Nothing Else Matters (18 page)

Roger looked up from the board game he was playing with Stian as Lars’ shout rang through the hal .

Stian jumped to his feet. “Thieving bastards!” he shouted.

“How large a raiding party this time?” Roger wanted to know.

“Sounds as if the whole clan’s out for blood and plunder,” Lars answered. “I met a messenger from Malcolm on my way back from the abbey. I sent him

and the men I had with me back to help guard the abbey and rode on with the message myself.”

Eleanor was seated behind the high table where a large frame was set up beneath the window. She’d been working on the embroidery with Edythe and

the twins when the angry shout shook her out of a contented reverie. Though only a few hours had passed since Dame Beatrice had gone, a peaceful

aura had seemed to descend over the household. Now, here was trouble.

She looked up, a chil of fear coming over her as the men gathered in the center of the hal around Lars.

She stood, but when she would have gone to Stian, Edythe put her hand out to stop her.

“This is the men’s concern, my dear.”

That her sister was right didn’t soothe Eleanor’s tension any but she did take her seat once more. “Aye.”

It didn’t help when Edythe went on, “I’m afraid we’re in for a border war. My lord has told me of the Muraghs. They and some of the other Scots marcher lords have vowed to have revenge for the capture of their king. My lord thinks it’s just an excuse to loot their neighbors of al they own. Which is what any war is real y, for al I the sense I can make of it,” she added with a sigh.

“Aye, that’s true,” one of the twins said softly.

The men would be going off to fight within a few hours, Eleanor realized as she watched and listened to the plans they made. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t lived al her days among men who went off to war, it was just that she had never before been married to one of them. Just as she was getting used to

having Stian in her bed, in her life, he was going away. Into battle.

She stared at him in open horror. He could be kil ed. There he was laughing his fierce laugh, slapping Lars on the back, talking strategy with his father and total y unconcerned about dying. He was a warrior of course—he’d been trained to this. Even the most gentle knights of Poitiers were more in love with battle than with their ladies. She could see from the wild look of him that her husband was anxious to be away, to be in the fight.

He doesn’t see me
, she thought.
Doesn’t need me or want me now. He wants his squire, his armor, his sword and his horse. Women are for the waiting
time between battles.

As the thoughts came to her, it was as if she had not known the truth of them al along, as if she were a stranger to her own world. It was as if she had never watched by a bedside as a wounded man breathed his last. It was as if she hadn’t been in sieges, hadn’t heard word of a brother dead in Antioch, hadn’t ever seen a sword drawn in anger or blood spil ed on the ground. She closed her eyes and al she saw behind them was Stian, not as the

sunburned angel of the trial but as a man in a tattered mail coat, his blood washing away as he lay in some border stream. Of al the warriors in the world, only Stian mattered to her in that moment and the thought of losing him choked her with tears.

Then she opened her eyes and saw him stil laughing and she couldn’t bear the sound or sight of him. Of anyone. She desperately needed to be alone.

So, even though Edythe cal ed a question after her, she picked up her skirts and fled for the stairs.

Stian wondered at Eleanor’s hurry when she left the hal , at what business the new chatelaine had that took her from her needle. Then he saw the worry on Lady Edythe’s face when he looked her way and thought that perhaps his wife had gone away because something upset her. He rubbed his chin and

ignored a comment from Lars as it occurred to him that Eleanor might actual y miss him when he was away. Perhaps she would worry about him while he

was gone, pine for the sight of him.

“Such as ladies do for gentle knights,” he murmured, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the notion.

“What of gentle knights?” Lars asked, having overheard him.

To divert his cousin from any more questions, Stian put a hand on his shoulder, turning him in Edythe’s direction. “Gentle knights,” he said, “seek tokens from their ladies before riding into battle.” He gave Lars a slight shove but the man was eager enough to approach his lady fair. “Why don’t you see if she’l give you a bit of her embroidery to wear on your sleeve?”

And I’ll try to work up the courage to ask the same from Eleanor
, he thought as he headed toward the stair.

He found her in their room, standing by the bed, looking at nothing and wringing her hands with nervous energy. She was not crying he was relieved to

see, for a woman should be brave when her man went into battle.

Her man. Yes, he was, wasn’t he? And she was his lady. He found himself glancing toward the bookshelf as he hesitated in the doorway. A few days ago

he’d thought he’d die with the frustration of wanting Edythe. He’d thought he could learn to control such sinful urges with learning about men who put women on pedestals to worship from afar. Wel , he was wil ing to wager those men put women on pedestals just so they could look up their skirts. He

didn’t need the poets of another land to tel him how to forget Edythe. Edythe was merely lovely, Eleanor was his.

He went to her, took her in his arms, kissed her then sat her on the bed. He stepped back careful y, for he didn’t have time to have her now, no matter how tempted he might be.

“Tonight,” he said, and she smiled a little. “We’l make tonight so you’l remember me while I’m gone.”

“I won’t forget,” she promised, and he accepted those words as al the token he needed.

He went to his chest and brought out a box, which he brought to her. “My mother’s,” he told her after she’d opened and looked at the sheets of vel um and quil s and inkstone. “She used to write her family sometimes.”

“I see.”

Eleanor’s voice was soft but the look on her face was ful of wonder. The look, he realized, was for him, not the tools for writing. It made him feel warm, content, as if he were basking in summer sunlight.

“You should write your mother,” he said. “If that’s what you want to do.”

“But, your father—”

“You’re my wife, not his. I give you permission.”

She ducked her head then looked up at him through her thick, dark lashes. “Thank you, Stian.”

He nodded. “When you write, send the letter by Hubert to the abbot of St. Randolph’s. He’l see it reaches your mother.”

“I see,” she said again. “Thank you.”

Stian tilted his head to one side and teased her. “You could throw yourself in my arms with gratitude.”

She put the writing box on the bed and stood up. “You have more important things to do right now,” she reminded him. “I’l throw myself into your arms tonight.”

He took her words for a promise. He also saw that for now she wanted to be alone. He understood wanting to be alone. So he contented himself with

cupping her cheek in his palm, drawing in the warmth and softness of her for a moment. Then he went away.

“How did the birthing go?”

Eleanor trudged up the last steps to the bower door and answered as Edythe stood back to let her enter, “It went wel , thank the Holy Mother. Father

Hubert and the girl’s mother are there to tend the babe. My presence in the hut wasn’t needed anymore.” She pul ed off her headrail and shook out her

braids. “I am so tired.”

Tired, yes, but ful of a wild energy as wel . She’d just overseen the birth of a healthy babe, the first birth since she’d become chatelaine. She’d been cal ed out in the hours before dawn, but she’d been expecting it and had a basket already made up with clean linens and bags of medicinal herbs. Hubert had

been in the serf’s hut to help her with the language and the labor had gone quickly.

“I was told Dame Beatrice couldn’t have done better as midwife,” she told her sister.

“But you don’t know a thing about delivering babies.”

“But I looked as if I did,” she told Edythe as they took seats beneath the bower windows.

The morning sunlight that fel across them was bright and strong. The late spring air was growing warm despite the early the hour. Edythe, dressed in dark red, her long gold braids reaching to her waist, looked cheerful y serene and wel rested. Eleanor felt like a grubby puppy beside her. Grubby but satisfied with her lot in life.

Eleanor also longed to go back to bed but it was too late in the day for such a luxury. So she stretched, and told her sister, “I was there when they wanted me there. It was the mother’s mother who did al the work. I think the vil agers want the chatelaine to nurse them so they’l know the people they serve care for them. And it’s not as if I haven’t watched babes be born before. And I know enough about herbs and simples not to poison anyone.”

“That’s true, my dear, and a good thing. I’m sure my lord wouldn’t want you to poison his serfs.”

“His serfs? By holy St. Agnes they are his, aren’t they? In the twenty days I’ve been chatelaine I’ve started to think of them as mine.”

Edythe wiggled her fingers as though she were counting with them. “Twenty days? Has it been so long that my lord’s been away? How swiftly time

moves.”

For Eleanor the time had not moved swiftly at al . For twenty days the keep had been alert for an attack. She’d spent much of her time making sure there were enough provisions in case of a siege. Lord Roger had left a strong guard to mind the wal s, but she’d been responsible for every other detail of the life within. Including sending to York for masons to build Lord Roger’s garderobe. That had been his last concern as he’d left to fight the Scots who’d invaded his lands. He’d wanted her to make sure the thing was wel started by the time he came home.

“I wonder when your lord and mine wil be home?” she asked her sister.

Edythe only shook her head without any show of concern. Edythe never worried about anything. Eleanor wished she had her sister’s serene acceptance

of life. As for herself, only working herself to exhaustion every day for the last twenty had kept her from sleepless nights.

Edythe might be unconcerned herself but she was perceptive as she showed when she leaned over and took Eleanor’s hands in hers. “You need

something more than the doings of Harelby to divert your mind, my dear.”

Eleanor nodded. “Aye. I suppose I do. I suppose I could help Hubert with the plans for the Lady Day festival. I hope Our Lady doesn’t mind that her holy day is being put off until the menfolk come home.”

“Wel , we can’t have a proper Lady Day without the young men, can we?” Edythe asked. “I’m glad I made Hubert see that. He’s such an…odd…young

man, don’t you think?”

Eleanor chuckled. “Odd? I’m not sure he’s more than half Christian. But he’s a good lad.” Stian had told her once that Hubert was a good lad, and now

she understood. Jesu, but she missed the red-haired lout. “Did I tel you that the babe has Hubert’s long hands? And her hair is al dark curls? He said it’s a pity she can’t grow up to be a priest.”

Edythe giggled. “What an odd place this is. I’m sure the priests in Poitiers would cal Hubert’s words blasphemy.”

“Poitiers is far from here,” Eleanor replied. “And a good deal closer to Rome. Hubert thinks the Church was started somewhere cal ed Iona, for that is where the monks who converted this land came from.”

“Odd,” Edythe repeated then a smal frown creased her brows. “There we go again, speaking of nothing but the doings of Harelby’s folk. We’re forgetting there’s anywhere but the cold northland.”

“It does seem to be al I think about these days,” Eleanor admitted.

“It’s not as if this place was as interesting as home.”

“No, of course not. But it’s al —”

“I know,” Edythe interrupted. “You said you were going to write Mother but you haven’t yet. Let’s spend the day composing a letter to her.”

Eleanor got to her feet. “But I have things to—”

“Nonsense. Harelby can do without you for a few hours.” Edythe lifted her head and said with mock arrogance, “The Lady of Harelby commands you to

attend her today.”

Eleanor knew her sister meant her words in jest, but they were not jest at al . It was her duty to obey the Lady of Harelby as chatelaine and Roger’s son’s wife. She didn’t point this out but she did resume her seat. “Very wel ,” she said. “I’l fetch the writing box and we’l work on the letter.”

Edythe clapped her hands with delight. “Splendid. What wil you write?”

Eleanor couldn’t stop the teasing smile that lifted her lips. “Why of Harelby, of course.”

“Yes. What else is there, real y? You’l tel her our news and then she’l write back with hers. She’l be happy to hear any news since I doubt she has little to do in Salisbury. Any part of England is as barbaric as another, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “I suppose. Shal I tel her everything? About how Stian thought you were to be his bride? About how he was drunk at the wedding?

And the look on Hubert’s face when I protested the marriage and then Stian did as wel ? And how he abducted me? And couldn’t remember my name?

And the wolf? And the trial?”

Edythe laughed at al her enthusiastic questions. “By the Lady, sister, I think you are mad.”

Eleanor blinked in surprise. “What? Mad? Why?”

“Because al you seem to think of is Sir Stian. If you look around, you wil see that there are other people at Harelby but Stian.”

Not for me
, Eleanor thought, but did not say so. She blushed instead, and said contritely, “True. I think too much of my own doings. We must tel Mother of al that has befal en us since we saw her last. I wil fetch the vel um.”

As she left, she couldn’t think of anything but what had befal en her. She thought of it and wished Stian would hurry safely home.

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