Heart of Venison (Finale)

Act III: He left the name, at which the world grew pale

His fall was destin’d to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

- Samuel Johnson, “The Vanity of Human Wishes: The Tenth Satire of Juvenal Imitated” (1749)

Eleanor pressed herself against the damp stone wall, inhaling the metallic scent of blood that lingered in the air. The darkness of the tunnel ahead deeply unsettled her, even though she knew its layout by heart.

Even though the tunnels had been the only place to be with Leofric, away from the eyes of the court of King William.

Her fingers trailed along the uneven rock as she moved forward. Her heart pounded a slow, deliberate rhythm against her ribs. She had no sword, no dagger, no means to defend herself. She desperately clung to the idea that she would not be in need of one. Not now. Not when she had come this far.

A sliver of torchlight flickered ahead, illuminating a body slumped against the wall. Eleanor trod closer, hesitation syncopating her every step. The man’s throat had been slit cleanly, his face frozen in mild surprise. The guard’s arm extended towards a sword, its tip coated in the crimson varnish Eleanor had familiarised herself with these past few years. Her breath hitched.

Leofric had been here. And he had most likely been hurt.

She pressed on, stepping over the corpse. More followed. One by one, guards lay scattered along the path, their bodies cooling in the underground air. For every shadow she spotted on the floor, her pulse quickened at the belief that one of them could be her paramour. But they never were.

The violence was methodical, efficient. Just like him, who only relished the look of pain on the faces of those who had personally wronged him and his family. A guard, he had revealed to her once, were only there to do their jobs. They were soldiers, and soldiers obeyed. There was not enough room left in his heart for any more hate than the one that already consumed him.

The trail of blood led deeper into the bowels of the castle. Her footfalls were soundless, her heartbeat louder than any movement she made. But she refused to falter upon reaching the heavy iron door at the end of the passageway. It had been left ajar.

Inside, the dungeon was dimly lit and the torches burned low. Cells lined the walls, their rusted bars thick with age. The scent of mildew mixed with the sharp tang of rusted iron, and there was naught for Eleanor to do but cover her face in revulsion. In the center of it all stood a bleeding Leofric, his dagger twisting in the lock of the shackles that bound Ròs’s wrists.

The Scottish woman gasped as soon as her eyes fell on Eleanor.

But before Eleanor could speak, Ròs seized Leofric’s dagger from his hands and lunged, her hands still restricted in her irons. Cold steel pressed against Eleanor’s throat.

“You,” Ròs hissed, her breath hot with fury. “Norman whore.”

Eleanor did not flinch. She held Ròs’s gaze steadily, waiting. She did not need to look at Leofric to know he had already moved. The dagger clattered to the ground as he wrenched Ròs’s wrists back, forcing her against the bars of her own cell.

“You’re still defending her?” Ròs spat, her dark eyes wild. “Even though she could become a Norman queen?”

“I have come to warn you, Ròs, not betray you,” Eleanor said, ignoring the blade that had nearly stolen her breath mere moments ago.

“Betray us?” Ròs gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “The only ones you are betraying are your people!”

Leofric’s fingers dug into her shoulder, keeping her still. “Listen to her,” he warned, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that threatened to immolate them.

Eleanor took a step closer. “Prince William knows you are here and has ordered his guards to turn the castle upside down. If you do not leave now,” she paused and seized Leofric’s dagger, unlocking Ròs’s chains. “You shall never leave at all.”

Leofric’s jaw tightened. “Then we must leave now.”

His hands wrapped tightly around Eleanor’s, ready to guide her out of the tunnels. But she did not move.

“I cannot leave,” she whispered shamefacedly.

Leofric stopped short, his grip faltering. “What?”

“I cannot leave,” she repeated after clearing her throat. “Robert is due to return from Flanders at the behest of the Queen. If I run, I may never have as much influence over Prince William as I do now.” She looked down, unable to meet Leofric’s disappointment. “I have to support his claim to the throne,” she continued. “Or we may all be as good as dead.”

Leofric’s expression darkened. “You cannot be serious.”

Eleanor’s fingers curled into fists. “If I do this, I am confident that we shall never have to fight again. We will have peace.”

“You mean I shall never have to fight again,” Leofric corrected. “You would have me watch as you crown yourself queen of my enemy. And besides,” he stepped closer, reaching his arm out. Eleanor jerked away and pain flickered in his eyes. “What if William finds out you helped us escape? What would happen to you?”

“He will never know,” she reassured him, though she did not move. “I am afraid,” she admitted. “If I become Queen and you refuse peace… what will you have to do to me?”

Leofric searched her face, his brows furrowed furiously. “You think I would ever harm you?”

Their shadows danced along the stone walls, stretching, twisting, agonising. Eleanor let out a breath, steadying herself before speaking again.

“Between the two of us,” she whispered, stepping forward, “whose head would look better on a pike?”

The words sent a shiver down Ròs’s spine. “Enough!” she exclaimed, “this is what she does, Leofric. She stalls.”

Leofric’s gaze remained trained on Eleanor. “I would never hurt you,” he said softly. “Even if you became Queen of England. I swear it on my honour.”

Ròs scoffed and struck him across the face. The sound echoed through the dungeon. “This is what Ian died for? For your vengeful desire to be so easily sated by the treasonous taste of a Norman heart?” She turned to Eleanor, eyeing her up and down as her lips curled in disgust. “And her flesh,” she spat.

Leofric slapped her in return, the force sending her staggering against the bars. Eleanor grabbed his arm, pleading. “Cease this, please!”

His breath came in short bursts, but he relented. He turned back to Eleanor, his voice hoarse. “Come with me,” he commanded.

Eleanor shook her head, her heart aching. “You cannot promise me safety.”

“You have my word,” Leofric pressed on, though every word echoed like a hunter luring his prey into a trap.

“I do not believe you,” Elenor replied as she pulled the Englishman’s dagger from her sleeve.

Ròs lunged forward, but Leofric held up a hand and stopped her. “Do not interfere,” he cautioned. “You may,” he whispered, extending his arms to leave his chest unharmed.

Eleanor stepped forward, blade in hand. Her free fingers traced along his jaw, memorising his ruggedness under her skin. She leaned forward and kissed him, as Leofric held in his breath. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. But his eyes opened wide when he heard the familiar squelch of his dagger plunging deep into one’s flesh.

Leofric pulled away and stepped back, but felt absolutely nothing. Horror ravaged his visage as a blood stain appeared on Eleanor’s abdomen, whose weakened legs precipitated her collapse. Leofric caught her before her head could crash against the stone ground, his hands pressing against the wound. “What is the meaning of this?”

Eleanor’s lashes fluttered. “I want you to decide for us both. Save me, or save yourself.”

Ròs’s panic was immediate. “We need to go! Now!”

Leofric did not move. His arms tightened around Eleanor’s limp frame, his breath ragged. Ròs grabbed his shoulder, pulling him away. “Don’t!” he shouted. “I won’t leave her!”

“Then it would seem you have chosen your allegiance,” Ròs concluded as she hovered above Eleanor’s paling visage. “Eleanor the Grim, killer of men. I shall alert the guards,” she announced somberly, before swiveling on her heels and running out of the dungeon. Her steps echoed further and further away, leaving Leofric and Eleanor alone in this labyrinth of death.

“You Normans,” Leofric whispered, cradling her closer. His lips brushed her temple, then trailed down to her lips. The torches flickering above pushed the shadows marring Eleanor’s visage into a mad carole across her rapidly paling skin. The shapes swayed to the rhythm of the boots shuffling in their direction, bewitching Leofric further into despair. “The bane of my existence.”