Chapter 11

                                    

                                          
Elena
Hearing the liquid sound of an instrument, I look to the centre of the hall and see Richard St Aubyn has found the harp I used yesterday, and is preparing to sing. Something happens to me as I watch his strong, dark hands stroke gently over the strings, but I can't explain it. I notice how flexible he keeps his wrists, how he pulls the instrument into his body like a lover. 
He sings of the beauteous Lady Alisoun, whose neck is whiter than the swan. I clasp my hands in my lap and close my eyes. His voice, which reminds me of warm velvet, is even more overwhelming when used in song. For a moment, I'll allow myself the luxury of thinking he's singing about me. Oh! I would a suitor of mine might sing to me in such a way! But Gilbert will never do so. He only worships women with his body, I fear, not with his mind.
Richard closes his song with a flourish and I realise I've been enraptured. I only return to myself as the company breaks up. The boards are cleared and people seek their beds. 
Dorigen sees John of Foxburgh's finger is bleeding from a knife cut—he must have sharpened that utensil just before eating. A foolish mistake. He looks on her tenderly, and I fear Simon of Sarisbury now has competition, if he likes her, too.
Richard has vanished, presumably to seek the chamber Gilbert's lent him, and Gilbert is muttering something about needing to run his head under a bucket before sleeping.
Should I grasp my chance now? In the time it takes Gilbert to stagger outside to the nearest wellhead, reel up a bucket and douse himself, I can run up and persuade Richard to postpone tomorrow's combat. For even if I can't prevent it outright, I would gladly have it delayed until the man's fully back to strength.
It's a risk, climbing unescorted, at night, up to a knight's sleeping chamber. I must take care Gilbert doesn't find out, and think I've made an assignation with Richard. The Cornish knight's hide will be even less safe than it is now.
It's cold away from the Great Hall. Just one ill-made torch lights the stairwell, flickering and spitting, casting more shadow than light on the thick stone walls. There's an acrid smell on the stair, as if someone's recently extinguished a candle. I pray 'tis a sign Richard is ahead of me, and I can get him alone. 
Passing several closed doors, I head for the upper chamber where Gilbert usually sleeps, well away from the noise, the odours, and the lack of privacy of the lower quarters. Stealthily, I push open the stout oak door.
While I accustom myself to the gloom, there's a rustle from the pallet. Good—Richard's not yet asleep. Hesitating on the threshold, I clear my throat to speak, then hear a startled whisper.
'Who's there?' It's a woman's voice.
My heart twists. The man I'm risking my reputation to protect has a whore in his bed!
I whisk around to leave, but there's a light heading up the steps toward me. I can't afford to be caught here, but there's nowhere to hide save the chamber. I duck behind the door and cower in the shadows, clenching my fists in my skirts. 
The new arrival is Gilbert. But I thought he'd swapped rooms...? He strides in and flings the door shut behind him. Now, I'm truly exposed. It's only a matter of time before he sees me and all Hell breaks loose. 
I glance toward the bed and see the skivvy, Morwenna, her mouth a great 'o' of surprise as she stares at me. She's naked, cloaked only in the lank hair that falls loose about her shoulders.
Oblivious to her horror, Gilbert thumps his candle down on an iron-bound chest and draws his tunic over his head. Sinking heavily onto the bed, he undoes his shoes, not at all surprised by Morwenna's presence. They've done this before?
It's only when Gilbert's touches the ties of his hose that my frozen limbs return to life. I'd rather rot in the grave than see him naked. Bolting from my hiding place like a hare breaking cover, I wrench open the door and speed out. My heart pumps painfully as I stagger and stumble down the staircase. What on Earth will he think of me? He'll think I was seeking his bed. He'll think I was jealous to find Morwenna there, and that's why I ran away. Oh, Mother Mary! Dare I go back and explain?
Muttering and curses reach me from above. Is he coming after me? Horrified, I seize the torch from its bracket and thrust it hard between wall and step until the flame dies and the stairway plunges into darkness. Then, fingers tracing stonework polished by the passage of many years, I hurry down into the darkness, praying Gilbert is too sensible to give chase in the dark. 
I miss my footing and slither a couple of steps, but instead of a hard and brutal landing, I career into something soft, but firm. Hands steady me in a strong grip, then gentle on my shoulders. A man holds me prisoner.
I struggle to find the breath to scream.