Immortal Champion (27 page)
Behind the duke’s party, bright gowns and fluttering veils announced a smaller party of women on horseback, surrounded by more knights and men-at-arms, and behind them came wagons bearing serving women and baggage. With a party so grand, the duke clearly intended to rest at Alnwick for some time.
As the cluster of women drew closer, the high-pitched twitter of girlish voices confirmed that the duchess still led her gaggle of fosterlings. And then one voice, husky and lower than the others, caught Gunnar’s ear. Heart thumping, he scanned the group.
There.
Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Her fine black mare pranced along on the far side of the train, where he might not have seen her if he hadn’t heard her voice—
thank you, Freya, for letting me hear her
—and she listened attentively to the swain who rode at her side. Jealousy bubbled through Gunnar, growing even more bitter when he realized that the man beside her was no swain, but Burghersh himself, grown a good hand’s breadth and filled out a little.
thank you, Freya, for letting me hear her
—and she listened attentively to the swain who rode at her side. Jealousy bubbled through Gunnar, growing even more bitter when he realized that the man beside her was no swain, but Burghersh himself, grown a good hand’s breadth and filled out a little.
Her husband. She was here with her prick of a husband.
The blood thundered through Gunnar’s skull, deafening him so he could only watch as she smiled at something Burghersh said and twisted around to speak to the woman on the near side of her. The move let Gunnar see her face straight on, and her evident pleasure in the moment was a spear that went straight to his gut.
He should turn away, he told himself, not torture himself. But just as he hadn’t been able to keep from kissing her that night in the glade, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her now, absorbing every gesture and expression. He knew those lips, those hands, that sweetly curved body. And he knew the hair that hid beneath that silver caul and crimson veil, too, the raven mass her husband would let down each night when he bedded her.
Wrapping his fingers around the tree trunk as if it were Burghersh’s neck, he silently dared the man to betray any hint of discord, any sign he was unkind to Eleanor.
But the husband looked even happier than the wife, clearly doting on her every word, and when Eleanor reached out to touch his knee as she spoke, Gunnar understood. She played her love games with Burghersh the same way she had with him, wielding that potent mix of innocence and seduction to snare him. No wonder the man grinned like a fool.
Did she feel his smile in the dark to see if it was real? Gunnar wondered. Did she shudder in pleasure at his touch? Did she claim to love him?
He tormented himself with questions until he could no longer make her out amongst the others in the dusk, not even her crimson headdress, and as the wagons at the back of the procession creaked past, he retrieved his horse and rode the few miles to Lesbury, where he wrote out a message for Jafri telling him exactly what he wanted him to do.
“DINNER, MY LADY.”
Eleanor kept her eyes on the stitchery she was sorting out for one of the duchess’s young fosterlings. She’d been picking at the girl’s tangle since after chapel and she finally had the knot almost undone. She carefully worked the needle into the wool and gave a little tug, and the final knot loosened and came apart. “There. You are back to where you went awry.”
The girl sighed with relief. “Will you show me the proper way, Lady Eleanor? I have had to pick it out three times already.”
“That is why your yarn looks so worn. And why it was so difficult to untangle this time. You should end it here and start a fresh strand.”
“My lady.” Lucy grew more insistent. “They have already brought out the ewers. Lord Burghersh asks after you.”
Eleanor pinned the needle into the edge of the cloth and laid the piece in the girl’s sewing basket. “We will attend to it later. For now, run ahead, and if Her Grace scolds, you may tell her I kept you.”
“Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.” The child did her courtesy and hurried off. Eleanor just sat there.
Lucy came closer, concern pinching her face. “Do you feel well, my lady?”
“Yes. I am only weary.” So very weary. Of the journey. Of the false smiles. Of pretending. Of all of it.
“Perhaps it is less weariness than riding right past his hall,” ventured Lucy. “We should not have come to Alnwick.”
Eleanor frowned. Lucy had said nothing the day before as they’d ridden through Lesbury, and Eleanor had thought—hoped—her cousin had forgotten that it was Sir Gunnar’s home estate. Apparently, she had not. She motioned for Lucy to come sit by her in the window nook, where their words wouldn’t carry.
“You know it was never my intent to come here. I agreed to accompany Richard only as far as Warkworth,” she said quietly. It had been Her Grace who insisted the women come to Alnwick with the duke.
Lucy shook her head. “Even Warkworth was too close.”
“I didn’t know that,” Eleanor protested. “I have never been so far north. It was merely a name to me. I thought only to keep York from gaining too much influence over Richard. He schemes to control him very nearly as much as my father does.”
Lucy sighed heavily. “I know, but . . .”
“If it eases your mind, Sir Gunnar once told me he seldom visits his lands. He is unlikely to be here.”
“I hope you are correct. I beg you, my lady, be wise about this.”
“I have been wise for better than two years. Why would you think I would suddenly change?” She rose and shook out her skirts. “Now come. As you said, my lord husband waits.”
As they went downstairs, she pinched her cheeks, so that she entered the hall with a healthy glow and a smile on her lips. Richard responded as he always did, grinning like a happy pup. That pleased her enough to make her smile come more easily; as long as she kept him enraptured, she had some power.
“There you are,” he said, motioning the ewerer back. “What kept you?”
“Forgive me. I was entangled in a string.” She quickly explained to the table as she washed and dried her hands in the rosemary-scented water.
“You were good to help her. I remember how demanding Her Grace was of your stitching.” Richard introduced her to the men at the table as the first course was carried out. She knew many of them by name if not face; they rode for one of her royal cousins, John, Duke of Bedford, who was holding Alnwick on behalf of his brother, the king. It was Bedford that York had come to visit, for reasons to which Eleanor was not privy.
Dinner itself was a leisurely meal, the many courses occupying a goodly portion of the midday hours. However, the moment York and Bedford had finished the last bite of sweet, they were ready to ride to the hunt. The men excused themselves, Richard included, and they all trooped out.
All but one dark, whip-thin knight who seemed to be attached to neither Bedford nor York, nor even Alnwick. There was something familiar about him, but though Eleanor stared at him, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. To her consternation, he seemed just as interested in her, studying her from across the hall.
A varlet came by collecting the spoons from the table. As he reached for hers, she motioned with her eyes. “Do you know yon knight? The one with the hungry look about him.”
The old man barely glanced at where she pointed. “That would be Sir Geoffrey, my lady.”
Eleanor waited, expecting more, but the man went back to dropping spoons into his basket. She prodded. “And just who is Sir Geoffrey?”
“A friend of Sir Gunnar’s, from over Lesbury way.”
“He’s here?” Her voice cracked, making the fellow look up from his work. She quickly lowered her voice. “I mean, is Sir Gunnar at Lesbury now?”
“Aye, my lady. I ween he came a week back or thereabouts. You know the gentleman, then?”
After the way she’d reacted, he’d know it was a lie if she denied it. “I met him once, long ago.”
“You must have met Sir Geoffrey, too, then, for he always comes and goes with Sir Gunnar.” He worried his cheek with his tongue. “Though I don’t believe I’ve ever seen them at table together.”
Ah, God. Not Geoffrey.
Jafri.
The friend Gunnar had mentioned.
Jafri.
The friend Gunnar had mentioned.
He’d been at Richmond, she realized now, a lean, ravenous man who’d been as fond of the meat during the day as Gunnar had been the fire at night. She’d taken note of him as a strange face in the hall, just as she’d taken note of Gunnar, but for whatever reason, she’d never approached him. And she’d certainly never linked him and Gunnar in her mind.
She suddenly realized that the varlet was eyeing her curiously, waiting for some answer. “Pardon, what was that you said?”
“That I’ve never seen them together, m’lady. He and Sir Gunnar.”
“They, um, keep very different hours, as I recall. Though as I said, it has been a good many years since I spoke to either of them.”
“Did you not pass through Lesbury when you came here, my lady?”
“We did not stop.” Oh, thank the saints they hadn’t stopped. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucy rise and head her way. She quickly dismissed the man with thanks. He dipped his head and went back to his spoons, jangling away with his basket to clear the next table. Eleanor dared a glance at Jafri and caught him still watching her. Assessing her.
He knew who she was, she realized. If he told Gunnar she was here . . .
“My lady?” Lucy came around the end of the table carrying a bunch of grapes. “Is something wrong? You are very pale.”
“I . . . I . . .” She stared up at Lucy, unable to tell her. “It is too close in here.”
“Perhaps we should go out for a breath of air.”
Outside, where she just might be able to spy a noble red bull in the fields. Outside, where she could be in Lesbury before dark, even on foot.
It was only three miles—she’d counted them out as they rode—and from what York had said, less than thirty to Scotland riding cross-country or forty by the road. They could be across the border almost before Richard realized she was gone. She could be with him.
As though he knew her thoughts, Jafri stood up and started to work his way across the hall toward her.
Oh, sweet Mother of God, what was she thinking? Her father’s archers still lurked about waiting for Gunnar to show his face. If he even so much as tried to catch a glimpse of her . . .
She couldn’t go outside. She couldn’t stay here at all. She jumped to her feet.
“My lady,” the dark knight began. “I have—”
“Your pardon,
monsire
. I feel a sick headache coming on.” She grabbed Lucy’s arm and dragged her toward the door. “Come help me to bed. I will be going nowhere today.”
monsire
. I feel a sick headache coming on.” She grabbed Lucy’s arm and dragged her toward the door. “Come help me to bed. I will be going nowhere today.”
SINCE THE DAY
she’d been brought to serve Lady Eleanor at the age of seven, Lucy’s afternoons had belonged to her noble cousin. There was always sewing and embroidery to do or the lady’s wardrobe to attend to, or she might be called on to run errands in the village or simply to pass time with Eleanor herself, reading or singing. Her duties were never unpleasant or difficult, they were just always there to be done, and they always had been.
she’d been brought to serve Lady Eleanor at the age of seven, Lucy’s afternoons had belonged to her noble cousin. There was always sewing and embroidery to do or the lady’s wardrobe to attend to, or she might be called on to run errands in the village or simply to pass time with Eleanor herself, reading or singing. Her duties were never unpleasant or difficult, they were just always there to be done, and they always had been.
But now, banished by Lady Eleanor’s demand for darkness and silence because of her sick headache, and with no service owing elsewhere because they were away from home, Lucy found herself free, her only obligation to herself.
She wandered the village the first day of her lady’s illness, and the mill and tannery the next, but on the third day, when threshing began and tawny clouds of chaff and dust rose over everything, she kept to the castle grounds, where the air was a little cleaner. She didn’t expect to find much of note; in the years of trailing around from place to place after Eleanor, she’d learned that a castle was a castle, and that much the same thing went on in every one. But at nearly five acres all told, Alnwick’s baileys were larger than most. Perhaps there was something new to see.
She visited the stables and smithy, where she watched the men bend the iron for a window grate, then found her way to the herb garden, where she broke off a stem of mint to suck on and spent a pleasant while sitting on a stone bench watching the bees as they hurried to gather the last of the summer nectar. The sun was warm and the gentle buzzing lulled her, and after a time she found her head nodding. After a quick glance around to confirm she was alone, she leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and let herself drift, balanced on the edge of sleep, only vaguely aware of the odd noises that strayed over the garden wall.
“Tread carefully, Stephen.” The male voice was almost on top of Lucy. Startled, she shot to her feet—and right into a pair of strong arms that caught her up. “You never know what fearsome creatures you may find amongstst the Mary-golds. You can see how they spring upon a man without warning.”
Lucy found herself looking into Henry Percy’s grinning face. “Sir Henry! I didn’t know you were at Alnwick.”
“I only just arrived.” Keeping his hold on Lucy, Henry gave a nod to the page at his heel. “Stephen, go and tell His Grace that I have been attacked and will see him when I have escaped.”
“I have my balance now,” said Lucy as the boy hurried off. “You can let me go.”
“Why would I want to do that, when I can hold the sweetest maid in the castle?” He pressed a kiss to her temple. Flustered, she closed her eyes and he added a trail of kisses over her eyelids. “And the warmest, I vow. It is like holding the sun in my arms, if the sun smelled of mint. Were you sleeping?”
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