thought of him. In the weeks since she'd agreed to Roger's mad scheme, she'd tried very hard to blot out any thoughts of the Count of Belesme. Now, outside the walls of Fontainebleau, she felt exposed and unprotected. Indeed, in the absence of Roger and in the frantic preparations for her trip to Rouen, Eleanor felt herself being pushed into a maelstrom from which there was no real escape. Everywhere she was surrounded by signs of preparations for a marriage that she fervently prayed would never take place. Belesme had written a stiffly worded letter and sent her a large heavy necklace set with round green stones, a pretty, expensive necklace that she likened to a slave yoke when she tried it on. Margaret, in her envy, had voiced Eleanor's fears by deciding aloud that it must've come from the neck of a dead woman somewhere. And Mabille, Count Robert's mother, had written her a letter couched in such sweet words that it was repulsive. Welcoming her "dear daughter Eleanor," the countess had sent ells of a rich new fabric that the French dubbed "Flames of Fire" for its shimmering iridescence. It was truly beautiful, but Margaret had managed to dampen Eleanor's spirits about that, too, pronouncing it "probably poisoned—she poisons everything, you know."
As for Gilbert—her father had all but avoided her since she'd returned to Nantes. While he would spare no expense on her marriage, he wanted little enough to do with his eldest daughter. Perhaps it was because he felt some pang of guilt when he looked on her, or perhaps he wished to avoid any reproach over his selling her to save his own skin. Not even the convent walls had obscured the gossip about how Belesme had backed him into desperation, how he'd pushed Gilbert off first one piece of land and then another until there was naught left but the city of Nantes itself. Cornered, with no place left to run to, Gilbert had clutched at Curthose's offer of mediation with the feeblest of hopes, only to be relieved to find that Belesme would settle for Eleanor and leave him in peace. When reminded that she had been given to God, Gilbert offered first Margaret then Adelicia, but Belesme was adamant—he'd have Eleanor and none other—or he'd hang Gilbert's head from the gates of Nantes. Not that her father was not still afraid of his future son-in-law. In a moment of rare conversation with Eleanor, he'd confided that he'd sent for Roger to accompany them to Rouen. He still feared to cross land held by the count's allies—particularly since the impending betrothal had been kept quiet on both sides to prevent vassals from feeling betrayed by this meek settling of a long and violent quarrel. "But with Roger at my side," Gilbert had gloated, "none will dare touch me. And when Robert of Belesme is bound to me by blood, none will dare gainsay me."
"Really, Papa?" she had responded. "And when I am wed to him, I wonder just how safe you are. He does not appear to be a man overgiven to waiting to rule."
She could tell that she'd given him food for thought there, but she had no real hope of his standing up to the count. Her thoughts turned yet again to Roger. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he think to arrive only in time to take her to Rouen? Had he changed his mind about saving her from Belesme? No—not Roger, she reassured herself for the hundredth time. He would stand firm when all else failed. He'd not given his word lightly, and he meant to keep it, she was positive. But too often she awoke from nightmares where he lay, his blood drenching the dust beneath him, while a laughing Belesme stood over him, calling him a bastard. Ah, if he would only come, surely everything would be all right.
"Sister!" Margaret's sharp voice betrayed her annoyance. "Really, Eleanor, but you ought to have the manners to listen when someone speaks to you."
Eleanor flushed guiltily. "Your pardon—I wasn't attending."
"Well," Margaret conceded with mock graciousness, "I suppose we can forgive you for
As for Gilbert—her father had all but avoided her since she'd returned to Nantes. While he would spare no expense on her marriage, he wanted little enough to do with his eldest daughter. Perhaps it was because he felt some pang of guilt when he looked on her, or perhaps he wished to avoid any reproach over his selling her to save his own skin. Not even the convent walls had obscured the gossip about how Belesme had backed him into desperation, how he'd pushed Gilbert off first one piece of land and then another until there was naught left but the city of Nantes itself. Cornered, with no place left to run to, Gilbert had clutched at Curthose's offer of mediation with the feeblest of hopes, only to be relieved to find that Belesme would settle for Eleanor and leave him in peace. When reminded that she had been given to God, Gilbert offered first Margaret then Adelicia, but Belesme was adamant—he'd have Eleanor and none other—or he'd hang Gilbert's head from the gates of Nantes. Not that her father was not still afraid of his future son-in-law. In a moment of rare conversation with Eleanor, he'd confided that he'd sent for Roger to accompany them to Rouen. He still feared to cross land held by the count's allies—particularly since the impending betrothal had been kept quiet on both sides to prevent vassals from feeling betrayed by this meek settling of a long and violent quarrel. "But with Roger at my side," Gilbert had gloated, "none will dare touch me. And when Robert of Belesme is bound to me by blood, none will dare gainsay me."
"Really, Papa?" she had responded. "And when I am wed to him, I wonder just how safe you are. He does not appear to be a man overgiven to waiting to rule."
She could tell that she'd given him food for thought there, but she had no real hope of his standing up to the count. Her thoughts turned yet again to Roger. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he think to arrive only in time to take her to Rouen? Had he changed his mind about saving her from Belesme? No—not Roger, she reassured herself for the hundredth time. He would stand firm when all else failed. He'd not given his word lightly, and he meant to keep it, she was positive. But too often she awoke from nightmares where he lay, his blood drenching the dust beneath him, while a laughing Belesme stood over him, calling him a bastard. Ah, if he would only come, surely everything would be all right.
"Sister!" Margaret's sharp voice betrayed her annoyance. "Really, Eleanor, but you ought to have the manners to listen when someone speaks to you."
Eleanor flushed guiltily. "Your pardon—I wasn't attending."
"Well," Margaret conceded with mock graciousness, "I suppose we can forgive you for
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