by the time she could see Nicolaa Brasey sharing a trencher with her husband it was too late for her to flee back to her room without being seen. So she schooled her features to neutrality, stiffened her spine and slowed her speed to a decorous pace.

Stian’s gaze was on his lady of the evening so he probably took no note of her regal entrance but she told herself it mattered not. What mattered was that anyone who might care to notice would see her indifference to the situation. There was less chance for gossip when a wife took her husband’s dealings

with his concubines with good grace.

She wished Dame Beatrice had never told her about Stian wanting to marry Nicolaa Brasey.

* * * * *

Stian hated David Kerr of Ayrfel , who was seated on his left. He’d hated him so long and for so many things, both petty and great, that the hatred was too ingrained for him to outright kil the man. Ayrfel ’s presence was like the familiar ache of an old wound on a rainy day. It was something he was used to and didn’t think he could do anything about.

They were of an age, Malcolm and David and himself. Al three of them were eldest sons of border lords, though the others had come in to their

inheritances already. Being cousins, they’d spent much of their youths together. Along with Lars, they’d together learned the profession of warfare, the managing of estates, the ways of women and the ways of the hunt.

Loyalties shifted along the border so sometimes their families were on different sides. In large matters, the lords of Harelby always supported the

interests of the kings of England. In smal , everyday things, supporting one’s neighbors often took precedence and invisible borders disappeared. It had never mattered to Stian and Malcolm which side they fought on on any particular day, they were always fast friends. David of Ayrfel was no man’s friend.

He was a quarrelsome braggart with more temper than sense. He would argue with any man, just for the sake of his own contrariness. While Stian

preferred to hide his mind in silence, Ayrfel was eager to share his vitriolic opinions with al who would listen.

It made having him for a dinner partner less than pleasant.

Stian ignored him through most of the meal, thought Ayrfel grumbled loudly and often about everything and nothing. He had little to say to Nicolaa either, but she seemed to prefer her own thoughts to any words from him.

Eventual y, it became impossible to ignore Ayrfel when he grabbed Stian by the arm and demanded, “Who does that wench think she is, the queen of

England?”

Stian fol owed the man’s gaze to discover Eleanor coming slowly down the stairs.

Before he could answer, his father leaned past Dame Beatrice to speak to Ayrfel , four seats away. “Not the queen, boy, but her goddaughter and

namesake. Speak sweetly of Eleanor of Harelby. Or—” he gave one of his expansive smiles “—I’l let Stian cut out your tongue.”

“’Twould be my pleasure,” Stian responded. At the same time he was thinking,
she’s the queen’s goddaughter? I’m bedding the queen’s goddaughter?

Then he remembered that the queen was no longer in favor, which somewhat eased his sudden awe of his wife.

“’Tis but Stian’s mouse,” Lars spoke up, shouting from the far end of the table. His voice was slurred with drink. “Or was that a biting rat you cal ed her?”

Perhaps it was Lars’ tongue he was going to cut out, never mind Ayrfel though the comment caused him to hoot with laughter. But then, Stian realized, Lars was only repeating his own words back to him. He only hoped Eleanor heard none of the conversation over the noise in the hal .

“She’s beautiful,” Nicolaa said.

This served to focus Stian’s attention back on his wife. It struck him again that she truly was lovely. It was just easier to notice her dark good looks without the incomparable contrast of her sister’s presence.

“It’s not fair,” he said.

“What?” Nicolaa asked.

There was no way to explain, not without Edythe being there for Eleanor to disappear in her shadow. “Nothing,” he said.

Dame Beatrice, seated next to Nicolaa, touched the widow’s sleeve, and said, “It’s not fair he had to marry her.”

“One marries where one’s father chooses,” Nicolaa said before Stian could make any protest.

“Thank God my father died before any bride was forced down my throat,” Ayrfel spoke up. “I’l choose the woman who’l bring
me
the most profit.”

Eleanor paused at the foot of the stair to look around. The room was crowded with a half dozen trestle tables, ful of smoke and noise. Stian watched her looking about through a veil of smoke. He’d half risen to go to her when she gave a gracious smile to a group of wildly gesturing boys and went to join them at their table.

“Squires? Pages?” Dame Beatrice asked. “What’s she doing eating with them?”

“Looking for a bed partner, perhaps?” Ayrfel suggested.

Stian was about to round on the foul-mouthed bastard, when his father said, “She’s being a proper hostess. Court ladies are taught to make one and al

feel welcome, from the youngest to the most exalted.” Roger gave everyone at the table a look that brooked no denial. “Lady Eleanor is merely doing her duty to
my
guests.”

Not even Ayrfel dared to snicker at his host’s words and dinner resumed while Stian lost himself in a red haze of fury. He did not know how long it was until Nicolaa put her hand over his. It was only then that he noticed his eating knife was clenched tight in his fist.

“David’s never been more than a stinging midge,” she leaned close to whisper. “Perhaps your Eleanor is with the squires because there’s no place for

her at your side,” she suggested after a while. “Perhaps she’s jealous.”

He heard the smile in Nicolaa’s voice and laughed outright himself. Though the laughter was used to cover a twinge of emotion that was something like

hope and something like denial. For who would be jealous of him?

“No,” he told his friend. “Courtiers have different ways. My father understands them. I don’t.”

He wondered if he should tel her of al the rules and strange practices Eleanor had told him of the night before. Then again, who would believe such

nonsense as Courts of Love? It was ridiculous to think a man might bow and prance and play the fool just for the sake of pleasing a woman.

Though such foolishness might be useful for cajoling another man’s wife into bed, he had to admit. Lars certainly seemed to think so. Wel , Edythe’s

chastity was more his father’s problem than his own, he decided. Eleanor, who preferred the squires’ company to his, was his immediate concern.

Let him have Nicolaa, Eleanor found herself thinking as she got to talking with the young men around her. What she was having with her dinner, she

decided, was much more entertaining. For at last she had what she wanted, information. The boys were talkative and eager to please, and a few of them

even spoke Norman, though she had to listen careful y to cut through their thick accents.

It al went very wel , she thought, even if she did lose the thread of the conversation sometimes as an inadvertent glance toward the high table would steal her attention away from the lads. Of course, she also gradual y put names and histories to the people sharing Lord Roger’s table. So it wasn’t just Stian who distracted her, despite catching an occasional scowl from him when she did look his way. She didn’t know why he looked at her so, when he looked