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maiden of good
family will do?”
    “I suppose…” Hugh moved forward to kiss
Bolsover’s parted lips.
    “My lord,” Robert Bolsover whispered just
before Hugh’s mouth met his, “I have a sister…”
     
     

Chapter 3
     
    April, 1171
    Elstow Abbey, Bedfordshire
     
    Eleanor had endured a fitful rest. It was the
fault of the nightmare she had had just after falling asleep, which
had been so terrifying that she’d fought against closing her eyes
again. As was usual with dreams, the details had ebbed quickly
away. She had lain awake trying to convince herself that she
couldn’t possibly be afraid of something she couldn’t even
remember, to no avail. The apprehension had persisted and the
remainder of the night had passed torturously.
    The morning was cold and damp but the birds
sounded cheerful and the air smelled of rich earth. By the time she
emerged from the church in the company of the other novices, the
sun was there to blind her, promising a bright spring day. She
noticed that everybody’s spirits seemed to be lighter, and her own
tiredness was soon forgotten…as was her fear.
    She had been a novice at the abbey for almost
nine months, having arrived in the waning days of summer, escorted
by two of her father’s guards. Her father himself did not come, nor
had Eleanor expected it of him. Sir Thomas Bolsover rarely ventured
past the gate of his well-fortified manor a day’s ride to the
north. And Sir Thomas had little regard for his only daughter.
Indeed, it was a wonderful miracle to Eleanor that, fifteen years
after her birth, he had managed to remember her mother’s deathbed
request: that the newly born Eleanor should be promised to the
church. Eleanor had been a quiet, obedient child and she had
entered her adolescent years in increasing dread that Sir Thomas,
who took so little notice of her, would forget that he had a
daughter for whom he must make some sort of provision.
    Gwalaes, her inseparable companion in her
father’s house, had encouraged her to speak up. There was no worse
fate for a woman than to go unmarried and most girls of good family
were betrothed long before their thirteenth birthday. Of course
this date had come and gone without attracting the attention of Sir
Thomas. That was when Gwalaes, who was as outspoken and stubborn as
Eleanor was shy and dutiful, had started pressing her in earnest to
confront her father or at least the steward who had his ear.
Eleanor refused. Sir Thomas, remote and severe, terrified her and
his steward wasn’t much nicer. The prospect of an empty future was
horrible but at least not yet so horrible as the thought of
confronting her father.
    And there was no other person at Oakby to do
it. Eleanor’s mother had died in the effort of giving birth to her
and Gwalaes’ mother, a pleasant Welshwoman who had raised the two
girls together, had succumbed to a fever when they were twelve.
After that tragedy, they were left to themselves.
    “There’s only one thing for it,” Gwalaes had
announced one day. “When Robert returns you must ask him to speak
to your father.”
    Eleanor had considered the idea. Her brother
was eight years older than she was, blindingly handsome and too
busy to take any notice of her. Besides, she was almost in as much
awe of him as she was their father. “Could you do it?” she said to
Gwalaes. It was no secret that Gwalaes was madly in love with
Robert Bolsover.
    “All right,” Gwalaes had sighed, as if
resigning herself to some brutal task that nevertheless must be
done. Of course, her little grin gave her true feelings away.
    It happened that Gwalaes hadn’t had to
bother. Just before her fifteenth birthday, Eleanor was summoned to
the hall and informed by Sir Thomas that she was to be sent to
Elstow Abbey in a fortnight. No marriage for her; she was to be a
nun. It was her mother’s dying wish.
    “She probably didn’t want you to go through
what she did,” Gwalaes had theorized when Eleanor had shared the
news.