Medieval Master Swordsmen(85)

On this snowy February day, she was planted in the sitting room of the two room suite she occupied, pretending to busy herself with paints. She was a talented artist but her mind was not focused on the scene she was attempting to create. It was on another escape attempt because she knew, as her pregnancy progressed, that she would eventually be unable to move with agility. There would be a time she would have to give it up for the safety of her child. Radcliffe sat over in the corner, sharpening a blade on a pumice stone, keeping busy as he kept watch over the lady. Elizabeau could feel him over her shoulder.

“Edward,” she said, focused on her paints. “Can you please put more peat on the fire? I find that I am cold today.”

He promptly set the stone down and went to the enormous hearth, stoking it with enough peat to make flames shoot up the chimney. Then he stood there to watch the blaze, making sure it would remain stable. He turned to look at her.

“Do you want a blanket, my lady?” he asked.

She shook her head, wiping off her brush. “This garment is heavy enough. I just feel a chill.”

“Are you becoming ill?”

“I do not believe so.”

He was moving for the door. “I will send someone for some warm broth.”

She turned to him. “Nay, Edward, truly,” she insisted. “I am fine. Please go and sit down.”

He stood by the door, his hound-sad face fixed on her. “But you have not eaten yet today. You must eat something.”

“Maybe later.”

He made a face and moved away from the door, looking dejected. Elizabeau felt herself relenting. “Oh, very well,” she snapped softly, turning back to her paints. “Send someone for broth if it pleases you.”

He immediately brightened and went to the door, snapping orders to one of the soldiers guarding the hall. Elizabeau watched him from the corner of her eye, his mannerisms and mood. It occurred to her not long ago that there was a good reason Radcliffe had been assigned to her; the way the man mothered and fussed over her, she was coming to think that he was either a eunuch or he was not physically attracted to women. He seemed to relate to them more than any man she had ever seen and, for a knight, that was a very peculiar quality. Certainly, he was a powerful man and undoubtedly an accomplished warrior, but he was also rather effeminate. And with that knowledge, a strange kinship and compassion developed for him. He was oddly placed in this world they found themselves in.

“Beef broth only, Edward,” she reminded him. “If it is anything else, I shall vomit.”

He nodded patiently. “I know, my lady. I have asked them to bring you some bread as well.”

She shrugged. “I do not think I can eat it.”

“You must try.”

She pursed her lips but refrained from replying. Dipping her brush into her red pot, she began to carefully stroke the petals of a rose. She could hear Edward shuffling around behind her.

“Edward,” she said, concentrating on the flower. “Am I to be moved again anytime soon?”

He reached down to pick up his pumice stone. “What do you mean, my lady?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “I am asking if I am to be moved to another location. This is the seventh castle I have been housed at and the longest. I have been here for three weeks.”

Edward resumed his stool in the corner. “I have not been informed of any changes, my lady.”

She watched him as he spoke; he wasn’t looking at her, which made her think he knew more than he was telling her. Being the sharp woman that she was, she couldn’t resist asking more questions.

“They killed my brother, Arthur, you know,” she said, watching his head come up to look at her. “And my sister Eleanor is imprisoned at Corfe Castle. For all I know, they have killed her, too. I wonder what will happen when they ask you to kill me?”

His features tightened. “I do not know anything of your brother or sister. And I do not believe they intend to kill you.”

She set the brush down. “But how do you know? How do I know that you will not come to me some night and put a pillow over my face? Would you truly do such a thing?”

He lifted an eyebrow and looked back at his pumice stone. Slowly, he resumed sharpening his dagger. “Clifford would not order such a thing.”

“Then what is the king going to do with me?” she stood up, her dark green eyes fixed on him. “Edward, they have already killed my brother. Do you not understand? I am heir apparent from Richard’s line. They are going to kill me; I know it.”

His head came up again, fixed on her as she walked towards him. “I have no such knowledge.”

“Will you defend me?”