Nothing Else Matters (12 page)

“To think the English would win a war, just to get you,” Stian said in mock disgust.

“Aye. Me and the ransom for the king.” Malcolm leaned close and whispered. “Rumor runs high that your father received a share of that bounty.” Malcolm’s gazed shifted briefly around the crowded hal before he went on. “There are some who resent his loyalties and covet his gold.”

Eleanor didn’t understand what the men were saying. Her head ached from lack of sleep and it wasn’t helped by the noise in the hal . Never mind hearing Mass or the attending the opening of the shire court, she wanted only to break her fast and retreat to the silence of the bower. Stian had kept her awake through most of the night with his questions. He’d paid no mind to the dinner hour, cal ing only for some cheese and bread as the evening drew on. He

hadn’t even shown any interest in bedding her.

He’d wanted to be read to and to talk instead. Talk. She hadn’t thought the man capable of more than grunts the day before. And in truth, he had strung no more than five words together at a time through most of the long night’s conversation. But he had talked. Now, here he was chatting amiably away with a new blond-pelted brute in what she guessed to be the native language of these borderlands.

This stranger was shaggy of hair and beard, dressed in leather, chain mail and roughly woven wool. He was as tal as Stian and his eyes were as blue.

Though he was thinner of lip and sharper of nose, there was a distinct resemblance. If anyone would dare to give him a shearing, he might even be

handsome.

She was surprised when Stian remembered her presence at his side long enough to say in Norman French, “My cousin Malcolm Erskine of Bal yhane.”

She looked questioningly up at him. “How many cousins do you have?”

He gestured around the room. She fol owed his movement and noticed many a red- and gold-haired man and woman in the crowd around the fire and the

trestle tables set up for breakfast. “I see,” she said.

“Malcolm’s my father’s sister’s son. Lars is a cousin from my mother’s family.”

He pointed at a particularly surly looking young man who was speaking to Dame Beatrice. This stranger’s hair was even thicker than Malcolm’s and the

bright color of new copper. He sent an ugly look Stian’s way but was forestal ed from any action by Dame Beatrice putting a hand on his arm.

“That,” Stian said, with no great enthusiasm, “is David Kerr of Ayrfel , kinsman of my Aunt Beatrice. There are many more here besides that I cal kin.”

Switching his attention back to Malcolm, he added, “This is Eleanor.”

While she was stil registering pleased surprise that her husband remembered her name, Malcolm switched easily out of his own barbarous tongue to say

in not too heavily accented Norman, “So this is the bride I heard tel of. Too bad I missed seeing the wedding night. I’l have to make up for lost time.”

The next thing Eleanor knew, she was picked up by the waist and a firm kiss was planted on her lips by this new cousin.

“Careful,” she heard Stian say, “she bites.”

Malcolm’s chain mail rattled as he dropped her to her feet as quickly as he’d snatched her up. Malcolm gave a deep laugh. “And scratches too from the

looks of you.”

“Aye,” Stian said shortly.

Malcolm slapped Stian on the shoulder. “Lord, lad, sorry I am to have missed the wedding feast.”

“Where were you?” Stian asked as he drew her to his side.

She would have excused herself and gladly left them to their talk but Stian’s hold on her waist was tight, and it was not unpleasant to be sheltered in the warmth of his embrace in the early morning coolness of the hal .

“Hunting reivers,” Malcolm said. “Some damn Scots came over the border and burned one of my vil ages.”

“That might explain why Ayrfel missed the wedding as wel ,” Stian said quietly.

Malcolm gave a slight nod. “It might, but I’ve no proof. I had to hunt the raiders down and get back my cows. I got back the cows but—” Malcolm looked suspiciously around the hal “—I never did find out exactly who the bastards were.”

“So there’s no one you can accuse here in the hal .”

Malcolm acknowledged the warning in Stian’s voice. “Nay. I’l keep the peace of God while the court’s in session.”

“So wil we al .”

This new voice belonged to Lord Roger. He came up to them with a smile on his face. He looked handsome and vibrant, but Eleanor saw the serious look

in his eyes. He wore a fine scarlet surcote and a gold chain of office hung around his neck. There were jewels on his sword hilt and heavy rings on his fingers. He looked every bit the great lord.

Eleanor found that it bothered her that Stian’s simple attire did not compare wel to his father’s impressive appearance. She could only take some comfort in knowing that Stian had at least run a comb through his hair while his cousin Malcolm might have a fox den in his tangled mane for al she could tel .

“I bid you good morning, daughter,” he said as he took Eleanor’s hand.

Stian loosed his hold on her waist as Lord Roger drew her toward the table. Stian and Malcolm fol owed close on their heels. Eleanor noticed that by

moving the group to the dais there was no chance of any conversation being heard by anyone else.

“What’s Ayrfel want?” Stian asked as they reached the table.

Lord Roger paused to offer a cup of wine to Eleanor, then said, “Trying to talk Beatrice out of her dower lands again.” Stian gave a contemptuous snort as Lord Roger went on, “He claims he should be named her guardian and the lands that came to us through my brother should be returned to the Kerrs. He

plans to plead his case before the shire court.”

“The court’s not likely to find in his favor,” Malcolm said.

Stian said, “Aunt Beatrice won’t go back to the Kerrs.”

Lord Roger looked over at his sister-in-law. “I don’t know,” he said thoughtful y. “It seems to me she’s been unhappy of late, though I can’t think why.”

Eleanor nearly choked on her wine. He didn’t know why his chatelaine was unhappy? Was the man blind? Probably, she supposed. Men were general y

blind to the lives of women. She wondered if she should try to explain but kept silent. It wasn’t her place to speak but she would ask Edythe to explain to her husband about Beatrice. Even though she had had no kindness from the woman, Eleanor did feel some charity toward her.

The men went on talking about the cases to be cal ed before the shire court, frequently lapsing into the language she supposed was Scots. Eleanor ate

bread and sipped wine while she listened. When she couldn’t understand, she turned her attention to the crowded room, looking for women from outside

the household. Which one, she wondered, was Nicolaa Brasey?

Eventual y, her attention settled on a wel -dressed woman who stood by one of the trestle tables. She had a serving woman with her and a half-grown boy by her side. She wore a cape and was modestly veiled, but Eleanor could make out a fine-boned, attractive face in the circle of her wimple. Father Hubert came up to talk to her and the woman lowered her eyes and clasped her hands before her when she answered him.

Modest, Eleanor thought, attractive
and
pious.
I hate her already.

She looked away from Nicolaa Brasey and found Roger gazing at her. “Yes, my lord?”

He put his hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle and affectionate. “My lady Edythe is not wel today,” he told her. “Might I ask a favor?”

“Anything, my lord,” she responded quickly as her heart sank. She already knew what he wanted. She was about to miss whatever excitement this day

promised.

“Edythe craves your company.”

Eleanor sighed, but there was no way she could deny her sister her request or anything for that matter. Ah wel , it wasn’t as if the day held the prospect of a tournament or a competition of troubadours. She was disappointed but she managed a smile. “Of course, my lord.”

As she turned to leave, Stian put his hand on her arm for a moment. He seemed reluctant to let her go, she thought she saw a look of hunger in his eyes, adding confusion to her disappointment. Whatever he might have said was lost as his father spoke to him and he turned his attention to the lord of

Harelby. Eleanor cast one more unhappy glance at Nicolaa Brasey then she made her way to the stairs.

* * * * *

Edythe set aside her sewing with a laugh. “Of course I’m not il . When have I ever been il ?” Sunlight slanted in from the window across where she sat, il uminating her beauty with gold light. She looked like a smiling angel, bright eyed and rosy cheeked, her gold hair was spread around her like a mantle while Blanche worshipful y brushed it.

It was true, Eleanor realized as she came to sit on the chest at the foot of the bed, across from Edythe. “You never catch a chil or a fever. But if you’re not il , why aren’t you going to attend the shire court?”

Edythe laughed again. “Because my lord told me al about it. It wil be nothing but peasants and foresters quibbling over their petty rights in a language we don’t even understand.”

“It wouldn’t hurt us to learn it,” Eleanor said.

Edythe waved her comment away. “We’d be bored.”

“Probably. But everyone wil want to meet the new Lady of Harelby. You should put in an appearance.”

“Oh no!” Edythe gestured Blanche away and leaned forward. “Dame Beatrice would not like that at al ,” she confided. “It is she who is used to presiding among the guests at these courts.”

“But you are the lady here. Dame Beatrice must acknowledge it sometime.”

“And she wil ,” Edythe said in her calm, reasonable way. “But she’s stil bitter over our coming. I’d rather give her her head for a while, let her preside where she can. It wil do my standing no harm and she wil not be given offense.”

“I see.” Eleanor nodded her agreement.

It amazed her at how being married had changed Edythe. She had always been kind and thoughtful, now it appeared she was also learning cunning. First

in the matter of taming Lars, now she’d turned her thoughts to Dame Beatrice.

“How very wise you are, Edythe. You are right. Anything for peace in a household.” She fetched the embroidery she’d left behind in the bower the day

before and took a seat under the window. “I’l stay, of course, because it would do wel for the heir’s wife to stay out of her way as wel .”

Edythe put her hand over hers. “I thought it best. Besides, I do crave your company, sweet sister.”

One of the twins came in while Edythe spoke. She went over to them and said, “I asked Nicolaa Brasey to the bower, as you wished, my lady, but she

said she would spend the day with her son instead. Poor Bertran,” she added.

“You’ve said that before,” Eleanor snapped. She didn’t know why hearing the widow Brasey’s name mentioned made her waspish. “What’s the matter

with poor Bertran?”

“Nothing’s the matter with him,” the girl answered. “He’s to go on trial.”

Eleanor recal ed the boy she’d seen with the widow and how worried the woman had looked. “On trial? What is the lad accused of?”

“Breaking forest law.”

Before Eleanor could ask for further explanation the other twin came in, her arms ful of fresh-picked wildflowers.

“From Lars,” she said through a giggle. “For Lady Edythe.”

“Lars?” everyone but Edythe said at once.

Edythe said, “How sweet.”

The twin with the flowers went off in another fit of giggling. By the time she got herself under control, Blanche had taken the bouquet from her and was sorting through them.

“He must have gone far afield to find al these,” the gentlewoman said. “For spring’s not so far along that there’s fields of flowers waiting for the

“He must have gone far afield to find al these,” the gentlewoman said. “For spring’s not so far along that there’s fields of flowers waiting for the

honeybees.”

“Or would-be lovers,” Eleanor added in a whisper to her sister.

Edythe’s face was lit with pleased amusement. “Wel , hunting wildflowers gave the lad something to do. Though I’m sure Dame Beatrice would rather he

was hunting rabbits.”

“At least we can dry the petals for the summer rushes,” Eleanor added as Blanche set about finding a container for the flowers.

She noticed that the twins were giddy at the notion of someone being given flowers. They whispered and giggled together by the door. Edythe was, of

course, quite used to it and perfectly calm to receive them as her due. She didn’t even bother giving the blooms a close inspection. Eleanor knew the

proper way to acknowledge such gifts was with feigned indifference. She felt no jealousy, just wry amusement at the image of the likes of Lars hunting through the wilds for delicate blossoms for his lady fair.

She laughed. “I can’t imagine Stian doing such a thing.”

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,” Edythe answered, placid and assured.

Eleanor laughed again. What an odd notion to contemplate. Flowers from Stian, indeed! “There wil certainly be wolves on the moon before that day

dawns,” she told Edythe.

But stil , it was a pleasant notion.

* * * * *

Stian grunted in reply and took a swal ow from the drinking horn Lars had been holding. The wine was sharp and bitter, near the dregs of the barrel and very potent. He passed the horn back to Lars.

Serious. So he was, Stian knew, but when he was drunk, he hated himself, the world and everyone in it. There were only two things that made him get

drunk—when his father wasn’t home and when he was. When Roger wasn’t home, Stian found little to interest him. When Roger was home, Stian often

found life far too interesting. So far, Roger hadn’t been home long enough to irritate him into a serious bout of drinking. Of course, now he didn’t have just his father to irritate him, there was also Eleanor.

Eleanor. He evaded Lars’ comradely arm to take a look around the hal . Where was Eleanor? It was near the dinner hour. He’d been wanting Eleanor al