“That would not be very Christian of you, my lady,” he said blandly. “An accusation like that could get a man strung up by his cock.”
“I would hope so,” she said, without blinking an eye, and he burst out laughing.
“I thought convent-bred blossoms like you were supposed to swoon dead away at the droop of a petal! Where did you learn to fight dirty, like a sailor in a whorehouse brawl?”
He was laughing again, but Ellen could not tell if he was truly amused by her effrontery or merely saving face. She said nothing, afraid to push her luck any further, and was very relieved when he drew back, put some space between them.
“I’ll send a man to the cog’s master.” He paused, hand on the door latch. “In truth, I was going to give you the herbs all along. But by God, I’d not have missed your performance for the world!”
Ellen waited until he stopped laughing. “When I was out on deck, I saw that some of my men were wounded, some of the crew, too. I would like to share the herbs and ointments with them.” Adding tonelessly, “If that meets with your approval.”
“Why not?” He was still smiling. “You do have pluck, lass, damn me if you do not! I like that in a woman, have always fancied a cat with claws. But I cannot help wondering if Eleanor of Brittany had pluck, too—in the beginning.”
Huddled in a far corner of the cabin, Juliana had been a mute and miserable witness, immobilized as much by her seasickness as by her fear. As soon as the door closed, though, she struggled weakly to her feet, for Ellen had gone ashen. She sat down abruptly upon the edge of the bed, and Juliana fought back her nausea, lurched unsteadily across the cabin. It seemed to her that, for all his talk about Ellen’s claws, Thomas was the one who’d drawn blood, and she found herself fumbling for comfort when there was none.
“Your lady mother would have been so proud of you, Ellen. For certes, I was. But…but who is this Eleanor of Brittany?”
Ellen leaned over, reassured herself that Amaury’s breathing was still steady. “She was our kinswoman, my grandfather’s niece. She and her brother Arthur were his rivals for the English crown, and when they fell into his hands, Arthur disappeared into one of John’s strongholds, never to be seen again. As for Eleanor…she was but seventeen or so, said to be very pretty. John sent her to Bristol Castle, kept her in comfortable confinement…”
Ellen’s voice trailed off. After a long silence, she looked up at the other woman, her mask utterly gone. “They held her captive for the rest of her life, Juliana. For nigh on forty years…”
With Ellen’s knights and crew locked up in the hold, Thomas manned the cog with his own sailors and headed back for the Isles of Scilly. When they dropped anchor in a sheltered cove at St Mary’s Island, he’d planned to sail at dawn. But fog crept in during the darkness, ghostly grey sea-clouds that muffled sound and blotted out the sky, trapping them in a blind man’s world of eerie, shadowed silence. The pirates did not share Brian’s faith in his magnetic sailing needle, would not venture from port until the fog lifted, and the days dragged by. Ellen had never been claustrophobic—until now. The cabin walls seemed to be shrinking; at night she began to dream of sunless dungeon cells and open coffins. By the time they finally set sail, she was desperate to get under way again, even though Edward would be waiting at the end of her journey.
No one would tell her anything, but by observing sunsets from the porthole, she was able to determine that they were sailing north. There was no surprise, then, when the cog and its escort galleys turned east into the Bristol Channel, for she’d already guessed their destination, the English port of Bristol.
Ellen awakened at dawn. Beside her, Juliana still slept, and she rose as quietly as she could, making a half-hearted attempt to smooth some of the wrinkles from her gown. She’d always had her share of vanity, but it had not survived the first hours of her captivity. If she looked disheveled and haggard upon landing, so much the better. She wanted the world to see her just as she was, a woman abducted and imprisoned against her will by England’s King.
Amaury was beginning to stir, and she crossed to the bed. “How do you feel this morn?”
“Well, I’m breathing,” he said and gave her a lopsided smile, for his face was still badly bruised and swollen. “But I’d like to meet the fool who put about the fable that sea air is good for a man’s health.”
Ellen tried to smile back, although without much conviction. She knew he was still in pain. She had learned in this past week to recognize the subtle indications, for he would no more admit to his blinding headaches and aching jaw than he would to his fear. He had to be afraid; she herself was terrified for him and what he might face. But he’d chosen to confront that fate as his brothers would, and as much as she yearned for truth between them, she felt compelled to honor his choice. He was going to need whatever strength he could muster, from whatever source.
“How is your headache? I think there is some sage left…” She was turning to look when he reached up, caught her hand.
“Wait. I have something for you, kitten.” Pulling a ring from his finger, he pressed it into her palm. “I want you to hold this for me.”
The ring, a sapphire set into the shape of a cross, was far more than a family heirloom. For the de Montforts, it was an icon. Ellen closed her eyes, seeing it flash on her father’s hand, seeing her mother clutch it to her heart as if it were a rosary. “I cannot take Papa’s ring. Mama wanted you to have it, Amaury.”
“And how long do you think I’d keep it?” he asked, quite evenly. “It will be safer with you.”
She did not know what to say, for to deny it was to lie, and to agree was to abandon even the pretense of hope. Threading the ring through her crucifix chain, she concealed it in the bodice of her gown.
Just then a cresting wave slammed into the ship, and Ellen was sent careening across the cabin. She was clinging to the porthole as the cog righted itself, revealing the distant silhouette of snow-dusted hills. As she watched, they came into clearer focus, browned and stark, sloping down toward the sea, and she suddenly realized that she was looking upon Wales. It was her first glimpse of her husband’s homeland, and it seemed likely it would be her last.
Ellen had assumed that once they were no longer in the pirate chieftain’s power, things were bound to get better. They did not. The constable of Bristol Castle, Sir Bartholomew de Joevene, treated her with impeccable courtesy, installed her and Juliana in a spacious bedchamber, even restored to her the personal belongings that had been seized on the ship. But she had been separated from Amaury soon after their arrival, and the constable politely refused to allow her to see him. He also rebuffed all her attempts to learn what Edward intended, and as the days passed, Ellen discovered that anxiety and isolation were as incendiary a combination as flint and tinder.
She’d not realized how much strength she’d drawn from Amaury’s presence. While on the Holy Cross, at least they’d been facing danger together, and there had been comfort in that. Now, not knowing what was happening to him or how he was being treated, she was finding it harder and harder to keep her fears in check. Her imagination seemed set upon sabotaging her self-control, conjuring up lurid images of royal dungeons, of prisoners left to rot in bitter-cold blackness. She’d been at her bedchamber window when her household knights were herded into the bailey, and she’d been disturbed to see them all in fetters and gyves, even the Franciscan friars. Was Amaury, too, shackled in chains? And she began to be haunted by a harrowing daylight dream, seeing her brother lying alone in darkness, listening to the rustling as rats crept closer in the straw.
Ellen was worried, as well, about Hugh, for he had not been among the prisoners taken into custody by the Bristol constable. Where was he? Had he somehow managed to escape? Or had he died down in the cog’s dank, fetid hold? Like so many of her questions, these, too, went unanswered.
By the time her first week’s captivity finally drew to an end, Ellen had begun to fear that nothing was going to change, that her world wa
s to be bounded forevermore by the stone walls of Bristol Castle, peopled only by regrets, solitude, and the sorrowful ghost of Eleanor of Brittany. But on January 29th, the ninth day of her confinement, a young knight was ushered into her chamber, diffidently identified himself as Sir Nicholas de Seyton, and after some hemming and hawing, revealed that he was here to deliver her into the custody of Sir Geoffrey de Pychford, constable of Windsor Castle.
De Seyton was so obviously embarrassed by his mission that Ellen took heart. Summoning up her most engaging smile, she assured him that she and Juliana would be ready to leave within the hour, “after I say farewell to my brother.”
He looked, if possible, even more discomfited. “My lady, I am truly sorry. I would that—”
But Ellen had at last reached her breaking point. “I am not going to Windsor Castle until I see Amaury! You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming out to the bailey, gag me and tie me to my horse, and even then—”
“My lady, I would never do that! You do not understand. If it were up to me, I’d right gladly let you see your brother. But it is too late. He is gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
De Seyton gave her a look of such unmistakable pity that Ellen’s breath stopped. “According to the constable, Lord Amaury’s escort left at first light…for Corfe Castle.”
They passed the first night of their journey at a hospice in the village of Chippenham. But the next day winter took a nasty turn, and by the time they reached the royal castle at Marlborough, they were half-frozen, rain-soaked and mud-splattered. Saturday dawned just as raw and wet, and Juliana was grateful when Sir Nicholas de Seyton announced that they would be remaining at Marlborough until the weather cleared. It was not often, she’d confided to Ellen, that prisoners were blessed with such a gentle gaoler. Ellen had turned away wordlessly, and Juliana could have bitten her tongue in two, for she knew what Ellen was seeing—Amaury riding in shackles down a mud-mired West Country road.
February arrived in a frigid downpour. They’d been given one of the most comfortable tower chambers, boasting a wall fireplace and glazed windows. But not even a flaming hearth-log could dispel the chill. Jerking a blanket from the bed, Juliana came over and draped it about Ellen’s shoulders.
“Ellen, we need to talk. When we were on that wretched cog, I was so greensick that I could be of no help at all. But now that I’m myself again, I can shoulder some of the burden, if you’ll let me. At the least, I can listen. You’ve uttered nigh on a dozen words in the past three days, and I think I know why. It is Corfe Castle, is it not?”
Ellen glanced up sharply, and Juliana said apologetically, “I asked Sir Nicholas last night and he told me of its ugly history. He said it has long been a royal prison, that it is—”
“Infamous. The Crown sends to Corfe those prisoners they want to disappear, to be forgotten by the rest of the world.”
“But well-guarded prisoners can be well-treated, too, Ellen. Remember what you told me about Prince Llewelyn’s father? He was sent to the Tower! But you said he was kept in a large, comfortable chamber, even allowed visits from his wife. Why should you fear the worst for Amaury? He is Edward’s cousin, after all.”
“My father was Edward’s uncle and godfather. That availed him naught at Evesham.” Ellen jumped up, began to pace. “If only I’d insisted that Amaury remain in France! If not for me, he’d be—”
“Ellen, do not do this to yourself! I never met your lord father or Harry, but I loved Bran, and I know Amaury, and I’ve met Guy. The de Montfort men have always done just as they damned well pleased, and the Devil take the hindmost. How could you have stopped Amaury? Tied him to his bed whilst he slept? This is not your fault. Put the blame where it rightly belongs, squarely upon the head of your cousin the King!”
“I do,” Ellen said, very low, “I do,” and after that, there was not much more to be said.
Juliana wandered over to the window. It was set in glass, which, if no longer such a rarity, was still exorbitantly expensive, the best being imported from Normandy and Venice at great cost. But from what Juliana had heard of King Edward’s father, he’d never been one to stint himself, not where his comfort was concerned. Although the glass was supposed to be white, it had an unmistakable green tinge, and it was so uneven, thick in places, thinner in others, that even on a sunlit day, it was like peering into a pond, viewing distorted images through a wavering wall of water. But a flash of color had drawn Juliana’s eye and she rubbed her fist against the clouded pane until a clear spot appeared. “Just as I thought, riders in the bailey!”
She was pleased when Ellen came over to look, for this was the first flicker of curiosity to pierce Ellen’s apathy in more than three days. “They look half-drowned, poor souls. How glad I am that we’ve passed the day at the hearth and not out on the road or in those fearful woods…what are they called again?”
“Savernake. A royal forest, if my memory—” Ellen broke off, leaned forward, and scrubbed furiously at the window moisture with the palm of her hand. “Dear God!”
She spun away from the window with such haste that she stumbled, had to grab the back of a chair for support. “It was not the rain that kept us here. We’ve been waiting for him!”
“Him?” Juliana looked again at the figures below, muffled and hooded and anonymous in muddied travel mantles. But as she strained to see, a gust of wind caught the sodden banner and it unfurled like a sail, revealing three golden lions on a field of crimson, the royal arms of the English Crown.
“I cannot face him, Juliana—not yet. I thought I’d have more time, I thought…What am I going to do?”
“Ellen, why are you so distraught of a sudden? You must not give way like this. Just remember how you dared to defy Thomas the Archdeacon. Surely you do not fear Edward more than that accursed pirate?”
“It is not Edward I fear, it is myself, my weakness.”
“I do not understand.”
“In this past week, you’ve sought to cheer me, to offer hope, even though I knew there was none. I’ve said nothing as you dwelled at length upon Llewelyn’s anger, the indignation of His Holiness the Pope…as if they could set us free by the righteous fervor of their wrath.”
“But surely—”
“No, Juliana, hear me out. Of course Llewelyn will be outraged. And the Pope will, indeed, protest, just as you say, for the Church tends to its own. But neither Llewelyn nor the Pope can prevail against Edward. God knows the Welsh do not lack for courage, but there are fully twenty Englishmen for every Welshman drawing breath. How could Llewelyn rescue me? He could only destroy himself in the attempt. As for the Church, if it comes to weighing a papal chaplain against a crusader-King, can you truly doubt how their scales will tip? And that would hold no less true for the French King; Edward is his cousin, a brother sovereign. You may be sure he’ll not fight a war to right our wrong.”
“Ellen, you must not despair like this, must not surrender all hope!”
“I cannot delude myself either, Juliana, not with so much at stake. Do you not see now why I am so frightened? Amaury and I are utterly at Edward’s mercy, and I am not at all sure that he has any. We have just one chance, if I can somehow win him over, convince him that we pose no threat. But I am not ready for that, not yet. He is no fool. How can I make him believe…”
Too dispirited to continue, Ellen sank down in the chair, and Juliana dropped onto her knees beside her, caught Ellen’s hand in her own. “Listen to me. You’ve never yet met a man you could not beguile. I know it will not be easy. But was it easy on the Holy Cross? You made yourself smile at that pirate, whilst wanting to spit in his face. You did what had to be done. You always do. I have faith, Ellen, faith in you.”
“Faith,” Ellen echoed, so bitterly that on her lips, it sounded almost like an obscenity. “I would to God I—” She stiffened, and Juliana heard it, too, footsteps drawing near their door.
De Seyton looked like a man doing gallows duty against his will. “My lady, forgive
me for intruding upon your privacy. But the King’s Grace has arrived, and he wishes to see you. I would be honored to escort you, if that meets with your approval?”
Ellen got slowly to her feet. “I am ready,” she said, and then, “Thank you, Sir Nicholas.”
His smile was pleased, but quizzical, too. “For what, Lady Eleanor?”
Ellen let her fingers slide along her crucifix chain until she found her father’s ring. “For making it sound,” she said, “as if I had a choice.”
The King’s chamber was large and well-lit, wainscotted in Norway pine, strewn with fragrant floor rushes. All it lacked was Edward. De Seyton escorted Ellen to a cushioned window-seat, prepared to wait with her for Edward’s return. She was heartened by his obvious protectiveness. If only Edward shared de Seyton’s chivalry. Yes, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Her father had been one for quoting that; he’d always liked to sound much more unsentimental than he truly was. Mayhap he had been as unforgiving and fiery-tempered as the rest of the world thought, but not to her, never to her. Thinking about Papa now would not help, though. She had to think about Edward, only Edward. Was he deliberately keeping her waiting? If so, he’d reckoned wrong, for she welcomed the reprieve.
Let him stay away until Lent and she’d thank God fasting. The more time she had to steady her nerves, to settle upon a stratagem, the more grateful she’d be. Edward Plantagenet. Her cousin Ned. Harry had called him Longshanks, for he’d not always been the enemy. There’d been a time when he and Harry and Bran had been inseparable. Would it help or hurt to remind him of that? It was said he had wept over Harry’s body. Just hours after allowing her father to be butchered, hacked into so many pieces there’d been little left to bury. Jesú, no, she must not think of that now. Why did everything begin and end with Evesham?