They could just see Mary and Sir William at the other end of the field. They all saw him raise her hand to his lips, saw her draw just that little bit closer. So, that was going well, at least.
At least Father hadn’t said anything about producing an heir. That seemed a very distant thing, a song sung in a foreign language. On the other hand, when John watched William de Ros—then, he felt something, some stirring that he didn’t want to think of, and so he locked it away. Or tried to.
That man was very handsome.
Scowling, John walked away from camp and kept walking until he’d been through the copse of trees and back and felt no more such stirrings.
When he returned, Sir William had gone, taking his horses with him, and Mary was sitting on the bench by the fire. Eleanor sat beside her with her spindle. Both it and her fingers seemed to blur, she worked so fast, which meant she was anxious. She stared hard at the thread she was making.
John came and settled on Mary’s other side.
“That seemed to go well,” John said.
“It did. I think our fathers have decided on a week from Sunday for the wedding.”
He stared. “So soon!”
“We’ve been waiting four years.” She shrugged. “I’d rather it come sooner than later, if it’s going to come at all.”
Eleanor spun faster until the thread broke. She heaved a sigh, retrieved the dropped spindle, and spliced the broken thread back with the roving.
“What made you decide?” John asked.
She laughed softly. “His horses like him. Is that silly?”
“No, not at all. And you’ll go away with him to Yorkshire?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
He stared at the fire, which was only a few flames licking at a single log nestled among embers. Someone ought to build it back up soon. There wasn’t much smoke coming up from it, but nonetheless, his eyes stung.
“What will I ever do without you?” he said finally.
She wouldn’t look at him but took his hand and squeezed hard. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, locked away by force of will. “I will miss you both so much,” she whispered.
Eleanor dropped the spindle and lay her head in her sister’s lap. John put his hand on Eleanor’s head, held Mary’s hand, and they sat like that for a long time.
“We’ll all visit each other,” Mary said finally, scrubbing her face, straightening. Proper, practical Mary. “Think of all the stories we’ll have to tell. You must both collect stories to tell me. Even you, Eleanor.” Eleanor smiled. “We will visit each other as often as we can, and we will manage.”
“Yes,” John said, but he had never felt so sad. “We will.”