The King's Champion. Catherine March

in the bowl of warm water the little maid held out to her. Then she sat down as her hair was brushed and tidied, a veil placed over the long, shining auburn tresses and fastened in place with a gold circlet.

      A knock roused her from her reverie and she looked up as the door swung inwards.

      ‘Rupert!’

      Eleanor leapt from her chair and hurried towards him. Brother and sister embraced and then she leaned back and looked up at him. It had been over a year since they had last seen each other. He seemed much older, to her eyes, than his mere two-and-twenty. She asked him how he fared and he nodded, murmured briefly that he was well, but she knew her brother and could sense the soul-sick weariness that plagued him. She gave him a final embrace and then stepped to one side as they walked arm-in-arm to the antechamber adjoining. Here her parents rose with cries of joy as their son approached, and a manservant set about pouring wine and offering cakes while the reunion ensued. They sat together, Eleanor perched on the arm of Rupert’s chair, her hand affectionate and reassuring on his shoulder, once again a family. They laughed and talked and then Lord Henry suddenly realised that the evening meal would soon be served in the hall. As their parents made ready and fussed over a loose ribbon here and a tardy lace there, Rupert stopped Eleanor with a hand on her arm, whispering urgently by her ear, ‘There is something I must tell you.’

      But time was not on his side and Lord Henry chivvied them along, anxious not to offend the King by appearing late at his table. The moment was lost and they made their way along the wide, stone-flagged corridors that led to the main banqueting hall. They passed many other guests and residents of the court—not only privileged lords and ladies, courtiers and those in waiting, but members of the King’s Counsel and men of military bearing who served in the King’s army. There were many guards in their smart uniforms and gleaming swords, who thronged the hall in ever-ready watchfulness. Eleanor eyed them, but they were all young and unfamiliar, there were none that she knew or remembered. Rupert had advanced to the rank of lieutenant and his duties were many and varied. Eleanor resolved to ask him about these, to encourage him to confide in her whatever it was that so burdened him. She had some inkling of the stresses and strains of a soldier’s life from his letters, but still she sensed there was something more.

      

      At the end of the meal Lord Henry and Lady Joanna enjoyed making re-acquaintance with friends they had not seen in some while, and Eleanor excused herself, feigning a headache and asking Rupert to escort her back to her chamber. He readily agreed and they left the hot, noisy clamour of the brightly lit hall and walked together down a long corridor, cool and dim, intermittently lit by flaring wall sconces that threw vast shadows upon the walls and whose flames danced at every passing movement of air.

      ‘Are you truly well?’ Eleanor asked her brother gently as their footsteps tapped in unison and they had a moment of quiet to themselves. ‘I sense that…’

      She paused, as they approached three people, deep in conversation, their voices hushed, standing to one side of the corridor and just below the flickering light of a wall sconce. As they passed, Eleanor noted that one of the group was a knight in the uniform of the King’s Own, and she looked at his face. Their eyes met, a swift stab of recognition passing between them. He was familiar and yet much changed. The black eyes were still the same, and the handsome face, yet there were subtle differences. His dark hair was liberally peppered with silver. His face seemed worn, but she knew not if by time, the weather, or some other force, yet certainly he seemed much aged. Even though it felt as though her body moved with infinite slowness, she did not stop. In her mind’s eye she could see herself cry out, lift her skirts in both hands as they billowed about her ankles while she turned and ran to him, but in reality all she did was look back over her shoulder as she kept on walking. He too looked, turning his head slightly, his dark eyes following her as she passed, but Troye de Valois made no move, nor sign, towards her.

      As though from afar she felt Rupert’s hand beneath her elbow, guiding her, supporting, and he must have heard her swift intake of breath, seen the expression on her face as she turned to him, her eyes wide as she lifted her gaze to his.

      ‘I—I did not know,’ she stammered, suddenly feeling her cheeks and neck flare with the rush of hot colour and emotion that poured in a torrent through her, ‘that he would be here…I thought—’ She did not know what thoughts she’d had about Troye, for while she had never forgotten him she had tried not to remember.

      Rupert hurried her along now, moving swiftly towards the privacy of the Raven chambers. As soon as the door closed he turned to her and said, ‘I tried to tell you, earlier, to warn you, that Troye had returned to court.’

      ‘How long has he been here?’

      ‘About a year.’

      ‘A year?’ Her head jerked up and she stared at him. ‘Why did you not write and tell me?’

      ‘Because…’ Rupert hesitated, anxious not to hurt his sister and yet mindful of the fact that she must face up to the truth ‘…because I feared that if I did you would not come to London.’

      ‘But why did you not write a year ago and tell me he was here? Tell me that he was well and healed from his injuries?’

      ‘Why?’ he asked, his gaze direct and his voice firm, yet soft. ‘Surely you harbour no feelings for him after all this time?’

      Eleanor looked away, her fingers laced tightly together, suddenly feeling exhausted. She steeled herself and asked a question, the answer to which she dreaded, ‘And his wife? Is she here too?’

      Abruptly Rupert took two steps towards her and gripped her arms with both hands, staring at her keenly. ‘Eleanor, do you not know?’

      Alarmed at his reaction, she looked up at him with a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘His wife—she died. Two years ago. I wrote and told Mother. She wrote back and said that I was never to mention it to you. But I assumed that you had at least been informed.’

      Suddenly it all became clear to Eleanor. The need deep within her, the patient and yet inexplicable insistence from her heart that she wait. And now, surely, at last the waiting was over. She struggled to free herself from Rupert’s grasp and ran to the door, her skirts indeed billowing in her haste. She wrenched the door open, uncertain of where to go or what she would say, but her only purpose now was to find Troye and speak with him.

      ‘Eleanor!’ Rupert called out to her, running hard on her heels.

      She took no heed, her feet drumming, her heart pounding as she ran down the corridor. But Rupert, taller and faster than his slender sister, caught up with her in a few moments and stopped her headlong flight with one arm about her waist. She cried out and struggled and fought against him, but firmly he dragged her back to her chamber and shut the door. Incoherently she shouted at him and tried to reach for the door handle and pull it open, but he blocked her path, grabbed hold of her by both shoulders and shook her until she was forced to yield.

      ‘Stop! It will do you no good, Ellie. He is just as far beyond your reach now as he ever was years ago.’

      Eleanor sagged, her chin dropping upon her chest as warm, wet tears glowed in her eyes. ‘I would only speak with him. Comfort him.’

      ‘It would make no difference what you say or do.’ He held her as she leaned against his chest, patting her back as he would a child, and felt how slender she had become, how frail, ‘His wife’s death destroyed him. I am certain he will never love anyone again. Forget about him, Ellie, it will do you no good to yearn for him.’

      Eleanor wept then, not for herself, not for a love that could never be, but for the wife that had been lost, and for Troye. She felt his pain and the moment it entered her heart she knew that she had never stopped loving him and she could never abandon that love again.

      Rupert held her while she sobbed, and then gently wiped her face with his thumbs and murmured words of comfort and encouragement. She tried to absorb them, but the truth was they did not touch nor sway her, and when Rupert, with regret, departed to return to his duties, she sat in a chair beside