Nothing Else Matters (3 page)

“Mice frighten easily,” Stian replied. She’d fought him like a hel cat, in truth. Stian had been surprised by her spirited response.

“Mice don’t general y inflict wounds,” his father pointed out, and laughed. Stian growled at the sound. Roger cal ed for more wine and handed him a cup when it came. “Calm down,” he ordered. “Let us talk.”

Stian was suspicious of too much talking but his father was fond of it. He perched himself on the edge of the table and drank down his wine. When he was done, he mumbled, “What? I’m not marrying her,” he added, just in case his father hadn’t heard him the first time.

“It’s time you married.” Roger declared. “I’ve chosen Eleanor for you. You’l wed her tonight.”

“No.”

“You’l do as you’re told.”

“Why?” Stian began to pace across the dais.

“To give me grandchildren.”

Stian gestured at the large crowd of servants gathered in the hal who gaped openly at them instead of going about their business. “I must have sired

some of the brats down there.”

“You’ve probably sired half the brats in the shire,” his father said. “It’s heirs I want out of you. Babes born in wedlock to inherit our lands. A grandson to hold in my arms.”

Stian drank more wine and scratched his bare stomach. His chest bore several bloody lines raked through his reddish chest hair by the mouse’s claws.

“Nicolaa Brasey,” he said after looking at the scratches for a while. “I’l wed the Brasey widow.”

“You’l do no such thing. You’l marry Eleanor FitzWalter! And,” Roger added, shaking a fist at Stian, “you’l treat her with respect.”

“She’s a mewling, mousy virgin!”

“She’s no mouse.”

Stian recal ed his aching tongue. “More like a cornered rat,” he acknowledged. “Damn!” He threw himself into the room’s one high-backed chair. It was his father’s place but he paid no attention to that formality. Neither did Roger.

“I don’t mind the thought of marrying,” he said. “One bitch is as good as another for breeding on. But this girl…” He didn’t quite remember what she looked like, though he had an impression of soft breasts crushed against his chest when they fel . He had her round bottom under his hands the instant before that. “Why can’t I have the pretty one?” he complained.

His father’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Eleanor is pretty.”

“The other one’s prettier.”

“Edythe is my wife.” The cold, firm tone warned Stian away from arguing. And away from Roger’s property.

Oh aye, take the best for yourself and leave me with the scrapings
, Stian thought resentful y. Then he was immediately guilty at his own surly jealousy. It was his father’s right to marry where he chose. It was also his right to order his son to marry as wel . “Damn,” he said, but the word was spoken more in acquiescence than in protest.

“You’l like her,” Roger said, as though he needed to temper a simple command with persuasion. Stian had never understood his father’s need to talk

things out after he’d already made up his mind. Stil , he was fond enough of the man to listen when he felt the need to talk. Stian grunted to let Roger know he had his attention.

“The girl has the wit you lack,” Roger said. “There’s plenty of sense in young Eleanor, though I don’t think she knows it herself yet. She’l keep your bed warm and get your brain working. What more could you want?”

Stian didn’t answer for a time. He’d never lacked for a warm bed. As for a working brain, he didn’t have much use for one anymore. He didn’t see what

use a woman would have for one either. Or why his father wanted a thinking woman in his household. It was al more than he was going to try to puzzle out.

“I don’t want anything,” he said at last.

“I know,” Roger acknowledged. “The more fool you. You’l marry her,” he added, voice edged with iron.

Stian growled angrily, the sound of a caged animal, but he nodded. He wel knew when to cease arguing with his father.

* * * * *

Eleanor stepped back from the comforting hands as Edythe reached toward her. She shook her head and had to grab at the veil covering her braids to

keep it from fal ing to the floor. The barbarian had left not only her emotions but her clothing in complete disarray. “I won’t marry him,” she repeated. She glared fiercely at Edythe. “I won’t.”

To forestal conversation, she turned her back on her sister and the disapproving chatelaine of Harelby who’d hustled them up the stairs to the bower a few minutes before.

Feeling trapped by the thick stone wal in front of her, she stumbled a few steps to where windows let some light into the smal room. The bower windows were smal , more like arrow slits than openings intended to let in light for the gentle pursuits of ladies. The glass in them was il made and hard to see through.

Her lips ached and her body stil felt the imprint of the monster’s rough hands. She remembered bloodshot eyes boring into her as he swooped down on

her. The fur on his chest had been bright red and there had been a great deal of it. His heavy mustache and bristly jaw had scraped her cheeks practical y raw. At least she thought that was why her face burned so, from bruising as wel as from shame.

“He smel ed of pig.” Eleanor sniffed distasteful y, recal ing the stench of him. Not just pig, but sour ale and male sweat permeated her clothing.

“He was with Hulda then,” the chatelaine said, as though a question of only mild interest had been answered. “I thought as much.”

“Who?” she heard Edythe ask. Eleanor did not want to know.

“Never you mind,” the woman answered sharply. Eleanor remembered that the chatelaine had been introduced as Dame Beatrice, widow of Lord Roger’s

brother. She was fine-looking and proud, and not at al happy to have two new women in her household. Eleanor didn’t care if Dame Beatrice

disapproved of her or of her refusal to marry Lord Roger’s lout of a son.

“I won’t,” she whispered fiercely. “I won’t. I won’t.” She looked out the windows, and with some effort saw the deeply forested hil s beyond the castle wal s.

This was no civilized land. She did not belong here. She also knew how foolish her words were. The situation was quite hopeless and she knew it.

She heard the rustle of cloth as someone came up behind her. A hand touched her shoulder. “You wil marry Stian.” The voice belonged to Dame

Beatrice.

Eleanor turned her head to look into the other woman’s stern face. “I cannot be forced to wed. The Church does not permit forced marriages.”

“What nonsense,” the woman answered.

“It’s Church law,” Eleanor insisted. “I have heard a bishop say so to the queen herself. I cannot be forced to marry.” She doubted Church law meant

anything in this place, but her knowledge of it gave her a glimmering of a plan. “I wil write to Mother.”
And what will you do in the weeks it would take to
receive a reply
, a grimly hopeless voice in the back of her mind asked.

“I care not what queen and bishops say,” Dame Beatrice replied. “If Roger of Harelby brought you here to marry his son, then you wil marry his son.”

Edythe came to her and took her hands in her own. To Eleanor’s surprise, it was her sister’s hands that were cold. Her expression was ful of worry. “You must marry Sir Stian,” she said, her voice a desperate whisper. “For if you go away, what wil I do without you?”

Eleanor ducked her head rather than look into her sister’s sad eyes. She knew she could refuse Edythe nothing when she looked at her like that. She

understood her sister’s fears for she certainly shared them. They’d been forced from their happy life in Poitiers to their father’s dark castle in Sussex, knowing no one but each other. Then it seemed as if they had traveled endless days to reach this northern land.

The way had been very hard. Her sense of isolation had grown with each mile they traveled beneath the cloudy English sky. Edythe had spent much of the time with her husband, Eleanor had ridden pil ion behind one of Lord Roger’s men and bedded down in caves and castles and forest firesides alone, but

she and Edythe had stil been together. Close as they already were, the journey had made them closer.

“Lord Roger is kind to me,” Edythe said, “but I have no one but you I can confide in. You must stay.”

Eleanor twisted her hands together. “How can I?” She was calm now, she would not cry, but thinking about her prospective bridegroom sent a shudder

through her. She had grown more anxious about meeting her husband with each day of the journey. She had been nervous but she had had Lord Roger’s

stories of his son to comfort her fears. She did not say it out loud, not to Edythe who was content with her husband, but she was wel aware that Lord Roger of Harelby had lied to her.

“He is no chivalrous knight.” She didn’t know if she meant the father or the son when she spoke the words.

Behind them Dame Beatice snorted loudly. “There are hungry men downstairs and I have a meal to see to. Calm yourself, girl,” she directed Eleanor, “and come get married. Stian’s no worse than any other man,” she advised before she left. “Better than most,” Eleanor heard her add before closing the bower door behind her.

Better than most? Eleanor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at Dame Beatrice’s claim. She did know that she had no choice in the matter. She was at

Harelby and Sir Stian of Harelby was the husband her father and Lord Roger had chosen for her. She could not fight those two formidable men now.

Perhaps someone as strong-wil ed as her mother could fight them, but she could not. She would do what she could when the time came.

She sighed and stepped away from the window. She looked at her old, travel-stained clothing. It was a sturdy but ugly garment, made over twice since her grandmother had first owned it. It had been good enough for traveling in but she couldn’t help but feel lumpy and ugly in the old gray wool. Now it smel ed intimately of Stian of Harelby and Eleanor would very much like to have it burned.

Instead she said, trying to be brave in the face of tragedy and disaster, “I think we should make ourselves presentable for dinner.”

* * * * *

Roger turned, shocked by the stern disapproval in Beatrice’s voice. In al his years he’d known his brother’s widow, he had never heard her use that tone of voice. Not on him at least. He was tired from the journey, the confrontation with Stian had been about al the tension he’d been wil ing to face before dinner and a good night’s rest.

Servants were setting up tables in the hal for dinner. Roger drew his sister-in-law to the central hearth where they could share the fire’s warmth while keeping out of the way. A look from him sent several loitering men-at-arms on their way.

“You married her,” Beatrice repeated when they were alone by the fire.

A disapproving frown marred her fine features. She was stil beautiful, he noticed, despite having nearly as many years as himself. He should have

arranged another marriage for her long ago, he knew, but her presence at Harelby had grown familiar and comfortable.

He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “It was a bargain, you see,” he told her. “I saw a chance to get two for the price of one and so I took it.”

She tucked her hands in her sleeves. “Oh you’ve the Scot’s eye for a bargain, Roger of Harelby. But what’s thrift to do with marrying that girl?”

Roger leaned closer to Beatrice. “It’s like this,” he told her, eager to share his cleverness with someone. “The dowry was higher if I took the set.”

Dame Beatrice did something Roger had never known her to do—she tapped her foot. The rushes were soft and deep, but he heard the sound of her

impatiently rapping out an annoyed rhythm just the same.

“A bargain,” she said, “I see. You risked Stian’s anger and—” She bit her tongue on what else she was going to say, took a deep breath.

While she was composing herself, Roger said, “Stian has nothing to be angry about.”

“Real y? Perhaps you didn’t witness his greeting of your wife.”

Roger waved her concern away. “A simple misunderstanding.”

“Stian won’t see it that way. He’l think you’ve cheated him.”

“We’ve discussed it already.” He didn’t want to talk about his marriage with Dame Beatrice. “Let it go, my dear. Al is wel .”

She shook her head, clearly not believing him. “Is a pretty girl in your bed worth the trouble it could bring? You know the boy’s temper.”

Roger chuckled, and not just at the memory of Edythe fil ing his nights. “I’m not worried about Stian.”

“I can see you’re not.” She shook her head and looked past him to the activity in the hal . “Wel , I have servants to see to.” As his sister-in-law walked away, he heard her say, “I almost pity the girl you brought to wed that mountain cat you sired.”

Roger thought about his son and about his other sister-in-law Eleanor, who was also about to become his daughter-in-law. Now, there was a complicated

relationship for the heralds and priests to wrangle about. “Should I cal her sister or daughter?” he wondered. And chuckled again because it wasn’t

Eleanor he pitied.

“No, no, no,” Edythe declared as she tugged Eleanor’s hands down. “No braids for you tonight.” While she wielded the silver mirror in one hand, she

shook a finger under Eleanor’s nose. “No veils or wimples either. Tonight you must let your hair flow free.”

Eleanor had just started to arrange her freshly washed hair in the usual braids when Edythe stopped her. Her sister did not have to add that this was her last chance to show her unbound hair in public. Eleanor wel knew that old custom forbade a married woman the loose, flower-bound tresses of a maid.

The old customs would no doubt prevail in this backward, back of beyond, northern land.

“Lord Roger is very firm about some things,” Edythe told her then giggled. Then she became serious. “From the time of the wedding, your hair and the rest of you as wel are objects for your husband’s pleasure. This is not Poitiers, my dear. We must strive to please our men and not they us.”