The Reckoning - 3 (29 page)

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stored 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 cornbination 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 was 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"

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"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 seeingAmaury 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 ^ught 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"

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"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 "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, Juliananot 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?"

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"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?"

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Ellen let her fingers slide along her crucifix chain until she fou^ 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. Jesii, no, she must not think of that now. Why did everything begin and end with
Evesham?
"My Lady de Montfort." The man had come in a side door, which he was now holding open. Ellen rose, shadowed by the faithful de Seyton. Following him down a dark passage, she discovered it led into another large chamber, no less luxurious than Edward's. Servants were moving about, unpacking open coffers.
They all turned to stare as Ellen entered. Raising her chin, she crossed the chamber and curtsied to her cousin's Queen.
The last time they'd met, Ellen had been a lively ten-year-old, Eleanora a young wife of nineteen, shyly stubborn, desperately in love with her handsome husband. She'd always been kind to Ellen, who remembered her fondly in consequence. But as they looked at each other now, it was uncomfortably obvious that there lay between them far more than the passage of thirteen years. Eleanora's dark gaze was coolly appraising; Ellen sensed at once that she'd been measured and found wanting. She'd had no illusions about Eleanora's influence. No matter how much Edward cherished his wifeand by all accounts he did-" her sway did not extend beyond the boundaries of the marriage bed-

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even if Eleanora did not possess the key to her prison, Ellen had d fc>r sympathy, woman to woman. It was not to be, though. Even f re a word was uttered, she saw that she had no friend in Edward's Seeant Spanish Queen.
"Well you've grown up, for certes," Eleanora said at last.
"Yes, Madame, I suppose I have," was all Ellen could think to say, . sj,e Was beginning to understand. There were wives who disliked instinct alone any woman who happened to be young and pretty.
But there'd be little consolation in knowing that Eleanora's hostility was
Ot personal, not when she had Edward's ear at night.
No sooner had Ellen drawn this dismal conclusion, though, than Eleanora seemed to thaw a bit. At the least, she remembered her manners, gesturing toward a chair. "You may sit whilst we wait for Eduardo."
Ellen sat as directed, and an awkward silence fell. Ellen would normally have felt obligated to keep the conversation going; she'd been taught that it was a woman's duty to smooth away rough edges, to put others at ease. Now, though, she rebelled, sat mutinous and still until Eleanora could stand the silence no longer, and began to talk grudgingly of that most innocuous and dependable of topics, the vile winter weather. Murmuring the appropriate replies, Ellen felt a perverse sense of pleasure. However petty her victory, it was a victory, nonetheless, the discovery that passive resistance could be a weapon in and of itself.
She had an instant or two of warning, alerted by the radiance of Eleanora's sudden smile, as if a candle had flared in the dark. Getting to her feet, she watched as her cousin strode into the chamber, and time seemed to fragment, all the way back to March of God's Year, 1265. Harry had brought Edward, a hostage for his father's good faith, to their castle at Odiham. A fortnight later, he'd ridden west with her father and brothers, but he'd soon contrived to escape, set out upon the road that was to lead them all to Evesham. Edward bore the intervening eleven years lightly, looked no different as England's
King than he had as her father's prisoner of state, vibrant, lordly, a fire at full blaze. As he reached her, Ellen sank down in a deep curtsy. Almost at once, though, he caught her hand in his, drawing her to her feet.
Glory be, lass, look at you!" The laugh, too, was just as she remembered, loud, cocky, dangerously disarming. "When I saw Aunt pll at Melun, she said you'd blossomed, but I put it down to a mother's ond doting. What do you think, Eleanora? Has my little cousin not
8«>wn into quite a beauty?"
Yes," Eleanora said, "she has," glazing the compliment in ice.
Edward was still holding Ellen's hand. "I am truly sorry you had