darkened hollows. Fatigue etched and deepened every line on his face.
"My lord, can we not rest?" Aubery reasoned quietly. "You are no good to her in whatever her distress if you cannot sit your saddle."
"Aubery, how old are you?"
"Seventeen, my lord, and well you know it."
"And full of reason, Sir Squire," Roger told him I tiredly. "Well, I suppose I knight you before you leave Fontainebleau."
"And you, Sir Roger," Aubery retorted, "make no sense. I have years left in your service ere I am knighted."
But Roger had ceased to attend. Ahead lay the ford that crossed onto the abbey's lands. Before nightfall, he could have his bed and see Lea. The ache that lingered beneath his shoulder blades seemed to lessen slightly as he nudged his horse toward the water.
"Come—we are nearly there."
The bells sounded at the approach of mounted horsemen, slowly at first and then increasing in intensity as Roger's standard was recognized. Mother Mathilde hastily completed her prayers and rushed to the courtyard as quickly as her old bones would carry her.
"My lord!"
He swung down from the saddle and took a couple of unsteady steps. Half a dozen of his men sprang to his aid, but he pushed them aside. "Nay, leave me be—I am all right."
"My lord—" Mathilde was alarmed at his appearance.
"Mother." He half-stumbled as he knelt. "I am come to see the Lady Eleanor."
"Roger!"
He used his broadsword for balance as he pulled himself up. Even as he regained his footing, she was in his arms. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she nuzzled a cheek against the roughness of woolen surcoat over chain mail. "Oh, brother, I knew you would come," she half-whispered into the folds she clutched.
Mother Mathilde did not know whether to be glad or exasperated at his sudden arrival. She'd been certain that Eleanor was on the verge of giving herself to Christ rather than the Count of Belesme. Surely, Roger FitzGilbert could see that it was the girl's only hope. Yet as she watched the two of them swaying in the courtyard, oblivious of all but each other, the old woman felt a sense of unease.
"Roger—" Eleanor looked up into his face. "Roger you are half-dead with fatigue. Aubery…" she called out to the squire, "Sir Hugh… Jean—look to your lord. Really, Roger, you are nigh to swooning on me."
"Nay, Lea. A bath, a little bread, and a bed—am I'll be right enough on the morrow."
Her eyes narrowed. "When did you leave the Condes?"
"I don't know—yesterday—the day before—I think."
"And you let him do this to himself?" She turned incredulously on Sir Hugh. "I know he sometimes lacks sense, sir, but you?"
"I tried, Demoiselle, but he would not listen."
"Reverend Mother, have I your permission to attend my brother?" It was a question in form only—not even a direct refusal could have stopped her.
Mathilde nodded. Long ago, in the first year or so that Eleanor of Nantes had lived in the abbey, the abbess had realized that there was a bond between brother and sister that neither separation nor authority could break. Well, let the girl have the comfort of her brother—soon enough, as Belesme's bride, there'd be no comfort on earth for her.
Roger made it to the guest chamber assigned him under his own power. Waving aside help from any of his men, he chose instead to lean only on Eleanor, a leaning that was more spiritual than physical. He could still give her a foot in height and nearly six stone in weight even without the benefit of some thirty-five pounds of hauberk and mail. She eased him onto a low bench and ordered the others to fetch a washtub from the kitchens.
"Tell…no, ask Sister Margretta for heated water, Aubery. And, Hugh, get linens of Sister Alice. You, Jean, help me get all of this off him. Tis no wonder he's tired." She turned to Merville and noticed for the first time the fatigue lines on his face. "Jean, you look nigh to death yourself. Well, if you can but draw off his boots, I can do the rest."
"Nay!" Roger's
"My lord, can we not rest?" Aubery reasoned quietly. "You are no good to her in whatever her distress if you cannot sit your saddle."
"Aubery, how old are you?"
"Seventeen, my lord, and well you know it."
"And full of reason, Sir Squire," Roger told him I tiredly. "Well, I suppose I knight you before you leave Fontainebleau."
"And you, Sir Roger," Aubery retorted, "make no sense. I have years left in your service ere I am knighted."
But Roger had ceased to attend. Ahead lay the ford that crossed onto the abbey's lands. Before nightfall, he could have his bed and see Lea. The ache that lingered beneath his shoulder blades seemed to lessen slightly as he nudged his horse toward the water.
"Come—we are nearly there."
The bells sounded at the approach of mounted horsemen, slowly at first and then increasing in intensity as Roger's standard was recognized. Mother Mathilde hastily completed her prayers and rushed to the courtyard as quickly as her old bones would carry her.
"My lord!"
He swung down from the saddle and took a couple of unsteady steps. Half a dozen of his men sprang to his aid, but he pushed them aside. "Nay, leave me be—I am all right."
"My lord—" Mathilde was alarmed at his appearance.
"Mother." He half-stumbled as he knelt. "I am come to see the Lady Eleanor."
"Roger!"
He used his broadsword for balance as he pulled himself up. Even as he regained his footing, she was in his arms. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she nuzzled a cheek against the roughness of woolen surcoat over chain mail. "Oh, brother, I knew you would come," she half-whispered into the folds she clutched.
Mother Mathilde did not know whether to be glad or exasperated at his sudden arrival. She'd been certain that Eleanor was on the verge of giving herself to Christ rather than the Count of Belesme. Surely, Roger FitzGilbert could see that it was the girl's only hope. Yet as she watched the two of them swaying in the courtyard, oblivious of all but each other, the old woman felt a sense of unease.
"Roger—" Eleanor looked up into his face. "Roger you are half-dead with fatigue. Aubery…" she called out to the squire, "Sir Hugh… Jean—look to your lord. Really, Roger, you are nigh to swooning on me."
"Nay, Lea. A bath, a little bread, and a bed—am I'll be right enough on the morrow."
Her eyes narrowed. "When did you leave the Condes?"
"I don't know—yesterday—the day before—I think."
"And you let him do this to himself?" She turned incredulously on Sir Hugh. "I know he sometimes lacks sense, sir, but you?"
"I tried, Demoiselle, but he would not listen."
"Reverend Mother, have I your permission to attend my brother?" It was a question in form only—not even a direct refusal could have stopped her.
Mathilde nodded. Long ago, in the first year or so that Eleanor of Nantes had lived in the abbey, the abbess had realized that there was a bond between brother and sister that neither separation nor authority could break. Well, let the girl have the comfort of her brother—soon enough, as Belesme's bride, there'd be no comfort on earth for her.
Roger made it to the guest chamber assigned him under his own power. Waving aside help from any of his men, he chose instead to lean only on Eleanor, a leaning that was more spiritual than physical. He could still give her a foot in height and nearly six stone in weight even without the benefit of some thirty-five pounds of hauberk and mail. She eased him onto a low bench and ordered the others to fetch a washtub from the kitchens.
"Tell…no, ask Sister Margretta for heated water, Aubery. And, Hugh, get linens of Sister Alice. You, Jean, help me get all of this off him. Tis no wonder he's tired." She turned to Merville and noticed for the first time the fatigue lines on his face. "Jean, you look nigh to death yourself. Well, if you can but draw off his boots, I can do the rest."
"Nay!" Roger's
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