Lady of Fire by Anita Mills Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anita Mills
to do. When you are older, I'll tell you more and let you decide." He examined her face and rubbed at a tearstain on her cheek. "There. We'd best be getting back before Gilbert sends for you."
Lady Mary was laid to rest beneath the floor of the chapel. Given the strange circumstances of her death, her funeral had been a hasty affair with barely time allowed for an artisan to wax-cast her effigy. Most of the nobility that had gathered for the festival had left immediately upon her death. A few of her more vocal kinsmen had asked for a ducal inquiry and William had stayed long enough to conduct it. Now she was interred and he had ruled her death due to illness rather than poison.
Privately, Roger confided to Eleanor that he felt William's willingness to remain was tied to his desire to pry fresh troops for the French war out of Gilbert. And he had done just that.
As soon as the workmen began relaying the stones in the chapel floor, Duke William and his retinue were ready to ride. Eleanor watched sadly from a corner in the courtyard as Roger prepared to depart. A bitterly disappointed Prince Henry made his way to the back of the assembled mesnes for his own farewell to her. Like his father, he wore a shirt of chain mail, a short tunic of fine red English wool, and a plain brown surcoat. Unlike his father, he was bareheaded, his brown hair ruffling in the wind.
"Demoiselle." He glanced to where Roger sat mounted above her. "I would walk apart with you ere I go."
She nodded and followed him away from the others. He drew her around the corner of the armorer's, placing both her hands in his. There was genuine sympathy and regret in his brown eyes.
"I have much to say, Demoiselle, and little time to say it. 'Twas my intent to ask your father for you in marriage before your mother died. Now my father says that I will have to wait and you are safe enough where you are going that I need not worry. You are very young, Lady Eleanor, and I should not be speaking thus, but I shall not forget you. I still have hopes that your father can be brought to take you back into his household someday."
Eleanor stared in astonishment. He'd just confirmed that she could have been his bride—bride to the best of Normandy's sons.
Henry's face was grave, his voice serious as he continued, "If you do not take your vows as Christ's bride, you may yet wed a mortal man."
"Henry!" The Conqueror's voice called for his son,
"May I take a token to carry with me, Demoiselle? Something to remind me of your sweetness and you: beauty?"
She loosed the jeweled pin that held back her hair "I have nothing else on me, Your Grace. 'Tis a poor token at best, but all I have."
"Henry! God's teeth, boy! It grows late!"
"Can you read?"
"Aye."
"Good—I'll write and send them with Roger's messages." He tucked her hairpin into his scabbard. "Godspeed, Eleanor."
Roger rode around the corner as Henry departed Leaning as far down as he dared, he reached for her. She caught his hand and stepped up into the stirrup to reach his face for a final kiss. He turned just as she brushed his cheek and instead they brushed lips.
"Godspeed, Lea."
----
1092
3
Contents - Prev / Next
Eleanor shivered as her feet sought her slippers on the cold stone floor. It was still dark and the bells had not even sounded, yet she was summoned to the abbess' apartments with orders not to tarry along the way. Resentment and rebellion seethed in her breast as she made her way across the empty courtyard. Her heavy wooden crucifix dangled loosely over her chest, thumping at her sore ribs as she walked.
As she lifted the heavy iron ring to knock, she was surprised to hear the sound of a man's voice from within. A premonition of something terrible caught at her heart—a messenger for her at this hour could only mean death. Eleanor's first thought was of Roger. The oak door swung open to admit her into the dimly lit room. The abbess' eyes were red-rimmed and she appeared to have been on the
Lady Mary was laid to rest beneath the floor of the chapel. Given the strange circumstances of her death, her funeral had been a hasty affair with barely time allowed for an artisan to wax-cast her effigy. Most of the nobility that had gathered for the festival had left immediately upon her death. A few of her more vocal kinsmen had asked for a ducal inquiry and William had stayed long enough to conduct it. Now she was interred and he had ruled her death due to illness rather than poison.
Privately, Roger confided to Eleanor that he felt William's willingness to remain was tied to his desire to pry fresh troops for the French war out of Gilbert. And he had done just that.
As soon as the workmen began relaying the stones in the chapel floor, Duke William and his retinue were ready to ride. Eleanor watched sadly from a corner in the courtyard as Roger prepared to depart. A bitterly disappointed Prince Henry made his way to the back of the assembled mesnes for his own farewell to her. Like his father, he wore a shirt of chain mail, a short tunic of fine red English wool, and a plain brown surcoat. Unlike his father, he was bareheaded, his brown hair ruffling in the wind.
"Demoiselle." He glanced to where Roger sat mounted above her. "I would walk apart with you ere I go."
She nodded and followed him away from the others. He drew her around the corner of the armorer's, placing both her hands in his. There was genuine sympathy and regret in his brown eyes.
"I have much to say, Demoiselle, and little time to say it. 'Twas my intent to ask your father for you in marriage before your mother died. Now my father says that I will have to wait and you are safe enough where you are going that I need not worry. You are very young, Lady Eleanor, and I should not be speaking thus, but I shall not forget you. I still have hopes that your father can be brought to take you back into his household someday."
Eleanor stared in astonishment. He'd just confirmed that she could have been his bride—bride to the best of Normandy's sons.
Henry's face was grave, his voice serious as he continued, "If you do not take your vows as Christ's bride, you may yet wed a mortal man."
"Henry!" The Conqueror's voice called for his son,
"May I take a token to carry with me, Demoiselle? Something to remind me of your sweetness and you: beauty?"
She loosed the jeweled pin that held back her hair "I have nothing else on me, Your Grace. 'Tis a poor token at best, but all I have."
"Henry! God's teeth, boy! It grows late!"
"Can you read?"
"Aye."
"Good—I'll write and send them with Roger's messages." He tucked her hairpin into his scabbard. "Godspeed, Eleanor."
Roger rode around the corner as Henry departed Leaning as far down as he dared, he reached for her. She caught his hand and stepped up into the stirrup to reach his face for a final kiss. He turned just as she brushed his cheek and instead they brushed lips.
"Godspeed, Lea."
----
1092
3
Contents - Prev / Next
Eleanor shivered as her feet sought her slippers on the cold stone floor. It was still dark and the bells had not even sounded, yet she was summoned to the abbess' apartments with orders not to tarry along the way. Resentment and rebellion seethed in her breast as she made her way across the empty courtyard. Her heavy wooden crucifix dangled loosely over her chest, thumping at her sore ribs as she walked.
As she lifted the heavy iron ring to knock, she was surprised to hear the sound of a man's voice from within. A premonition of something terrible caught at her heart—a messenger for her at this hour could only mean death. Eleanor's first thought was of Roger. The oak door swung open to admit her into the dimly lit room. The abbess' eyes were red-rimmed and she appeared to have been on the
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