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had it. So did John, her eldest half brother, who would be earl after her father.
    So, for that matter, did Sir Gunnar.
    The mere thought of the latter brought a smile to her lips. Simple knight or no, he possessed more nobility than Richard le Despenser ever would. She closed her eyes and conjured up Gunnar’s image: broad chest, broader shoulders, that mane of copper-shot curls—in need of a proper cutting, but striking nonetheless. Strong, square jaw. That smile, barely there even when humor lit his green eyes, as though he begrudged his lips the right to reveal too much. He might be better than twice her age, but he was far, far more to her taste than Richard. If only her father would bind her to a substantial man like that. Or if only she were a peasant and could chose for herself.
    Well, no, perhaps not a peasant. She wouldn’t like that, but she wouldn’t mind at all being the wife of some minor knight, if he were like Sir Gunnar. Her mind drifted for a moment over the possibility that her champion might return not just for the tourney but to claim her as wife, and the idea pleased her greatly. Far more than the idea of Richard. She would not, could not, resign herself to Richard.
    The other women began filing back in, and with a sigh, Eleanor opened her eyes, retrieved the pile of cloth lying at her feet, and went back to work. Whenever Sir Gunnar did return— Please let him return soon and carry me away from this contract the way he carried me away from the bower pyre , she prayed between stitches—she intended to have his gift ready.
    But the week came and went with no sign of her prayer being answered, and on Tuesday next she was summoned to the hall, where a handful of noble witnesses stood by while a cleric read out the contract and the duke and Richard le Despenser signed.
    “Your mark,” ordered His Grace, shoving a quill at her.
    And since Sir Gunnar had not come and she had little choice in the matter in any case, she took the quill and carefully scribed her name beside Richard’s and then went to the chapel to say the vows that promised she would one day become his wife. Her prayer was still unanswered a few days after that when Richard rode off to war, and it remained so when she next faced the priest and had to confess that in a moment of weakness—honesty, but weakness—she had also prayed for Richard to be killed while in Wales so that she would never have to marry him. By the time she finished the penance, her knees were raw.
    Through it all, she continued to sew.
    She soon finished Sir Gunnar’s cote-hardie and moved on to a padded doublet for him to wear beneath it, then to a chemise for beneath that, choosing a thick, soft wool that would keep him warm in his travels, and then a linen for summer wear, and when those were done, she went on to make him some good, thick chausses and a lined mantle of sturdy stuff that would stand up to the vilest weather.
    By then it was spring and they were back at York Castle, and the tourney came and went and Sir Gunnar still did not come. Even so, when all the other sewing was done, she dipped into her purse to buy cloth for a set of court clothes: a fine velvet houpelande in deepest blue with gold trimming; a jacket and a shirt of cambric so fine an angel would barely note its weight; hose—fine ones, this time—and a cap with gold trim to match the houpelande; and even court slippers and a braided belt. And all the while, still dreaming he might bear her away from Richard when he finally returned, she laid her work aside before each meal and stood peering down at the men in the hall, searching for those coppery curls.
    In the end, the clothes she’d made, lying folded on a shelf in the cupboard, only collected dust. Before the moths could take an interest, Eleanor sprinkled everything with camphorwood and rue and tansy, wrapped them in silk and linen, tied them with cord, and then stored them and her dream of rescue away deep in the bottom of her