Free Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Page A

not. Philippa produced a son for Fitzwalter with no trouble at all, while York has been swiving his way across England for years and has not a single bastard to show for it.”
    “How do you know?”
    “If he did, he’d be bringing one forward as heir, wouldn’t he? No, his seed is bad, mark my word. I doubt he could get even me with child, while all your father need do is walk past my chamber door to get me breeding. With luck, Richard will show similar vigor. Ah, there you are at last,” she said as the door opened on a plump young peasant woman with teats worthy of her station as wet nurse. “Take him, and carefully, for he sleeps. And you, Eleanor, go down to supper. I think I heard the horn.”
    “Yes, madame .” Barely containing a grimace at the idea of Richard in her bed, Eleanor made her courtesy and escaped—though to what and from what, she wasn’t sure. Neither the man she wanted nor the one she didn’t was here. In no particular hurry, she trudged down the long passageway past the family apartments.
    By the time she reached the solar, it was empty but for Lucy, who stood by the grilled window that separated solar from hall. “I thought you would come sooner, my lady, to watch for Sir Gunnar.”
    “I have had enough of watching. It holds no more interest.”
    “No?” Lucy put her eye to the grill. “Then should I have someone carry his gift to him and say you are ill?”
    The center of Eleanor went still. “What?”
    “Should I send word you are ill? I could say your head aches. It might be best anyway.”
    “He is here?” Eleanor hurried the few steps to stand beside Lucy and peer through the wooden lacework.
    There. Her eyes found him instantly, drawn to that thatch of red-tinged gold as though his curls were the tongues of a signal fire. “But I watched from the tower. How . . . ?”
    “He only just came. You must have missed his approach in the gloom.” Lucy paused a moment, then ventured a hesitant, “My lady?”
    Below, Gunnar stripped off his cloak and sword and handed them to a varlet. Hardly able to breathe, Eleanor watched him join the line for the ewer. She should go down. She’d been waiting all day for him, and she should go down, but her feet were suddenly as heavy as millstones.
    “My lady?” repeated Lucy more insistently.
    “What?”
    “As cousin and friend, I must remind you. You are betrothed.”
    Lucy’s quiet words echoed the very thought that anchored Eleanor to the floor, the same thought that had dogged her all week: that Richard, confirmed as Lord Burghersh these three years past, would come to claim her someday soon.
    But she was not yet wife, and her champion was here. Here.
    All those months, watching for Sir Gunnar, dreaming of him, praying for him; all those years of struggling to resign herself to a marriage she never wanted; the past week of soaring hope; her mother’s wishes for Richard’s vigor abed; they all collided now in the face of the man below. He hadn’t seemed real last week, come so suddenly and without intent.
    But now he was here because he wanted to be. For her . She really should go down to him. Her feet stayed frozen to the floor.
    “My lady.” Lucy’s tone was a warning.
    “You watched with me, Lucy. Every night. You never worried about my betrothal then.”
    “We were girls. It was a game, like in one of the fabliaux. But I have watched you this last week, and I see your face now. I worry that it is no longer a game.”
    No. No, it isn’t. Eleanor wiped her palms, damp with sweat, against her skirts. “Is the clothing I made ready?”
    “You know it is, my lady. You have asked after it every day this sennight.”
    “Good. When it is time, bring it all here to the solar. He will have to try everything. I may need to make alteration.” Oh, she did hope so. It would give her leave to be close to him, to touch him.
    Lucy’s frown accused Eleanor, as if she’d read her intent. “Be careful, my lady. ’Twould be sin to