The King's Champion

Lord Henry stretched out a hand and clapped his son on the shoulder, ‘Fare thee well, Rupert. We will see you on the morrow.’ With a rueful glance thrown at his womenfolk, he concluded drily, ‘Our duty lies elsewhere. The fight is yours.’

Rupert nodded, and melted away into the dark shadows of Westminster without a backward glance as his family hurried across the lawns to the stairs leading down to the embankment and their waiting barge.

It was a silent journey, punctuated only by the clunk and splash of the oars as they rose and plunged through the oily black waters of the river, and by Eleanor’s hiccups as she sniffed, a violent shivering now taking hold of her as shock set in. She could scarce believe what had happened, and through it all she could only see the crimson of blood and the face of Troye de Valois. Never in her life had she seen such an expression upon a man’s face. Such grim determination, such brutal ruthlessness. Again she shuddered, as goosebumps flared across her skin. And yet her heart had been thrilled, for he was her hero. Her heart had spoken, saying aye, this is the one, the other half that would make the emptiness within her complete, and no counsel from her head would alter her heart’s desire.

With relief she alighted at Cheapside and with her family made haste to seek the comfort and safety of their own camp. Ensconced within the shadowy tent bearing the banner of Raven, Lady Joanna prepared hot spiced wine to ease their shock.

Uncle Remy lifted his goblet and said, ‘Here’s to Troye de Valois. Once again he has saved our Eleanor.’

The others murmured in agreement, even Lord Henry reluctantly, and, with a small frown, added his own toast of gratitude. Ellie took a few sips and felt the warmth spread through her body, and then with a whisper she excused herself and hurried to her own tent. Quickly she stripped off her bloodstained gown and flung it away. She washed in water that was cold but ready to hand; it was not until she was clean and dressed in her nightshift that she sank down upon the furs of her cot and covered her face with both hands.

It thrilled her to think that Troye de Valois had indeed saved her life. She could so easily have been cut down in the fray, her slender body sliced like a ribbon by the threshing swords. And yet gratitude was not the emotion that came foremost to her mind. Aye, her heart might well be smitten by the heroics, but in her mind she could see only the horror. Valour and chivalry were clean and bright and beautiful attributes, but there could be no honour in bloodlust. She ached to know whether Troye was all right, if he had survived the attack unharmed. It irked her bitterly to think that she could not go to him, tend his wounds if he had any, hold him and comfort him. But soon, one day, she would be able to do all of that. For it was obvious to her that they were destined to be together. So thinking, she lay down, hugged her pillow and smiled as she fell asleep.

In the morning Lord Henry wasted no time in taking his family to Cheapside, impatiently chivvying his wife and daughter as they dressed and broke their fast on bread and cheese. As they took out combs and ribbons impatiently he muttered that they were lovely enough to have no need to waste their time, and his, upon needless ‘titivating’. Mother and daughter exchanged a glance, Lady Joanna making comment upon the use of such a word, and yet taking pity on her husband as she realised his anxiety to meet up with Rupert and hear all the details of last night’s fray.

Remy, still a warrior at heart despite the comforts of marriage, was also eager to hear more news of the night before. Remy and Lord Henry discussed the whys and wherefores and whatnots of the attack upon the King as they rode to the tourney field, and Ellie listened with curious ears, eager to hear the name Troye de Valois. She felt a glow of pride that he received nothing but praise this morn, for a man who failed to earn the admiration and respect of her kin was, in her eyes, no man at all.

At the tournament they seated themselves in the canopied stands, as the crowds came drifting in while the sun rose higher in the blue sky. Chatter ebbed and flowed on the breeze, the smell of dust and horses, roasted pork and smoke from the cooking fires, drifting and swirling around the arena. It would be another very bright and hot day, and already ladies were seeking the shade of awnings and fanning themselves with parchment and sipping lemonade kept cool in barrels of Thames water.

Seated in their stand, Ellie watched as a pageboy came tripping up the steps and handed her father a rolled letter, tied with a red ribbon. Lord Henry nodded his thanks and turned away, to one side, while he opened it.

Eleanor looked about, eager to catch a glimpse of the jousting knights, seeking out a particular profile, dark eyes and broad shoulders, but Troye de Valois was not yet out on the field. Her curiosity about him was too powerful to resist and she asked her father questions that were vaguely disguised, in the hope of finding out more about him.

‘Do you think life is very hard for Rupert?’ she asked, as they sat close together on the benches, her mother chatting to her Aunt Beatrice as they appraised the fashions of the other ladies.

Her father looked up from the parchment letter he was perusing, with a frown, and glanced at Eleanor, ‘What do you mean?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, I wondered what life must be like for Rupert, now that he is serving in the King’s Own.’

Lord Henry carefully rolled up the letter and retied the scarlet ribbon. ‘Aye, life will be harder than the easy comforts of living at home. But that is what a knight expects, little comfort and no thanks. A bedroll upon the floor, or a muddy field, food not fit for hounds, and the soldier’s curse of long separations from his loved ones.’

‘Then why do it?’ asked Eleanor.

Her father smiled, and looked away into the distance. ‘That is a question that could have many answers, my little dove. For some men, being a warrior is all they know, for others they are escaping pain of some kind, and for a few, a very few, they seek the glory of valour.’

‘Once I would have been a knight,’ said Eleanor, ‘but now I am heartily glad that I am a lady.’

‘So am I.’ He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, ‘Now, fear not for Rupert, he can well take care of himself.’

She had the grace to blush, aware that she could not confess her concerns were not all for her brother. Roundly she chided herself for allowing her thoughts to dwell upon Troye de Valois, and briskly reminded herself that thoughts of Rupert should come first. After all, who was Troye de Valois? They had scarce spoken more than a few words to each other and, though he lived in her heart and her dreams, the truth was that he had not yet become a reality, a part of her life that she so longed him to be. But these facts neither daunted nor diminished her feelings. She felt a happy glow and smiled as she envisioned a rosy future, for she was young and beautiful; surely, by now, Troye must know that her hand was on offer for marriage? It was only a matter of time before he approached her father with a proposal.

Eagerly she watched as the jousting began. How great was her impatience as the lesser knights took their turns, their horses thundering down the length of the list and the crowds cheering as one or the other was knocked from the saddle by a thrusting lance. Towards mid-day, at last, Troye de Valois rode out, much to the delight of his adoring onlookers, for Eleanor was not the only one smitten.

She watched avidly as Troye dispatched his opponents in quick and ruthless succession, yet she was relieved that Rupert was not riding. He had lost his footing carrying the body of a would-be assassin down a stairwell the night before, and was now sitting on the sidelines, nursing a twisted ankle and feeling like a chump as his comrades teased him. The day’s competition ended all too soon and the crowds began to drift away, discussing the merits and faults of their favourite combatants and eagerly anticipating the crowning glory.

The jousting knights had the following day off to rest and prepare, in readiness for the final contest on Saturday. In the afternoon the King again opened his court at Westminster and as Eleanor entered the hall she felt the sting of goosebumps prickle on her skin. But the floorboards had been scrubbed clean, the guard had been doubled and there was a defiantly festive air to the gathering as the court gathered to eat and drink and make merry. The King was overheard to say that no paltry assassination attempt would have him cowering away in his chamber.

‘’Tis not our way, my lords, for the English to cower in fear!’

‘Nay, indeed, your Majesty!’

‘A toast…’ the King raised his goblet ‘…to the fighting spirit of Englishmen!’

His salute was echoed, but one of his closest chancellors murmured that it would not be wise to make too much of the matter, for the Scots might yet try again and it would do the King no good to become lax.

‘Bollocks to them!’ cried Edward, rising from his elaborate chair upon its royal dais. He waved at the musicians to play, shouted for more wine, exhorted his subjects to partake of the mountains of delicious food laid out on tables in an adjoining chamber, and called for the five guardsmen who had fought like lions to defend his life the night before.

From out of the crowd they came, five young men standing together, looking sheepish at all the attention, amongst them Austin Stratford and Troye de Valois. They were tall, broad-shouldered young men, with that lean and confident look in their eyes that proclaimed their profession as fighting men.

‘See ye these fine lads, such knights as no kingdom on God’s earth has the good fortune as I to have their allegiance. Tonight I reward them, for with their own lives they did mine protect and save. I have not a scratch upon me. Anything they want, they shall have. Come, Sir Austin, tell me what it is you most desire and it is yours.’

Sir Austin looked about with a bemused glance, and he half-turned to Troye de Valois with a silent plea for assistance. Troye merely shrugged, as much at a loss as Austin, for what, indeed, would any Englishman dare ask of his King? Taking pity on the floundering and blushing Austin, he turned to the King with a small bow and murmured, ‘We seek no reward, your Majesty, for we have merely done our duty.’

Someone called out a cheer of approval for Troye’s reply, and others still clapped their hands, until the entire hall applauded and cheered. And then, as the King exhorted the ladies present to dance with these fine fellows, Troye stepped forward and begged permission for a private word. The King eyed him shrewdly, reluctant to single out one amongst the five for any favouritism, however true it might be that Troye de Valois was indeed his favourite knight. He valued the noble attributes of honour and courage and strength, all of these clearly abundant in Troye. So it was that he refused Troye permission for a word in private, and yet granted him leave to speak, here and now.

Troye looked about as the guests jostled closer, eager to fuel their lust for gossip, and a flush stained his face beneath its summer tan. To one side he saw the beautiful face of young Ellie, her eyes wide and just as curious as all the others. How he wished he could have prevented her from hearing in public his news, for it had not escaped his notice that she had feelings for him, a childish crush, no doubt, but he had no desire to hurt one so young and innocent. His jaw clenched as he bowed deeply to his King and murmured in a tense voice, ‘’Tis a matter I would prefer to discuss in private, your Majesty.’

‘Indeed?’ The King stroked his beard and looked about. ‘Come now, Sir Troye. We must have no secrets here amongst brothers at arms, for secrets are weapons that our enemies could, and would, use against us.’ He turned and climbed the dais steps, seating himself upon his ornate chair and eyed Troye with a frown. ‘Could this matter you wish to discuss have anything to do with your absence from court last autumn and winter?’

For a wild moment Troye wondered if the King already knew, and his heart hammered painfully in his chest. With downcast eyes he replied, ‘Your Majesty is indeed wise.’

‘I am only guessing, Sir Troye, for every rumour in the kingdom reaches my ears eventually. But rumours remain just that, until the truth is admitted.’ Edward’s eyes were very hard, any warmth rapidly fading as his worst fears seemed about to be realised. ‘Spit it out, lad, for I am not a patient man.’

‘Your Majesty—’ Troye took a deep breath and seized both his fate and his courage as valiantly as he could ‘—Sire…I have married.’

A gasp escaped from the guests crowding closer, eager to hear the goings-on. From the corner of his eye he saw Ellie press one hand to her mouth and one to her heart. Her face paled visibly.

The King fiddled with the great signet ring on his right hand, his eyes never leaving Troye for a moment. ‘And marriage is a crime you feel a need to confess? I had thought it was more of a blessing, to be celebrated.’

‘Your Majesty, I beg your indulgence and your great mercy, for I have married the one woman I truly love and will always love, as you have loved your Eleanor. But, sire, forgive me, I beg you, my wife is a Jewess.’

‘What!’ roared the King, his shout echoing the collective cries of astonishment about the hall. ‘So you have married a woman of the Jewish faith? When I have expelled from our kingdom these—these heathens, these leeches and troublemakers!’

‘It is not so, sire,’ Troye protested. ‘They are good people, my wife is a kind and gentle soul—’

But the King would not listen. In his anger he signalled for the yeoman guards to come forwards and ordered them to take Troye to the Tower, where he was to be imprisoned while he gave further thought to the matter. They hustled Troye away, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as he passed between them, his jaw set and his gaze defiant.

Ellie could only stare, as the blood seemed to drain from her face, from her very heart, and disappear. The hall seemed to whirl and tip in a crazy slant, as the dizzy impact of shock hit her.

Troye was married.

He loved another.

These two sudden facts were hard for her to understand, and there was only confusion and astonishment for the moment; the pain and the tears would come later. She watched, like everyone else, as the guards marched him away, wondering what would happen to him, how long would he spend imprisoned in the grim confines of the fortress known as the Tower. Who was the woman that had claimed her Troye?

Whatever the answers to these questions, one fact remained—her dreams were shattered.

Chapter Four

News of Troye de Valois’s disgrace swept through London like fire leaping across dry summer fields. It crossed all boundaries and both commonfolk and nobles of the Court knew of his downfall. The final contest of the tournament had to be cancelled. Tents were uprooted, the lists dismantled, and disgruntled traders relying on the rich pickings of the tournament day muttered darkly. Lord Henry Raven supervised the packing of his own pavilion and bid his son farewell.

‘Send word to us,’ he said to Rupert, ‘should you need anything.’

‘And let us know when there is any news on de Valois,’ added Remy St Leger, his fondness for the younger knight growing as his foolishness, all for the love of a woman, became apparent. ‘I would know how the idiot fares.’

Rupert nodded his agreement, and stooped to kiss his mother and hug his sister farewell. He noted the pale silence of the latter, and clasped Ellie’s shoulder with one hand as he asked her, ‘Is there aught amiss?’

Ellie shook her head, and reached for the reins of her horse as she prepared to mount. ‘Give me a boost up, please.’

Her brother ably lifted her into the side-saddle and watched as she fussed with her skirts, avoiding his eye. She gripped the reins firmly and then forced a smile as he patted her horse and wished her goodbye.

‘Fare thee well, Rupert.’

‘And you, little sister.’

She turned her horse about, ready to fall in beside her mother and aunt as they rode behind their menfolk, and then she paused and called out to Rupert, ‘He will be all right, won’t he? Troye de Valois.’

Rupert realised then where her sorrow lay, and he smiled gently. ‘Aye, he will be all right.’ He came up closer and beckoned for her to lean down, so that he might whisper close to her ear a private confidence. ‘The King’s anger was only for show, to save face. I hear from an aide close to him that he already knew of the marriage but he waited for Troye to confess. At worst he will spend thirty days in the Tower and be fined for his misdemeanour, but for his honesty and his courage the King holds him in high esteem and no doubt it will all soon blow over. Have no fear for him.’

Ellie nodded, relieved for Troye’s sake, but this news did nothing to ease the pain in her heart. Then she said goodbye and touched her heel to her horse’s flank, cantering off as her father called out for her to hurry along.

The journey home to Castle Ashton in Somerset took four days, and while they seemed the longest days of her life, as she struggled to come to terms with the empty space within her heart, she valued the time spent in the saddle that kept her busy. When they reached home there would be time enough to be alone with her thoughts. The prospect filled her with a dull gloom, for always she’d had hope for the future, a future that she would spend with Troye, but now all hope had been taken from her and she was left with…nothing.

Tired as she was by the long hours of riding on country roads, the summer heat and dust almost unbearable, she lay awake at night. She slept in a tent with her parents, and listened to her father snore, her mother occasionally moaning at him to turn over. She wondered where Troye was sleeping tonight, if he was still in the Tower, if he had a comfortable bed and had been given a meal…and then tears slipped silently from the corners of her eyes as she realised that she must banish all thoughts of Troye, for he belonged to another.

Yet as the days and the weeks passed, and still she continued to think of Troye, her heart would not easily accept the firm advice of her mind. The stubborn creature insisted that all its love was reserved for only one man—Troye. No matter what she was doing, whether it was working on a tapestry with her mother, distilling herbs with her Aunt Beatrice, hunting with hawks in the fields with her father, always thoughts of Troye came to her unbidden. At night he was still the last image on her mind, and the first when she awoke.

To make matters even harder to bear, she could tell no one of her feelings. How could she confess to even one as understanding as her own mother that she loved a man she barely knew? A man that had never so much as kissed her and one that was married to another. It hurt beyond measure, to think of him with this unknown woman, that all this time he had loved her and there had never been any hope that she, Ellie, would be the one he would love. She wondered what his wife was like, this Jewess, and concluded that she must be very beautiful and very clever indeed to have captured the heart of the King’s champion.

Summer faded into autumn and the leaves dried upon the trees to gold and bronze, fluttering down to the ground all around Castle Ashton. The wind rose and the dark grey clouds of winter came down from the north and brought with them flurries of early snow. Ellie retreated into silence and, though it was noted that she seemed to be pining, her appetite greatly diminished and her eyes having lost their bold sparkle, it was assumed by her family that she missed her brother and she merely passed through the moods and vagaries that afflicted youths as they evolved from child to adult, from girl to woman.

Ellie indeed wrestled with her emotions, swinging from one day to the next with a determination to forget all about Troye and then desperately longing for a miracle that would somehow bring them together. Quite how this would happen she had no idea. On days when she was determined to break the hold Troye had upon her heart, she flirted outrageously with any young man that came to Castle Ashton, arousing her mother’s alarm and her father’s ire. And yet when these young men departed, having gained not so much as a kiss from the saucy little Ashton girl, Ellie would retire to her chamber. There she would fling herself down upon her bed, racked with such great sobs of tears that she feared her ribs would crack. However hard she tried, her heart compared all men to Troye and found them sorely lacking. They did not look like Troye, or smile like him, or have the timbre of his voice, or his manly smell.

Her attempts to find new love failed and she lapsed into solitude, seeking balm for her soul, convinced that she would never love again. Convinced that for some unknown reason she must wait. She could not fathom why she felt this stubborn need to wait. Wait for what? For Troye? How could that be? she demanded of the stars in the sky, as she stood at the open window of her chamber and gazed up at the heavens, with an aching heart.

When spring came, her father insisted on a grand feast with music and dancing to celebrate her seventeenth birthday on St George’s Day. He invited all the local gentry, especially those with eligible sons. But by now Ellie had resigned herself to loneliness and unrequited love and would have nothing to do with any of them. Lord Henry was incensed at the waste of time and coin, as she refused to even hear of any offers made for her hand in the days following.

It was Lady Beatrice who noticed how eagerly her little niece ran to any messenger with a letter from Rupert in far-off London. It did not escape her attention that it was news of Troye de Valois that Ellie so eagerly sought. They had heard, of course, that Troye was released from prison, having spent a mere ten days within its confines. The King fined him five hundred marks for his insolence and then banished him from Court for a year. In effect, he sent him home to spend time with the wife he so dearly loved and for whom he had been prepared to risk all. When Ellie had heard this she was at once relieved that Troye was out of prison and safely home, and yet a twinge of jealousy warred with admiration for a man who could so dearly love a woman, even if that woman was not herself.

Lady Beatrice tried to talk to her niece and explain that time was a healer and that her feelings of pain and rejection would pass; that one day Ellie would meet another and all would be well. Ellie simply nodded, and smiled, and turned away. There came little news after that, except that Rupert, and therefore Troye, went away on campaign to Scotland. She shuddered to think of the experiences they would have fighting against the Scots, who, from all accounts, were barbaric savages. After some months Rupert sent a note to say that Troye had been grievously injured, had been relieved of his duties and sent home to his family in York to recover.

Eleanor was surprised at the pang she felt, after all this time, her concern for him, for his pain and suffering, and to think of him with the wife who nursed and cared for him. She could not endure any such thoughts. She tried to banish them by devoting herself to occupations of one kind or another: tending plants in the herb garden that she and her aunt had created at Castle Ashton, and on rainy days she stayed in her chamber writing out a transcript of the Bible, each page beautifully and painstakingly decorated with intricate illustrations. Under the guidance of their priest, Friar Thomas, she worked diligently and he announced how pleased he was with her devotion and even began to drop hints to Lord Henry that he had fine hopes of Ellie finding her vocation as a nun, much to his lord’s displeasure.

Yet another winter and another spring passed and then came a surprising change to her solitary existence. Remy St Leger rode over from Hepple Hill with glorious and most unexpected news—Beatrice was with child. There was great celebration, for they had kept the news quiet until they were certain that this time Beatrice would carry the child and already she was well into her second trimester. They were all overjoyed, for a child of their own had been the one perfect blessing to crown the love that Remy and Beatrice had shared these many years. Bearing a child so late in years for a woman of Beatrice’s age was a risky matter, but all was being done to safeguard the health of both mother and child and she would remain at Hepple Hill until after the birth.