Free Rhuddlan by Nancy Gebel Page B

become dismal affairs. Hugh would suffer no
music or loud conversation. Most of the knights’ wives went
home.
    He drank and considered his bad luck.
Robert’s death had prompted a self-examination of his life. For all
his wealth and power Hugh felt he had little personal consequence.
As a peer of the realm he ought to have been one of the king’s
right-hand people, yet Henry preferred the advice of his own chosen
few, some of whom weren’t even knights! Obviously, although he’d
never done anything contrary to the law of the land, Henry didn’t
trust him. And what of the disputed earldoms? Henry refused to hear
his plea. It made Hugh livid. He probably paid more in taxes and
knight service than any other baron in England, yet the king
refused to hear him!
    His mother, Maud, a formidable woman of some
fifty years who was, like the king, a grandchild of Henry I,
badgered him regularly about the status of the earldoms. Every year
one of her messengers appeared at his gate with a letter accusing
him of laziness and spinelessness in having not yet obtained what
his father had been promised. He knew all the words by heart now;
the damned letters were all the same.
    Robert had been the one bright light in his
life, so of course fate had snatched him away just so Hugh would be
denied even the least amount of happiness. Can’t have the great
earl of Chester enjoying anything! Hugh gripped his wine cup so
tightly that it bent slightly under the pressure. He raised his arm
and hurled the cup at the wall. A red splash of wine trickled down
the whitewash.
    The worst of it was there wasn’t anyone else
around him who cared that Bolsover was dead. Even Roger…He knew
he’d treated loyal Roger shamefully when Robert had been alive.
He’d felt guilty at times but then he’d catch Bolsover’s smile or
sly wink and any thought of Roger had evaporated like smoke into
air. Roger was trying hard to be sympathetic about the death, but
Hugh knew it was just an act. Still, he was grateful for the
attempt. No one else was doing as much.
    That included his wife. Hadn’t she cared for
her own brother? They hadn’t spoken since the day he’d told her
about Robert’s death. He knew she sensed his anger and was
frightened of sparking it into violent display, but the knowledge,
instead of shaming him, incensed him further. He had never
particularly liked her. The few times he’d been able to bring
himself to her bed, she’d been clumsy and unimaginative. Even
before the tragedy she’d tiptoed around him. Such behavior annoyed
him.
    After a while, all Hugh’s anguish and despair
and feelings of worthlessness concentrated themselves into a hard
ball of fury which sat like lead in his stomach and threatened to
erupt at the slightest provocation. It was easier to be angry than
it was to be morose. People understood anger better whereas they
never knew how to deal with grief. He got drunk, went down to the
practice field and galloped a horse at the quintain or took his
sword and slashed and hacked at an unlucky opponent until he had to
fall back from exhaustion. His arms and legs ached and he collected
a number of impressive bruises, but at least he was able to sleep
at night.
    There came a week when heavy
rain forced him to remain indoors for several days. By suppertime
of the third day, he was pacing his antechamber like a caged
wildcat and snarling at anyone who looked at him the wrong way. At
the table, Eleanor avoided his eye. Suddenly, he felt all the
impotent anger of the past three days well up in him—against her.
As he cut meat for himself, he saw her hand reach for the salt and
imagined his knife marring her pale, unblemished skin. He pictured
her in his mind, reaching for her throat with his rough hands,
squeezing her neck…Why hadn’t it been she who had died? Of what use was she
to him? She couldn’t give him what her brother had, and she had yet
to realize her only possible value: making him heirs. It was
another mockery